eyes went huge. ‘I see it now,’ he breathed. ‘You would betray us — allow them to escape for payment. You are a whore…’
She raised her arm to slap him again but he was quicker and it was as if instantly the man’s spear was through her stomach. She felt the broad flint head glance from the bone of her pelvis. How easy it is to die, she thought, amazed, before a sea of pain erased all else. To her shame she screamed but over that she heard the roar of Ruk’s bull outrage.
Tal did not expect to ever awaken again, yet she did. It was night. The lights of the Holds shimmered pink and green in the black starry sky. A fire burned nearby. A woman’s face loomed close. The foreigner, Shell. Then Ruk, face wet with tears. ‘What… what…’ she murmured before sleep took her once more.
When she awoke again it was light and she was strapped in a travois. The men and women of her hunt all gathered around. Ruk pushed his way forward. He took her head in his rough hands. ‘I thought we’d lost you.’
‘What happened?’
‘You were healed. The foreigners healed you. It was far beyond our skills. We’re taking you home now.’
‘Ruk!’ she snarled, then gasped her pain. ‘What happened?’
The old man glanced away. The wind threw his long snow-bright hair about. ‘I killed him.’
She’d thought so. Good — in that he’d managed to keep it among themselves. No new blood feud. Now Ruk would present himself at the Guth-Ull, the council of chiefs, and hear their judgement. They should be lenient, considering.
‘And the foreigners?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone? I can’t even thank them?’
Ruk shook his head in wonderment at the strange ways of all those not blessed enough to be of the Jhek. ‘They left as soon as they knew you were mended. Would not wait. Said they’d been in a rush because they were in a hurry to rescue a friend. Damned odd these strangers, yes?’
No. Perhaps not so odd, old friend.
‘So where, in the name of all the buggering Faladah, are we?’
Kiska eyed the man. Her… what? Protector? She’d frankly rather die. Guide? Obviously not. Partner? Hardly. Ally?… Perhaps. To be generous — perhaps. She knew nothing of the man, though she’d like to think that the Enchantress was no fool. He was wrapping a cloth about his face and neck in a manner that spoke of long practice and easy familiarity. She scanned the horizon: league after league of desolate near-desert prostrate beneath a dull slate sky. She knew this place. It had been a long time, yet how could anyone ever forget?
‘Shadow. We are in the Shadow Realm.’
The man grunted his distaste. ‘The Kingdom of the Deceiver? He is reviled in my lands.’
Kneeling, Kiska laid her roll on the ground. She took articles from her pockets and waist, including a water skin, wrapped dried meat and the sack, and folded them tightly into the roll, which she then tied off with rope. This went on to her back. She pulled a grey cloth from beneath her leather hauberk, and, like Jheval, wrapped it round her head and face. Thin leather gloves finished the change; she yanked them tight, then checked the ties of the two long-knives she carried towards the back of each hip.
Jheval looked her up and down, from her now dusty knee-high boots up her trousers to her full-sleeved hauberk and the headscarf she was tucking in. ‘You’re too lightly armoured,’ he observed.
‘Have to do.’
‘It won’t.’
‘That’s my problem.’
‘Not if I have to carry you.’
‘You won’t.’
The Seven Cities native had half turned away, scanning the surroundings. Now he eyed her sidelong, bemused. ‘How did you know that?’
Arsehole. She gestured to one side. ‘Let’s take a look from that rise,’ she said, and headed off. After a moment she heard him follow. At least he hasn’t tried to take charge. That’s something. And he had the grace, or the confidence, to admit he had no idea where they were. Nothing too insufferable yet.
The yielding sands pulled at her feet; already she felt tired. From the modest rise she now saw what she presumed to be the hills the Enchantress spoke of. They were no more than lumps on the distant horizon — or what she assumed must be distant; there was no way of knowing here in Shadow. Beside her Jheval grunted upon spotting the feature, and in that single vocalization Kiska read his frustration and disgust at the sight.
Smiling behind her headscarf, she headed down the slope.
Some time later — and she had no way of knowing how long that might’ve been — as they walked more or less side by side, yet apart, she grew tired of squinting into the distances, searching for a hint of the geography she’d encountered during earlier visits to this realm. She saw nothing familiar, and decided it was ridiculous to search for it; Shadow must be vast, and any traveller in Genabackis may as well hope for a glimpse of the Fenn Mountains.
During all this time she hadn’t spoken. But then, neither had Jheval. Clearing her throat, her gaze fixed ahead, she began, ‘So. Strictly speaking, should we be enemies?’
A silent pause; perhaps long enough for a shrug. ‘Not at all. Are you some sort of Imperial fanatic?’
‘No! I withdrew from service.’ She glared to see his eyes amused above what must be a smile hidden by his scarf. ‘I was a private bodyguard.’
It was hard to tell, but she thought the smile disappeared. ‘Not so unalike after all, then.’
‘We are quite unalike, thank you,’ she sniffed, and regretted it instantly — that priggish superior tone. He just gave a low knowing chuckle and Kiska was then very glad of her scarf for it hid her flushed embarrassment.
For all their walking the range of hills appeared no closer. The dune fields interspersed by flats of hardpan passed monotonously. They passed occasional ruins of canted pillars and shattered stone walls half buried in the sands. The emptiness struck Kiska as odd; her memories were of a much more crowded place.
‘We were enemies once, I suppose,’ the man said after a time, perhaps only to hear a human voice in all this silence. ‘For you were a Claw.’
Kiska turned on him, about to demand who said so, and to deny it utterly, but then the absurdity of it all came to her and she deflated, her shoulders falling. She gave a dismissive wave and continued on. ‘How did you know? Did the Enchantress tell you?’
‘No. It’s in your walk. The way you move.’
‘Seen many, have you, up there in Seven Cities?’
‘I was stalked by a number of them,’ he answered, without any note of boasting.
She glanced over, attempting to penetrate the layers of his armour, his face-masking headscarf. ‘I’m impressed.’
It was his turn to wave the issue aside. ‘Don’t be. My friend killed most of them. He’s very good at killing. I’m not.’
Kiska was caught off guard by this surprising claim, or confession. ‘Really? What are you good at then?’
Now came an unmistakable broad smile behind the scarf. ‘Living.’
Kiska almost shared the contagious smile before quickly turning away. After walking again for a while, she began, ‘Yes. I was a Claw. I trained as one. Was offered command of a Hand. But I refused. I withdrew.’
‘I thought they wouldn’t allow that,’ he said. ‘That they’d just kill you.’
‘Sometimes. If you go independent. Not if you join the regular ranks. Or, as I did, serve as a bodyguard within the Imperium.’
‘It must have been hard… walking away from all that…’
‘Not at all. It was simplicity-’ She stopped, peering aside. ‘What’s that?’
The undulating terrain had brought a hollow into view where a large dark shape lay twisted among broken ground. Jumbled tracks led from it off to their right.
‘It’s not moving,’ said Jheval.
Kiska gestured onward. ‘Let’s just keep going.’
‘We should at least take a look.’
She shook her head. ‘No. This is Shadow — we mustn’t involve ourselves.’
