human. She was vachine.
Kell deflected the blows, struggling, sweat beading on his skin, but the whiskey was numbing his brain, and so much recent fighting had tired his mighty muscles. Blow after blow he halted, sparks showering the old distillery, only for Tash to twist her blade and attack again; slowly, Kell was forced back to the iron steps leading down.
Tash paused, head high, eyes gleaming. She twirled her sword, experimentally, as if loosening her wrist after a brisk warm-up session. She showed no fatigue. By comparison, Kell was sweating heavily, and he felt sick. He could taste bad whiskey and old bile. Doubt flared in his breast, but he quelled it savagely. Now was not a time for doubt. He had killed better than Tashmaniok. He had killed far better.
'You're good, girl,' he said. 'But I reckon you should work on your speed. I've seen one-legged whores move faster than you.'
Tash smiled, with genuine humour. She lifted her head a little, and some distant beam of starlight caught her eyes, which sparkled. 'Old man. Save your breath for battle. For I've not seen anything special as of yet; and to think, they call you a Vachine Hunter.'
She's answered that question, thought Kell sourly. She was sent by General Graal. Their little war party had not escaped so easily. Indeed, Kell realised, now Graal felt it was personal. An intuition told him things had changed; strangely, Kell felt like Graal wanted something. But what the hell did he want other than Kell's head on a plate? What could Kell offer the warped general?
Tash stepped forward, fluid, sword singing a figure of eight; Kell slammed his axe horizontal, and Tash did something with her sword, a technique Kell had never before experienced. His axe clattered off down the walkway behind her, and Kell felt something large and dark fall through him, like a rock down a well. He stood, stunned for a moment, and Tash moved fast leaping, both boots slamming his chest. With a grunt Kell staggered back and fell from the steps, rolling violently down the rattling, iron construct to lie, stunned and bleeding, at the foot.
Kell groaned, and pushed himself up, then slumped to his chest once more. He rolled onto his back, tasting blood, and watched Tashmaniok walk lightly down the iron staircase. She strode, stood over him, her body framed by the sculpted shapes of spirit-stills in the gloom. Dust motes floated in the air from Kell's pounding descent, and he coughed, clutching his diaphragm, face contorted in pain.
Tash twirled her sword once more, humour on her lips. But her crimson eyes were hard. Like glittering rubies.
'Graal told me to be careful,' she murmured, and lowered herself to one knee, so that she straddled him. Kell could smell her natural perfume. She smelt good.
'Aye?' he growled.
'But I don't understand why. You're nothing but a whisky-drunk old man who's seen better days.' She lifted her sword high in both hands, and Kell watched the silver blade without emotion. His eyes were dark, like the soul of a canker.
Tash twitched, and her sword plunged down.
CHAPTER 7
The Cailleach Fortress
Nienna watched Styx advance, wintry moonlight glinting on his dagger. His cock was a narrow worm in the moonlight, and she realised with a start she had aroused him. Or her vulnerability had. She bared her teeth in a snarl. I'll bite it off, she thought, and images of blood descended into her mind and she knew, knew she was not strong enough to take on this man, this escaped prisoner, this killer but she would make him suffer, she damn well knew, and she would make him wish he'd never met her.
Styx dropped to his knees on the ground, and Nienna cringed, but she played on her fear and exaggerated her suffering and weakness, for it allowed him to grow confident and close – and then she would strike, like a viper. Styx shuffled closer, knife before him, but she could see him falling into lust and she had seen that look before, on the faces of college boys during their first encounter with a woman. They lost control. They lost intelligence. By the Bone Halls, they lost everything that made them attractive in the first place!
Nienna stayed still, like a frightened mouse.
Styx's scent overpowered her before his physicality; he stunk, of sweat, of sword oil, of excrement, of bad teeth and bad breath and the blood-oil which stained his lips from the inside out, like a parasitical disease.
He was panting. His knife lowered. His eyes half closed as he lusted towards her, lips puckered, and she hit him with a right hook, just like her grandfather had shown her, her weight dropped into it, power from the shoulder, all her strength and weight and might and hatred and fury and fear powered into that single devastating blow which rocked Styx back on his heels – and made him open his eyes, and laugh at her.
Nienna's mouth dropped open.
Styx lifted the blade. 'For that, bitch, I'm going to cut you up.'
Nienna felt piss trickle down her legs, and she knew she was doomed and dead and worse; a slave to this terrible man.
Something appeared from nowhere, a blur, a wristthick length of wood which connected with the side of Styx's head. Blood and saliva showered from his mouth, along with a tooth, and in slow motion Nienna watched him writhe sideways, body a jellied doll, and hit the earth unconscious. He twitched, and lay still.
Myriam loomed from the darkness. She stood over Styx, face contorted in rage. The tree branch descended again, smacking Styx's head so hard the wood disintegrated in her hands, separating into three discrete sections which tumbled to the earth.
Nienna sat, hands clasping frozen roots, unable to speak.
'Come here, child,' said Myriam. Nienna obeyed, scrambling to her feet to stand, staring down at Styx. Blood ran from his ear. His lips were fluttering, and blue. Nienna looked up at Myriam, who placed a protective hand on Nienna's shoulder.
'Have you killed him?'
'I hope so.'
'You could stab him?'
Myriam spun Nienna around, and crouched, staring into her eyes. 'Child, this is no place to murder an unconscious man. I have done… terrible things. In my past. In my life. Things so awful you could never comprehend. However. You might not believe this, but I still have some pride. Styx did something bad here tonight; but I have given him a warning – a final warning. If he wishes to take it further, then I will kill him. It's that simple. He obeys my rules, or he's food for the maggots.'
She stood. Nienna stared up at her, but said nothing. Then Nienna tilted her head. 'Are you in pain?'
'What?' snapped Myriam, eyes scanning the dark woodland.
'You look like you're in pain. It's in your face. In your eyes. All the time. I don't understand.'
'Yes,' hissed Myriam, eyes narrowed. 'I am in constant pain. The gods have decided I am their plaything; they have a task for me, and if I do not succeed then I die, I die soon, I die in great agony, I die horribly. Why, little chicken, what's it to you?' She forced a smile, through her rage, to take the sting from her words. But Nienna could still see the low-level bright agony, like a fishing-line through her face, through her brain, and it reached out to Nienna. To her empathy. She could not bear to see somebody suffer.
'Where do you hurt?'
'Walk with me. Back to the camp,' said Myriam. As she walked, she sighed. 'It hurts everywhere, little one. In my muscles, in my bones; in my head, in my belly, in my groin.'
'Should I rub your muscles?'
Vehemence flared in Myriam for a few moments, like exploding lava erupting into the ocean, but mentally she calmed herself. She hated pity. But this was not pity; this was empathy. A different breed entirely.
Myriam sighed. Nobody had touched her in years. 'That would be… odd,' she said, and tilted her head. 'But welcome, I think.'
They reached the camp. Jex was sharpening his sword. He glanced up. 'Did you find him?'
'Found him and warned him,' said Myriam. 'Go and see to him, if you like.'
