In Nadir's Shadow Page 3

  She looked down and nodded, her expression thoughtful. "It will make him happy, I think," she said, not specifying whether she meant the marriage or its significance.

  "I have to go," Azial said, placing the bow on a hook on the back of his armor.

  When they emerged from the hut, the mass of people assembled in the village square gave a cheer. The crowd parted at Azial's approach, and Pirisati blended into it, finding the other Sharyukin mates. At the center, Chief Tihamtu of the Udaki tribe stood with his arms crossed, his jaguar crown and cape draped over his shoulders. His eyes glittered beneath the predator's teeth. At one side stood Merodakh, the medicine man, much shorter but an imposing figure nonetheless, covered in white ash from his shaved head down to his toes, and naked except for his red breechcloth. At the chief's other side, a clique of thirteen grizzled men and women surveyed the proceedings with grim expressions. The elders of the tribe viewed the conduct of their successors with unrelenting skepticism, and although Azial recognized the value of their traditional points of view, he was also glad to be leaving with Tihamtu instead of staying home and having to deal with them.

  "Father!"

  Azial cringed. Inside, he begged his son to stay back, but Musuri had already emerged from the crowd to walk beside him.

  "Father, take me with you! I'm a hunter now, I can help!"

  Was the boy really that arrogant? He looked down on Musuri, who held up his hunter's bow with a wild smile on his face. Seeing his usually dour son so animated sparked fear in him. If just being accepted for training made him so happy, why would he ever bother actually doing anything? "Holding a bow doesn't make you a hunter. Have you trained even one day yet? Have you killed even one animal for the tribe? Or do you think that, since you're my son, you don't have to do the work?" Musuri's smile fell away, replaced by the blank mask he so hated. "If you want to come along, take your bow and practice. Practice hard, and learn. Maybe one day, you'll be good enough to join the Chief's entourage. Now go."

  Musuri didn't say another word as he fell behind and out of sight. Azial didn't look to see where he went. Maybe his words would spark some real ambition in the boy, but he had many doubts.

  Concerns for another time. He entered the circle and stood before Tihamtu.

  "Azial," the chief said. "Are the Sharyukin ready?"

  Azial looked around the expectant crowd before turning to the group of armor-clad warriors selected to escort Tihamtu. "Udaki Sharyukin!" he bellowed. "Your chief asks if you are ready!"

  Their answering cry shook the ground. Azial faced the chief. "We follow where you lead, Tihamtu." He bowed from the waist.

  "Azial. Step forward," Merodakh said, his voice like grinding rock. Azial approached him and suppressed a grimace at the sight of the rolled-up leaf in the medicine man's hand. He drew steady breaths as he kneeled, and prayed his thundering heart stayed hidden beneath his armor. Merodakh reached out and gently lifted his chin. With the other hand, he held the leaf over Azial's eye. A drop of liquid fell.

  Burning agony bored into his skull. He ground his teeth and sucked in air through his nose, fighting with all his strength to stay still and silent. Another drop fell in his other eye. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Merodakh put a hand on his shoulder and patted gently. "Good," he muttered. "You're strong, Azial. You did well. A good example."

  Azial wiped away his tears and stood. The world around him had changed. Every edge was sharp as obsidian, all the colors vibrant and loud, the shadows no longer opaque. "For your gift, Merodakh, I thank you." He bowed and came to stand beside the chief.

  One by one, the other Sharyukin approached and received the same treatment. Most gave a single, grated curse; a few stayed silent. When the last bowed and stepped aside, the chief raised his scepter high into the air. The crowd hastily cleared a path, revealing the gate in the bamboo wall surrounding the village. At Azial's hand signal, the Sharyukin spread out in front and behind the chief and his entourage. When he lowered his scepter, the group moved as one, except for Merodakh. The medicine man began a deep, rolling chant as the Sharyukin parted around him, and Azial felt his heart join the rhythm. The power in the song would stay with them through the journey.

  At the wall, four men untied the braided vines to either side of the gate and pulled. Slowly, the gate tilted outward, revealing the trees beyond the wall. A single whoop rose from the forest, starting low, then rising smoothly before cutting off abruptly. Another came in answer, a high tone plummeting low before swinging up into a sudden stop. When the group passed through the gate, dozens of wails echoed back and forth.

  A smile welled up from Azial's heart. He gave another signal, and all but four of the Sharyukin leaped up and disappeared into the thick canopy overhead. The gate slammed shut behind the last of Tihamtu's entourage.

  As the trail turned downward, Azial said, "Tihamtu, I will go to see the road ahead." The chief gave a nod and Azial sped off, sprinting among the trees. Without thought or effort, his feet cleared logs and boughs, every lightning step firm and sure. His head snapped around at a glimpse of motion to his side. A brown- and white-furred gibbon swung from branch to branch, keeping pace as it watched him go. Azial grinned and let out his best approximation of the animal's call. It threw its head back and echoed it before swinging up and out of sight.

  All the omens were good. The rest was up to him.

  *****

  Seruya crouched on a branch hidden by the leaves, toying with one of the talons tied in her hair as she watched the two young Sharyukin on the trail below share uncertain glances. Moments later, the source of their discomfort came into view: a group of five loud men, four struggling to pull a loaded, big-wheeled cart over the roots and branches on the trail. They wore wide-brimmed hats and heavy clothes stained with sweat, tied off at the wrist and tucked into thick boots. Their broad belts held the usual mess of objects she couldn't begin to imagine a purpose for, and each carried one of the thundering tubes the loud men called guns on a strap around their shoulders. She wondered how they hadn't passed out yet.

  One came ahead of the others, cautiously approaching the pair of tan warriors. "I greet you, great warriors of the Kith!"

  The two gave no reply.

  "We want to trade with you. Things we value in exchange for things you value. Everyone is happier!"

  The last time she'd heard a loud man speak the language of the Kith, he'd known a handful of words at most. Who was teaching them?

  The taller of the two warriors waved an arm, as if to drive off a hornet. "You have to leave. This is not your land."

  The trader made a placating gesture with his hands. "As you say, friend, as you say. You are masters here and we would never defy you."

  Seruya rolled her eyes.

  "But in the interests of friendship, I couldn't leave without offering you the opportunity to own one of... these!" He'd turned back to his cart and now pulled out a wooden contraption. It looked like a small bow tied to a stick, with handles on the side. "As warriors, you will love this." He shouldered the device and faced to the side. With a snap, a stubby missile flew out to strike a small tree. The trader turned back to the pair and spread his arms. "What did I tell you?"

  At that range, an experienced Sharyukin with a killing bow could pierce the same tree entirely. The two below were not experienced, and quickly betrayed their interest. Seruya moved from her perch and jumped across two boughs to settle just above the group of traders. From her new vantage point, she examined the contents of the cart. Her mood darkened. Inside were stoneware, hides, bows, and jugs of palm oil, all made by the Kith. More of the weapons the trader had demonstrated sat in neat stacks, next to long, straight knives that resembled the wrathblades in length and thickness. Guns were only found in their hands.

  "That is a fine blade, friend! May I see it more closely?"

  She watched with growing disquiet as the young Sharyukin brought out his weapon. "Do not touch!" he snapped as the trader reached for it. The o
ther man stepped back and raised his hands, then laughed. "So tender, friend! I intend no disrespect. Here, take one of my weapons. Examine it, see its parts move."

  Seruya didn't miss the speaker's brief hand signal to the other loud men. While the young warrior took the weapon and turned it over, the one mostly hidden behind the cart reached in to retrieve a mass of rope. The rope turned out to be a pair of nets as the man handed one to a companion. They edged forward as the speaker directed the attention of the Sharyukin back to the tree he'd shot, and away from the danger.

  Shifting her weight, Seruya slipped down from the branch. Her feet made no sound as she landed in a crouch among the traders, her hair settling with a whisper to hide her body. The loud men all faced outward, but the two Sharyukin had noticed her. She heard the catch in their breath when they turned, the trader's puzzled "What's wrong, friend?" and finally the curses and scuffing feet when the loud men saw her. She raised her head and stared from beneath her thick black curls at the one who had spoken. "I know you," she said. "I know your kind. I know why you come. I am why you fail. I am how you die."

  The one behind her acted first, aiming to throw the net over her. He lost his arm to her blade before he realized it. The limb fell in the dirt next to the net, fingers twitching. He drew breath to scream, but died before he could, his spine severed at the neck as Seruya slipped past him. She moved like a shadow among her victims, a wrathblade in each hand. Only one managed to take a wild shot that went nowhere, and he lost his life with the next heartbeat.

  Even before the last body fell, she put her blades away and advanced on her petrified brethren.

  "Th-the Banished," the taller one muttered, his eyes wide with fear. "They said you weren't real."

  She yanked the traders' weapon out of his hand. "For this?" she spat. "For this toy, you surrender your honor? The gift that kept our people alive?"

  "I wouldn't agree to the trade!" he said, his voice high. "I didn't let him touch it!"

  "You were tempted," she said with disdain, "and you didn't even notice they were about to take you!" She hurled the weapon aside to shatter against a tree. "What are your names?"

  The taller warrior drew himself up. "I am Engur, of the Nin-muk."

  His companion tried to glare at her, but his fear turned it into a grimace. "Makru."

  After a moment's hard stare, she drew her blades and presented them, still wet with the traders' blood. "You are young warriors, so you seek strength. That's normal. But maybe now you see: nothing these noisy pigs bring can compare to a master Sharyukin. You can't trade your honor for power. You must keep your honor, live by it, and then you gain power." She put her weapons away. "You are here for the summit?"

  Furtive nods.

  "Go there now, and wait outside the Circle. Be ready to admit your shame. I'll find you."

  They looked at each other. Makru lifted his chin. "You don't command us—"

  She slapped him hard, snapping his head around and sending him stumbling. She followed and hit him twice more. "If I don't see you at the summit, it had better be because you're dead!" she yelled in his ear. "Don't make me come find you!"

  While the youngsters scampered off, she walked back to the carnage. Two fingers twirled one of the talons tied in her hair as she considered what kind of trophy would make the most impact at the summit.

  A leaf twitched at the edge of her vision. All other considerations dissolved as she spun around, blades freed. A Vile hung upside down from the same bough she had jumped over earlier, sap leaking from the holes made by its claws. While motionless, its skin perfectly matched the textures and colors of the tree. Only its dull black eyes betrayed it.

  She frowned. "Why don't you attack me, monster?"

  It watched her for another moment, then disappeared, moving silently in spite of its bulk.

  She lowered her weapons and stared after it. Once again, a Vile had come close and failed to attack. Another reason to visit the summit.

  She took the head of one of her victims, and set out at a fast pace. It had been a long time since she'd last been among her people. They wouldn't be happy to hear her words, but she'd never let that stop her before.

  Chapter Three

  "We can't continue. We have to turn back. Now, while we still have a ship left."

  Miron looked at Borya, but his hollow expression remained fixed on the tabletop and he gave no response. They sat in the conference room, faces drawn and haggard in the crimson light, the original purpose of the meeting forgotten after Gervasi's arguments.

  "It's been barely a week and the crew can take no more," Gervasi continued. "No one has slept. The ship is falling apart. If we turn around now and send an—"

  "Master Second, I am not terminating our assignment," Miron cut in. "You can stop wasting your breath because it's not going to happen. The ship and her crew are secondary concerns as long as we retain a chance of success."

  Hate flashed across her face, and her bloodshot eyes narrowed. "There is no chance, Commander. Even if, by some miracle, we make it to our destination, we will lose the battle when the enemy catches up to us. We can't fight if our weapons don't work. We can't work if we've lost our minds."

  Miron let his contempt seep into his voice: "Speaking for myself, Master Second, my mind is exactly where it ought to be. For your part, I might well believe that the stress is becoming too much for you. I can't think of any other reason why you would continue to argue with a superior officer after he's made his decision."

  Gervasi's nostrils flared and color briefly returned to her cheeks. "Maybe it's because the last time you sacrificed—"

  Borya slammed his fist into the table, leaning forward. He pointed at her. "Shut up. I didn't let you sit in so you could be insubordinate. Are you refusing to follow orders? Tell me now, so I can deal with you."

  Trembling, she answered, "I go where I'm sent, sir. And I do what I'm told."

  Borya pulled back, some of the anger fading away. "If that ever changes, I will be there."

  The door opened. Talent Ilari walked in, her face hollow and one hand entangled in her brown hair. She stopped when she saw Miron. "I'm sorry," she said in a hoarse voice. "Master, I need to talk to you." She looked around, eyes never still.

  Borya glanced at Miron. "You are out of line, Talent."

  Ilari bit her finger. "Please," she whispered.

  Miron got up. "We can attend to discipline later, Ship Master. I think we were done here, in any case." He left the room, Gervasi right behind him. She passed him on the way out of Control. Once they were out of sight, she turned on him. "I haven't forgotten, Commander. I was there, on the Adamant. You were wrong. They died for nothing. I'm not going to let you do it again."

  Her words cut into him. Images flashed in his mind, of trapped fleet hands dying slowly, screams echoing in his ears. He fought back the anger, what he really wanted to say to her, and gave a cold smile instead. "You're not qualified to judge me. You don't even have your own crew yet. What could someone like you possibly understand about real responsibility? You're like a child, so sure you know better than your parents. Run along, Gervasi. Run Borya's ship for him. He'll fix whatever you screw up." He walked past, knocking her aside with his shoulder. Part of him realized that what he'd just done was irrevocable, that this woman would now hate him until the end of her days. The rest of him relished that knowledge. Let the worthless bitch stew. He didn't need her, and neither did anyone else.

  Regardless of her shortcomings, her point about the upcoming battle was well taken. He decided to see for himself the status of the ship and her crew.

  After taking the stairs down two decks and passing a pressure door, he found an open access hatch with tools sitting outside. He ducked and stuck his head inside to find an engineer in yellow overalls and two fleet guards working in one of the railgun ammunition magazines. The three men squatted in various positions over the massive rotary construction that fed projectiles from the magazines into the ammunition lifts. They had
augmented the red overhead lights with several portable work lights, and between the equipment and themselves, little space remained.

  "How goes the work?" he said.

  All three men stopped working and looked at him. Deep, dark circles ringed their eyes, and their dirty faces were pale and hollow. After meeting their stares for a few seconds while his blood pressure rose, he said: "I don't know what shocks you about seeing me, and I don't really care. Now kindly update me on the nature and status of your work before I have Borya censure you all."

  The engineer cleared his throat. "I apologize, Commander. The last time someone visited us, it wasn't them. If you know what I mean."

  Realization tightened the grip on his gut. "I understand. What are you working on?"

  "The autoloaders keep getting jammed, sir. We clear the jam, get out with everything working, and with the first test, the thing locks up again."

  "What causes the jams?"

  "Debris, misalignment. Power failure. Anything that makes these things screw up. You'd think they could try fucking with some other system for a change!" He spoke the last sentence to no one in particular, glaring around the tight space.

  Miron understood the need for bravado and let the profanity slide. "Think of it this way, crewman. At least we know what their priorities are. We have a long way to go still. Plenty of time to get the upper hand." He gave a nod. "Carry on."

  He withdrew from the hatch and walked back the way he came, but passed the staircase and kept going. The corridor stretched out before him, steel-blue bulkheads painted red by the lights in the overhead.

  In between blinks, a person appeared, still some distance away. His steps slowed as he got closer. Most of the woman's orange vacsuit had fused with her body. Her hair was gone, and her skin had blackened and cracked open, revealing the texture of cooked meat underneath. She stood still, staring with her remaining eye, and despite the damage, he recognized her features. The wounds on his chest itched, mocking him, and his breathing quickened as he fought the panic that threatened to make him run back to the men working in the compartment behind him.