On the other hand, as much as he was reluctant to admit it to himself…
He envied them.
Even though he had been victimized by Thulsa’s drive and the relentless ambition of the Mandraques, he envied the fearlessness of their actions. He had lived his life tentatively, always trying to please, never wanting to overreach. And look where it had gotten them, and look where it had gotten him.
Having been forced into isolation, Pavan took a long and hard look at his life and did not especially like where it had brought him.
“I have spent so much time blaming my parents for abandoning me,” he said, “that I have wasted—”
“Oh, will you please shut up!”
It was Belosh, the guard outside the door.
“I was just thinking aloud.”
“You’re always thinking aloud! Do you understand that thinking is typically something that is done in your head rather than outside your head? It’s bad enough that I’m missing the slaughter, but to have to stand out here and listen to your drivel, hour after hour after hour! Thulsa Odomo told me I cannot kill you, but if this keeps up much longer, I’m going to kill myself!”
Pavan sighed heavily and went to the window. He had been doing that quite often, looking longingly toward the mountains. He knew that it was geographically impossible, and yet he couldn’t help but feel as if they were further away with every passing day.
Then he spotted something in the distance.
He couldn’t believe it.
It was a Zeffer.
It was his way out.
ii.
The Zeffer was definitely shifting direction.
Arren didn’t know why, and he didn’t care. The way that it veered off indicated that it had a specific destination in mind. That being the case, he had every reason to think that he would be able to catch up with it soon and then…
Then what? He wasn’t exactly sure. He was undertaking a good deal of this with improvisation. He was not comfortable doing it. It ran contrary to his nature, his nature being to plan and scheme and try to anticipate everything that could possibly go wrong. But he really didn’t feel as if he had much choice.
He was still riding astride Turkin’s back. “How are you holding up, Turkin?” Turkin inclined his head slightly, but that was all.
“I think it’s heading toward that castle over there,” said Berola. “The one with the Mandraques standing in front of it.”
“Mandraques? Wait, stop.” He tapped Turkin on the shoulder and the Ocular slowed to a halt. Arren squinted, trying to see that far into the distance. “Are you sure?”
“I see them, too,” said Turkin. “These visors you’ve created are amazing. We’ve gone from being blind during the day to being able to—”
“Are you completely sure?”
“Well, not completely,” said Berola in annoyance. “It could be a Phey. I hear they’re shapeshifters. Or it could be a Firedraque in a cunning disguise. Or it—”
“All right, all right. They’re Mandraques. And you are sure the Zeffer is heading toward them? Right, of course you’re sure,” he said hurriedly, cutting off Berola before she could come up with a scathing retort. He thought about it. “Can you get us there before the Zeffer?”
For answer, Turkin began to run again, and Arren had to hold on more tightly than ever. He realized with a distant shock that the Ocular hadn’t really been going at full speed until now. Turkin had been conserving his energy, keeping a pace that he could maintain. With a destination in sight, though, he was cranking himself up to full speed, and it was all that Arren could do to hang on. Berola was keeping up with him easily. He wondered if she might be even faster than Turkin, but couldn’t quite bring himself to embrace the notion of riding a female Ocular.
The guards at the base of the castle didn’t seem to know where to look first. They saw the Zeffer coming their way, but didn’t appear particularly threatened by it. Arren found that curious, since the typical attitude of a Mandraque was to feel threatened by just about anything and try to destroy it before it destroyed the Mandraque. So the fact that they were just watching it rather than, say, seeking out bows and arrows and attempt to shoot it down struck Arren as curious.
Why would they not feel threatened?
“They’re allied,” he said.
Turkin, still running at full speed, was huffing slightly, but Berola looked at him and said, “What?”
“Those Mandraques. They’re allied with the Serabim.”
“How do you know?”
“I pay attention to things,” said Arren. “From the colors of their leathers, I think they’re of the Odomo house. That makes them Thulsa’s. Thulsa rules with an iron claw. There is no way they would be acting on their own initiative, which makes me think that Thulsa is organizing it.”
The Mandraques had now noticed the Ocular coming their way. Small wonder since the running Ocular were creating a tremor that a deaf person would have perceived. As opposed to their relaxed reaction to the Zeffer, they immediately responded as if the Ocular presented a threat. They drew their swords.
And did not attack.
The normal Mandraque reaction to a perceived threat would have been to come right at it. The fact that they were staying put told Arren that they were guarding something. That immediately made the castle of even greater interest to Arren.
“Put me down,” he said. “I am head of the Five Clans and it is high time they knew who they were dealing with.”
Turkin promptly did as he was instructed, slowing to barely more than a trot and allowing Arren to drop off him and hit the ground in a crouch. Arren straightened and the Mandraques, even though they were still a short distance away, recognized him immediately. They were stunned, obviously unable to comprehend what the head of the Five Clans was doing in the company of two Ocular…in the daytime, no less, when Ocular were typically helpless.
“On your knees! Show respect!” Arren ordered, and when they hesitated, he bellowed, “I said on your knees! Or I’ll cut your legs off just above them and feed them to the Ocular!”
This was sufficient threat to prompt them to genuflect. In a low voice, Berola said, “We don’t actually eat other members of the Twelve Races. That’s just a story.”
“Yes, but they don’t know that. I know that you would never—”
“Not never. We used to. We just stopped because their bones kept getting stuck in our gums.”
He stared at her. “Are you joking?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you hear…singing?” said Turkin.
At first he did not. His tongue flicked out several times, getting a sense of the vibrations in the air. “No. I hear nothing. Are you certain…?”
“Yes, I’m certain. It’s light and airy that it almost could be mistaken for a passing breeze.” Turkin looked down at him. “Can’t you Mandraques hear?”
“We hear fine,” said Arren, feeling strangely defensive at the question.
“Maybe it’s too high for them to hear,” said Berola. “Maybe they can’t perceive sounds in the upper registers.”
“Which means that’s likely not a Mandraque who’s doing the singing,” said Turkin.
They walked up to the Mandraques on guard, who had remained on bended knee the entire time. They looked to the left and the Zeffer was drawing steadily closer. Arren wasted no time. “What are you doing here? Who are you guarding?”
“We were given strict instructions,” one of the Mandraques said, “to tell no one of—”
“I am not no one,” Arren said heatedly. “I am Arren Kinklash, head of the Five Clans, and I do not care if you are taking your orders directly from the gods themselves. You will answer my questions. Keep in mind that I have already figured out much. Thulsa Odomo, who answers to me I might add, has formed an alliance with the Serabim. He is going to be using the Zeffers for conquest. What I do not know is how he has managed to accomplish that, but I suspect the answer is up there. Now are you going to tell
me? Or do I have to go up there and find out myself.”
The Mandraques exchanged uncertain glances.
Arren had had enough. His voice was brisk as he said, “Turkin.”
Turkin stepped forward, all business. “Yes?”
“Eat one of them.”
“Which one?”
He smiled mirthlessly. “Surprise me.”
Turkin advanced on the Mandraques, who backed up until their backs were against the wall of the castle. He smiled down at them and then, pointing at each one in succession, spoke an ancient Ocular rhyme that was used by children to make a choice.
“Fee, fie, fo, fum…”
ii.
Belosh had no idea why he had been left behind at the castle on this pointless guard duty.
He knew why the others had been left behind. They were idiots. He suspected that they had been dropped while still eggs, and thus were typically given less important assignments. But Belosh had every confidence in his abilities as a warrior and a dedicated follower of Thulsa Odomo. Why, then, had Thulsa chosen to leave him guarding the fool Serabim Keeper?
Oh, he knew what Thulsa had told him. “Because I need someone I can trust. The very fact that the others are—less than competent—is all the more reason that I require someone of intelligence and vision to make certain that nothing goes wrong.” Those had been fine words, but Belosh kept wondering if words were all they were. Was it possible that, for whatever reason, Thulsa saw Belosh as no different than those idiots below?
The more he thought about it, the more he dwelled upon it, the angrier he became. But he had no outlet upon which he could vent that anger.
None save the fool in the chamber he was guarding.
He had warned the Keeper not to speak. If the Keeper continued to do so, that would be more than enough excuse for Belosh to go in there and vent some of his frustration by beating the mewling Keeper severely around the head and shoulders. The best aspect of that was that since the Serabims’ hides were so thick, a sound beating wouldn’t inflict any permanent damage.
The problem was that the Keeper appeared to have heeded Belosh’s instructions.
Belosh placed his ear hole against the door, straining to hear something. A muttered whisper, an abortive soliloquy. Something.
There. He thought that maybe he just might have heard the Keeper saying something under his breath. That was good enough.
Belosh had a short club dangling from his belt on one side and a sword on the other. The sword wouldn’t be needed for this business. Pulling out the bludgeon, he unbolted the door, yanked it open, and stalked in.
He stopped dead. His jaw went slack.
The Keeper was standing at the window, his mouth open, gesturing smoothly. He appeared to be saying something, but Belosh could not determine what it was. A distant whisper, at most, was all he could perceive. But Belosh’s eyes made the impending threat clear enough. There was a Zeffer drifting toward the window, and a Serabim was astride it.
It was a rescue mission. A damnable rescue mission.
Belosh had no idea how it was possible. He knew that much of the kidnapping of the Keeper was simply a way to force any reluctant Serabim to go along with the plan that had already been concocted between Thulsa and Seramali. The fact was that, for the most part, the Serabim had embraced the notion of flexing their collective muscle. They had use for the Mandraques, and the Mandraques for them, and that would mutually benefit them until the inevitable moment when one of them decided to betray the other. Ultimately there would only be one left standing, for such was always the way of things on the Damned World.
So who the hell was mounting a rescue attempt?
The Keeper was summoning it somehow. That had to be it.
The bludgeon was obviously not going to be sufficient.
Belosh vaulted across the room and grabbed Pavan from behind before the Keeper even realized he was there. As he moved he yanked out his sword and brought it up and across Pavan’s throat. Whatever Pavan had been doing to summon the Zeffer, he stopped doing it now, if the gasp and sharp intake of breath was any indicator.
The Serabim who was astride the Zeffer saw what was happening and shouted angrily, “Leave him alone! You leave him alone!”
It was a female by the sound of her. She roared a challenge and bared her claws, and it was obvious from her look and attitude that she shared none of the pacificistic leanings that made the Keeper so easy to control. If she drew near enough, Belosh was going to have a fight on his hands. Not that he wasn’t confident that he could handle a single Serabim, but the Keeper might take the opportunity to try and escape while Belosh was busy battling the female.
Fortunately there was another way.
“Back away!” Belosh shouted. “Back away or his blood will be on his fur…and on your hands! Back away, I said! Back away or your precious Keeper dies!”
“If he dies, then you’re going to follow him!” Her voice was uncertain, though, which was all that Belosh needed to grow confident. She wasn’t going to have the will to challenge him; he was positive of that.
“I’m willing to take a chance with my life!” he called out to her. “Are you willing to gamble with his?”
Suddenly a hand clamped down on Belosh’s shoulder. Assuming that it was one of the idiots from the guard squadron below, he started to say, “Not now!” even as he glanced behind him.
It was not one of the guards.
“Kinklash?” he gasped.
“Let him go,” said Arren Kinklash. His hands were empty, his sword still hanging from his belt. “Right now.”
“This is none of your concern!”
“I’m head of the Five Clans. I have to think that makes it my concern.”
Belosh ran his options through his mind as quickly as he could and came to a decision. Even as he did, he threw the Keeper to the ground and in one motion whipped his sword around with the specific intent of sending Arren’s head flying from his shoulders.
He could not believe how quickly Arren moved. Arren ducked under the sweep and pulled out his own sword. He brought his sword around and down and Belosh barely managed to deflect it. The blades skidded against each other and locked at the hilts, bringing the two Mandraques face to face.
“You have made a serious mistake,” said Belosh with a growl.
“It won’t be the first, or the last.”
“You’re half right.”
Belosh slammed his head forward, catching Arren squarely in the face. Arren staggered and Belosh swung his sword. Arren parried, as much by blind luck as anything else. Belosh half turned and whipped his tail around, sweeping Arren’s feet out from under him. Arren hit the ground hard and Belosh brought his sword up over his head.
“Some leader!” he howled triumphantly.
And suddenly something was snaking around his throat. At first he didn’t know what it was, but then he realized.
It was a tentacle.
He brought his sword back around his head, to hack it free, but the sword glanced off the tentacle without doing the slightest bit of damage. Then there was another tentacle wrapping itself around his legs. He felt a sudden jerk and the last thing he remembered thinking before the blackness claimed him was that his tail was much larger than he thought it was.
iii.
Arren was glad he had not eaten recently, because there was every chance that whatever he had consumed would have made an abrupt return to daylight.
Belosh was in two halves, having been ripped apart at the waist. The murdered Mandraque was staring with a rather stupid expression at his lower half, although in fairness Arren wasn’t sure what his own face would have looked like if he had recently been bisected. Then Belosh’s head slumped to one side as his brain apparently finally got around to informing him that he was dead.
Another tentacle snaked into the room at that point, and there was a female Serabim enfolded in it. As opposed to the pure destruction rendered by the other tentacles, this one was as gentle as
a passing cloud. The moment the female’s feet touched the floor, she ran straight to the fallen Keeper and embraced him. “Pavan, I was so worried!”
He seemed scarcely able to put words together. “Demali, how…I…where did…how…?”
“The gods were watching out for us.”
“If so, it’s the first time in a long time. Did your father, Seramali, send you—?”
“My father…” She hesitated, seeming to lack the resolve to speak further.
Arren instantly intuited why. The female knew. She had to know. Arren seized the opportunity to make his presence known and his allegiances plain, especially considering that the Zeffer’s tentacles were still twitching around, perhaps looking for another target. “Her father is involved up to his neck.”
Pavan switched his attention to Arren, as if noticing him there for the first time. “Her father—?”
“He engineered your kidnapping.”
“That…that is impossible.” He tried to laugh and looked to Demali to confirm the absurdity of it. When he saw the seriousness of her face and her obvious disinclination to refute it, he was stunned. “How…how do you know this—?”
“Your guards below were probably more forthcoming than Thulsa Odomo would have liked.”
“I suspect there’s more than even they know,” said Demali. She put a large hand upon Pavan’s arm. “Pavan…my father killed Akasha—”
“He—?”
“And your parents. And he…” Her voice caught. “He tried to kill me.”
Pavan tried to speak but nothing was forthcoming. “That’s…no…that…that can’t…”
Demali took him firmly by the shoulders and said, “Pavan, listen carefully to me…”
“My parents…?”
“Listen! You can’t take your time coming to terms with this. Right here, right now, you have to deal with it, because the Zeffer out there is dying.”
“Dying…?”
“Stop echoing my words!” She thumped him on the chest. “The Zeffer is starving. That’s one of the reasons he was left behind. He doesn’t have much longer, I don’t think. He needs you to Commune with him.”