This snippet was once a beginning, but I decided to go a different direction… Bet that comes as a complete surprise!
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Half the morning had passed by the time the sun peeked its lazy head over the bank of clouds hugging the Kasadri Mountains. Further north, gray extended completely across the horizon, east to west, more clouds scudding ever closer. The wind carried the scent of inevitable rain, but for now rays of light made a game of gilding cloud and land alike in sparkling shades of rose gold. Trees on the hillside turned up the undersides of their leaves, bowing and curtsying in the wind like so many dancers. Over the fertile vale, a flock of birds wheeled—not the sweet, colorful songbirds native to these climes, but a flock of Devil’s Painters. They resembled the common crow, but dark red primary feathers on their wings distinguished them from their less unruly cousins. Below them, the sun painted the tips and angles of weapons, armor, shields. It glimmered on pools of blood. On ruined flesh. On pale, exposed bone.
Deep within the killing ground, Sherakai dan Tameko turned warily in place. He gripped the handle of a broken ax in one hand and a blood-stained sword in the other. Bodies lay strewn about him in a mangled circle like spokes of a badly broken wheel, and he the hub. A few of them wore the same green and gold colors tied to his arm, filthy now with the mud and gore of battle. Hirzan’s men, it proclaimed them, swords for hire, trash soldiers, but defenders of all the Jannayan prince held dear.
Sherakai drew his wrist across his mouth, then licked his lips and tasted death. He prodded at the prone figures on the ground with the shaft of the ax to make sure they were dead, stepping over bodies, avoiding the worst of terrain made slick with gore. When he provoked a moan, he tossed the length of wood down and crouched close to inhale the scent of fear and pain. At a touch of fingertips to cheek, the man’s eyes flew open, stared for a heartbeat or two, then widened. Dead already, but unwilling to acknowledge it, he struggled to defend himself. Sherakai controlled the brief explosion of action with a knee against the soldier’s chest and gripped his face more firmly. A flicker of light danced around his hands and he closed his eyes to better feel the power and energy flowing into his skin, into his body. Even after it faded from sight, he relished the sensation, his thumb gently stroking the corpse’s cheek.
Shouts drew his attention. Across the field, two small groups continued the battle. The clang of weapons interspersed with heavy grunts and the scattered moans of the injured and dying. A single voice bellowed an order, and a dozen green-and-gold clad archers focused their fire toward the trees, taking their time picking off the fleeing enemy. Further up the hill the war hounds bayed. Chances of the enemy escaping dipped from ‘low’ to ‘unlikely.’
Sherakai did not move. The demanding scrape of need beneath his skin began to dwindle, taking with it the piercing consciousness of sound, of temperature, of time and space. It did nothing to ease the olfactory senses or relieve the disorienting, prickling ache of his eyeballs. He explored his teeth with his tongue. Probing a cut on the inside of his cheek made it bleed more. He’d acquired a gash on his lip as well. His cheek was numb, though he couldn’t recall what had struck it. Fist? Hammer? Perhaps a shield. It served him right for going without the grill attached to his helm, but he hated how the thing caged him. Plenty of men put him in cages; he didn’t need to put himself in one.
He flexed his hand, examining the way it moved beneath the metal-studded, fingerless glove he wore. A cut marked a red line across the backs of three fingers. Nothing crippling. It didn’t even hurt. Nothing did, not yet. Not unless he counted the knife-edge state of existence that had him balancing between blood-red fury and dreaded realization.
“Asrú!” Came a shout. At him. Sherakai did not speak the native language well, but it hadn’t taken long to figure out the vulgar reference to a mongrel. The tag, and others like it, followed him wherever he went. Critical examination in several looking glasses had yet to reveal his resemblance to anything with four legs. And dogs—actual dogs—avoided him.
Ignoring the summons, he bent to clean his sword on the corner of a cloak wrapped half around a fallen soldier. The owner laid a trembling hand on Sherakai’s arm. A brief glance revealed ruinous injuries and the fading of precious Life. The waste of energy insulted Sherakai’s senses. A low growl rumbled through his throat.
“Help me,” the dying man begged. He did not wear Prince Hirzan’s colors. Moments ago, he’d done his utmost to kill Sherakai. Still, a flicker of compassion made its way past consuming hunger. It irritated him. What a senseless emotion to spend on such a fickle, faithless creature. He shifted to clasp the man’s hand, focused on the ebbing energy, and drew it into himself. Comprehension and then light fled from dark eyes. A shiver of pleasure shook Sherakai, head to toe. The strength of energy, of magic, surprised him. He drew a single finger through a wound on the man’s shoulder, then lifted it to his tongue to consider the flavor. A mage, yes, but lacking. Lacking what? Some vital quality that hovered on the edge of recognition. The harder he pursued the idea, the quicker it evaporated.
With a snarl of frustration, Sherakai wiped his hand on his leg and jammed his sword into its sheath. A search of the corpse turned up the badge of the opposing force with its standing boar on brown lacquer, a horsehair bracelet bearing a plaque engraved with an unknown glyph, a purse filled with coins and two precious stones, and a necklace with a carved bone medallion. He studied the jewelry, but neither item suggested which area of magic the man had practiced. Unbuckling the corpse’s leather body armor, he yanked it off and tossed it aside, then sliced through the blood-dyed shirt. There on the dead man’s chest he found a stylized image of waves inked into the skin. Of the five segments, three remained incomplete. The other two had a quality evocative of glimmering water that begged to be touched.
“Asrú, come!”
The texture of the tattoo was more metallic than wet. The shiny bits did not come away when he scraped them with a fingernail. Pretty, he thought, and wondered if the method could be applied to his own mark. His attention shifted to his hand. Blood and filth marred it and the glove, too. Both gloves. With a wave of queasiness and a chill across his skin, another portion of reality slid into place.
His breath hitched.
The tableau of bodies stank of blood and sweat, fear and offal. He stank. Muck smeared the bright silvery vambrace he wore on his left arm. Notwithstanding, it was a thing of rare beauty. It had belonged to his father, and his father before him, for more generations than Sherakai could recall. He thought the memory of it once belonged to him, but it either got stolen or it had faded away in the face of brutal survival. Whatever metal and magic used to craft the thing, it never lost its brilliance, and he’d yet to scratch or dent it, no matter the abuse it received on the battlefield. Embossed curls bordered the outside edges of the main plate, and a raised section bearing the symbol of House Tanoshi served as a sheath for a small, exquisite dagger. For reasons unknown, the maker had elected to show the leaping daxar, a large mountain cat, facing the wrong direction.
With an edge of the dead man’s cloak, Sherakai rubbed the bracer until it shone again, then got to his feet. Absently, vainly, he brushed at the gore on his leather jack. Dark russet dye disguised the accumulation of many bloodstains, but only a good cleaning would get rid of the smell. Picking his way across the battlefield, he stopped once to gather the fading energy of another fallen soldier. Then only a tall swath of grass stood between him and water. He smelled it long before he reached it, walking with hands outstretched to either side to feel the brush of seed heads across fingertips. Next to the wide, stony creek, he unbuckled his weapons and the tasset belt with its jointed plates to protect his thighs. After a cursory inspection, he set them aside, along with his helm and the pranga underneath. The scarf served as padding beneath his helm, a dust-cover over his face, or a washcloth.
He knelt and slipped his hands into the water to let it wash over skin and gloves alike. The flow carried away blood and grime. He wished it would carry away the stains on his soul, yet even if he completely immersed himself in the stream, it could never wash him clean.
The simple texture of the water soothed him. The sound as it rushed over the stones made a melody at once complex and deeply elemental. Wind moving through the trees reminded him of the ocean, and that, too, eased some of the raggedness of spirit. At the edge of the wood, a few birds chirped, their melodies tempered by caution and underscored by the deep baying of the hounds on the ridge.
This between-time was fragile. In it, he was no longer the vicious killer, but not yet fully himself. Overwhelming blood lust untangled its claws from too-keen senses and paced back and forth, tail lashing. No longer ravenous, but still willing and able to tear the life out of anyone or anything that offered the least provocation. Tender scruples slowly edged out of the shadows.
“Asrú.” One of the Hirzani trotted up to him, clad in green with gold trim. An official soldier, that one. He stopped when Sherakai held a hand up, palm out, but he was still too close. “The captain,” he began, then rushed into an explanation in Jannayan that Sherakai could not follow. The gesture of a thumb suggested immediate attendance. A sweep of the hand gave direction. Peppered into the volley, he heard the phrases “find the something-something Moheshi,” “kill them,” and something about their hair.
He shook his head. The wordless disagreement seemed fairly common in the countries and cultures he’d traveled.
The Hirzani took offense and stepped closer, raising his voice as if volume might convey what speed hadn’t. A hand on his sword hilt insisted on compliance, promising violence if it was not delivered.
Sherakai’s mouth curled in a snarl of warning as he slowly came upright. His fingers flexed into fists. “Stop,” he growled. Words did not come easy when the beast inside him took over. His teeth hurt. He could end the ache with the taste of blood, and with the Life that it could no longer support. The craving licked again through his veins. “Get away from me.”
“Fool,” the Hirzani said, and swore at him as he drew his sword. Sherakai knew most of the Jannayan curses the soldiers used. They varied little from country to country. “Should I cut you? Come now, asrú.”
Sherakai came. Swift as sight, he closed the space between them, snatched the man’s sword, and buried it in his belly before he could do anything more than widen his eyes. His free hand wound in the soldier’s harness kept the man upright. Bending his head, Sherakai breathed in the stark agony and terror. A growl rumbled through his chest, but the Hirzani’s scream blotted it out. He flailed wildly to free himself, to hurt his attacker. Sherakai pushed to let the soldier slide down the sword to the ground, grunting and holding his abdomen. The grunts turned to sobs and wails—and the inevitable curses.
Sherakai stretched his neck, then sat next to the incautious messenger. He took him in his arms and cradled him while he died. Light shimmered up his arms, the gossamer fineness a complete contradiction to the ruthless violence that birthed it. Shivers of pleasure made him close his eyes, though he didn’t for an instant let down his guard. Or, rather, the beast within him didn’t.
The soldier took a long time to let go of life. Long enough for others to come in search of him. A woman held them back, but for one man who stomped close brandishing a spear, harsh words on his lips, and murder on his features. He stopped when he saw Sherakai’s eyes. The woman called him back. He did not retreat right away, but he did not come close enough to risk his own life, either. Or so he imagined…
Their intrusion angered Sherakai. Their watchful, outraged eyes kept peace at bay. When all the Life had fled from the messenger and the rush it engendered had faded, Sherakai collected his gear and withdrew down the stream. The soldiers followed him. He drew his sword and leveled it at them in wordless warning. Then he turned his back on them and followed the stream as it bent around a trio of towering attela trees with their coin-sized, clattering leaves. Out of sight, he crossed the flow and slipped through the tall grasses alongside it until he’d found a stretch of water he liked. It flowed smooth and deep here. Quiet.
He watched upstream for several minutes, but the soldiers remained behind. Finally, he set his gear down and eased onto his knees. The last soldier’s death required him to wash his hands again. When he’d cleaned away the blood, he bent to scrub his face and head, leaving his short hair standing on end. The water tasted sweet and cool, and he sat back on his haunches, head tipped to listen intently. He heard nothing but the wind, the water, a few cautious birds and—a respectful distance away—the voices of men calling to each other as they cleaned up after the skirmish.
The craving began to fade again, and his surroundings slowly resumed their normal textures, colors, and smells. It was like waking from a dream, where everything was at once familiar and strange, but still too sharp, still too bright. It pained his senses. A sudden, violent shudder set him off balance. A fist thrust down for support struck rock. Skin tore. Bled. He shivered after, chin to chest, euphoria braided with inescapable misery.
How many had died at his hands this time? How many still to come, or how many crippled because of what he’d done? What of the spouses, children, parents and siblings that remained? The remorse and horror had used to make him vomit after such battles. That was a long time ago. Now he pressed a hand to his aching chest and looked up at the sky, wishing the swollen clouds would quit dawdling and burst. At least some quality of tension would be relieved.
He did not retrace his steps, but took a direct path back to the battleground. They were waiting for him. The expressions on the men’s faces varied from wariness to anger. The woman who’d followed him earlier, Ravi Sadani, looked Sherakai up and down, then nodded.
“Better?” she asked, expression grim.
“Yes.” He did not know the word for ‘relatively,’ even if he’d wanted to share that much. No one cared except to know their own hides were safe. What difference to them if he was sickened, disconsolate, or lonely?
The woman fell in alongside him and the others behind. The top of her head barely cleared his shoulder, and she had to take three strides for every two of his, but it didn’t slow her. “Can you track the Moheshi? Some of them escaped.” She spoke slowly enough for him to follow and illustrated her words with the hand gesture language often used over distances and when they needed stealth.
“Yes,” he answered. “Dead or alive?”
“Dead. You find them, Seda will deal with them.”
Sherakai had no objection. If he did the killing, he would likely lose control again. He didn’t want to do that, and the Hirzani troops didn’t want to die. Seda sometimes fought with—or near—Sherakai. If he stayed out of range, he was more than capable of taking the lives of the unfortunate Moheshi fugitives.
“Do you need more time?” Ravi asked. One of only a handful of officers, she accepted his need to recover from his frenzy.
“No. Thank you.”
She treated him more kindly than most of the others. She also tended to give him lingering, speculative looks. At least she didn’t admire with her hands, as too many of her sisters in arms did. Something about carrying weapons and wearing leather and armor seemed to lend a certain boldness to female warriors. Female warriors in general distressed him. In his homeland of Alshan, such violent behavior from women was not acceptable. He found the same standard in the greater lands of Zeshi, where Alshan was cradled. However, in his travels, he received swift criticism for his antiquated and bigoted views. It was a strange world. It was a strange world.
Without a word, he wrapped his pranga around his head, wishing that he’d wetted the thing while he’d been at the stream. The steel helm settled over it. Buckling his weapons around his waist, he started off across the field where Ravi had indicated. Seda broke off from the group following them and trailed silently behind.
“Good luck,” she called after them.
He raised his hand in acknowledgement. Luck had nothing to do with hunting. Not for him. He thought he remembered a certain talent for it in his youth, but since he’d been changed, his quarry had no chance at all unless they used magic to hide their trail. Alone, he might take his time, let the beast inside settle down more, but Seda would want to get back in time for his supper. After they’d cleared the edges of the killing ground, he broke into a trot. The sooner the Moheshi were dead, the sooner he could rest.
THE END