The Ruthless. Peter Newman

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СКАЧАТЬ had been ancient when Pari first became Deathless and was by far the oldest of their house. She used her words sparingly, and never went anywhere on a whim. Pari’s instincts told her that something else was going on. Her nature led her to ask what it was.

      ‘While we are alone,’ answered Priyamvada, ‘know that this is Arkav’s last chance. He must add to his legacy or lose it entirely.’

      Pari nodded, the gesture lost in the dark. ‘I understand.’ There would be many others vying for the chance to become Deathless. If Arkav was cast out, his Godpiece would soon find a new home.

      ‘Know too, that if he goes, you will follow.’

      ‘Forgive me, High Lord, but that I do not understand.’

      ‘Really? You have left me no choice. Either you will see that Lord Arkav is fit to serve the house, or you have defiled this sacred chamber with your lies.’ She heard the sound of the High Lord moving away. ‘I am fond of your brother. It would be a great sadness to lose him.’

      ‘Yes,’ agreed Pari.

      The great stone door groaned as it opened, spilling light into the chamber. She caught a glimpse of Priyamvada’s silhouette shaking its head, and then she was alone.

      There were three exits from all Rebirthing Chambers. One for the Bringers, a second for the Deathless, and a third for abominations. This last one was set into the floor at the far end of the chamber, and led to a sudden drop from the bottom of her floating castle all the way down to the chasm below.

      She had used the third once before, in the castle of Lord Rochant Sapphire, and sworn never to again. Even so, it was with great reluctance that she stepped through the second door. She had a feeling that whatever was coming would be far from pleasant.

      Sa-at hunched down within the branches, making himself as small as possible. He did not want the people below to see him because he knew they would be scared and run away.

      It was rare to see Gatherers from Sagan this far off the path. There were eight of them, doing their best to fill their heavy bags with berries, nuts and yellow funghi. They always travelled in groups and they always moved quickly, nervous faces darting, jumping to every sound. Unlike Sa-at they wore thick clothing and heavy gloves to protect themselves from scrapes and cuts. Even in the daytime it only took the slightest scent of blood to wake the things of the Wild.

      The dense canopy hid the suns from sight but by the glow of the leaves, he could tell it was moving from afternoon to evening, and that Vexation, the stronger of the red suns, was dominant.

      ‘Come on,’ said one. ‘We should be getting back.’

      ‘Just a bit further,’ said another.

      ‘We got a good haul,’ said the first. ‘Why risk it?’

      ‘See this?’ One of the hooded figures pointed to something on the floor and Sa-at leaned out from his hiding place for a better view. Branches shifted under his stomach to support his weight, the leaves stretching to form a veil between him and the group below. Sa-at had made many pacts with the nearby trees. He fed them whispers and little pieces of his kills, and in return they sheltered him.

      Not every part of the forest was his ally, in fact many of the trees hated him, but even they tended to leave him alone.

      Sa-at did not know why.

      From his new position, he could see a little better but the thing the group were looking at still eluded him.

      ‘It’s a creeper,’ continued the speaker. ‘If we follow it, it’ll take us right to the mother plant and we can bleed it for Tack.’

      There was a brief debate which Sa-at observed with interest. Because of its rarity, Tack was extremely valuable. Usually, the hunters were the only ones that dared go deep enough to find it.

      ‘Think of it!’ said the one leading the argument. ‘One haul would keep us all for a year. We could repair the fences, or we could buy a tame Dogkin to pull our barrow. Or …’

      The opposition’s point was simple. They could get lost if they went deeper. They could die, or worse.

      One of the group had a habit of waving a hand as she talked, making little circular motions like a whirling leaf when it fell to the ground. Another clasped their hands in front of them, as if they had just caught a baby Flykin and wanted to shake it to death. They spoke too fast for him to follow all of the words, but he could see that some were worried and some were greedy, and that the majority wanted to press on. He also enjoyed copying their gestures.

      When the Gatherers had moved away, Sa-at sprung from the branches, flinging out his arms so that his coat of feathers flew out behind him. For the few seconds it took to land, his face was split by a joyous grin, then he rolled across the floor to come to a stop where the group had chewed up the ground with their heavy boots.

      The creeper vine sat there like a bulbous tongue stretching from the dark of the trees. He stayed in a crouch, folding his arms behind his back as he inspected it. The skin of the creeper was pale, suggesting it had not yet fed. It had not inflated either, laying flat and lumpy where it should be firm and round.

      As he pondered this, a Birdkin flew down to join him. At least, it looked like a Birdkin. Its body was only slightly smaller than his head, and covered in feathers of the same black as those that made Sa-at’s coat. He knew it was also a demon, and that this made people afraid.

      Sa-at did not know why.

      ‘Crowflies!’ he said.

      ‘Sa-aat!’ it screeched back.

      He pointed at the creeper with his nose. ‘Wrong?’ he asked.

      The Birdkin hopped closer and turned its head, regarding the creeper with one of its glistening compound eyes. It twitched one way, then the other, then opened its ivory beak.

      Sa-at reached out a hand. His little finger was missing, and sometimes the old wound became itchy. When that happened, or when he wanted to be close to Crowflies, he pressed the scarred knuckle into the Birdkin’s beak.

      Crowflies’ neck jerked, as if it were about to vomit, and then he felt the proboscis stir from inside, peeking out to prick his skin.

      A flurry of images brushed Sa-at’s mind – a vision of the world as Crowflies saw it, a fractured mosaic. The colours he saw were strange, the reds brighter, the greens darker, and shadows no longer matched the things that made them.

      The Gatherers’ footprints stood stark amid the dirt, and among the human ones Sa-at was now shown others that had been there recently, a succession of small round holes, as if someone had poked their fingertips into the dirt again and again.

      Spiderkin? wondered Sa-at.

      Crowflies gave a twitchy nod. They had dragged the creeper here as a lure. No doubt there was more than just the plant waiting for the Gatherers.

      Sa-at made a cage with his fingers. A trap?

      Another nod from the Birdkin.

       The people with the funny hands will be eaten?

      And another.

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