Chapter 9: 9

Barrin awoke with a throat gripped in his fingers, tightening, a growl emerging from his own. Seeing the bulging eyes of the woman, he released her in an instant, his hand falling to the floor as he looked around, offering no apology. She scuttled backward, clutching at her neck, coughing and taking in fast, short breaths. He remembered, now, what had happened but, for a fraction of a moment, he had seen the ones that had taken Kahri. That wasn’t possible, however, for he had fallen into darkness long before his enemies had separated him from his lover.

He held no love for dreams. They were not real. Illusions presented by the mind while lost in slumber. Tales created by a mind that had nothing else to do while the body rested. Yet, he remembered this dream. Of hooded figures, dressed in robes of crimson and black, scarves fastened across faces showing only fervent eyes bearing down upon him. In the dream, he had slaughtered some of those figures, their blood penetrating beneath his nails, but he had failed to stop them taking Kahri.

It could not have happened that way. The sorcery that had enveloped the entire village had an instant affect, he remembered that as clear as though it occurred in this moment. The touch of the malevolent fog and wakefulness disappeared. That he remembered. Even now, as the dream faded from his mind, he knew that much.

“Who is ‘Kahri’? You mentioned them before, in the carriage.” Even though he had almost throttled her, Maeal did not look upon him with fear. She hawked and spat to the side. “You called for her many times in your stupor.”

“Him.” Barrin sat up, feeling something heavy in his other hand. “I do not wish to speak of it.”

“I see.” Maeal had an amused tone in her voice, but Barrin’s attention lay elsewhere. “That explains much.”

The weapon that had fallen to his hand in desperation. His saviour. He had to flex his fingers about the grip several times before they lost their stiffness but he did not relinquish his hold upon it. Never in his life had he seen its like. Curved, almost like a scythe, and a blade as black as obsidian, yet it was not stone. Nor was it steel, or iron, or even bronze. Metal, for certain, but not any kind he had encountered before.

He rose to his feet, unsteady but unwilling to remain seated like a weakling. Lost in his own thoughts, he swept the weapon from side-to-side, moving it in weapons forms ingrained into his very bones from the moment he could hold a knife. Never a practice knife, no wooden dagger, never a blunted sword, always the sharp, deadly, real weapon. Father had insisted. If Father could see this blade, feel its impeccable balance, test the edge, he would have fought Barrin and died for it.

The blade, the crescent-moon sword, fascinated Barrin. His memories of the short, brutal battle returned and visions of this blade slicing through skin and bone alike came to him. Those pitiful creatures stood no chance against him bearing this blade. He doubted any could. With this blade, he could slaughter enemies in the dozens, the hundreds, the thousands. Father would never have taken this blade from him, no-one could. The blade was his, now, and ever would be.

“You should drink, White-Hair, though until you can find a stream, perhaps I should name you ‘Blood-Hair’?” She offered him a waterskin, though it looked almost dry. “I have seen many things in my life, terrible things that even you would cower from, but never have I seen the like of how I found you.”

“I cower from nothing.” He took the waterskin, shaking it, before unstoppering it and taking a short drink. He swilled the water around his mouth. “We should ration this water. My skin and my food are gone.”

He touched his chest, where the straps for the bag of food and the waterskin had stretched across his thick muscles. An instinctive touch, but it forced him to lower his gaze. His skin felt dry and flaking, and, only as he now looked, did he see why she had whispered the name of her god. He must have made a sight to behold in the light of the torches she had held. Torches no longer in her hands, and Barrin only now looked at their surroundings.

Two braziers lit the room, though Barrin could not smell the stench of dung. These flames were both fed by another fuel. The torches sat upon a table, tamped and black, ready to relight later. The braziers now lit the room and Barrin saw the creatures he had fought. Half-a-dozen had crossed the gap, only to fall to his rage. Had more made the crossing, they too would litter the floor. Barrin could have fought an army in his fury.

Another body caught his eye, but not a fresh one. This one held little more than bone to show that it once lived. In the dust, by the skeleton’s hand, Barrin could see the imprint where the weapon he now carried had sat for so long. Decades? Centuries? Barrin couldn’t say, but leathery strips of skin still sat upon the bones in places. And, at the waist, Barrin saw a belt, still supple, still as fresh as the day it had sat upon this body when it lived. And, upon the belt, a curving sheath, ready to seat the blade in his hand.

“Have you searched the area?” He bent double, tearing the belt from the skeleton, sending bones scattering across the floor, before fastening the belt about his own waist. “These ... things? Have you seen any sign of them since? Are there any other weapons? For you.”

“I have peeked outside, but no more. Steps led me here, to the left of this door, but I only saw a passageway to the right. No weapons, though I can fashion a spear if we can find a staff of wood that hasn’t dried to uselessness.” She paused, tongue flicking at dry lips, and then nodded toward his defeated foes. “I have seen no more of them, but I have heard stirrings. I feel they will overcome their fear should we linger. And ... you should look at them. They are not what they appear.”

He did not know what more he needed to know about these creatures. They could bleed, they could die and they used clawed fingers and teeth to fight, no weapons. Barrin knew all he needed to about them, but, in the way Maeal looked behind him to those bodies, it seemed important that he examine the dead as she had said.

The crescent-moon sword slipped into the sheath as though someone had oiled and maintained both that day. It felt satisfying, the weight of it upon his hip. He had never taken to holding on to one weapon or another, they were only tools at the end of the day. Some better made than others, some better suited for certain situations than others. Father had taught him the use of many weapons and never to rely upon one, and Barrin had become proficient with others as he encountered them. This weapon, though. He could never let this one leave his side or his hand.

He crouched, resting his forearms upon powerful thighs and tilted his head at the dead creatures. Filthy and black, stunted and bent-backed. He had never seen such loathsome creatures in his life, at least nothing that so resembled humans. Some animals had filthy habits and appeared to relish devouring weeks-old carrion, but they were not monsters. There were no monsters. Barrin had travelled enough to know. There were only people ...

That thought trailed away from his mind as he took a longer, more intense look at the thing before him. One of the few of the creatures that Barrin’s new blade had not carved into unrecognisable chunks of flesh, this body looked almost complete, dying due to an inch perfect slash across the throat. Barrin turned it over, expecting to see fangs and pointed ears, but he saw none of that.

In a rush, he gripped the wrist of the body, dragging it closer to a brazier, and lifted it, turning the thing toward the light until he could get a good, detailed look. There were no monsters, only people capable of evil acts. Father had told him that and Barrin had learned the truth of it far too often in his life. Evil masquerading as the banal, the light-hearted, the personable. Evil people rarely acted evil. Barrin wasn’t even certain what he held up to the light even was evil. But it was human.

“What happened to these people to bring them so low?” He used his other hand to turn the head one way, then the other. He pushed up a lip, looking at the broken teeth. “How did they come to this?”

“I have heard of societies that change over years, transformed, somewhat, by the experiences of living somewhere isolated. They adapt. People who live upon mountains, their chests widening to take on greater amounts of air.” Maeal looked at the body, still hanging limp from Barrin’s hand. She sounded like a scholar. “I suppose this is similar. I imagine living down here, in the dark, a body changes to better suit the environs. Or, perhaps, sorcery. I have heard of such things.”

“It matters not.” With a flick of the wrist, Barrin tossed the body aside. “Whether human or some mockery, you are right. Their fear will not hold them back for long. Search this place thoroughly. If there is anything of use, take it. We must find a way out before these ... people stir again.”

Maeal did not protest. She set off to one side of the room, scouring the shadows for sign of anything useful. Barrin did the same at the other side. The light of the braziers lit only so much, but Barrin had keen eyes. Eyes that found nothing, but he couldn’t expect to find a trove of weapons like the one he now bore upon his waist. He didn’t believe in luck, or fate, or destiny. He happened upon the weapon at the right moment, these things happened. Yet, in silence, he sent a thought of thanks to a god that had not helped him and would not, should Barrin ever ask for it. Shtuur offered nothing for faith.

Would that Shtuur gave succour to the dead, though, and Barrin would ask of it now. Here, in the furthest corner of the room, he found something the skeleton, whoever that may once have been, would have come to protect from whatever disaster befell this city. A crib. The wood rotted, paint long since peeled away, leaving only the outlines of what someone had drawn upon it. Linens and cloths rotted away and become but dust, leaving only one thing inside. The bones of an infant.

Kahri’s heart would have broken. Father would have turned away in disinterest. Barrin stood conflicted. A child. One that probably died after their guardian had fallen. Alone, afraid, wailing in despair and fear. And he thought back to another child that had lived after its mother had died. He did not remember that time, of course, but he had a memory of the tale Father had told him. Unlike this child, Barrin had had a saviour. A bitter, violent, twisted saviour, but a saviour, nonetheless.

This child had nothing and had died in fear. Barrin looked over his shoulder to see Maeal continuing her search. She had no need to see this. Oh, she put across a good face of someone who had control of her emotions, but Barrin had seen beneath that veil. She cared and he expected the sight of this child’s bones would set her to weeping, or at least wrench her heart. He would save her that.

“Anything?” Maeal placed her fists upon thin hips, shaking her head. “Nothing but dust and the blood you extracted from those poor souls.”

“Nothing.” Barrin took one last look into the crib and turned away. It wasn’t his problem. “Relight the torches. A passage to the right, you say?”

He crossed the room in long strides, snatching the lit torch from her hand and heading toward the doorway. The crescent-moon blade returned to his hand, the weight of it comforting him, the cold of it pushing aside thoughts of compassion and pity. He could have no pity as long as Kahri remained lost. Then, perhaps, he could allow himself a modicum of pity. For a child, at least, that had wailed and called as a city died around it.

Pity that a pitiless man had not come upon it and saved its life.