“What —” Ashne began.
“Shhh,” said Braksya. “Not now.”
He crept to the door, listening. When he was satisfied that the bandits had left, he whispered something — so quickly Ashne thought she must have imagined it — and the wooden barricade outside fell to the ground with a thud.
This time, she caught sight of his snake slithering back up his sleeve again.
Braksya pushed the door. It swung open.
“After you,” he said, beaming.
She resisted the urge to slap the grin off his face and stepped outside into a scene of chaos. A trail of blood and severed parts wound through the streets. The sky, just yesterday a brilliant blue, was now streaked with silver wisps, like an old man’s sparse beard. Bandits and officials bolted past, shouting for help, even as women and children hurried away into the woods, seeking shelter.
At the edge of the village Ashne saw Inhai yelling out orders, waving men to and fro.
Then a great roar echoed through the mountains, shaking the very earth itself. Followed by a long, ear-piercing scream.
A giant bird bolted into the sky from the trees.
Only it was no normal bird. Its beak was long and keen as a blade, and its claws were like a dragon’s — five on each scaled foot. Bright multi-colored plumage trailed behind it like a banner over the remains of a battlefield, and with every flap of its wings, a powerful wind swept through the village.
A sword. She needed a sword. Not far away lay an arm with a blade still clutched in its grasp. She pried it away easily; the fingers were still slick with blood and not yet stiffened. Its balance was uneven, the quality of its metal nowhere near as fine as that of the one the bandits had confiscated from her, nor indeed of her trusty Shenkes. But it was better than nothing.
She spared a moment to mourn the loss of that nameless blade, for it had served her well in their brief time together despite its ignominious origins. In its own way it had perhaps helped her even more than she could say, for had it not led her to its original master in the end, after all?
Now was not the time to wonder which poor swordsmith had been coerced into the prince or the Matron’s services, or if indeed the smith had offered his skills of his own will. Braksya was nowhere to be seen.
The bird swooped down again, its long azure neck twisting and curving in vicious thrusts. Inhai was now swinging her axe through the air with a fierce grin, hair fanning about her face like a dragon’s mane. Neither she nor the bird seemed able touch the other.
“Fire!” shouted Chief Tuanwat from somewhere in the distance. “Use fire! Fire overcomes!”
All around Ashne, men scurried into action. Some were felled by another gust of wind; a few managed to obtain torches but strayed too close to Inhai and the bird and were caught by a stray swipe of a clawed foot.
Ashne stumbled along, watching her footing, searching for Braksya, grateful that both bird and bandits were preoccupied with each other — save for one poor fool of a man who suddenly leaped into her path, spear at the ready.
Her new sword was, unfortunately, quite uncooperative. It cut a wicked path through the air, hindering her efforts to dispatch of the man quickly. Ashne grimaced and adjusted her grip as she jumped back from a barrage of thrusts.
Just her luck, always ending up with the misbehaving ones.
A few more exchanges later, the man slumped to the ground. Ashne risked a quick glance back at the bird again. At some point the swordsman Rahm had joined the fight as well, circling and watching for openings like a waiting viper while Inhai continued to harass the creature. A ring of torch-wielders had gathered around them, alternatively cheering, ducking, and thrusting, trying to drive it away. One of the men was bleeding from his right eye.
“My bow!” bellowed the chief, whom Ashne still could not locate. “Who’s got my bow? Which one of you pissdrinking asswipe chumps has got my bow?”
Then she sensed another person approaching from behind. Whipped out her sword, only managing to halt its unsteady arc just in time.
“Yo,” said Braksya with a jaunty wave.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Where were you?”
He grinned and held out his staff. Ashne realized his basket was slung on his back as well.
“You...”
“I suppose they believed my warnings about the oils!” he said merrily.
She glared at him.
“The oils I keep in my basket. Which would make their nether regions burn and itch for months if they should be so unfortunate as to accidentally spill some and get it on their skin or clothes.”
“Never mind,” she muttered, turning again, seeking now for the path down the mountain.
Or so she intended.
A headless body flew past, innards trailing from gaping talon wounds. Ashne readied her blade again, preparing to run.
But before she could take another step, a great shout arose. Drowned out immediately by another roar, this time close at hand.
From beyond the horizon a great white beast sprang into being, fur rippling in the wind.
The Tiger.
It leaped over the torchbearers in a smooth arc, swiping at the bird before landing effortlessly on a nearby roof.
With another ear-shattering shriek, the bird hurtled back into the sky, toward the forest, sending a gust of wind through the streets.
The Tiger’s tail twitched. It leaped back to the ground. Looked around at the gaping men gathered on the sidelines. Waiting.
The closest official fell to his knees, weeping silently.
The Tiger took a single step forward.
“It’s Old King Ghuproh come again!” the man beside the first official cried out, voice rough with emotion, and knelt as well, head bowed in deepest reverence.
The Tiger took another step. Another man fell to his knees, the blood and dirt on his face smudged with tears.
For another moment, the Tiger watched.
Then, as if satisfied, it lashed its tail again and set off in loping pursuit of the bird.
“My lord!” called out others in its wake. “My liege!”
“Old King Ghuproh!”
“The Prince of Light,” murmured a bandit, awed.
Throughout the streets axes and spears and swords clattered to the ground as the Tiger passed. Silence settled upon them all like a great mantle. The clash of iron and bronze seemed a distant dream, the smoke rising above the trees little more than a mirage.
So too did Ashne watch on, chest tight, head spinning, limbs frozen.
Braksya tugged impatiently at her sleeve.
“Come on, now,” he muttered, no longer smiling. “Time to go.”
After a moment, she followed.
* * *
Ashne had no time to retrieve the supplies she and Phas had left behind as they fled through the woods. Nor indeed to question Braksya further. They had not even gotten very far when her old injury chose to flare up again, and she stumbled to a halt, hand pressed to her side.
Another roar shook the earth, terrifyingly close. A shadow fell upon her. Chill seeped through her bones. Ashne looked up to see the Tiger looming right in their path, its sinewy body tensed and ready.
They stared at each other, unmoving. Pain hammered in her side, in her skull. Braksya was looking at her, lips forming a question. But she heard nothing.
Sweat trickled down her neck.
Another shadow flickered at the corner of her eye.
A man staggered into view and steadied himself against the Tiger. Face pale. Clothes stiff with blood. Sword in hand.
Phas.
“You!” muttered Ashne.
The Tiger lashed its tail. Once, twice. It did not move.
Phas’s lips moved soundlessly. At last, he ground out, “Give me the scabbard.”
“My,” said Braksya. “You’re hardly in any condition to be making demands. Unless those wounds are just for show?”
“You are in no position for demands either.” He spoke slowly, as if his very life leaked out with each word. And perhaps it was.
Meanwhile, the pain in Ashne’s side was worsening as well, as if she were somehow subconsciously sympathizing with Phas’s condition.
The Tiger. He had been lying all along. Or had he? She had not thought his professed ignorance feigned. At least not entirely. Indeed, he too had seemed genuinely frustrated by his employer’s ambiguities.
“Yes, but I am in a better position than you, at least. Isn’t it terribly embarrassing? A dedicated mercenary such as you, forced to be saved by his own employer?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
Through her pain, Ashne said, “You said your employer was not the sorcerer! Or did you mean to imply that you were?”
“He is not the sorcerer of rumor,” repeated Phas.
“Then what is he?”
“A man who does not know fear.”
“A sorcerer, then!”
He did not respond. In his place, the Tiger bared its teeth in a vicious snarl.
“Good kitty,” sang Braksya beside her. “Sweet kitty.”
In that moment, Ashne realized what would happen. She opened her mouth to shout a warning. But it was no use. There was a rush of wind; she staggered back, eyes instinctively squeezed shut. She forced her eyes back open.
The Tiger twisted midair and landed in a crouch behind them, suddenly growling.
It had missed.
Then Ashne saw the white snake, slithering round and around both her and Braksya in a tight, curving pattern. It seemed bigger than it had been when she had last seen it. Thicker, longer. Her tattoos, too, began to glow with a soft light — but only briefly, before fading again.
Braksya did not notice. As the Tiger stared at him, he stared back, lips pursed. He held himself entirely still, more strained than Ashne had ever seen him, apparently deep in concentration. Only his hands twitched at his side, long bony fingers clenching and unclenching. His staff had dropped to the mud.
Before her, Phas slumped to the ground, barely propping himself upright with his drawn sword. His skin had turned quite gray.
Overhead, a great shadow loomed. A screech pierced through the skies, through the distant muddle of men’s shouts.
The Tiger seemed to come to a decision then. It sprang and leaped again, this time scooping Phas’s body up in its jaws as it bounded past. Then it tossed him into the air, catching him again on its back. Phas grimaced as his sword clattered to the ground, but had enough wits and strength remaining to clamber to a more secure position and grasp onto the Tiger’s neck.
Then the giant bird swooped past, talons outstretched.
The Tiger roared as sharp claws raked across its shoulder, missing Phas by a hair. Streaks of blood welled against its white fur. But the beast did not stop, not even to swipe back at the bird. The bird wheeled away, back into the clouds, intent on the chase.
Only then did Ashne notice that Braksya had fallen to his knees, panting heavily. His snake flickered in and out of sight, still circling around them.
“What’s wrong?”
He did not respond.
She sucked in her breath and raised her sword, watching for the bird’s return.
Heavy footsteps came trampling through the growth behind them. She whirled around.
Matron and the prince, followed by a contingent of men, heading for the trail. They stopped and stared at her, then looked to the Matron for orders.
No way out. Ashne could only hope now that the bird came back and targeted the bigger group now. But what then? If Braksya remained incapacitated, she would have no choice but to abandon him.
Perhaps she should have done so long before now.
Then someone cried out.
The prince. Who clutched at his head, face scrunched in pain. The Matron was at his side in an instant, while their men continued to look back and forth nervously.
Then the pain in Ashne’s side returned — she had not even noticed it gone — this time in waves that rose and ebbed like the tide.
Through her blurring vision, she saw Braksya’s snake fade entirely from view. In its place, a silver light burgeoned, rising and lengthening into the empty space.
“Tsk,” muttered Braksya at her side.
The light solidified. Somewhere far away, a woman laughed and laughed.
“So this is where you hid it!”
The scabbard. It spun through the air. Once, twice. Gradually at first, then gathering speed as it moved steadily toward the crouched and screaming prince.
It stopped right before him, floating down to his face. The prince’s screaming ceased, though his body continued to shake. Slowly, he peered out from squinted eyes. Reached out his arms with a blooming expression of wonder.
The scabbard sank into his hands with a gentle glow.
Ashne’s vision began to clear. The world righted itself once more.
“At last...” hissed Matron. She turned to their men. “Behold! Witness before you the true heir of Ghuproh! For only the blood of the tiger could call forth this scabbard!”
“Remember your bargain!” called out Braksya, still on his knees.
The prince struggled to a standing position and looked down at him with a mixture of glee and undisguised scorn. “The scabbard is ours. What need have we for your bargain now, madman?”
Wings beat overhead. The bird screeched its return.
The Matron looked up, then back at the prince and their men. “Come, your highness! We must flee! Now!”
“But Matron, the bird —” said one of the men.
“Tuanwat’s people will take care of it.”
“What about them?”
The old woman spared Ashne and Braksya a single glance. Her lips thinned into a slight smile. “They are no longer of our concern.”
With that, they ran on, continuing their original path toward the trail.
Ashne tried to follow them, but stumbled, side still aching.
From the direction of the village, she heard more shouts.
* * *
At her side, Braksya rose and straightened, staff in hand once more, but made no move to flee. Instead, he extended one end of the staff to the ground.
“What are you plotting now?”
“Nothing!”
The scabbard was lost. His fault, she was certain, though how so she did not yet know.
How could he still act like this, with such blithe disregard?
“You expect me to believe that?”
Braksya laughed. “You and Master Phas are birds of a feather! No subtlety whatsoever.”
With the staff he was drawing a strange, crude pattern in the mud. Or perhaps writing something, she realized, beginning to recognize the vague shapes of Dragon characters forming in the earth.
But whatever he intended, it was too late. The bird had already seen them. The trees bent and snapped with the fury of the wind. Ashne’s ears rang with its cries.
A burning arrow arced through the air, but the flame extinguished before it could reach its target. Ashne pushed Braksya down behind a tree as the bird dove at them.
A familiar voice roared.
The bandit chief. And not far behind him, his sister and the others.
Metal clanged. More arrows flew. The bird screamed. Men ran past, trampling the words Braksya had inscribed.
Ashne rose, sword at the ready. Braksya followed suit, but she paid him no heed. Instead, she watched the scene unfolding before her, frantically charting a path of escape through the fighting bandits.
But it was not the bird they were fighting after all. Or at least, the bird was no longer their only opponent, even as it dove and screeched and dove again. No: in the bandits’ midst whirled a fierce human warrior, little more than a blur from Ashne’s vantage point. The men yelled in anger and fear, rushing in to attack, only to be cut down. Then others rushed forward, as if propelled by some swirling dark current.
Through this confusion cleaved the bright gleam of a sword. Long wild hair followed in its path. The warrior twisted past the shouting bandits and glided gracefully to a stop before Ashne, who froze in sudden recognition, throat tight, heart fluttering.
It was Zsaran.
Who tossed the hair from her face and cocked her head in a jaunty greeting. Then took one look at Braksya and grinned. “Ah. This that apothecary of yours?”
Braksya offered her a mock bow in response.
Words streamed from Ashne’s mouth in their own tongue. “The king — you made it — what were you thinking —”
Zsaran’s smile took on a distant air of sadness.
“Something’s not right at court,” she said, responding in kind. “I couldn’t stay.”
“The princess —” Ashne began unhappily, but Zsaran shook her head.
“She is but a part of it. Of something greater.”
“Does this have to do with what...” She couldn’t bring herself to say his name again. Changed tacks. “The boy. He was a fake. A double. The true prince lives. They meant to retrieve Hazsam —”
“I know.”
“Then...”
Zsaran gave her a long, considering look.
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course, but...”
“Then go.” She smiled, as if to reassure her. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch up to you.”
Ashne did not budge. “Zsaran, please... What is it that he told you?”
“A lie.” Zsaran looked away. Her hair lifted in the wind, shadowing her eyes. “It matters no longer.”
Above them, the bird screeched. Zsaran raised her sword.
Lhepkes, twin of Shenkes.
The queen had ordered them forged when Ashne and Zsaran swore their oaths to her; neither had ever been apart from their respective blade since then, even on the rare occasion when nameless swords sufficed for their purposes.
Not until the mission south. Not until the weeks in the healing hut, with no weaponry, no metal presence whatsoever to disrupt her recovery. Zsaran had sent word in secret through one of the servants, promising to keep the sword safe in the meantime.
That had been the only communication they shared through all those long weeks. And Ashne realized, suddenly, what must have been troubling her all along, that final night in the capital, and all the nights since then: not since she had been a girl of fourteen or so had she been without Shenkes. With Shenkes, she had become a woman grown, as had Zsaran with Lhepkes.
Without Shenkes, she was...
Zsaran must have read her thoughts, for she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to retrieve Shenkes when I ran.”
“At a time like this...” Ashne began, voice rising in desperation, then shook her head. “I can’t leave you here.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“That creature...”
Zsaran glanced up. “It’s angry. Afraid. It doesn’t understand.” She turned, slowly, and offered another brief smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll come after you when I can.”
With that, she leaped back into the fray. “When we meet again, I’ll —”
But her voice was lost to the wind as the bird swooped past, screaming and screaming...
“Come on!” shouted Braksya at Ashne’s side, as he grabbed her arm and pulled her away.
He dragged her for a handful of steps before she came to her senses and shook him off.
Everything felt wrong, so deeply wrong, and though she was not unarmed, she felt utterly naked and alone, like a child wandering lost through flooded valleys.
“Why should I trust you, sorcerer?” she hissed.
“You shouldn’t,” he replied cheerfully. “And remember, it’s Braksya.”
“Braksya the Mad.”
“Very good!”
No time to argue further, even if she knew what to say to him. Which she did not. She ran after him, ignoring the branches as they clawed at her arms and face, closing her ears to the screaming behind her.
Running ahead again, she thought. And yet always behind.
Always, always behind.