Kosar placed a pinch of the paste beneath his tongue, and by the time they made the climb from the ravine, his pain had faded to a dull throb. He should be stitched, he knew; the wounds on his back were pouting, inviting infection and chafing against his rough shirt. But there was no time. And while he was willing to accept the Monk’s herbal pain relief, Kosar did not like the thought of the demon crouching behind him and stitching him together with sand rat teeth.
He ran his fingertips across the wound in his throat. The tiny curved teeth were still there, holding the edges of the wound together so the flesh could heal. I may be dead before this is mended, he thought. And then I’ll rot away with a throat full of sand rat teeth. He giggled, the sound strange in the silent night, and he was glad that the Monk did not turn to share in the joke.
Lucien Malini had insisted on leading the way out of the ravine. Kosar had seen no reason to argue, and he’d rather have the Monk in front of him than behind. Behind them, all the dangers were dead.
Kosar paused on the cliff path and looked back down to the ravine floor. The giant machine was little more than a shadow, the fires dwindled almost to nothing and the Breakers were dark shapes spread-eagled against the light soil. The Monk had killed their children. No mercy. No qualms. It had been killing for so long that it knew no other way.
“I’m nothing to the Monk,” he whispered. I’m just part of its route to Hess, to the Mystics, to Alishia and whatever magic she may have in her. He turned and watched the figure in red climbing out of the ravine, sword held ready in one hand. It reached the head of the path and turned, waiting for Kosar.
The thief moved on, splaying his fingers so the cool air could kiss his wounds.
KOSAR WAS CONTENT to let the Monk walk ahead. The Monk seemed to accept this. It led the way and Kosar followed, always keeping his sense of Kang Kang’s presence to his right. If the demon tried to edge him northward away from New Shanti, he would know.
He chewed on the paste, welcoming the numbing relief. He did his best to ignore the suspicions that arose in his mind. Taking a drug from a Red Monk? Following it? Not questioning its route, its cause?
Trust the Monk, A’Meer had said in his dream. And while he was certain it was nothingmore than a dream, he did not believe that A’Meer would betray him, even in memory.
Two hours after leaving the ravine, the land began to change. Heathers gave way to hardier plants, the ground cover of grasses and moss became patchy and the smell of the desert drifted in from the north. Heat rode on the breeze, even after several days without the sun. The smell of spice rode with it. We’re approaching New Shanti, he thought. In all his years of wandering, Kosar had never been there.
The Monk stopped ahead of him, drew its sword, and its robe blurred as it became a confusion of swinging limbs.
Kosar dropped to one knee and drew his own blade, grateful for the weight of steel in his hand.
The Monk grunted and slipped onto its back, and shadows swirled above it.
Kosar stood, moved a few paces forward and then paused again.
The Monk lashed out. Something screamed long and loud, and another hack from the Monk’s sword ended the cry.
Kosar could smell blood now, mixed in with the warm hint of spice, and he moved forward again.
“Stay back,” the Monk hissed.
Kosar obeyed, happy to leave the demon to its fight.
What are they? he thought. Skull ravens? There were several shapes dancing around the Monk, darting in and away again, squealing as its blade found them, hissing as they attacked again. The Monk seemed to have limitless energy; the fight went on for some time, and Kosar could not help recalling A’Meer’s tale of her clash with a Monk on the steam plains of Ventgoria. That had lasted a whole night.
The Monk screamed and turned, fell and jumped, ducked and sidestepped, and more shadows fell. It stomped them into the ground whilst continuing its attack.
Kosar sat, wincing when he reached out one hand to the ground and found sand pricking his fingertips.
The fight ended as quickly as it had begun. The Monk dropped one final shadow and stepped back, tripping over its own feet and landing hard on the ground. Kosar went to it, his sword drawn in case the things rose again. As he closed on the fallen Monk, he was not sure which to keep his eyes on the most: the Monk, its bloodied sword still pointing skyward; or the dead things on the ground, their shapes indefinable, their smell mysterious and potent.
The Monk saw him coming and stood.
“Sand demon,” the Monk said.
“Just one?”
“They have many parts.”
Kosar looked down at what the Monk had done. He could not identify any of the parts on the ground. There were long, thin shadows that may have been tentacles, one small round chunk that could have been a head. Flames seeped from some of the wounds, weak and blue, guttering and going out as Kosar watched. The Monk trod down on one of the larger flames and crushed it into the sandy soil.
“It was a strong one,” the Monk said. “They usually don’t come this far south. They stay in the heart of the desert, preying on those foolish enough to cross.”
“How do you know all this? Surely you don’t spend much time this close to New Shanti? The Shantasi hate the Monks.”
“Everyone hates us,” Lucien Malini said. “And I know because I spent a lot of my youth reading.”
“At the Monastery?”
“Yes, there was a library there. Huge.”
“Alishia is a librarian.”
The Monk raised an eyebrow in surprise but said no more.
They walked on, moving together this time, but it took Kosar some time to say what was on his mind. “That thing would have killed me.”
“It may not have revealed itself to you. Sand demons are not all of this world. They…span.”
“But if it had so chosen, it would have killed me.”
The Monk grunted. “They’re very strong, yes.” He nursed his left arm, chewing herbs and pressing them into wounds hidden beneath his robe.
I’m thinking of the demon as a “he” now, Kosar thought. I can’t let myself trust it.
“It revealed itself to you,” the thief said.
“As I said, everyone hates Red Monks.”
They walked on, crossing land that was quickly turning to desert. A hundred miles to Hess, Kosar thought. Maybe a little more. He wondered what would happen when the Shantasi discovered him in the company of a Red Monk.
The Red Monk who had killed A’Meer.
Kosar stared at Lucien Malini’s sword.
TREY WAS IN the home-cavern back in the fledge mines, alone this time, and there were a hundred fledge demons in there with him. It was dark and he made his way by touch, but whenever he neared the entrance to a current mine working, the pain came, so loud and brash that he scampered back into the cavern, hiding in caves, circling the great pillars and lying low in the Church.
The Nax made the darkness their own, creeping around him with every heartbeat. He could smell them, taste them on the air, and they were as alien to him as the topside he had never seen.
He moved across the cavern floor, dodging heavy points of darkness that signified a Nax. He approached another mine working and felt a different pain possessing the rest of his body: the agony of wanting. The scorch of the fledge rage lit up his flesh and bone.
Perhaps one of the Nax would save him? They were fledge demons after all, coated in the stuff, some even said they were made from fledge in its purest, most intense form. Perhaps one of the Nax…?
He moved forward and the pain exploded in his mind.
For an instant, the home-cave was illuminated. The Nax were not ignoring him at all. They were gathered around him, some less than an arm’s length away. They hung from the ceiling high above on threads of fledge, crawled on the walls of the cavern before him, slid up and down the wide column fifty steps to his left, allstaring at him, surrounding him as completely as the darkness that quickly returned.