He put his foot on the first step and paused, listening. The light in the doorway below him was little more than a smear of yellow. Matt Tinwright went carefully and silently down the dark stairs until he reached the bottom. He could see the niches on either side, like dark honeycombs, and the torch lying on the stone floor. That was all he needed, really, he suddenly decided—let wondering be cursed. The burning brand was only a few steps away. He could crawl to it while staying close to the floor so he would not have to look at any of the empty stone faces atop the sarcophagi…
He saw Okros just as his fingers wrapped around the torch handle. The physician was just to one side, sprawled on his back with legs spread and left arm outflung, a piece of parchment still clutched in his hand. His eyes were impossibly wide and his mouth stretched in a silent scream, the face of a man so terrified that his heart had burst within the walls of his chest. But what was most frightening of all was his right arm—or, rather, the right arm he no longer had: all that remained was a short, shiny length of bone jutting from Okros’ shoulder like a broken flute, the flesh peeled back all the way to his neck, showing the red muscle beneath. Nothing else was left from his right shoulder down except little strings and wisps of flesh, like the torn threads of hemp that remained after a rope snapped.
Worst of all, there was no sign of pooling blood in that entire wreckage of flesh and bone—not a single red drop, as though whatever had torn his limb away had also sucked his flesh dry.
Tinwright was still on his hands and knees, heaving out the contents of his stomach, when he felt something cold and sharp against the back of his neck.
“Look, now,” a voice said, echoing against the walls of the crypt. “I come back for a scrap of parchment and find a spy. Stand up and let me have a look at you. Wipe the vomit from your chin first, there’s a good fellow.”
Tinwright climbed to his feet and turned around as slowly as he could. The cold, sharp thing traced its way up from his neck, bent his ear in passing, slicing the skin so that it was all he could do not to cry out, then was dragged ungently along his cheek until it stopped just below his eye.
By a trick of the light the blade of the sword was invisible: it seemed as though Hendon Tolly held him prisoner with a length of shadow. The Lord Protector looked feverish, his eyes bright, his skin glittering with sweat.
“Ah, my little poet!” Tolly grinned, but it did not look at all right. “And who is your true master, then? Princess Briony, pulling your puppet strings all the way from Tessis? Or is it someone closer—Avin Brone, perhaps?” For a moment, the sword threatened to slip higher. “It matters not. You are mine now, young Tinwright. Because, as you can see, I have lost one of my most important liegemen tonight and there is much still to be done—oh, much and much. I need a man who can read, you see.” He gestured toward the one-armed remains of Okros Dioketian. “Of course, I cannot promise the job is without dangers—but nothing half so dangerous as refusing me. Aye, poet?”
Tinwright had to nod very carefully with the sword blade so close to his eye. He felt numbed, helpless, like a trapped fly watching the spider step slowly down the web.
“Then take that parchment from Okros,” Tolly said. “Yes, pick it up. Now walk out ahead of me. Fortunate poet! You will sleep at the foot of my bed tonight—and every night from now on. Oh, the things you will see and learn!” He laughed; the sound was as bad as the sight of his smile had been. “A short time in my employ and you will never again mistake your empty, sickly sweet notions for truth.”
31. A Single Length of String
“Kupilas the Artificer, who figures only briefly in the many tales of the Trigon and the Theomachy, nevertheless seems to figure prominently in many of the Qar’s stories. Some of their tales even suggest he eventually conquered the Trigonate Brothers—part of what Kyros calls ‘the Xixian Heresy.’ In Qar legends, Kupilas, whom they call Crooked, is generally a tragic figure.”
Barrick had only an instant to draw his sword before the first of the skrikers was upon him. It came out of the darklight as if carried on the wind, pale robe flapping, ragged arms stretching wide. When he slashed at it his blade tore through cloth that seemed no sturdier than a rotting shroud. The pitch of its song changed but the eerie crooning did not stop as he jabbed at it again and again. He could not damage it—his sword touched nothing that felt like a body. Were these Lonely Ones nothing but billowing robes? Were they ghosts?
He was almost too frightened to think. The silkins had at least been real creatures, whatever they were made of—he could cut them and burn them. But he could not cut these skrikers and he had no fire.
Again and again the thing swept toward him and then whirled away, its rhythmic song winding in counterpoint around a fainter tune—so where, he suddenly wondered, was the second skriker? Barrick spun just as another undulating shape closed on him from behind. He could hear Shaso’s voice shouting in his head as clearly as if the old man stood beside him: “Don’t let them fix you in place! Keep moving!”
As he skipped away from this new attack, desperate not to get caught between two enemies, the first skriker suddenly produced something like a horsewhip, although it looked as though it was made of nothing more substantial than mist and cobweb. When it snapped the whip at him he jumped back, but the lash grazed his calf in an icy swipe of pain.
Now the two skrikers began to circle, trying to catch him between them again. Terror had a grip on him now, getting stronger by the moment: the second creature had also produced one of the strange lashes, and their song rose again, this time with a hurrying tone of triumph. What were these things made of? Why could he see nothing of them but their eyes, like spots of blood on the pale rags of their faces? They had to be more than air—but what were they?
As if it meant to answer his question, one of the skrikers lunged at him and for a moment its hood rippled open to reveal a nightmare face, bloodlessly white but for crimson bruises around the red eyes and a mouth like an empty hole—a female face without humanity or kindness, stretched into a shrieking mask.
That horrifying moment was almost fataclass="underline" as Barrick stood transfixed, the other creature caught him with the tip of its lash in the middle of his back. Pain crashed through him like a thunderbolt and dropped him to his knees. His sword clattered away, he didn’t know where—the agony had all but blinded him. As he desperately sought the strength to stand the first of the skrikers slid toward him, raising its weapon. Instead of retreating toward the other creature Barrick threw himself forward and grabbed his attacker where its legs should have been. There was nothing there, or almost nothing—he felt rags and dampness and a crunching, brittle resistance like icy branches. Cold spread rapidly through Barrick’s arms and within a moment he could feel the chill crawling into his chest, freezing his heart; it was all he could do to pull his arms free and roll to the side. As his fingers closed on his sword the things swept in on him, piping like excited jays, their song clotted with rapid clicking and slurring that might have been words.
Howling with disgust and fear, Barrick slashed and slashed with his sword, forcing the skrikers back a little way so he could climb to his feet, but his legs were so weak he could barely stand. He swayed, gasping for breath, unable even to keep the blade of his sword level. The situation was hopeless but he was determined to sell his life as dearly as he could.