Tales of Noreela 04: The Island Page 7

  “Wait until he engages,” Kel says. “Remember what happened last time?”

  O’Peeria risks a small laugh. “Kel, you have no sense of adventure. You know how fast I am.”

  Yes, he knows. The Shantasi call it Pace. She has never told him how they do it, and he’s decided he no longer wishes to know. They draw magic just like everyone else in Noreela, but he has come to believe that they craft it more confidently, and with greater skill.

  The Stranger emerges from shadows, walking carefully along a path that leads through the undergrowth. The route opens into a wide clearing before them, and around its edges several pedestals stand, bearing famous figures from history: the First Voyager, Sordon Perlenni; the Widow’s Peaks gatekeeper, Anselm Anto; the first Mystic of New Shanti, A’Kan Lone; and more. Kel does not recognize them all.

  Core agents have seen the Stranger there several times before, communicating with whatever strange place he comes from. O’Peeria believes he does it from there as a slight against Noreelan history. Kel is not so sure. But the reasons do not matter.

  The decision to kill this one came quick and easy. There is no longer any doubt.

  The Stranger pauses in the center of the clearing. He looks around slowly, turning so that he can scan his entire surroundings.

  Kel holds his breath and relaxes, resting his fingers on the fractured pedestal before him, summoning the subtle screening spell O’Peeria taught him. Magic tingles through his flesh and bones, coursing around his body as it merges with his blood flow, thumping in time with his heart, twitching in time with a muscle in his cheek, and he hates it as much as he ever has. He looks at his hand on the stone before him, and its outline grows hazy. This is one of the few times he relies on magic. Mostly, he has learned to trust himself.

  The Stranger strips off his clothes.

  That is always the moment when Kel feels most scared, and most justified.

  The man sighs as he shrugs the shirt from his body, flexing his shoulders as the two long, thin proboscises emerge from just beneath his shoulder blades and taste the air. They seem to shift of their own accord, and the Stranger kneels and turns his face to the sky as the appendages cast spidery shadows on the ground behind him.

  The sides of his neck gape where gills split the flesh. The skin of his stomach and hips is silvery, oily. The Core had long been trying to capture a Stranger for examination and dissection by some of their witches, but it is difficult. Dangerous. Usually deadly. If caught and interrogated, it is never long before they usher in their own deaths and the destruction of those around them. Kel knows ten people who have died fighting Strangers, and he has no wish for that number to increase.

  The things on the Stranger’s back curve around and meet above his head, forming the familiar, chilling silhouette that Kel has seen several times before. He starts to talk then—a low, continuous babble in a language none of them has ever been able to understand, and as his words tumble out, so the oval of night trapped within the appendages begins to grow lighter.

  Kel feels the rush of fear that he always welcomes in. He swears it has saved his life many times before. His heart pumps, senses sharpen, hands grow cool and calm as they grab two short knives from his belt. His scalp tightens and balls tingle, and he glances to the left without moving his head.

  O’Peeria has already gone.

  The Stranger shouts. O’Peeria is a blur on the night, launching a throwing star at his face. Pelly and Rok, indistinct beneath their own shielding spells, are sprinting from the shadows across the clearing, and Kel thinks he sees his own thought echoed in their movements: Damn O’Peeria, can’t she wait?

  The Stranger falls to one side and the star snicks his shoulder. He screeches. As the thin limbs on his back part, there is a small explosion of pale light that diffuses quickly in the Noreelan darkness. Connection broken, Kel thinks. That’s one good thing.

  Then he sees the bad thing: the wave of weak light from the Stranger has wiped the camouflage spells from the Core members. They are no longer only shadows.

  They adapt, he thinks. Every new advantage we think we have over them, they adjust to it. He stands and darts around the statue. And then he hears voices.

  Many voices.

  “What in the Black?”

  “Something here, some animal.”

  Children.

  “Skull raven. I heard they come out at night. I heard they peck holes in your head and steal your dreams.”

  “Stop talking sheebok shit, it’s just a—”

  “Don’t talk to me like—”

  “Look!”

  The Stranger has stood and is facing O’Peeria. She darts to his left, almost too quick to see properly, but when she strikes with her short sword he is ready, twisting beneath the blow and kicking her legs out from under her.

  Pelly launches her slideshock at the Stranger, whipping her arm forward and back so that the cutting wire swings around in a deadly arc.

  The Stranger ducks beneath the wire and kicks with his heel at the weight secured to its end. The metal ball powers back at Pelly and strikes her cheek. Even across the clearing Kel hears the crunch of bones.

  “Someone having a fight, or—?”

  “We should fetch the militia.”

  “No, let’s go. Let’s see!”

  Kel sees them now, a huddle of shadows emerging from his left. There are maybe eight of them, too old to remain at home but too young to frequent Noreela’s taverns and drug warrens. Some of them carry bottles, and he catches the scent of rotwine on the breeze.

  O’Peeria flips herself back up onto her feet and slashes at the Stranger again. He kicks her in the stomach and she bends double, winded, flitting from his right to his left side in a beat.

  Rok closes in and fires a small crossbow strapped to his wrist. The Stranger grunts, staggers and runs.

  “Get back, now!” Kel roars. The shadows of the youngsters change shape, standing up straighter as they crane to see who or what is shouting at them.

  The Stranger’s shoulder appendages begin to glow.

  “Now!” he shouts again, still running, distracted by the children as he flings one of his knives at the fleeing target.

  The Stranger plucks the blade from the air. He stops, grins at Kel, turns and throws the blade.

  Kel hears the joining of metal and flesh, and Rok falls with the handle projecting from his throat.

  “Rok!” Pelly shouts. She comes forward, holding her own face, her hand and arm black with blood in the moonlight.

  O’Peeria is behind the Stranger then, swinging her sword at the glowing things and screaming to distract his attention. The man ducks, turns and falls on O’Peeria, and Kel hears the thuds and grunts of punching, kicking and biting.

  He looks at the struggling Shantasi, across at the shadowy group of children, back to the fight. He should choose O’Peeria, not because of what he feels for her but because it will increase the chances of a kill.

  But he goes for the children. Runs at them, shouts at them to scatter, to flee, and when he sees their dumb, frank fascination, he wants to slap it from their faces. It takes him a few beats to grab their attention; and then when they look at him they discern just how serious this is. As one, they turn to leave.

  Kel sprints back to the fighting pair, sheathing his knives and pulling the small crossbow from a harness on his back. It is primed and ready, and he aims carefully.

  “Kel!” Pelly shouts. She is kneeling beside Rok, who is making a pained, gurgling noise as blood pulses and bubbles from around the knife buried in his throat. “Kel, help me!”

  Kel does not even look at her. Rok is dead already. O’Peeria needs his help … but he begins to fear that he’s too late. The Stranger’s proboscises are glowing brighter than ever, emitting a weak light that reflects from the Shantasi’s pale face.

  He hears footsteps on stone, and he risks a quick glance over his shoulder. Rather than fleeing, the foolish children have come closer!

  “Get
the fuck away from here!” Kel shouts.

  “What is that?”

  “Those things on his shoulders, are they—?”

  “Is he on fire?”

  Boys and girls, not even old enough to dip their cocks or welcome a dipping, and there they are watching something that should not exist, and witnessing members of Noreela’s most secret organization undertake their most deadly task.

  O’Peeria screams as the Stranger does something to her.

  I should have helped her! Kel thinks.

  An arc of blue light stretches up from the things on his back, like lightning searching for somewhere to strike. It twists in the air, nosing this way and that.

  Kel steps back. “Pelly,” he says, quietly.

  She looks up from Rok—dead now, blood trickling instead of bubbling—and rolls quickly away.

  “Kill this fucking thing!” O’Peeria says. She screams again.

  Kel steps in close again, feinting left, darting right when the Stranger lashes out with a sword, and he fires the crossbow almost blind. Instinct guides his hand, desperation his eye, and he hears the bolt strike home.

  O’Peeria screams.

  The Stranger grunts.

  The blue light fizzles, dropping to the ground like a tired snake before fading away to nothing, leaving scorched stones behind.

  Kel loads another bolt and goes forward. “O’Peeria!” The Stranger sits astride her chest, head dipped down, and Kel gasps with relief when he sees the bolt protruding from just below his right ear. He fires one more into the man’s temple, just to make sure.

  O’Peeria groans.

  “We have to get away,” Kel says, because he knows what will happen now, he’s seen it all before, and they have maybe a handful of beats before the Stranger becomes more dangerous in death than he ever was in life.

  They’re driven by their wraiths, O’Peeria had said once, lives ruled by the ghosts of their potential. Kel is not sure he agrees, is not even sure he really understands. But he knows about survival.

  “O’Peeria, come …”

  Then he sees why his Shantasi friend, his occasional lover, cannot move.

  The Stranger’s fingers are buried in the flesh of her chest and neck. Her shirt is ripped open, and the dead man’s left hand has pierced her above her right breast, and three fingers of his right hand are wedged in her neck up to their second knuckles. The wounds are barely bleeding. She’s staring at Kel, her eyes wide with pain and terror, because she knows what is to come.

  “Kill me,” she manages to say. Her speaking makes the Stranger’s arms move.

  “No,” Kel says, because he cannot. I should have run to her, helped her! He can’t kill O’Peeria.

  He senses the children behind him and he needs to tell them to go, but he cannot take his eyes from the Shantasi.

  Pelly is by his side then, face still wet with blood and tears but tight with determination. “Away, now, before he—”

  The Stranger’s body convulses. Dead but moving, the protuberances on his back suddenly stand up straight, glowing no more but displaying a terrible unrelenting pressure from somewhere inside.

  O’Peeria is screaming. She’s pushing with her feet, trying to tear herself away from the corpse’s grip, but her skin and flesh hold his fingers tight. She pulls a knife and starts hacking at her own chest, prizing her enemy’s fingers away with the cool blade.

  There are legends about the first time a Stranger was killed on Noreelan soil. They say that a Mourner tried to chant its wraith down, but the wraith crushed the woman to something the size of a fist.

  “Kill me!” O’Peeria shrieks, still cutting, knowing it’s useless, the agony so apparent on her face that Kel cannot look at her again.

  “I can’t …”

  Pelly grabs his shoulder and pulls. He can hear her breath, fast and panicked, and the chatter from the children who should have never been there in the first place. That had been Rok’s job; to check the area. Make sure they were alone. But Rok is dead, and there is no one left to blame.

  There’s a terrible splitting, ripping sound. Flesh tears, blood spatters the ground, bones snap and rupture, and a dark, thrashing shape emerges from the dead Stranger’s cleft back. The long, thin limbs on either side go tense, then erupt in one final gush of bluish flame. It’s not directed or contained, but it floats down like ash.

  Sparks touch O’Peeria, and she screams.

  That catches the wild wraith’s attention.

  “No,” Kel says, and he raises his crossbow. But he has not primed it, and he cannot find his bolt quiver. By the time he’s thought about drawing a throwing knife and trying to finish O’Peeria with that, the wraith has flowed down like thick water to puddle around its dead owner’s corpse. It covers O’Peeria in something like a flowing shadow, but Kel can still hear her screams, and he hears the sounds as the wraith penetrates her body through every opening, expanding, tearing the last cry from her with one final surge.

  The Stranger’s body is melting beneath the drift of ash.

  The youngsters are shouting and swearing and cursing, but he can no longer hear their words.

  Pelly is crying as she grabs him beneath the arms and pulls him back between pedestals.

  A Stranger’s wraith exists for a few beats, if that, before being drawn down to wherever it is they go. If they run fast enough, perhaps …

  But it is not coming for them, and he will never know why. It goes for the innocent, unknowing youngsters whose presence he has drawn to its attention. By the time Kel finds the courage to close his eyes, and the wraith is fading away at last, the eight lie torn apart across the ground.

  THE MAN AND woman were holding tightly to the rope stretched across the river. But the impact had damaged their craft, and it was listing as water battered the damaged hull, one cracked board flexing and letting in water.

  Kel stood in the unsteady boat and ducked beneath the rope, leaning on it from the other side. He did not look at the fisherman or the seafood vendor. He looked down the river, past the ruined bridge and harbor, out to where the masts came ever closer.

  “Pull!” the man said.

  Kel glanced at him. “I have to get to Drakeman’s Hill.”

  “What? We’ve just come from that side. We’re going across, away from the harbor and mole. Away from whatever comes.”

  “Scared?” Kel said, and the man saw something in his eyes that made him look away.

  “Please help us pull,” the woman said. She was kind, and afraid.

  “No,” Kel said. “I have to get over there, there’s something I need in my rooms, then I have to get away. I have to—”

  The man kicked out at him. Kel had not seen or sensed the strike coming. He bent over the rope to protect his stomach, and when the fisherman kicked again his knee caught Kel beneath the jaw.

  His vision swam for a few beats, and he heard the woman berating her husband.

  “S-sorry,” the man said, reaching out to touch Kel’s shoulder.

  Kel knocked his hand aside and punched him in the face. The man fell back, Kel released the rope, and the woman instinctively came toward her husband.

  The current caught the boat and dragged it down toward the bridge. They bobbed sideways down the river. The broken bridge was a couple of hundred steps away, and the boat would fetch up against the piles of debris driven against its uprights. From there, perhaps Kel could climb and make his way through the destroyed harbor, find a path up onto Drakeman’s Hill…but the masts were very close. He could see a few militia gathering at the harbor, and a group of residents not frightened enough to flee, and he wanted to shout out loud that they should go, run, because everything was about to change.

  He realized that when the mysterious ships docked, he would be there to see who, or what, they carried.

  WHEN THE SMALL boat was driven against the huge pile of flotsam stacked against the broken stone bridge, Kel was faced with a choice.

  The woman and her fisherman husband helpe
d each other climb up, over shattered and uprooted trees, the remnants of smashed buildings and the dead things crushed in between. There were bodies in the detritus, both animal and human, and Kel caught flashes of pink and paleness. Some of them had hair, others fur, and some had broken shells and huge, serrated pincers. After that, he tried not to look too carefully.

  When the couple reached the bridge parapet, they fell over onto the road, stood and turned right immediately. They could have gone left, negotiating their way across the wreckage jammed in the fallen arch, then along to the ruined harbor. They could have stood with friends and fellow residents of Pavmouth Breaks, waiting to welcome in whatever manned those boats. They could have joined in with the amazed conversation and excited pointing at the vessels, the island, the storm clouds still boiling away out to sea. But they chose escape.

  Kel decided almost as quickly as they. Namior was to his right, but duty to his left. Duty to himself, and the Core he had abandoned, and the memory of friends he had seen die. And O’Peeria. He owed her everything, and the most he could do since he had fumbled his escape was to see what arrived.

  He dropped onto the surface of the bridge nearest the harbor. From a distance it had looked ruined only in its shattered center span, but close up there was a lot more damage visible. The parapet was cracked and crazed, and the paving was missing great swathes of cobbles. Elsewhere on the harbor he could see that mud made up most of the surface, but where he stood the gushing waters had swept the bridge clean.

  He looked out to sea. Past the battered mole, the craft coming in from the island were drawing very close. There were maybe thirty vessels, ranging from small sailing boats to a ship with three masts that looked set to dwarf the harbor, should it come in that close. Some of the smaller boats were driven by oars as well as sails, rising and falling with perfect synchronicity. They flew flags of many colors. The sails were a mixture of white, cream and blue, with one or two tattered spreads of dark green canvas here and there. They did not sail aggressively. They were grouped close together, not spread out like an attacking force would be. Kel could see no signs of weapons. He made out a few people here and there on the larger vessels, but there seemed to be no urgency to their movements.