The Shadow’s Curse Page 7

  ‘Lie still. They think you are asleep.’

  Raim had tensed under blanket, but apart from that he made no other movements. He tried to keep his breathing even, as if he were still in deep sleep.

  How many? he asked Draikh silently. He could hear them slipping across the floor, despite the fact that they were obviously trying to be silent as ghosts. The air around him had changed too, it was warmer – the sudden influx of bodies and the smell of nervous sweat was something even the quietest attacker could not hide. But Raim had Draikh – and that was an advantage no one could compete with.

  ‘Three, with two more outside the door,’ the spirit answered.

  The door?

  ‘They’ve unlocked it, but you won’t be able to get past. Oh, gods, no time. Go!’

  Raim pushed off from the wall, rolling across the floor, just as the air above his head was sliced by a cudgel wielded by one of the attackers. Wood smacked against stone, missing him by inches, the sound only mildly dulled by the rough straw bedding he’d been lying on.

  The Baril swore loudly. Raim stopped rolling as soon as he felt the edge of the man’s boots. He threw a numbing chop at his ankles. The man yelped in pain, and as he fell to the ground, Raim pushed him hard against the far wall.

  The room was suddenly a swirl of motion. Raim’s eyes rapidly adjusted to the darkness, but he remained crouched low. He heard one of the attackers go down behind him – Draikh working fast. But there was still one Baril left, plus the two who were coming through the door – and they would no longer have the element of surprise on their hands.

  If Raim thought that the Baril monks were all muscle and no finesse, he was wrong. This became increasingly clear as the other Baril gathered his senses and leaped for Raim.

  Raim didn’t react in time, and the monk slammed him back into the ground, one hand on his throat, the other keeping him pinned down. Raim scrambled and squirmed beneath him, but the man was strong. His face was covered by a mask. Raim could only see the man’s eyes, which were dark and full of hatred for him.

  Raim reached out with one hand, scrabbling across the stone tiles, coming up with only fistfuls of straw and blanket – not helpful in this situation. His lungs burned in his chest as the monk pressed down, then he slammed his elbow down onto Raim’s stomach, knocking the air from him. The blow caused Raim’s arm to jerk to his side, dragging with it the remnants of his blanket. But in doing so, he found what he was looking for tangled in the blanket – the cudgel the first Baril had tried to use to smash his head in. Raim grabbed it and smashed it across at the man on top of him. It was too long for the man to receive the full force of it, but it was enough for the man to release his grip as he tried to block the blow. This was all the encouragement Raim needed. He took a lungful of breath, then brought the cudgel back down, this time with both hands. It cracked in two across the man’s back, sending him shuddering to the ground, one half of the stick flying across the room.

  Raim spun around to confront the two other men. They stormed in through the door, and Raim watched as Draikh took them on as they came in, weakening them so that Raim could throw them to the ground.

  ‘Good teamwork.’

  Is that everyone?

  ‘For now.’ Draikh sounded solemn, but looked solid – which was a relief to Raim. The training had paid off. Draikh was able to fight for longer without fading from the physical world. ‘But we should get out of here. Quickly.’

  Agreed. But where will we go? Raim had no idea where in the Baril temple he was, and for all he knew, every corner would take them deeper into disaster. He’d have to disguise himself. He looked down at the men they had incapacitated. He tried to eye up if he could take their clothes, but . . .

  ‘Hurry, there’s no time. We’ll figure it out later,’ said Draikh.

  Raim ran toward the door – and freedom.

  But then, from behind him came a grating noise: stone being dragged along stone.

  Raim spun around, and stared at the wall of his cell as it shifted in front of his eyes.

  ‘Oh gods,’ said Draikh. ‘There’s someone coming down the hall now too.’

  So we’re surrounded?

  ‘Looks like.’

  ‘Raim?’ A voice – more like a hiss – came from behind the moving wall.

  There was a grunt of effort, and finally the piece of wall shifted completely. In the hole behind, a woman’s face appeared. It took Raim a second to realize it was the woman who had confronted Qatir-bar the day before.

  ‘Quickly! Come with me,’ she said, gesturing behind the wall. ‘Before the others get here.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Raim.

  ‘We don’t have time for that – I’ll explain on the way.’

  ‘Raim – there’s someone approaching the door,’ hissed Draikh. ‘I think it’s your brother.’

  Raim spun round, and sure enough, his brother’s voice sounded from further down the hallway.

  ‘Hello? Raim? I’ve brought food.’

  Tarik appeared in the door to the cell, then dropped the bowl of soup he was carrying. The gloopy yellow substance sprayed everywhere, mingling with the blood and straw. He stared wide-eyed at the bodies littered across the floor.

  ‘What happened?’ His eyes adjusted even further, and he caught sight of the woman in the cell with Raim. ‘Aelina-bar?’

  The woman pulled herself up to her full height and Tarik quaked in his boots. ‘The leader of your faction tried to kill Raim. These are his men, no?’

  Tarik stole a glance at the men and whimpered.

  ‘Qatir wants you dead,’ the woman said to Raim. ‘Because he wants to destroy what he doesn’t understand. However, we can help you. Because we know who you are. And who you made that promise to.’

  ‘Don’t trust her, Raim!’ Tarik found his voice at last. ‘She is the head of one of the rebel Baril factions.’

  A sick, uncomfortable feeling took over Raim, his palms sweaty. ‘How do you know?’ he asked the woman.

  How could she know? He wanted to trust his brother, but there was an expression on the woman’s face that was impossible to ignore.

  ‘Because Mhara told me,’ she said.

  ‘Mhara?’ Raim’s mouth went dry. ‘Who is Mhara?’ he whispered.

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘But that’s impossible. The Mhara I know is dead.’ He knew that. He hadn’t found her body, but she had fallen so far, and he had searched for so long. He had carried the weight of her death with him since that moment. He had been responsible.

  ‘She is here.’

  ‘I – I don’t believe you.’

  ‘She thought you might say that. Maybe this will convince you.’ From behind her back, the woman produced a ring with a curved hook that protruded from the thick silver band. Raim took it from her, feeling like his hands were moving through air that was as thick as water. It was an archer’s prize bow ring. The ring was heavy in his palm, far heavier than it should. It carried with it the weight of Raim’s memories. Of training with an amazing Yun warrior, who taught him how to ride, how to shoot, how to wield a sword. He had spent a long time coveting a ring just like this. A ring that was forged especially for its owner. There was no mistaking it. The ring belonged to Mhara. His old Yun mentor, and the woman he thought he had killed on his way to exile in Lazar.

  With a whump, Tarik landed on the floor in a twisted heap. ‘I had to take him out.’ Draikh shrugged. ‘He was about to run away. He’ll be fine.’

  ‘Take me to Mhara,’ said Raim, closing his fist around the ring.

  Aelina gestured over her shoulder, and disappeared through the wall.

  Raim looked back at the mass of bodies he had left behind, some still groaning in pain, others suspiciously still: the proof that Baril factions were fighting for control of him – or to kill him. He wasn’t going to leave Tarik to whatever punishment Qatir would deal out to him. Take his feet, he said to Draikh while positioning himself to carry the unconscious Tarik unde
r the arms.

  He shoved aside his guilt, and followed Aelina through the wall.

  13

  WADI

  Wadi and Erdene spent the rest of the day and a night cooped up in the yurt, the air between them cold as mountain snow. Every so often, the noise and stench of war would reach them inside the tent, and neither of them slept a wink.

  An ominous shaking of the ground so violent it threatened to topple the yurt’s wooden frame shocked them both. Erdene looked up sharply. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I’m not su—’

  Erdene cut her off with a sharp chop of her hand. ‘Gods take Khareh’s orders. I’ve had enough of this. I’m not sitting in here any longer like some lamb waiting for slaughter.’ She leaped up from her cushioned perch, tearing off her richly embroidered overcoat to reveal full leather armour beneath. She was dressed for war. ‘Khareh said I had to look after you, but he didn’t say I had to stay in the yurt.’ She walked over to one of the trunks stored at the edge of the room. She pulled out a leather jerkin and threw it at Wadi. ‘Put that on,’ she said. ‘Last thing I want to worry about is some stray arrow taking you. Come on! Hurry!’

  Wadi grabbed the jerkin and stared at it for a moment. She didn’t want to stay holed up in the yurt any more than Erdene did. She pulled the jerkin on over her silk tunic as Erdene sliced through the bonds around her feet. ‘Hands out,’ Erdene said.

  ‘What? You’re joking – I can’t go out there with my hands tied!’

  ‘Hands out,’ repeated Erdene, before yanking at Wadi’s wrists herself. She bound them with rope. Then, with a sharp tug on it, she led Wadi out into the fray.

  Wadi hoped – prayed – that someone would spot them and send them back to the yurt.

  She was afraid. Fighting didn’t scare her; in hand-to-hand combat, she felt confident in her skill. But out here, on the battlefield, terror gripped her like a vice. Arrows whistled through the air high above her and the clash of swords rang in her ears. Her leather jerkin felt thinner by the moment. Her hands were tied and Erdene pulled at the bindings whenever Wadi dropped too far behind: a skittish donkey being led by its master through a raging battlefield.

  Of course, no one would send them back to the yurt, because no one had more authority than Erdene except the Khan himself. As she stormed through the army ranks, a scythe slicing through blades of grass, the soldiers cleared a path for her. Ahead of them, thick, black smoke obscured the sky; the city was an enormous campfire. Wadi couldn’t make out who were Khareh’s men and who were the city’s defenders, but almost everyone she could see was engaged in combat in a tight perimeter around the city walls. They weren’t yet being pushed back, which Wadi took as a good sign for Khareh. But he hadn’t seemed to have entered the city yet, either. The longer that took, the more the city had the upper hand.

  A tall, broad-shouldered soldier spotted them and came scurrying over. The mask on his face and the cruel, glittering blade in his hands made it clear that he was Yun, like Erdene. He raised his mask as he came close; it was Lars.

  ‘Tell me what’s happening,’ said Erdene.

  ‘Mermaden’s front line is defending the city.’

  Erdene frowned. ‘So he hasn’t broken through the walls yet?’

  Lars shook his head. ‘The lead battalion tried, but Mermaden poured burning pitch over the walls. We can’t raise the ladders without them catching fire.’

  A soldier running past them towards the city let out a loud cry of alarm. Instinctively Lars and Erdene raised their shields, which only moments later shook with the thuds of arrows hitting the wood at full force. Their shields protected them, and Wadi too – but the soldier was not so lucky. He fell at Erdene’s feet, two arrows at his back.

  ‘Mermaden’s not concerned that it’s his former people making up the Khan’s front line then?’ Erdene ignored the fallen man, continuing her conversation with Lars. ‘Of course he’s not,’ she said, answering her own question. ‘He’s not stupid.’ She tugged on the rope hard, and Wadi stumbled and fell to her knees. Erdene rolled her eyes.

  ‘The Khan is in trouble,’ continued Lars, his voice low. ‘Mermaden knows how to defend his city – he’s ruled over it for thirty years and he’s been stockpiling food and resources ever since Khareh-khan took power. He knew this was coming.’

  ‘He’s not in trouble,’ said Erdene. ‘He still has the shadows. Enough dawdling. Take me to the Khan.’

  Down in the mud, Wadi was face-to-face with the realities of warfare: the dead soldier’s eyes were open and staring at her. Accusing. She swallowed down the revulsion rising in her gut, and even though her body was shaking, she had to focus. That’s when she saw it. The blade in the dead man’s hand. Keeping her movements slow to avoid alerting Erdene, she reached for the blade and teased it out of the man’s grip without touching him, ignoring the fact that the liquid churning with the dirt around them to mud was more likely blood than water. She twisted the blade’s hilt in her hands, and prayed it was still sharp.

  It was.

  She sliced through the rope and her hands were free. She tried to keep her head. She looped the newly loose end around the man’s wrist and tied it off, just as Erdene gave her another tug on the rope. ‘Come on, get up,’ she said, without even looking down at Wadi.

  Wadi took her moment and bolted. Erdene yelled out in surprise, but Wadi didn’t stop to look behind. She was too busy concentrating on not tripping over the bodies and broken bits of metal armour that littered the floor. She still had the sword in her hand, and she aimed towards the battle. Losing herself in the chaos was her best opportunity for escape.

  Except that she ran straight into a cloud – one that solidified in front of her. She beat at it with her arms, but it wrapped itself around her so that she couldn’t move. When she heard Khareh’s voice, she stopped struggling. ‘Wadi, you can’t leave before the best part!’

  She looked up to see him riding across the battlefield on horseback, looking every inch the powerful Khan. Lars had given the impression that Khareh was on the back foot in the siege, but Wadi wouldn’t have known it by looking at him. He still had the same cocky, self-assured grin.

  ‘Tell your haunt to let me go,’ she said through gritted teeth. She struggled hard against it, even though it was useless.

  Khareh waved his hand and the shadow moved away from her, taking her weapon with him. He turned his attention to Erdene and Lars, who had sprinted over after Wadi’s escape attempt. He didn’t acknowledge Erdene at all, and Wadi could see the hurt in her eyes. Hurt that turned to contempt as she stared at Wadi.

  ‘Lars, it is time. Sound the horn.’ Khareh turned to his shadow. ‘You know what to do,’ he said. The shadow disappeared towards the line of yurts that signalled the beginning of Khareh’s camp – where Erdene and Wadi had just come from. Lars blew the twisted bone horn with all his might, and the sound echoed across the battlefield.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ Khareh said.

  Far in the distance, another horn sounded. Khareh’s soldiers began retreating from the city, leaving the Samar soldiers confused. A cry rose up from behind the city walls.

  The Samar soldiers were cheering. They believed they had won.

  A knot of dread formed in Wadi’s stomach. From deep in the camp, a cloud was building – an approaching storm. Only this cloud moved with purpose; with intention.

  ‘Just wait,’ said Khareh, listening to the cheers. His lips were set in a determined line, the cocky smile gone. His knuckles went white, gripping onto the reins of his horse.

  ‘Nervous?’ Wadi asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No. The shadows will take them. How can they defend against an enemy they can’t see?’

  He was right. The shadow-army swept up, over the heads of Khareh’s army. Lookouts still barricaded behind the Samar city walls spied the great cloud’s approach, raising the alarm in the city once more. They hurled rocks, slung arrows and jabbed spears into the cloud, but nothing stopped it, and the rest of
Khareh’s army had moved far out of range.

  The shadows swept through the city, the wails of Samar soldiers louder than any of their cheers had been.

  The battle had raged for hours, but this part lasted only minutes. Khareh snapped out of the stupor he’d fallen into while watching the shadows do their work, and signalled to Lars and Erdene. ‘Find your mounts – and make sure there is one for Wadi,’ said Khareh.

  ‘It is time I took my city.’

  14

  WADI

  There was so much death.

  It struck Wadi as soon as she entered the city, on the back of a tall, chestnut-brown mare. Erdene and Lars sandwiched her between them so she could not escape, but she was glad for the protection from the brunt of the view. It wasn’t even that she hadn’t been around death before. Sola took people all the time – men, women, babies. She’d seen a young girl with her skin blackened and burned off her body. She’d seen a man taken by behrflies, their poisonous bites covering his skin in welts that swelled and burst. In Lazar, she had seen Silas stab himself through the stomach in front of her eyes.

  With those deaths, Wadi had felt the grief wrap its hands around her heart and throat. She had felt enclosed, suffocated.

  But this was different. The scale of this death made her feel detached. Removed. Soldiers’ bodies lay bent and broken over the city walls, from where they had been tasked with pouring burning pitch on Khareh’s army – only to be at the forefront of the attack by the shadows. Some had fallen to their deaths, blood staining the grey stone in dark pools. Flies buzzed in thick swarms around the dead; no one had yet come out to move their bodies.

  There would be many graves to dig around the city soon.

  The tips of her fingers turned cold, even though the air was warm. Her body was shutting down from the pain of – from the pain of what? Of witnessing? Of understanding?

  She stole a glance at Erdene’s face. She was trained for this, Wadi reminded herself. Or at least, trained not to look bothered by it. Erdene could remain stoical and unaffected in the wake of the death and disaster. Well, maybe Erdene didn’t look so happy about it after all. Her skin had turned a sickly grey and a sheen of sweat lay on her skin; her mouth was set in a firm line. But she looked determined not to show fear. It made Wadi feel ashamed at her more visceral response. Had she really been so sheltered by a life in the desert? She’d always assumed that in Darhan life was better than life in the desert. But if life in Darhan only meant more war, then maybe she had been lucky, after all.