Ian Irvine - Vengeance

‘Stealing from the grottoes earns us a chuck-lashing. Besides, they’re locked at night.’

‘Take some from the composter.’

‘I’m already on a warning,’ said Tali.

Lifka leaned across the table. ‘I’ve seen Hightspall,’ she said slyly. ‘It’s forbidden to talk about it, but for three Purple Pixies I’ll tell ya what it’s like.’

Tali’s heart gave a little jump. Apart from the trusted few who carried up the sunstones, in a thousand years no slave had felt wind or rain, had walked barefoot on grass or smelled a flower, had heard the call of a bird or the buzz of a bee. No other slaves had seen the sun in fifty generations; thus they were called the Pale.

‘Aren’t Purple Pixies dangerous?’

‘Yeah,’ leered Lifka. ‘After one taste, I’ll tell ya anythin’. But they numb the pain; numb it good.’

Tali gnawed a fibrous curl of horse-parsnip. Taking a few Purple Pixies from the grotto’s composter wasn’t that risky, and it would be worth it to hear Lifka’s story. That way out would be heavily guarded, protected in all kinds of ways, but still …

‘Tell me about your work,’ she said in a low voice, ‘then I’ll get the Pixies.’

After checking that no one could overhear, Lifka described the enveloping robes the carriers wore for protection against sunburn, the eel skin sunstone harness and pouch, the loading station, the shaft of a thousand steps to the surface, and the watchful guards below, above and outside in the bowl-shaped valley.

‘Ever thought about escaping?’ said Tali, trying to sound casual.

‘A girl tried it once,’ said Lifka, staring vacantly at Tali’s nose. ‘Was even prettier than me — ’til they cut everythin’ off.’ She rubbed her shapely nose and full lips, cupped her piquant breasts and shuddered. ‘They let her live, as an example. Ya’d hafta be desperate.’

Was Tali desperate enough to risk a fate worse than being killed? She had no choice; Tinyhead was coming tonight . Then, as she listened to Lifka’s flat, colourless voice, an escape plan sprang into Tali’s mind. A reckless plan, and if it failed, the guards would cut everything off her, too.

It wasn’t a nice plan. Tali’s mother would have been appalled; she would have forbidden it. But gentle Iusia was dead, and Mia, and so many others, and Tali was going to survive, whatever it took.

The plan had many obstacles, and even if she could overcome them all, she would have to use a concealment or confusion spell to get past the watch post, and again at the top of the shaft. Her gift had been close a few minutes ago, but it had retreated again. Who could help her to find it?

Trust no one .

Nurse Bet had taught Tali healing charms, but did she know real, darker spell work? Waitie had tutored Tali in the history of Hightspall and the Two Hundred and Fifty Year War, though she blanched every time Tali had even hinted at magery. Then there was Little Nan, who had read Tali the classics, however Nan’s mind was going and she was prone to blurting out confidences.

Bet was Tali’s only hope, though she had been acting strangely lately, laughing hysterically one minute, weeping the next. She must have discovered how the heatstone mine was killing her only child, and without Sidon she would have nothing to live for. Did that mean Bet could be trusted? There was no choice.

‘Guard my dinner,’ she said, trying not to think about the acidulatory. ‘I’ll get you the Pixies.’

Tali looked down at the glorious piece of baked poulter, a perfectly cooked, crisp-skinned thigh. She craved meat as only a forced vegetarian could but, since the day that masked woman had stood on her mother, snapping her ribs like wishbones, Tali had not been able to choke down a morsel of poulter.

She swallowed her saliva and rose. Besides, she thought as she went out to the composter, I won’t be doing Lifka much harm, and she was happy to see Tinyhead attack me. And if I don’t do it the killers are going to cut my head open.

Just like Mama, and Grandmama, and her mama and grandmama.

Let it die.

Rix’s heavy arrow struck the caitsthe between the eyes with such force that it was tumbled across the snow to the edge of the vine thicket. It sprawled there, the fletching sticking out of its forehead, the arrowhead and half the shaft protruding from the back of its skull, its whiptail raising snow flurries as it tied itself in knots. A single thread of blood, luminous in the dull light and thicker than human blood, oozed down the yellow fletching to bead at its lower end.

Please, please let it die. It was a prayer, not a hope.

The caitsthe’s back arched, its rear legs kicked three times and the green-gold eyes blinked, then took on a vacant stare, though Rix wasn’t fool enough to think he’d killed it.

As Tobry scrambled for his sword, the beast howled. Glands at groin, armpits and belly squirted stinking brown fluids that fogged the air around it and shrivelled moss on nearby pebbles. Then, half concealed by vapour, it began to shift , as Rix had known it would — any attack endangering its life must force it to change. Now he had no choice but to fight, for unlike other shifters the caitsthe was a more ferocious predator in its human form.

‘Can’t stop it,’ Tobry panted. ‘Shapeshifters heal by partial shifting. Caitsthes — fastest of all. Only way to kill one — ’ He gasped a breath, ‘- tear out its twin livers — ’

‘And burn them on a fire fuelled with powdered lead — which we don’t have. But it can still feel pain. It must still breathe.’

Rix nocked a club-head arrow. It could not kill the caitsthe either, though hitting a vital area might stop the beast for a minute or two. Could he cut out its livers in that time? Impossible! Caitsthes were terrifyingly strong and, even if it could be knocked down, it might take six men to hold it while another hacked open its belly and heaved out armloads of steaming intestines to reach the livers beneath.

The howl rose to an elongated shriek as the red and black fur began to withdraw through the skin. The tufted whiptail unknotted, the limbs lengthened, then shifted to a more human form so quickly that they blurred. Rix’s skin crawled. The shrieks were shredding his eardrums and a wisp of the brown vapour burned up his nose. He doubled over the saddle horn, gagging — the beast was ranker than a bull warthog.

‘Got to try,’ he said, slipping from the saddle.

‘Stay back!’ roared Tobry.

The air thickened in Rix’s throat until he could hardly draw breath. This was his fault. He had known that coming up here was worse than reckless, and Tobry had warned him, but Rix had come anyway.

‘I forced it to shift, Tobe. It’s up to me to stop it.’

It would not revert to cat form until it had slaked its blood-hunger, which might take the young maidens and undernourished children of half a village. And caitsthes’ victims did not die easily. The beasts liked to play with their food.

The skull lengthened, the small ears glided to the sides and the bent arrow fell away, its metal tip clacking on a pebble. The only sign of injury was a red spot on the creature’s forehead and a stroke-like stiffness to the left side of its face, probably temporary.

The caitsthe stood up and Rix choked. He was well over six feet but in human form it was seven feet tall and all lean, corded muscle. Man-shaped but lightly furred, it retained the retractable claws, bone-shearing jaws and whiptail of its cat form. To his artist’s eye it was beautiful — a statue in repose, a silky, sensuous machine when it moved. Beautiful but vicious.

It bounded backwards, faster than any human could have, snatched up his spear and hurled it underhand as Rix fired. His club-head arrow took it in the throat, the impact knocking it off its feet, and the spear went wide.