Tim Lebbon - Dawn

“Where were you going?” the Monk said.

“To…to…” He fought, but the insect crushed him down. “To Hess.”

“Why?”

“To tell the Mystics about Alishia.”

“Alishia? Who is she?”

“She has something…” Kosar closed his eyes and raged against the thing controlling him. He thought of A’Meer and her determination, her pride, and he thought about how Rafe had changed in the space of a few days. But his mouth opened, his throat flexed and he could not swallow the words. “…something of magic within her.”

The Monk stood and came forward, holding the sword out before it. “You cannot lie to me.”

“I can’t lie.”

“Then there’s still a chance,” the Monk said. “Where is Alishia?”

Still a chance?

“Going…to…Kang Kang…”

The Monk turned and walked away, its shadow dancing behind it. It sheathed its sword and threw Kosar’s aside.

It sees something of magic as a chance?

The Monk disappeared beyond one of the huge fires. Kosar felt the insect rip itself away from his spine and claw from the wound in his neck, saw it tumble down his chest and land in the dust. It was on its back, legs flailing at the night, and a hundred thin white tendrils swirled around it, licking at the air as if trying to find nerves once more.

With all the strength he could muster, Kosar lifted his foot and brought it down onto the struggling beetle.

He came back to himself in time to feel life fading away. The Monk left me to die, he thought. At last…at last…

BUT DEATH IS no easy escape, and the pain of life brought him around once more.

Kosar had no idea how much time had passed. The great fires had burned down somewhat, so it must have been several hours, but the moons still hung in the sky, it was still twilight…and the Monk was still there. It sat at a distance, close to one of the fading fires, its cloak hugged tight around it and its hood lifted back over its head. It had its back to Kosar. It seemed to be asleep.

He was still tied against the broken machine. His chest was tight and sore, and he stood on shaky legs to ease the pressure on his shoulders.

I should be dead, Kosar thought. He swallowed, wincing at the pain that slight movement brought. He turned his head left to right and felt something on his throat, something in him, and for a second panic rose again. But he could still see the remains of the crushed insect on the ground beside his foot. It had burst when he crushed it, spilling a puddle of his blood merged with its own.

Something ran past him. He held his breath and did his best to keep still, tracking the shadow as it darted low across the ground. It was a sand rat, large as a small sheebok, scaly tail waving at the air as it buried its long snout into one of the dead Breakers.

Kosar looked at the Monk, but the demon seemed unconcerned.

The sand rat pulled back and took something from the body. It hurried back past Kosar, glancing at him as it ran by with the Breaker’s heart in its mouth.

Kosar slumped against the machine and cried out at the bindings chafing his wrists. They had rubbed the skin raw, drawing more blood and tightening each time he moved against them.

“You!” Kosar called. The Monk lifted its head, staring into the fire as if believing the call had come from there. “Haven’t you killed me yet?”

The Monk stood slowly. Kosar noticed several arrows and bolts on the ground by its side, evidently picked from its body while it had been sitting beside the fire. Its red robe bore many darker patches. Their rage keeps them going, he thought. Perhaps now they know they’ve lost, they’ll just die away. But the Monk shrugged its robe higher onto its shoulders and pulled its hood lower over its face, and when it started out for Kosar it was with purpose.

I told it about Alishia, he thought in despair.

The demon walked past the bodies of several Breakers, paying them no attention. Its feet kicked through sandy soil darkened with blood. When it came to within a dozen steps of Kosar it paused, raised its hands and lowered its hood slowly, as if uncertain of its actions. It looked above Kosar at the machine. It looked down at the puddle of blood at his feet. It looked anywhere but at his face.

“I haven’t killed you,” it said. “I saved your life. Clasped the wound shut. Stopped the bleeding.” Its voice was rough and low, and Kosar saw the terrible scars on its face and neck for the first time. “I am Lucien Malini,” it said.

Kosar was taken aback. Was he still unconscious? Was he dreaming? He swung his hand forward and imagined a sword cleaving this monster’s head in two-revenge for sweet A’Meer-but his arms remained tied to the machine.

“You have a name?” he asked.

“Everything has a name. Even the Mages.”

“Then why tell me? You killed the woman in those woods, didn’t you? Before the machines’ graveyard?”

“Yes. We fought and I killed her. And then later…when I went back…I saw her…”

“If you let me down from here, I’ll kill you.”

The Monk raised its eyebrows, forehead creasing into a scarred frown.

“Do you believe I’m telling the truth?” Kosar asked. “Don’t need your filthy truth beetle for that, do you? I’ll wipe the name from your lips and stamp it into the bloody dust. Then I’ll cut you open and sit close by, so I can watch the sand rats eat you slowly. You’ll end up as sand rat shit.”

“The woman ended as more,” Lucien Malini said.

“What do you mean?” Kosar could not help the question, though he did not want to engage in this demon’s banter. But it said there’s still a chance.

“She went,” the Monk said. “I returned to her and she went. Disappeared. Before my eyes.”

“You returned to her?”

“I had seen defeat, and I sought revenge on her corpse.”

Kosar closed his eyes and the world swayed around him. He had no wish to imagine what the Monk’s revenge would have been, yet the images forced themselves upon him, crowded out in moments by the mimic’s presentation of A’Meer’s final breaths. A whispered word, or a gasp for air?

When the world steadied and Kosar opened his eyes again, the Monk had come close.

“Leave me alone, demon!” Kosar whispered.

The Monk reached out and touched his throat. Its fingers were rough and a flame of pain circled Kosar’s neck. Something shifted there and his head was jerked to one side, pulled by a subtle movement from the Monk’s hand.

“Leave me!”

“If I leave, you may bleed to death.”

“Then let me bleed to death. Or are you toying with me? Maybe you’re taking your revenge on my body because A’Meer denied you that?”

The Monk stood back and stared at Kosar, as though looking for truth in its victim’s face. “I don’t want you to die,” it said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I put clasps in your throat. Sand rat teeth hold your wound together. I want you to live.”

Kosar tried to turn away but felt the obstructions in his neck. They pulled at him, stretching skin and holding the sides of his wounds together. There was no fresh blood running down his chest. And the Monk asked no more questions.

“Why?” Kosar asked.

“You spoke my words in your sleep,” the Monk said. “When I sat by the fire, taking arrows from my body, I heard you repeating my words. As if you could not believe them.”

Kosar spat at the Monk. He was weak and his mouth was dry, and the bloody spittle landed on the ground between them. “Your kind don’t believe in hope.”

The Monk came forward again. Kosar kicked out but the demon simply slapped his leg aside. It seemed unconcerned at his struggles. Kosar saw it close up; deep, black eyes, the fresh wounds and older scars, the ragged teeth in its mouth, nose split in some fight. Surely there could be no hope in a thing like this?