Tim Lebbon - Dawn

My body is almost dead, he thought. What good is a body like this to them?

Monk, the Nax said, and again he could hear the amusement in their voice.

“You need me,” he said. In their silence, he found some measure of victory.

They emerged into the freshness of endless night. Jossua was dragged across the hillside, the Nax hanging on to one of his feet with a slick, warm touch. He looked up at the moons hazing the sky and wished he were up there again.

You’re a lucky Monk, the Nax said.

Lucky? Jossua thought, but the Nax said no more. Lucky? He should have been dead, but somehow they kept him alive. Flesh and skin had been scoured from his bones, his insides were open to the night and his mind was trapped once again in this ailing, weak, pathetic body. He had seen the Red Monks’ defeat and failure-he had smelled magic and sensed the Mages-and now he was lucky.

Lucky?

But the Nax would not be drawn. They paused by a stream and retreated into shadows, hidden away from the massive sky. They left Jossua out in the open. He could feel the coolness of grass beneath his back, though now it was faded and dry.

Noreela may be dead already, he thought.

JOSSUA ELMANTOZ -A few heartbeats from death, cold from blood loss, pleading with the Nax to tell him what he was meant to do-heard the thing before he saw it.

It was strange how darkness had silenced the land so much. Even night creatures seemed to find no comfort in this endless dusk. But when the rumbling began in the distance, some animals made themselves known. Something small scrambled over his ankle. He felt its scaly tail scrape across a deep gouge and then it touched his other leg, passing over there as well, fleeing quickly from the approaching sound. Another animal passed close by, and in the distance there were growls and cries as things twittered their fear into the dark. They all fled east to west.

The rumbling grew closer, a series of impacts interspersed with brief moments of silence.

Tumbler, Jossua thought.

Do well, the Nax said in his mind, and for the first time ever he heard something other than mockery in their tone.

The tumbler came out of the darkness and rolled Jossua Elmantoz into its hide.

IS THIS THE BLACK? Jossua thought. The Black isn’t supposed to hurt.

He could sense wraiths all around. They feared him, and he was not sure why.

Am I dead at last?

Not quite dead, a voice said. No use dead.

Who are you?

Flage. I’m of the tumbler that has you, though you are not yet of the tumbler. The mind has chosen me to rise up and speak with you.

I don’t understand.

The voice uttered what could have been a laugh, and it chilled Jossua to the spiritual core.

You’re different, Flage said. I’m here to tell you why.

Tim Lebbon

Dawn

A’MEER WAS SMILING down at Kosar, kneeling so that the sun was behind her and throwing her into silhouette. She was beautiful; her hair was braided as usual, and hanging to either side of her head; her pale skin shone even in shadow. And she was laughing. Many times since leaving Pavisse and settling in Trengborne, Kosar had yearned to hear that laughter again, and now it was a balm for his wounds, a tonic for his soul. He reached out, but she shook her head and drew back, still laughing. He wanted to speak to her but he could not find the words. He felt protective and jealous, wanting no one else to see what he was seeing now, hear what he was hearing.

A’Meer, he tried to say, but there was no strength to his voice.

Her laughter faded, her smiled faltered. For a few seconds she moved sideways so that he could see the concern on her face as she stared down at him. And he realized then that his emotions toward A’Meer were so charged because he knew that she was dead.

She mouthed something, reminding him of the image the mimics had shown him. That had been a representation of her at the moment of death; this was beyond. And this time he knew what she was saying.

Trust the Monk.

THE RED MONK -Lucien Malini it had called itself, though Kosar had trouble attaching a name to such a thing-was sitting close to one of the dwindling Breaker fires. It had its back to him. He lay a few steps from the Monk, arms and legs free of the old machine now, his throat so painful and swollen that he could barely turn his head.

I’m going to kill you, Kosar thought, staring at the red cloak in the poor moonlight. That cloak was stained with splashes of A’Meer’s blood, and whatever he dreamed her saying, she was still dead. Soon, I’m going to kill you.

The Monk raised its head, lowered its hood and turned around. It was monstrous, just like all the other Monks Kosar had seen over the past ten days. Its head was almost bald and its face was a mass of scars, old and new. Its eyes were black in the moonlight, its face shifting in shadows thrown by the fading fire.

“I don’t expect you to trust me,” it said.

“Good.”

“I can help you. Circumstance has made us allies.”

Kosar tried to laugh but it hurt too much. He raised himself up instead, turning and spitting into the dust. There was still blood in his mouth.

“This Alishia you spoke of…”

“I’ll kill you before you can touch her.”

“I don’t seek to hurt her.” Its voice was quite unlike any he had ever heard before. Gruff and hesitant, as though the demon was not used to speaking.

“I don’t believe you.”

“A Monk never lies.”

“I don’t believe that, either.”

“Ahh. There’s a dilemma.”

Was that humor? Kosar thought. Is it trying to seduce my trust? He felt only disgust and rage at the Monk. It had killed A’Meer. Then it had tortured truths from him and expected him to ally with it when it chose to act on those truths.

“I’m going to kill you,” he said again.

The Monk frowned and stood. “Then that’s difficult,” it said. “Because Ican continue on my own to Hess, to tell the Shantasi of the hope there is in Alishia. The final hope to stand against the Mages. The Shantasi will kill me, but there’s a chance that their Mystics will smell the truth in my blood. Less chance than if you presented the story to them…but a chance, at least.”

“You’re trying toappeal to me?” Kosar said.

The Monk shook its head. “I’m stating a fact. If you refuse to come, I kill you now in case you fall into the hands of the Mages’ agents. You go for New Shanti, and perhaps with me to protect you, you’ll get there.”

Kosar coughed, swallowed, felt the tang of blood still in his throat. Even the thought of walking was daunting, let alone negotiating whatever dangers there may be between here and New Shanti.

“You sound hoarse,” he said to the Monk. “Bet you’ve never said that much in one go before.”

“Sometimes I talk to myself,” it said. “I’m mad, after all.”

Kosar was glad the demon did not attempt a smile.

He lay back down, wincing as the strain hurt his throat. Smoke from the fire gave the sky some texture, but the moons soon bled that away.

“So you’re giving me two choices,” he said. “Go with you and live, or stay here and die.”

“Yes,” the Monk said.

He closed his eyes and thought of A’Meer mouthing those words, Trust the Monk. Perhaps the demon had implanted that image when he gave Kosar the sleeping drug. Or another insect, cut into his brain while he slept to insinuate the Monk’s desires into his mind.

“Of course,” Kosar said, “there’s choice number three.”

The Monk remained silent.

The thief stood, flexed his hands and felt the familiar sting of the brands. “I could cut you to fucking ribbons now, shit in your foul heart and go on my way.”