Stands a Shadow

CHAPTER FORTY

Lonely Ends

It was the water that saved him, not only in breaking his fall but in helping him escape.

Flush with the success of his supreme dive from the warehouse roof, Ash swam beneath the surface until his lungs were burning from lack of air. When he resurfaced the Imperials took some pot shots at him, but he ignored them, and submerged again, kicking hard.

He swam in that way until he was clear of the marina, and continued to swim along the littoral of lakeweed until the sights and sounds of their searching faded away behind him. It grew darker as the clouds massed even thicker overhead. For a time he lay on his back and floated there as the sickness of exhaustion slowly diminished.

Out over the lake the flares continued to rise and fall. It would be risky, trying for the far shore; snipers were no doubt watching the surface for signs of escaping Khosians.

What are you worried about? he asked himself. In your condition you’ll most likely drown first.

Ash trod water and breathed calm breaths until he felt ready. He looked back at the island city. He looked at the far southern shore.

The old farlander began to swim for it.

It was raining now, and the fat drops were bursting against the surface all around him, the chorus of it deafening his ears to all else. The water seemed aglow wherever the drops collided with it.

Ash spat and chanced a look ahead. His last strokes had brought him past the dark mouth of the Chilos while the current had tried to sweep him into it. He could see fires on both sides of the river mouth, and lanterns strung along its banks, throwing their light across it. Men hunkered down next to upright rifles, gazing out at the passing flow.

He kicked and swam on, long past the limits of his endurance. Only his will kept him going now.

The shore here was a flat and treeless floodplain. Ash squinted through the falling rain, saw a glimmer of flames surrounded by the glowing canvas of a tent. Other tents too were clustered across the floodplain. Riders ambled back and forth in the darkness, huddled in their cloaks as they watched the water’s edge.

His limbs were starting to cramp badly now. He could hardly breathe for the fire in his lungs. Ash knew he was going to drown if he stayed in the water any longer. He turned for the shore, paddling like a dog now, his body numb and almost useless. The fall of rain masked any sounds that he made. He felt mud beneath his hands and he scrabbled at it desperately, relief flooding him for a moment. On all fours he crawled out of the water onto a beach of silty mud, and lay for a long time catching his breath.

When he at last rose to his knees he looked left and right along the shore. He was facing a vertical bank of earth topped with straggly grasses, and the beach of mud ran up into deep runnels carved through the bank, water running out of them.

He heard something jingle in the darkness, and lay flat against the mud as he stifled a cough.

A soldier stood on the bank staring outwards. Ash pressed himself deeper into the mud, waited until the man turned away and disappeared in the darkness, calling out to someone beyond.

Quickly, Ash scrabbled up to one of the runnels in the bank. He looked into it, seeing nothing but blackness. Felt the chill of the water running out over his hands.

As he began to slither along the chute, mud splashed into his mouth and his nostrils and his eyes. It covered him and it filled him, until he became one with it, a creature of dirt, a thing still living, still fighting, because it did not know any other way.

She was dying, and the reek of her poisoned body was enough to make the eyes water.

Even with his mask on, it filled Sparus’s mouth with saliva and made him want to spit. He looked down at the panting form of Sasheen, her swollen features, her blue lips. He looked at the head of Lucian sitting silently on the table, and its jar now empty of Royal Milk.

‘Matriarch,’ he said, quietly.

Sasheen stirred, fluttered her eyes open. A wheeze escaped her parted lips. He waited a few moments for her to focus on him.

‘We have trouble,’ he told her plainly.

‘Romano,’ Sasheen replied with a sigh.

‘He’s making his move. His people have been approaching the lower officers of the army with offers of promotion if they will support his claim for Patriarch.’

Her eyes blazed with sudden anger. ‘I’m not even dead yet.’

Nor was Anslan, he recalled, when you slit the Patriarch’s throat in his bed chamber.

She fluttered her hand, beckoning him closer. Her anger was robbing the breath from her, and she spoke in a whisper.

‘And you, Sparus. Has he approached you yet?’

The Archgeneral faltered, taken aback by her bluntness. He supposed she had little time now for subtleties.

‘Yes,’ he confessed, his head low. ‘He has asked for my support.’

Sasheen glanced at the head of Lucian. His eyes were closed, but Sparus had the sense that the man was listening to everything they said.

‘He sees his chance,’ added Sparus. ‘You have not yet named a successor.’

‘I care not… who takes my place in this. Only that it should never be Romano, or one of his clan.’

‘ Holy Matriarch,’ tried Sparus, and he used her title quite intentionally. ‘If we contest his claim it will divide the Expeditionary Force in two. We will be stalled here in Tume fighting amongst ourselves. For the sake of the campaign, we must have this settled now.’

‘You forget yourself, Sparus. There is more at stake here than this venture in Khos. Listen to me. Kill Romano if you can, but do not concede to him.’

‘He would be dead already if it was possible. Our Diplomats are still missing though.’

‘Sparus!’ she spat, and her hand lunged out to clutch his wrist. He felt the burning heat of her touch through his mitten. ‘You will not give him this army. I command this of you. You have been loyal to my family. We have been friends, have we not? Did I not raise you to the position of Archgeneral? Now do this one last thing for me.’

Civil war, thought Sparus with sudden dread. It had been fifteen years since the last real conflict within Mann. He’d lost his father in it, and his brother. They had both died at his own hands.

Now she wished to plunge them into another one.

What she said, though, struck a chord with him. She had promoted him to Archgeneral, and her family had aided his career even long before. And in return, all they had ever asked of him was his loyalty. For a fighting general, it was the most important thing for him to have pledged.

Sparus gave a solemn bow of his head. ‘As you wish,’ he whispered, and she released her grip of him, and settled back into the pillows as though her work was done.

Sasheen knew she was near the end now. Her eyes were no longer working as they should be. All was a watery motion of lantern light and shadows unless she blinked and made a conscious effort to focus. Her lungs struggled over every shallow breath that she achieved. She could smell her own flesh rotting off her bones. Not long, she thought.

‘ My son,’ croaked a voice, and then she realized that it was her own. Sasheen could see him now, young Kirkus. He was pouting at her, sore at having to have his head shaved every morning by his retainers. But then I couldn’t do this, she told him, and kissed him on his gleaming head. He flinched and feigned annoyance. ‘My son,’ she said again.

Her breathing stopped for a moment. Sasheen hung there in paralysis, drifting, and then her lungs took in another trickle of air. For a spell her eyes cleared, and she saw around her the bedchamber of the Sunken Palace, and that she was alone.

They have all abandoned me in my weakness, she thought to herself. Already scheming for their place in the new order.

Only the head of Lucian remained now. He watched her in silence, his gaze full of rapture.

Sasheen tried to speak. Had to cough and force the words from her mouth, much like Lucian.

‘We die together, then.’

The room was darkening. She floundered for a moment in her mind.

‘Rest well, Lucian,’ she whispered. ‘I have missed you.’

Lucian said nothing. In the warm light of the crystal lanterns, his eyes suddenly glistened.