Bone crunched under Yala’s feet. She stepped over the corpse of the dead kekin, her hands curling as a tingling sensation travelled up her fingertips and urged her to reach for the shadows creeping beneath its rotting flesh. Her fingers clenched around her cane until the sensation faded, but the faint chill emanating from the pouch she carried at her waist lingered as a reminder that the god of death was never far away. Even here, in the domain of His immortal enemy.
This is no hiding place for a Disciple of Death.
The god of life’s power permeated the forest, a constant thrum of energy pulsing everywhere from the tallest trees to the rain-soaked undergrowth. The dense greenery was a stark contrast to the grimy city she’d left behind, yet both held bittersweet memories from a simpler time. Though only a few short months had passed, the years she’d spent living in her jungle cabin seemed like a half-remembered dream.
“Yala.”
She halted, her thoughts scattering like falling leaves. “Saren.”
“There you are.” Her former squad-mate half-crawled under a low-hanging branch and straightened upright, pushing a handful of curly dark hair out of his eyes. “I’ve been looking for you all day. What’re you doing?”
“Getting away from the noise.”
“Ouch.” He grinned. “You know, it’s got to be worse for Niema, being bound to her enclave members the way she is. Being tuned into four other people’s emotions all the time would drive me out of my mind.”
Yala grunted. She would never have consented to such a violation of her privacy, but there must be a comfort in the unspoken trust shared between Niema and her fellow enclave members and in the knowledge that they would always be present in her darkest moments. A similar pact had once existed between Yala and her squad-mates, too, but that well-tended garden was now overgrown with thorns.
Yet another reason I’m more suited to serving the god of death. “Something you needed?”
“The others want to talk to you.” Saren’s gaze flickered to the dead kekin; his shoulders trembled, but he refrained from acknowledging the shadows that were as stark to his eyes as they were to hers.
Yala fell into step with him, her cane scraping the damp soil. “Has Superior Kralia finally had enough of us?”
While Yala’s desire to leave the enclave had initially been stymied by her recovery from a life-threatening injury, weeks in the company of Yalet’s rejuvenating power had left her with little more than a faint scar on her ribs. Superior Kralia had offered her a refuge, but if she expected Yala to have forgotten the infractions she’d committed both against Yala herself and Niema, she was sorely mistaken.
“Oh, she’d had enough of us on the first day,” Saren said. “She had no choice but to keep us here, on account of how we’re her last hope against utter destruction.”
“Drakeshit.” If anything, the opposite was true. “She must know that every day she offers us shelter, she’s gambling the safety of her own people.”
The light in his eyes dimmed as if a cloud passed overhead. “Not necessarily. I won’t lie, I wouldn’t object to staying long-term. Jungle life agrees with me.”
“I’d have thought you’d be sick of eating leaves by now.” Disciples of Life swore vows against harming other living creatures, including consuming their flesh. Other practices were optional—such as the bond some forged with fellow Disciples that allowed them to share emotions—but Superior Kralia enforced Yalet’s will with as firm a hand as an adherent of the god of the flames. “And what of their rule never to marry outside of the enclave?”
A grin chased the shadows out of his eyes. “I can live with that. Marriage didn’t work out that well for Machit, did it?”
Yala grunted in agreement. She’d seen him crouched at one of Yalet’s altars a couple of times over the past few weeks, head bent in prayer, but she hoped this was just a passing fancy on his part. “I wouldn’t expect Yalet to have any desire to claim someone who’s been as close to Mekan as we have.”
“True.” He gave a short laugh. “We’re corrupted to the bone.”
That’s one way of putting it. The dark stains on her fingertips lingered no matter how long she spent in the god of life’s domain, and she’d learned to ignore the occasional pulse of cold from the pouch that hung from her belt, in which she’d concealed the claw of one of Mekan’s beasts. While its presence within Yalet’s domain was a risk, the claw also functioned as a warning system should any of Mekan’s creatures venture into the forest. Not that I need warning about dead kekins, she thought, her ears picking up the hum of voices that indicated they were nearing the wooden huts that housed the enclave members.
In contrast to the fences and high walls that encased the capital, the jungle held no such boundaries. The Disciples’ huts were sprawled across a vast area interspersed with communal areas where Disciples pooled their resources and gathered around cookfires. Taking in outsiders was unusual but not an affront to their god’s wishes, and for the most part, the other Disciples had been cordial towards the newcomers.
Some more than others. As they rounded a corner, she saw Kelan and Niema stood engaged in a heated argument in the middle of the leaf-strewn path. The former was dressed in his usual light-blue robe—inappropriate attire for the jungle but made bearable by his ability to call upon the god of the skies to fan away the humid air—while the latter wore the simple leaf-woven clothing of her fellow Disciples. Niema’s hair was braided tightly against her skull, her neck imprinted with the leaf-shaped birthmark that signalled her as Yalet’s chosen.
“What’s he done this time?” Yala’s pace quickened. “Kelan?”
“He was…” Niema spluttered, too outraged to get the words out. “I caught him trying to seduce Bitra into spending the night with him in the village.”
“Isn’t that better than seducing her in the cabin with five others present?” Kelan said. “Granted, that might make the experience more interesting. Would they be able to sense her arousal, too?”
Niema’s face reddened with anger. “That behaviour is inappropriate.”
“According to whom?” Kelan enquired, a smile playing on his lips. “I would have thought the god of life would support all pursuits of earthly pleasures.”
“You’re here as an ambassador,” Niema snapped. “How do you hope to forge an alliance with our Superior when you insist upon behaving like a tree-raptor in heat?”
“I didn’t try to seduce her, did I?” Kelan’s amusement grew at her analogy. “She’s had no complaints about my behaviour. I rather think she’s enjoying the entertainment.”
Yala snorted. It was true that the younger members of the enclave had developed an inexplicable attachment to Kelan and happily listened to his wild stories of his adventures as a sword-for-hire that were almost certainly fictionalised to some degree, but Superior Kralia would have been unmoved if Kelan had brought an entire theatre troupe to perform for her alone.
Moreover—as she had to remind him on a not-infrequent basis—they weren’t here for fucking entertainment.
“And how’s that alliance coming along?” she asked pointedly.
“Spectacularly, despite our pious friend’s dismal attitude,” said Kelan. “Really, Niema, did we not thoroughly corrupt you during your time in the city?”
The word corrupt ignited Yala’s irritation. “That’s why you dragged me here?” she asked of Saren. “To break up a petty fight between fools who ought to know better? I’m not their fucking captain, thank the gods.”
Kelan’s smile faded. “Now, I think that’s harsh.”
“In case you’ve forgotten,” Yala said through clenched teeth, “we’re fugitives.”
“We haven’t forgotten.” Saren glanced at a figure sitting on a nearby tree stump, dressed in a fine shirt that was now considerably wrinkled and yellowed with sweat-stains. Viam, the only other survivor of her old squad aside from Yala.
The others—Vanat, Machit, Dalem, Temik—had died one by one, doomed by their status as the only squad who knew the truth of the last mission King Tharen had ordered before his death. Or rather, before he faked his death.
Seeing her, Viam pushed off the tree stump and padded to meet them. “There you are, Yala. Did you find anything in the jungle?”
“Aside from bloodflies?” Yala knew she meant signs of Mekan’s presence, but a dead kekin hardly qualified. “Nothing. What were you doing over there?”
“Brooding,” Saren offered. “Really, you two could at least do so in the same place.”
“I’m not brooding,” Viam protested. “I was waiting for the Superior to get back from her meeting.”
“Another one?” No wonder everyone was restless. “Do you think the other Superiors might have finally agreed to put together their forces?”
Unlike those who served the other deities, Yalet’s followers were spread across a larger area and consequently required more than one Disciple to hold the rank of Superior. Each enclave within the forest that covered the southernmost portion of the continent held its own priorities and rituals, with the result that there had been no consensus thus far on how to deal with the current conflict.
“No,” Saren answered. “They’re pacifists, remember? They don’t want a war.”
“Even Superior Kralia knows it’s impossible to avoid one.” Yala dug the end of her cane into the soft earth, her back teeth grinding. “The others can’t bury their heads in the mud for much longer.”
“It’s not their fault.” Niema said. “They’ve never had to deal with a threat like this.”
“You’d think one of them would have run afoul of a patrol by now.” Kelan hovered a little above the ground, a faint breeze stirring his long, curly hair. “They’re all over the northern forest.”
Niema spun on him. “You weren’t supposed to be there, either. What if you were seen?”
“I was careful.”
Yala had her doubts, but the presence of the king’s army outside of the capital was an unwelcome sign. “How many soldiers?”
“Fifty? A hundred?” He shrugged. “More than I’d expect. The king’s been expanding his forces.”
Nothing we didn’t expect. The Disciples were bound by old treaties against engaging in warfare, but the king had long violated that truce, and the Disciples were the only force who stood a chance of resisting King Tharen’s new reign.
Not that Superior Kralia agreed, but for all her claims, she’d offered no actionable advice as to exactly how Yala was supposed to remove the king from his throne.
The colour drained from Niema’s face. “We can’t match those numbers.”
“Can’t you?” Yala had stark memories of Disciples of Life riding upon war drakes like soldiers and wielding Yalet’s power as effectively as any weapon. Not every member of their order avoided violence, as Yala and Niema had experienced firsthand. “We might have no choice.”
“I think she’s hoping we’ll fight for her.” Viam had listened to their discussion in anxious silence; she’d been keen to hear any news of what might be occurring back in the capital. In accompanying Yala to the jungle, she’d been forced to leave behind her romantic companion, Brenat, a fellow member of the palace staff, who had been recovering from a wound suffered in the recent battle.
Saren glared at her. “No fucking chance.”
“Don’t you two start,” Yala said sharply. “I’m not your captain anymore either.”
Technically, Viam outranked her, in fact, having recently had a brief, disastrous stint in the Flight Division of the king’s army. As if she too had recalled that, Viam’s shoulders slumped. “I’m starting to think I was too hasty in leaving the capital.”
“Hasty?” Saren echoed. “The king demanded the immediate surrender of all Disciples of Death. You’d be dead on an altar if you stayed.”
“You can’t know that,” Viam said. “None of us can.”
The restrained frustration in her voice echoed Yala’s. “We can make some educated guesses. Tharen will almost certainly have reclaimed the throne from his son in addition to rebuilding the army. As to his intentions for the Disciples of Death, I can’t say. Don’t forget he made it look as though he defeated the army of the dead.”
As opposed to his true strategy: sending the same army to attack their rival nation of Rafragoria to ensure nobody challenged his rule. Having dealt with the external threats, Yala expected him to turn his attention to the internal ones, but he had no idea that a rival Disciple of Death had survived in the southern forest. Three, if she counted Viam and Saren.
“Yeah, he’s a fucking hero,” said Saren. “I bet he has his soldiers singing those old military songs as they march around sticking flags in everything that moves.”
“They seemed more interested in signing up recruits from the local villages, from what Bitra heard.”
“From—” Niema cut off. “You were questioning her. That’s why you cornered her, not just to seduce her.”
“I’m adept at multitasking.”
Yala didn’t hear Niema’s reply. A sharp chill emanated from the pouch in which she carried the claw, sending a wave of shivers through her entire body, and her fingertips tingled with static. Shadows coiled beneath her palm, fanning out from her cane, and a whisper as cold and sharp as a steel blade crept into her ears.
“Yala.”
The voice’s echoes faded as a shrill scream rang out from the jungle, reverberating in the air. Yala broke into a run, her cane slapping the ground with each step. Her right leg gave its usual twinge of protest; even the god of life couldn’t heal the old wound inflicted by one of Mekan’s creatures. Kelan overtook her with ease, drawing his blade.
A man staggered into view, recognisable as a Disciple only by the leaf-shaped birthmark on his greying neck. His body reeked of decay, his lank hair clinging to his skeletal face. Withered tendons creaked, bare knucklebones gleaming, as he lifted a bloodied knife.
Yala’s cane struck him in the chest with a wet thud and sent him sprawling onto his back. She then drove the blunt end into his throat, severing the rotting tendons. Satisfaction sang through her veins at the exertion. Nearby Kelan duelled another dead Disciple of Life, who carried a knife slick with blood.
As the Disciple crumpled, Niema ran over, her face taut. “Where did they come from?”
“I’d ask, but…” Kelan gestured in the direction from which they’d heard the screaming and released a gust of wind from his palm. The tree branches were swept aside, revealing a hut that resembled Niema’s dwelling.
The door opened on the corpse of a woman, newly felled. Already Yala glimpsed shadows stirring around her body, creeping through muscle and bone. She dodged the hand that reached to grab her ankle and stamped down hard. As the woman’s brittle wrist snapped, she brought the cane upon her skull, the dead flesh giving way with ease. Shadows surged upward, her fingers grasping the phantom sensation of a thread connecting her to the woman’s rotting corpse, reminding her of how she’d once manipulated the bones of the dead with a mere touch.
A faint whisper sounded, accompanying the chill surrounding the claw within her pocket. “I’m here, Yala.”
None of that, Yala thought, and brought the cane upon the woman’s skull again.
“Yala, stop!” Niema’s shrill cry stilled her hand. Breathing hard, she stepped out of the hut and another Disciple of Life ran past her, dropping to her knees beside the dead woman with a tortured wail.
Others gathered around, watching Yala with appalled expressions. She clenched her fist to conceal the shadows within, to no avail. Her secret was laid as bare as the woman’s skull.
We have to move the bodies. Once the spread of Corruption started, each person felled would rise in turn, their corpse claimed by Mekan. The Disciples of Life alone held the ability to lay them to rest, but that would be a short-lived victory. As long as someone bound to Mekan was present in the forest, He would always find a way to come back.
I think, she thought, it’s time for me to leave.
