The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(62)

22





Jungissa stones may be touched only by those in the service of Hananja.

(Law)





The Reaper does not serve Hananja. It no longer needs a stone.

*

Niyes was a fool to think he could escape this nightmare, thought Charris.

Now General Charris, elevated to Niyes’s place. Once Charris might have been pleased with the appointment and with the oblique victory over his old rival, but no longer. Now he would have given anything to be able to hand the title back to Niyes, and the foul duty that came with it.

The prisoners knew they were to die. They moved reluctantly, only after much shoving and shouting on the guards’ parts; Charris could see the despair in their eyes. They could not have seen the heavy-walled, locked wagon that Charris had brought with him to the prison, and which now stood in an adjoining courtyard. They could not have known about the monster locked inside it—yet still they seemed to sense the imminence of death. Criminals they might be, but they were true Gujaareen as well.

Because of that, Charris—normally more pragmatic than devout—prayed for them. May Hananja watch over you in the dark places you’ll inhabit for eternity, he whispered in his mind. And may you die better than Niyes did, for I saw his body when that thing was done with him.

“Sir.” Charris turned to see one of his message-riders standing at attention, escorted by one of the prison guards. The rider was sweaty and filthy, all but swaying with exhaustion. Charris narrowed his eyes and ordered the guard to go fetch lemon-water and salt. Then he pointed toward the floor, and the rider gratefully sat.

“Report.”

“Orders were delivered to the southeast garrison by messenger bird two days ago,” the rider said. “Another bird was dispatched from there to the southwest. The southeast commander distrusts birds for critical information, so he sent me to deliver the message to—” He hesitated. “To the high desert. I killed a horse getting there, but delivered the message successfully. On the return journey I passed through the border town of Ketuyae. The minstrel caravan crossed the river there a fourday ago.”

“Just four days? You’re sure?” Barring storms or accidents, the fastest desert route to the Kisuati Protectorate’s northernmost trade-town was usually seven days. Ketuyae was a day out of Gujaareh. They would be past Tesa by now, half their journey completed.

“Yes, sir. But the desert commander assured me that his troop would be able to catch up to the caravan. They have good trackers. And they have Shadoun horses, bred and trained for the high desert and twice as fast as any camel.”

Which meant that it would take another day, perhaps two, for the garrison troop to find and catch up with the minstrel caravan. Right at the border. Charris could only pray that Sesshotenap, the commander of the desert force, would have enough sense to send his men without Gujaareen livery. All they needed was for a Kisuati patrol to catch a party of Gujaareen soldiers where they weren’t supposed to be, dispatched from a garrison that wasn’t supposed to exist, trying to kill a Kisuati ambassador. War was coming—Charris wasn’t blind—but an incident like that could precipitate it sooner than the Prince wanted.

And if that happens, I’ll be lucky if he only beheads me. Which reminded him of the task at hand.

The guard returned with a salt biscuit and a cup of lemon-water, which he held for the messenger, as the man’s hands would not stop shaking. “Take a fourday’s rest,” Charris said, “but you must leave this place to do it. Guard, help him to the stables.”

The messenger started and spilled a little of the water down his chin; out of habit he wiped his chin and licked the moisture from that hand. “Sir? Begging your pardon, but my horse is half dead, and I’m not much better—”

“You may have a fresh mount from our stable. But you should go quickly.”

“It’s a whole extra day to the city from here, sir!”

Charris scowled. “Stay, then,” he snapped. “But when you hear what’s about to happen and the sound haunts your nightmares for the rest of your life, remember that I tried to spare you.”

He turned on his heel, ignoring the messenger’s confused “Sir?” behind him. As he walked off the parapet into the tower stairwell, he heard the prison guard telling the messenger to leave and not be a fool. Ah, but of course; the prison guards had witnessed this horror before, though on a lesser scale. They knew what was to come better than Charris himself did.

On the ground level the warden of the prison met him, his craggy face tight with nervousness. “Your, ah, guest has been restless, sir,” the man said, turning to walk with Charris. “We tried to put food through the window-bars, but he growled at us and flung it out. We could try again—”

“No,” Charris said. He reached for his hip-pouch and took out the rough chunk of jungissa-stone that the Prince had given him. “Food isn’t what he hungers for right now. Make certain your men are out of the courtyard, and then wait.”

He walked through the arched corridor that led to the other courtyard. Normally prisoners were let out to exercise here, but at the moment the dusty yard held only the reinforced wagon. The horses had been unhitched to stop them from chafing against the harness; they kept trying to get away from the wagon. As Charris walked toward it he heard nothing from within, though he sensed the attention of the thing inside. The window-shutters had been nailed closed save for the one used to feed its occupant. This one was barred, but as Niyes drew close he saw only darkness within.