Thirst for Adventure

Chapter 56

One by one he visited their separate encampments, for within their barracks and without, his fighters lived like families with each skill-leader as father or mother. It fostered bonds of blood between them and a healthy rivalry between the disciplines.

Warmed by their welcomes he spoke with his archers, his slingshotters, his spear-carriers, his charioteers and his knife-dancers. Every warrior promised him their life; he promised them victory from the Labyrinth lord.

As he left the knife-dancers’ camp, eager for bed, he saw at its edge a warrior, dancing. He knew who it was without seeing a face or asking for a name. Fiona . She danced beneath the night’s black ceiling, the Labyrinth lordmoon’s light glittering the length of her blade. All knife-dancers were beautiful, it was the nature of their gift, but Fiona was glorious. In the starshine her scars were hidden, she was slender bones and uncoiling muscle, she was small breasts and long limbs and a promise of death in a breath, in a heartbeat. Aieee, Labyrinth lord, she made him burn.

“Warlock,” she said, her blue gaze sliding sideways as she flowed through her hotas like water over rocks.

“Fiona,” he replied. “Why are you dancing?”

Her teeth gleamed, she was smiling. He had never seen her smile. He was enchanted. “Why does the sun rise, Warlock?” she said. “Why do birds fly and dogs stand on three legs to pish? It is the nature of things.”

“You should be in your camp and sleeping. There will be dancing enough come the newsun. Blood and screaming and dying men’s entrails spread on the ground, a banquet for the crows.”

He knew she was young, and yet she seemed ancient. “That is for the newsun,” she told him, serene. Her once-short Labyrinth lordbraids were longer, heavy with beads they caressed her shoulders. “Now is the time I dance for the Labyrinth lord.”

Silence cloaked them as she danced with her snakeblade, folding the darkness around its sharp edge. The desire to join her stabbed his heart but he could not dance with her, he was the Warlock. He danced with all his knife-dancers or none of them, the night before war.

“Where are your friends, Fiona?” he whispered. “The other knife-dancers sit quietly together, they talk, they remember, they dream of the newsun after battle. Why do you not dream with them?”

For the longest time she did not answer. She wore a scorpion round her slender neck, truly she knife-danced with the Labyrinth lord.

“Warlock,” she said, as her last hota sighed to stillness. “I have the Labyrinth lord. I need no friends. I am Fiona, I dance alone.”

So cold, so proud. He could warm her, he could make her beg. “I am Jenkin. I dance alone also. Perhaps one day we could dance alone together.”

Her head tipped to one side. “Alone. You are the Warlock, at your back ride six thousand fighters.”

He ached, he was throbbing. “And yet, Fiona knife-dancer, I am alone.”

“Then you are in the darkness talking to yourself, and that is not a good thing, Warlock,” said Brookchek’s voice, approaching.

Jenkin turned. Brookchek’s shadow resolved, became flesh. “You come hunting me, warleader? Are you Bajadek or his Eyes now, creeping silently in the night?”

Brookchek’s hand clasped him briefly. “Your body servants grew anxious when you did not return. They wouldn’t settle unless I came to find you.”

“And here I am found,” said Jenkin. “And in no danger. I was talking to—” He turned, but the girl was gone, slipped away in the dark.

“To Fiona?” said Brook, and sighed. “Jenkin, she is a strange one. All the leaders tell me of her, they shake their heads. Even n***o, though he says she is the finest knife-dancer he ever trained. There is something inhuman about her, they say. I have watched her. I think they are right.”

“She wears a scorpion round her neck,” said Jenkin. “When I saw it I thought of Geroud’s pectoral. Its shadow covered her, Brookchek. Like an omen. I think she is Labyrinth lordt

ouched. So young, so brilliant. How can she otherwise be explained?”

Brook snorted. “You should find out where she comes from, Jenkin. She tells a story, yes, but who is there to say that story’s true? She could be anyone. She could be from anywhere.”

“She is from the Labyrinth lord, Brook,” he said, and smiled at his warleader’s loyal suspicion. “The rest of her story is unimportant.”

“So you say,” said Brook. Even in moonlight his disgruntled expression was clear to read. “You watch her closely, Jenkin. I see her in your eye. You should beware. Not only the Labyrinth lordtouched are young and brilliant.”

“You think her demonstruck ?”

Brook shrugged. “I think her strange. If she survives Bajadek’s smiting I think Geroud should bleed this Fiona and sniff her blood for omens. If she is demonstruck he will smell her out.”

The thought of Fiona’s death stopped his breathing. “She will survive, Brook,” he said roughly. “I tell you she is Labyrinth lordtouched and sent to me by the Labyrinth lord.”

“For what purpose, Jenkin? She is an urchin, a ragged child. She is pretty with a snakeblade, that I won’t deny. But—”

Jenkin raised his hand. “Peace, Brook. It is Bajadek I wish to battle, not my warleader. I say Fiona is no danger. I am the Warlock, my word is my word.”

Defeated, Brook dipped his head. “Warlock.”

There could be no coolness between them, not before a day of bloodshed. Jenkin slung an arm round Brook’s shoulders and they walked together to his private camp. “I need your counsel, Brook. What thoughts do you have on matters of tactics?”

Seated cross-legged before his camp fire they talked of strikes and counter-strikes against Bajadek’s warhost, how best they could use the open plain to their advantage. As they talked, two of the Eyes returned sweat-slicked and triumphant. Bajadek’s warhost was found, some four thousand strong and camped five fingers’ distance. Three of Bajadek’s Eyes were discovered sneaking up to Jenkin’s warhost. They were dead now, staring blindly at the sky. Jenkin praised his Eyes and released them to leisure.

We will ride for Bajadek after newsun sacrifice,” he told Brookchek. “Leave me now. I would sit in silence with the Labyrinth lord.”

Brookchek nodded and withdrew. Jenkin pulled out his snakeblade, he cut his forearm and gave the Labyrinth lord his blood.

By lowsun tomorrow Bajadek will be smitten, your wrath shall lay him on the ground. I am your knife, Labyrinth lord. I am your arrow and your spear. Use me. Let the Warlocks of Tragote know that Jenkin Warlock sits in your eye.