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Enough that I can see what the clearing holds from some way back. Death. For most.
Zakariya is luckier than most. Although I doubt he feels very lucky right now.
He is in the clearing. And all over a good part of it too. No wonder the smell of blood was strong even from a distance. So much has been sprayed across the glade that it is as though the grass is metal, a rusted clockwork wonder made to amaze a long-dead Caliph. That the grass dances under the weight of all that is shed on it? Perhaps because of the breeze. Or perhaps even nature itself dances when the shadhavar sings.
The creature has my charge pinned to a barrel-chested oak. But not cleanly. Not from a single strike straight through the heart. Something simple for him to dangle from. No, it looks to have pierced him through his belly, a low-bent strike for such a gigantesque creature. My guess is Zakariya tried to fling himself backwards out of the way. Failed with the same grace he couldn’t manifest in his madcap chase.
Either way, the horn protrudes out from between his shoulder blades. It must run up through a large part of his insides.
I cannot imagine that is very comfortable.
Of course, for most, it wouldn’t be very comfortable for only the briefest of moments. The mind would blank, flee away from the pain even as the body gives up. The spirit would be gone mere moments after.
Most have not drunk of the Aab-Al-Hayaat. The Waters of Life that do not allow us to die unless we choose.
Judging by his screams? Zakariya is not far from making that choice.
In a way, he does me a favour. The song of the shadhavar is muted now. I guess he must have skewered my charge just before I approached. It’s hard to sing when its horn’s holes are blocked by human flesh.
Not that the shadhavar looks bothered. Blood is pouring down the holes and grooves and streaming down along its muzzle while its rough tongue swoops and mops at it blissfully.
Many would say it were not so pretty now, its face painted in the claret of a man. They would be wrong. This is its natural state. It is beautiful.
Chapter Four
Mount Lebanon, 3 May 1211
I have hunted in desperate hunger. When my belly screamed a curse upon ever having been brought into being. When my mind saw nothing but an emptiness so driving, I could have wept had I the moisture to spare.
When I caught something? A rabbit, a desert fox, a wounded hatchling fell from a tree?
I painted myself in my eagerness to consume every morsel left. And it was glorious. Gobbling down gobbets of flesh that tasted better than the finest candied fruit. Blood that washed my face and tasted sweeter than any spiced wine. Responding to our needs. Reverting to our natural state. There is an honesty in that. One we lose in the layered lies-upon-lies that make up the politesse of a society.
The shadhavar is truth. This is what it is. A predator who sings for his supper. And bathes in what is brought to its mouth by what is both bait and blade. I cannot blame it for that. And I can appreciate the beauty in its brutal truth.
I pick my way through the leafy undergrowth. Cling to the shadows. My eyes are hooded by my hair, keeping their whites obscured while still allowing me to see. Nothing betrays us in the dark more quickly than the eyes do.
Some of you may consider me cruel. Uncaring. Perhaps even deliberately leaving him to a slow death. Certainly, it’d make my life easier. And my ears less sore. And my sword hand less itchy each time he speaks.
But no. Because if Zakariya were at any real risk – were he just a normal mortal man, he’d be dead already. That horn must have passed through several of the parts keeping him alive. I’d be amazed if his heart isn’t pricked.
But Zakariya is not a normal mortal man. As he’ll take great delights in pointing out to you if you are ever unfortunate enough to get with him for any length of time longer than the turn of a single sand clock. He is the Guardian’s anointed successor. And so has drunk from the Aab-Al-Hayaat. The Waters of Life themselves. His body is indestructible. He is unkillable.
Although you wouldn’t know it from all his blubbering and screaming.
That, at least, does me a favour. My forest craft is good, and I have always been light on my feet, but still. The light is all inside the glade. That helps me by making it easier for the murky surrounding trees to hide me. But it makes seeing where I’m going testing. Particularly in terms of remaining utterly silent. An occasional leaf crackles by a misjudged foot fall, and I freeze. My heart pounding. Expecting the shadhavar to react, to turn readied.
Each time, Zakariya manages to wail at the right volume at the right time. Masking my mistake. Well, well. He has his uses after all, upon my heart’s life. I would never have guessed. Not based on the last few decades of puffed-up buffoonery anyhow.
His body shakes, trembles like the last leaf of a storm-wrecked tree. He is not dead. But he could be. If he chooses. And that would displease a man I have chosen as a friend, which is rare for me. It’s worth protecting my relationship with the Guardian.
Worth taking a risk for.
I’ve made it behind the creature now. A tail like silvered starlight swishes in rhythm to the gulping sounds. A drumbeat to Zakariya’s screams. I wonder if it is truly music to the shadhavar’s ears. Or if he finds it annoying that this particular prey won’t hurry up and stop with all that noise.
The flickering hairs are almost hypnotic.
Then the tail lifts, and the shadhavar performs a bodily function anyone who has followed behind a horse has witnessed often. Apparently, even the magical must be mundane at times.
