Page 3 of Fate of the Argosi

I let them tire themselves out, then allowed myself a self-satisfied smirk. The Argosi don’t mind a little pride now and then. Even Conch looked up at me with what might’ve been the spire goat equivalent of a grin. I bent down to scratch his chin. That’s when he burped in my face. A faint blueish mist got into my nostrils. I covered my face, but too late. Every muscle in my body turned to jelly as I collapsed in a heap on the cold, uneven stone floor. Conch clambered onto my chest, licked my face, then sauntered off down the tunnel.

Might’ve been the hallucinogenic effects of his foul-smelling saliva, but I would’ve sworn the little bastard was whistling a tune as he abandoned me to the guards.

2

Never Trust a Spire Goat

Guess it was the odd whistling echoing down the tunnel that drew the guards to me. It had a haunting, almost melancholy sound to it. Who knew spire goats were such inspired musicians?

Wasn’t long before I was staring up at six of the ugliest faces I’d ever seen. Let’s be clear about something: ugly don’t mean to an Argosi what it might to regular folk. Slack jaws, bulbous noses, big ears, balding hair, bad teeth – these things don’t make a person ugly; they just make ’em different.

Behold the world through yourarta precis– that’s the Argosi talent for perception – and those same faces become entrancing, beguiling, even beautiful. When an Argosi speaks of ugliness, they mean the way a person’s spirit – theirintentions– contort those same features towards bitterness, greed and, worst of all, cruelty.

‘Blessed and beloved are those who yield,’ whispered one of the guards as he brushed aside my red curls with a finger to trace a line down the side of my face and then along my lips. It was like he was checking to see if I were made of wax instead of flesh and blood. His accent was Daroman, former military from the look he shot the others that sent them inching back even as they kept leering at me like a pack of . . . well, no pack of wild dogs ever struck me as quite so ill-mannered.

Blessed and beloved are those who yield, is the proverb Berabesq clerics recite to slaves and prisoners to remind them that submission is better for the soul than a beating. No doubt the saying grates on those who don’t share their faith – until they get to use it on someone else.

Myarta forteize– just a fancy word for resilience – was telling me that roughly two minutes had passed since Conch had paralysed me. Wasn’t sure how long it’d take before the effects of his noxious belch wore off, but it was a safe bet I wouldn’t enjoy how the guards intended to pass the time.

Come on, you stupid spire goat! Can’t believe you hate me this much!

This is what I get for allowing a beast who spends his days atop copper-capped spires, chewing on tasty blue moss while gazing down at his heavenly dominion, to follow me into a dank hellhole. Guess I’d been lonelier than I wanted to admit.

‘That’s right,’ the big Daroman kneeling over me said. His ragged chin-length hair would’ve been blond were it not for the dust and grime darkening it a muddy brown. He was stroking my cheek like it was an apple he was about to take a bite out of. ‘You cry, little girl. Everyone cries down here.’ He leaned in close and kissed me on the forehead. ‘The clerics that run this place preach that tears are the ink in which the six-faced god writes our futures.’

More chortles from the other guards. Abuse people long enough and the only joy left to them is the suffering of others.

‘Few tears to be shed down here tonight,’ said a tall, rangy-looking woman – a Zhuban warrior-poet from the high cheekbones and deep, melodious voice. Couldn’t have been too good at the warrior part; she had more scars on her face than hairs left on her head. ‘Some stinking Berabesq prince is sending his troops to close Soul’s Grave for good. The warden vizier’s got us sacrificing convicts in protest. Six each morning, one for each of his god’s six faces. We ran out yesterday, which means come dawn—’

‘Shut up,’ said the former Daroman soldier. He was straddling my midsection, making it hard for me to breathe. Calloused fingers slid under the collar of my dust-covered travelling shirt. Whatever I’d expected his intentions towards me, they turned out worse as his hands wrapped around my neck. He sighed, eyes closing as if he were drifting off to sleep, but then a slow smile crept over his lips and he began to squeeze. ‘They’re going to kill us guards before they shut this place down, we all know that. If this is my last night, I want to imagine I’m back home one last time.’

A tingle in my fingertips told me I could move them again, but not enough to do more than scratch at the unforgiving rock beneath me.

‘Home,’ the Daroman repeated. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or the other guards. ‘Have you ever visited the southern hills of Darome? This time of year, the orchards burst with apples more golden than any sunset. The fruit practically falls off the branch into your hands. And the city girls . . . oh, they do love a man in uniform. I was a proper soldier, of course, never took advantage. But I did enjoy strolling through those orchards, listening to someone else talk about their aspirations and ambitions. Those silly, giddy dreams of theirs made me feel as if, when I marched off to fight in the border wars, I’d be defending something good and pure rather than just killing people I’d never met.’

All the while his hands were slowly tightening around my neck. I wasn’t hardly breathing at all any more.

‘Then I got captured,’ the soldier went on. ‘Consigned down here where nothing grows except an . . . ache to taste what little life leaks out of another’s eyes as they die.’ His right hand came away from my throat, but his left was more than strong enough to keep strangling me on its own. A fingertip traced a half-circle beneath my eye and then went to his mouth, smearing his bottom lip with my tears. ‘Whimper for me,’ he urged, eyes still closed, a dreamy smile on his face. ‘Whimper as you die so I’ll know I’m still alive.’

Therewasa cry then, but it didn’t come from me. Instead, the sort of soft, anxious bleating you’d expect from a sheep separated from its herd, soon followed by the clackety-clack of hoofs stumbling across the uneven stone floor.

‘Well now,’ said one of the guards, a big-bellied man with tattoos all over his face who chuckled as he ambled past where my last breath was being squeezed out of me. ‘Can you believe the clerics sent us a juicy dinner to go with our entertainment?’

The Daroman soldier opened his eyes. He didn’t laugh like the others, nor did he turn to look at the little goat skittering nervously towards the other guard’s outstretched hand. Instead his gaze remained on me, searching my eyes for signs of relief – of a trap about to be sprung.

Too bad you decided to strangle a professional gambler, I thought, giving up nothing but wide-eyed panic and a desperate plea for mercy.

I heard the sound of a knife being drawn from its sheath, then the slow, cautious shuffling of the guards as they began encircling Conch. I’d gone almost two minutes without air and my vision was starting to blur. Didn’t matter though; I couldn’t affect what happened next. All I could do was play out a thousand times in my mind the precise sequence of movements I’d need to make. That’s what an Argosi does when the only path ahead is the Way of Thunder.

Strangely, Iheardthunder down in that prison a hundred feet below ground. It was the thunder of a spire goat letting out a scream so ear-splitting I half expected the tunnels to cave in on us. The guards closest to Conch cried out in pain. The Daroman straddling me groaned, teeth gritted as he slammed his palms over his ears. Blood oozed between his fingers like his eardrums had burst. My head had been on the ground, so I guess that’s why I hadn’t gotten the full force of the little monster’s fury, which he followed up with a belch of that foul breath of his. The five guards nearest collapsed, unconscious or paralysed, leaving only the one on top of me.

My own paralysis hadn’t completely worn off yet, but I didn’t care. Instinct and practice can overcome a whole lot when the necesssity demands. My arms being pinned under the Daroman’s weight, I bent my left knee, pressed my foot down on the floor and pushed up with my hips, throwing him off me. I didn’t try to get up; no point getting into a grappling fight with a trained soldier twice my size. Besides, I knew what he’d do next.

Quick as a hunting hound, the Daroman rolled back on top of me, driving his right knee into my stomach so he could use his weight to prevent any further resistance. I had him exactly where I wanted him.

Back when my pappy was teaching mearta eres, the Argosi talent for defence, he’d shown me an old Daroman military injunction that had been around for nearly two hundred years: ‘No foot soldier of the Imperial Daroman Army is permitted to keep a dagger sheath hidden in their boot.’

Durral had made me stare at that one line for a whole day until I could explain why it was still on the law books. Eventually I figured it was because the extra dagger would create an imbalance in the soldier’s step that would reduce their efficiency when marching long distances. The Daroman military is real big on efficiency.

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