Blood of the Volcano: Sequel to Heart of the Volcano, Page 2

  The room was no longer dim. She could see into every shadow, every indistinct corner, and she knew her pupils had widened, huge and black, swallowing up half the eye.

  She glanced around the circle and saw them all, her pack, twenty women, talon-fingered, brazen-skinned, eyes opening wide on madness.

  Someone—a priest, probably, but everyone except the pack had retreated to the very edge of her awareness—threw a torn part of a garment and a length of rope into the circle. His voice echoed when he spoke, beating in her ears like the drumbeat, like the chimes.

  “This one is a blasphemer. A monster. He’s left the city, he’s running north across the desert. He’s been living undiscovered—no one knows how long—polluting our people, drawing the god’s wrath upon us. The god demands his death.”

  The words came without volition, from long-ingrained use, echoed from twenty throats around the room. “His death is demanded. He shall die.”

  Chapter Two

  The voice of the maenad pack rose behind him, inhuman, terrifying. Philos’s body responded even while his mind remained locked in terror, sending him forward in a surge of speed he’d never have thought he could manage. But it betrayed him too, flinging him, rather than onward on his set course towards the caves, sideways to the edge of green at the rim of the canyon—the tangle of vegetation that, to his panicked, instinct-driven body, promised concealment.

  There’s no concealment from maenads. But it was too late, his body wouldn’t obey him, he couldn’t force himself to stay out on the desert floor, not with those shrieking creatures coming after him, couldn’t keep himself running parallel to the ravine.

  The howls rose behind him, and not only his back, but all the veins in his body went cold.

  Every horror story he’d ever heard—of how the maenads’ victims died, of what those nails could do to eyes and hair and flesh—surged into his brain, a white flood of terror. His skin shrank, muscles tensing so his run went jerky and he staggered rather than ran over the last stretch of sand to the edge of the canyon.

  It gaped beneath his feet, a vine-choked gorge, with plants that couldn’t grow out on the waterless sands clamping tendrils to the cliff face, thrusting long roots down to get at the wet earth beside the narrow river at its foot. Once down there—he paused on the edge, torn by indecision—he’d be stuck, struggling through creepers, mud dragging at his feet, trapped…

  The howling screams came again, far nearer than he’d thought they could be in such a short time, rising and falling in an ululation that this time didn’t cease, and his body took the decision for him. His hands grabbed hold of the woody stem of a creeper, swung him down into the trails of vegetation.

  He climbed in a scrambling rush, hand over hand, swinging himself down without bothering to search for footholds. The vines were like a net, with tangles everywhere to catch a dangling foot or sweat-slippery hand that lost its grasp.

  He landed with a splosh in syrup-like mud, torn leaves scattering around him and leaf-deadened quiet filling his ears. The howls had vanished above him, the wall of the canyon blocking the sound, but it didn’t help. Any moment they’d come swarming down the walls after him, and he’d have no warning.

  He dragged his feet from the mud, struggled sideways to where the rock of the canyon wall jutted out into the river, forcing the water to slide around it.

  Hell. Oh hell. Footprints, black and muddy on the ochre-coloured sandstone. It wouldn’t need maenad powers to track those.

  Across the water, the rock made a foot-wide path that ran along the opposite wall. He scraped the mud off his feet, judged the distance, braced himself and leapt, landing to bang his knee on stone and stagger, clutching at creepers, half-dragging them from their hold on the wall as he struggled to keep his footing.

  Hurry. Oh gods, hurry. Any minute now—

  Upriver the canyon curved to the left, vanishing behind a tumble of fallen boulders. Downriver it widened, the river spreading out, smooth and swift, licking past muddy banks.

  He had no time to explore. He couldn’t move fast enough, he had nowhere else to go. Upriver, downriver—either way would do nothing but get him caught long before he got to better shelter than he’d find here. He edged sideways along the path then under an overhang of vines and tangled rough-scratchy creepers. His feet left traces of moisture on the stone but nothing obvious, nothing like the mudprints that stood out so clearly on the opposite bank.

  The maenads were born to hunt, built for it. Just this alone would never hide him for long. But his gift had saved his life before, when he was a boy and later, during the trek across the desert, north to the mountains. And it was the only thing that might save him now.

  He was in an even worse state than he’d been in the market. Would his gift work any better than it had then? But he had nothing else. Against the instinct that bade him watch the canyon edge, keep the hunt in sight, he screwed his eyes shut, concentrated on the rock behind him, the gritty texture of the dull yellow stone, the prickle-edged leaves spreading from the cracks webbing its surface, the tangles of tiny vine-tendrils that squiggled down to the ground.

  He felt his body change to match, felt the colour and texture of the rock take over his skin, the tickle of illusory vines tumbling over the outlines of his body, blending him in with the canyon wall.

  He forced his breathing to slow. Normally it happened naturally with the change, but not this time, his body was too aware of the fast-approaching danger. Don’t think of that. Think breathing, think stone, think I’m not here, look, you see nothing, nothing but the rock wall behind the vines…

  His breathing slowed, his body merged fully into the stone…

  And the maenads came, a screaming mob over the edge of the canyon.

  It took everything he had to keep his eyes shut, but he could not afford to open them. He could not disguise his eyes, and if he saw the maenads, white-hot with madness, tearing down to find him, he wouldn’t be able to shut out the fear. He’d lose concentration, lose his gift. Breathing. Stone. Tiny green twists of vine. Nothing else to see. Nothing at all…

  Feet landed, splashing in the edge of the water, making liquid sucking sounds in the mud. The voices like screams, like harsh birdcalls—yet this time there were words within them.

  “He came down here—we saw him.”

  “Oh, don’t doubt yourself. Look—he’s down here still.”

  “Hiding…” That one came with a hiss, a hiss like a bird, rather than a snake, the sound trickling straight down his back like a thread of cold sweat. Someone splashed into the river. A pair of feet thudded onto the ledge along from where he stood.

  If he used the other part of his gift would it be too much? Would he overstrain himself and lose both? Like I did in the market, the stupid mistake that betrayed me and brought me here?

  But if I don’t…if I don’t use it…

  They would find him. Their heightened senses—smell, sight, hearing—this close to them all, his camouflage alone wasn’t going to protect him.

  He screwed his eyes tighter, forced his breathing to slow further, unfocused that bit of his mind so it seemed to seep out, ethereal, a sound you couldn’t hear, a smell you didn’t know was there, silent whispers that felt like your own thoughts.

  “…listen. Listen. There’s no one here. He’s gone downriver, or upriver, or climbed the other side. He’s not here. Not here…”

  He repeated it over and over, his teeth gritted against each other, body aching where it pressed against the wall, sweat trickling down his skin, blood dizzy in his head. If they didn’t go soon, if he had to carry on standing here, in the humid dimness behind the creepers… All the blood in his body seemed to be beating in his temples, behind his eyes, a heavy pulse like a hand pushing at him. If he fainted he’d fall, come crashing out through the vines, concealment and camouflage and everything gone, as good as naked under their talons.

  “He’s not here!” The voice was a furious screech, metal shrieking on metal.
“He escaped us—he’s gone downriver—”

  “No, upriver—past those rocks—”

  “Or climbed up the other side. Damn him to torment. He made us miss him—”

  The voices rose in cacophony. A little longer. That’s all. If I can hold on just a little longer… He gathered the last bits of strength and sent the thought out to reinforce what they were already deciding. “…you can still catch him. If you go. If you go now…”

  One voice came clear through the cacophony, but although he could hear the sound of command in it—they had a leader?—he couldn’t hear the words. The syllables all ran into nothing but a noise like fingernails on slate, cutting through, rather than drowning out, the other voices.

  Blood swirled, a dark whirlpool in his brain, a slow sickening pulse that seemed to push his head—thump…thump…thump—back against the wall.

  “Very well!” The shriek, a savage, vicious sound, sliced through the roar of his own blood in his veins. “As you wish. We’ll go this way, then. But if you find him instead, Maya—”

  The commanding voice made a spitting reply, but farther away. The creepers next to him jerked as hands gripped them, as strong lithe bodies went swinging up out of the ravine. Someone—several someones—splashed up and downriver.

  Just a little longer. He risked drawing in a silent gasp of air through his mouth. Enough to keep him conscious until he was sure they were gone, sure they were all gone…

  The bird-voices faded, and silence crept into the ravine, water-rippled, empty.

  He opened his eyes, almost flinching as, despite the silence, he found himself anticipating a slash of talons, insane eyes staring into his.

  But beyond the veil of leaves, the ravine lay as empty as it had sounded. They’d gone. The weird unwelcome power that had marked him unholy, a blasphemer, the gift that had cursed him to exile, had once more saved his life.

  He went to move, and stopped dead. The flight, the fear, the use of his gifts had all combined to bring his barriers down, and now emotions—emotions not his own—swept over him. Chimes filled his head. An itch prickled behind his teeth, under his fingernails. And the feeling of madness, a screaming storm of white fire, threatened to block out every thought.

  One of the maenads was close enough for him to feel what she felt. And she was out for blood.

  Panic swelled in his head, pounding, deafening, drowning out the control he needed to drag his gift back into action. His fingers clenched on the tough vine-stalks, his feet clamped themselves to the rock. It’s too late. If one of them comes back—it’s too late, I’m spent—

  And she came. Appearing at the head of the rockfall and stepping down the canyon, bare feet light on the rocks, picking her way unerringly through tough tangles of sprawling vines, over spiky clumps of sandgrass. Copper gleamed bright just above her feet, the bracelets that would have been locked onto her ankles when she first entered the temple, the sign that she served the god.

  A maenad. He’d been chased by them before. Everyone had heard of them, everyone knew about them, they’d screamed through his nightmares a thousand times. But this was the first he’d seen up close.

  She moved like a scavenger bird—a vulture—or like one of the bone-thin dragon-things from the southeast edge of the desert lands, holding her hands in front of her, those horrifying long-nailed fingers clawed and tensed, and her head moved—like a bird—in swift, sharp motions. Any moment she would pick up a sign of his presence—the sound of his breathing, shallow though he tried to make it, his all-too-obvious scent of sweat and fear.

  He groped for his gifts—either of them, he had no hope of getting both—but as fast as he grasped them, they slipped away, dry sand through his fingers. They’d got him here, got him this far, saved him again and again, but he’d made too many mistakes, taken too many risks, stayed longer than he’d known was safe…

  Oh, what did it matter, which of the many, many bad decisions had finally taken him here?

  He’d been careless, and now he was going to die for it.

  The criminal is here. Maya didn’t know how she knew, but she did. Some trace of his scent in the air, some slight quality in the stillness that told her there was another heart beating between the narrow stone walls? She didn’t care. Not all the maenads’ abilities were the obvious ones. Gifts from the god as they were, humans could not understand them. She did not wonder, she only used what came to her.

  And now, what came to her was He’s here. He tricked you. He means to escape.

  Her upper lip drew back over her sharp front teeth. She set her foot on another rock, feeling the perfect balance, the maenad strength she’d never tire of.

  No one tricks me. No one escapes.

  She jumped the last few rocks, landed light-footed on the path that ran just above the waterline, looked up and—

  How blind were we to miss him?

  He was quite well concealed—to ordinary human eyes, that was—hidden, lizard-still, behind a swathe of greenery. But she caught, amongst the green-soaked shadow, a glimpse of pale skin. And the scent came to her—dirt and sweat, sour with fear.

  Mine. Her prey, tracked and cornered. In a moment she’d shriek for the others, but not just yet, not till she had his blood on her nails, sign that she’d been first, she was always, forever, the god’s most loyal servant.

  She could hear his breathing, almost hear his heartbeat and feel the heat of his skin as she reached out to tear the creepers from his body, reached for his hair, his eyes…

  “…go…”

  It didn’t come quite as words, more as an out-of-nowhere impulse to stop, to take her hand back, to turn away. It checked her mid-movement and she halted, momentarily blank with confusion.

  “…get away. There’s nothing here. Get away. Go…”

  This time it was like a wave of instinct, just like the unrelenting hunting instinct that so many times had led her to her prey. Something she never doubted or questioned.

  He’s not here, she thought, angry and thwarted. I was wrong. All I’m doing is wasting time that could be spent finding where he’s really gone—

  But as she took a step back, ready to retreat along the rock shelf, rejoin the hunt, her own instinct hit her, the prickle and ache in her skin and jaw, the bone-deep conviction her prey was here, here, here.

  Someone’s messing with me.

  She spun back to the creeper-covered wall, her snarl beginning, her teeth bared—and before she could react something hit her mid-thigh, swept her off her feet, another human body rolling with her, crashing onto the sharp stone edge of the shelf, flinging her with a heart-stopping shock of cold into the deep water below.

  She surfaced gasping, fury bursting from her throat in a half-drowned shriek. The person—him, the man, the runaway—was already yards from her, striking out for the opposite bank.

  Oh, no no you don’t! She pushed herself round in a swirl, kicking against the current, braced her feet against an outcrop of rock and flung herself after him, feeling the bite of the water penetrate her skin, streak silver through her blood. Like the impulses that would normally be fear or pain or disgust, the cold touched her skin and was transmuted into nothing but fuel for the madness rising within her.

  She reached him, snatched, and blood flurried out into the water, a momentary scarlet cloud around him, instantly paling, going transparent, swept away by the rush of water…

  The rush of water carrying them both. Already they were lengths away from the shelf, moving faster still as the river dragged them into the swifter water at its centre, kept above the surface only by some trick of the current, not their own will.

  For a second fear bloomed cloudy in her mind, then instantly cleared, became simple, nothing but rage, hunger, determination.

  I could drown here. Not an easy death. But too easy for him.

  She made another snatch at him, caught a hank of hair, used it as an anchor to drag herself closer.

  He swung his fist at her. For a moment she co
uld have laughed at the feebleness of the blow—do you think you can hurt me?—but no, it wasn’t a blow at all. He clamped his hand over her head, thrust her under the water.

  The river rushed into her eyes, nose, ears, down her throat, swift and white and blinding. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t feel whether she still clutched him. She grabbed for where his hand gripped her head, couldn’t tell whether she had his arm or not but hoped, dug her nails into something, heaved upwards—and broke the surface, tasting blood in her mouth, seeing nothing but stabs of light, a reddish haze, a rushing blur that made no sense.

  She struck out, a slashing movement, and the haze went crimson, the harsh-edged scent reaching her even through the stampede of water as she choked and coughed, clearing her airways.

  Something hit them, with a bang that would have hurt if her body weren’t water-numbed, hit them and scooped them out of the main current, then held them, the water sweeping around and past them. She coughed, spat, shook bloody water from her eyes—and her vision cleared enough to see she still had him, her nails clamped onto his forearm, lovely slashes across his chest where she’d drawn first blood.

  He hit out at her, aiming for her face this time, but the cold made him sluggish. She easily struck his fist aside so it did nothing but swipe her shoulder and glance down her arm. Then he flung himself backwards, and she nearly lost him, her numb fingers almost losing their grip. He was trying to get into the main current.

  Even though it’ll probably drown him. Triumph shot through her, pure and vicious. He’d rather have the river’s mercy than mine. She dragged him back, one hand clenched on his arm—any minute I’ll reach bone—the other arm a stranglehold on his throat, pulling him against her. No one escapes the embrace of a maenad.

  She could hook her legs round his waist now. She clung, closer than a lover, gasping in the scent of blood and sweat and fear the river couldn’t wash away. He was struggling, trying to throw off her grip on him, pouring blood from chest and arm, his skin taking on that ashen tinge that meant the cold was seeping through him, slowing his heart, forcing his lungs to take shallower and shallower breaths.