Chapter 60 #2
Skinpainter’s palm is spread wide, red and slick.
The ink on their hands stretches out in thin tendrils through the drifting haze, brushing the soldier’s ragged skin, holding back something that struggles to flower on the tattered edges of the wound.
They step closer to the injured man, pressing ink to blood.
And the people of Thell form a ring around them, shields tight, spears out.
The screaming has stopped. The wounded man is forced to his knees, face lit with horror. Spear-points rest at his back, his neck, his shoulders. And Icecaller begins to move before she can control her stupid fucking feet.
Because a scratch is all it takes, one single slip from a sweaty fucking spear.
And she’s never really bought the stories until now.
As she runs, Painter’s bloody fist becomes a claw lined in black ink.
Their fingers hook into a mouth strung wide with terror, driving themselves down a throat that gags and struggles as Skinpainter steadies themselves astride the soldier’s body.
One wide hand on his windpipe, their feet planted either side of his heaving lungs.
Maybe they chant, maybe they sing. The noise that leaves their lips vibrates the air, a mess of harmonies and tones that drives the ink down off their arms and into the body below.
And underneath that buzzing song, she hears her father’s voice berating her, over and over.
Don’t disturb the cairns. Don’t break the skin.
In her ears, something hums. In her veins, something thrums, even as her momentum carries her to the circle’s edge. Inside, beyond the backs of the soldiers, the injured man is hooked to Skinpainter’s hand like a fish on a bone line. He flops wildly. His eyes white and white again.
She has no time to go through the circle of shields, so she goes up and over. A hand either side of the shoulders nearest her, a strong push and she’s over their heads.
The space between the spears is small. For a second, her brain screams curses as she curls into a roll that misses the spear-points by a shaved hair, and drops her next to Skinpainter’s straining form.
When she lands, her breath runs ragged, her tattoos scorching a thin line of fire against her skin.
She’s shitting herself at how terrible an idea this is.
A hairsbreadth from her widening eyes, the soldier’s blood dances in the air.
It shifts as Icecaller approaches and she glimpses eyes, lips, teeth; a face lined in crimson wetness.
The cold possibility that all her dad’s bluster and bullshit might have been true hits her at the same time as the coppery stink of meat. Raw meat.
Underneath it, distantly, she smells cookfires. Against the odds her stomach rumbles fiercely.
Great.
Skinpainter glances at her. They are still chanting. As they chant the swirling blood is drawn to them in red drops, dragged wriggling into inky shapes, writhing across skin. Soon they are penned in, lined in solid black.
She turns slowly to look at the circle of nervous men and women, and chokes down the tremor in her voice, focuses on getting those spear-points the fuck away.
‘What are you waiting for? Stitch him.’
A pair of young soldiers run off to fetch medical supplies.
Another pair drag the injured man to one side.
He leaves a memory behind on the stone, wet and red.
Icecaller studies it as he lies curled in on himself, shivering.
Blankets are brought, warm water. Herbs.
And all she can think is that the myths are real.
She can’t deny what she’s seen, as much as she wants to.
Skinpainter watches Icecaller through eyes hooded with exhaustion. They say nothing, as their blunt nails scratch at a wrist thronging with new geometrics which buzz and shift like drowsy bees.
Icecaller tries to stop the shaking that’s in her legs, as she turns to check for Nigh.
For a second, she can’t see her, and her heart stops.
Then behind her, in one of the slip tunnels, she sees Steelfinder standing warily with a familiar snot-scrap on her shoulders. She could kiss her. She will kiss her.
She has to get out of here first. She has a strange hollow feeling in her head, like she’s looked too long over the edge of a cliff. As she moves to leave, she leans in close to Skinpainter. ‘We bind if we break, remember?’
They catch her wrist. Their hand is rough, callused, wet with a stranger’s spit and blood.
She lets herself be drawn in, watches thick lips pull back over squat teeth. ‘We bind regardless,’ they say. A single nail traces her pulse beneath the skin, as if searching for a second, phantom beat.
Under her fear, she feels the spark of a vague, itchy anger. How dare they keep her in the dark? Secrets upon mouldy secrets. She snatches herself free, crosses the hall. Refuses, bloody refuses to look back. Cryptic twat.
Steelfinder moves to meet her. Icecaller throws her arms around her, and buries her face in her neck; breathes, finally.
A small foot kicks her in the face.
She grunts in pain. ‘You were supposed to run home, Nigh.’
Steelfinder shrugs Nigh off and onto her sister. ‘I intercepted her I’m afraid. I had to check out those cool new tats.’
Icecaller smiles weakly under a raised eyebrow. ‘Not tattoos. Monster marks.’
Steelfinder leans in, scrutinises the small black lines, lifts tousled hair, bends grubby ears, and ignores the furious squirming. ‘So I see. Very fearsome. Very cool.’
She looks up. ‘Where are you taking this monster?’
‘Off to see Dad. Then I’m feeding her to the eagles.’
‘Yeah, for the best. Can’t have monsters running around.’
Nigh roars and swings. Steelfinder blocks the punch, catches a small fist in her hand. ‘Not until they’ve learnt to keep their claws to themselves,’ she whispers in Nigh’s ear.
Icecaller runs her fingers along the back of Steel’s neck. ‘What are you muttering to her?’
Steelfinder bats her away. ‘Monster secrets. Not for fancy mountain princesses.’
Icecaller pouts, tightens her grip, leans in. ‘I’ll interrogate you later.’ She reaches up and slaps Nigh on the ass. ‘But, we have to get going.’
She’s pulled in for a goodbye that runs electric down her spine, her nails tight against the soft prickle of Steel’s scalp. It drives the last of the hollow feeling from her head and for a second, she feels herself go tight and hard. ‘We have to get going,’ she mutters. ‘You heartless rat.’
‘That’s me,’ Steel grins. ‘Say hi to the old bear.’
‘Will do, come on, gross monster.’ Icecaller runs a hand over her lips as she leaves.
Tastes sweat, sweetness, the copper of a stranger’s blood.