Faces of Deception (15 page)

Atreus grabbed a second club off the second dead guard, then leaped a row of slaves and started forward. The bow guards swarmed past the oarsmen on both sides, determined to meet their foe en masse.

Atreus angled off toward the starboard oarlock. The four slavers seemed confused for a moment, then saw that smashing the oarlock would prevent the barge from going after Tarch. They rushed to cut Atreus off, spreading themselves out in a line. He cut back toward the middle, leaping two rows of screaming slaves to attack the guard on the end.

The slaver lashed out with his whip and wrapped up one of Atreus’s arms, then brought his club around in a wild attack. Atreus deflected the blow with the shaft of one of his own weapons, then stepped forward and smashed the hard butt into the slaver’s brow. The man’s eyes were still turning glassy as Atreus turned to meet his next pair of foes.

The two guards split up, leaping slave rows in opposite directions so they could approach from both flanks. The last slaver advanced to take their place, and Atreus suddenly found himself facing three foes. He pulled his arm free of his last victim’s whip and began to whirl his clubs through the air, weaving an impenetrable curtain of defense around his body. The effort pained his sore shoulder, but he did not dare give his enemies a static opening.

The three slavers cracked their whips and advanced, their padded clubs held at the high ready. Atreus eased back, his breath coming hard and ragged. The slaves cringed and covered their heads, filling the boat with the eerie rattle of chains.

“Stand and fight for yourselves!” Atreus yelled. “What’s wrong with you?”

The slaves did nothing except wail and rattle their chains more loudly. The guards smirked and struck with their whips. Atreus caught two attacks in his defensive curtain, then dropped his clubs before his foes could use them to draw him off balance. The third whip got through and twined itself around his forearm. He circled his hand over the cord and caught hold, giving it a mighty jerk.

When the slaver came stumbling forward, Atreus pivoted sideways and planted a stomp-kick square in the fellow’s chest. The sternum broke with a loud pop, then the guard dropped to the deck gasping and groaning. Hoping to catch their foe weaponless, the last two slavers charged.

Atreus turned and sprinted for the rowing platform behind him. The two oarsmen abandoned their duties to meet him, but they were hardly a match for one who had grown up brawling with ogres. Atreus grabbed the first by the shirt and slammed him into the second, then brought the first one forward again and head butted him.

The man’s nose exploded across his face, spewing blood and cartilage in every direction. Atreus flung his victim into the guards behind him, stepping forward to kick the second oarsman’s feet from beneath him. The fellow landed flat on his back, and Atreus finished him with a stomp to the throat. He turned to find his last two attackers trying to claw their way out from beneath the oarsman with the smashed nose.

Atreus grinned and leaped into the fray, biting an ear off and gouging two eyes out with his naked fingers, both favorite ogre brawling tricks. By the time he finished, he was painted in blood, and the two slavers were clutching their mutilated faces, screaming miserably and lying at the feet of their horrified charges.

Atreus rose, braced his hands on his knees, and tried to ignore the pain racking his body. His wounds were taking their toll, even after Seema’s elixir. Normally, a little wrestling match would hardly be enough to tire him.

“B-by the Forgotten Ones, look what you have done! Eight men and T-Tarch!” cried Rishi. The Mar was kneeling on the aft deck, soaked and shivering as Seema tugged at his wet clothes. “You are Ysdar’s devil!”

The words caused the slaves to cringe away from Atreus. He cursed under his breath and held out his hands to reassure the frightened captives, but this only caused them to cry out in their native tongue and fling themselves away.

“I am not a devil!” Even as Atreus said this, he glanced down at his naked, blood-smeared body and realized how deceiving appearances could be. “Rishi, tell them! I’m just a man.”

Atreus started toward the dry clothes awaiting him on the rear deck, then saw a scaly hand rise up behind the stern and grasp the barge. He snatched the nearest club and started aft, the slaves straining against their chains to lean out of his way. Rishi’s jaw dropped, and what little color he had vanished.

“There is no need for temper, good sir! I will tell them!”

Rishi began to speak to the slaves in Maran, somehow staggering to his feet despite the stump of the severed lance still protruding from his calf. Seema frowned and draped a dry blanket over his shoulders, scolding him in her version of the same language. A second scaly hand appeared beside the first, and still neither of them noticed.

Atreus leaped another row of slaves, and Rishi reached into his cloak for a throwing knife.

“No! Behind you,” Atreus shouted, pointing with his club.

The sound of cascading water murmured up from the river, and Tarch’s pointed head appeared just above the deck. Rishi spun and flung his knife in one motion, striking the slave master square between the eyes.

The tip scattered a few scales, then clattered to the deck, unable to penetrate Tarch’s thick brow.

“I knew you was trying to peel me,” Tarch growled.

The devil pulled himself up over the edge of the deck.

Rishi cursed and grabbed Seema, hobbling around to put her between himself and the slave master.

“This is not my doing!” Rishi produced a throwing knife and pressed it to Seema’s cheek, saying, “Touch me, and I will mark her!”

Atreus hit the rear deck at a sprint and, ignoring his urge to club Rishi senseless on the way past, rushed to meet the slave master. Tarch sprang onto his feet as nimbly as a lynx. Atreus charged in swinging.

This time, Tarch was ready. He caught the attack on his wrist, then counter-punched to the body. Atreus tried to leap clear, and only his backward momentum kept the slave master’s fist from driving a shattered rib through his lungs. As it was, the impact forced the air from his chest and knocked him three full paces backward.

Atreus staggered and barely managed to keep his feet, allowing Tarch to step securely onto the deck. Rishi backed away slowly, still holding his knife to Seema’s face, and the slaves murmured in fear.

“You can take a punch.” Tarch stepped toward Atreus. “That’s good. There’ll be a lot of punches in Baator.”

Atreus did not reply—his aching lungs did not contain the air. He simply launched himself at the slave master, club held high. When Tarch raised his arm to block, Atreus leaped into the air and planted both feet square in the slave master’s chest. Tarch stumbled backward and slipped overboard, catching the edge of the deck as he dropped into the water. Atreus landed on his side and began to slam his heels down on the slave master’s scaly fingers. Two digits came loose, but then Tarch’s second hand caught him by the ankle.

A strange tingling stung Atreus’s flesh. His leg grew numb and weak, and his whole body started to quiver. An unreasoning fear welled up inside him, chasing from his mind all he had ever learned about fighting. He dropped his club and clawed at the deck. He could think only of escaping the terror that had him, of freeing himself of this inhuman thing and hurling himself into the icy river and swimming for the shore. Any shore.

Tarch’s pointy head peered over the side, his grasp still firm on Atreus’s ankle. “Leatherhead! Now you’ve driven me berkers,” the slave master swore. “Gold or no gold, I’ll make bloodmeal of you and your—”

A whip cracked, coiling itself around Tarch’s throat and cutting short his threat. As the slave master choked out his rage, Atreus looked across the deck and was astonished to find Rishi standing at the other end, feet braced and pulling hard to keep the line taut.

“Good sir, you m-must take up your club and hit him!”

In his mindless panic, Atreus came near to not understanding. He turned away and clawed at the deck, still trying to kick his leg free. He felt shamed by his behavior but could not help himself. This fear was unlike anything he had ever known. It was the overwhelming terror of indestructible evil.

A strangled chortle rose from Tarch’s throat, and Atreus realized, dimly, that the devil was laughing at him. The slave master let go of the deck and grabbed the whip. A stream of flame shot up the strand, moving so fast that Rishi barely had time to drop the weapon before a brilliant flash consumed the handle and arced down to touch off a small deck fire.

As all this occurred, Tarch started to sink back into the river, dragging Atreus with him. This was too much. Clutching for anything he could grab, Atreus found only the club, which would do nothing to keep his captor from dragging him down into a watery hell. He grasped the weapon in both hands and twisted around, slamming the shaft into the slave master’s skull.

The impact rocked Tarch’s head sideways but did not cause him to open his hand. The slave master sank to his neck in the river, continuing to drag his captive with him. Atreus brought the club around again, this time connecting just behind the devil’s pointed ear.

Tarch’s beady eyes rolled back in their hollow sockets. His hand came free of Atreus’s ankle, and he splashed into the river. His legs and torso bobbed up beside him, so that he was floating spread-eagled beside the barge. Atreus used the club to shove the slave master away, then kneeled on the edge of the deck watching him twitch and tremble. When the devil had finally drifted a safe distance off, Atreus rose and turned forward.

Seema and Rishi were busy smothering the deck fire with blankets, while the slaves were craning their necks to see what was happening on the rear deck. Still suffering the strange effects of Tarch’s grasp, Atreus pointed at the rowing platform in the center of the boat.

“What’s wrong with you?” he screamed. “Start rowing!”

The slaves only cowered and looked as though they feared he would kill them. Atreus glanced over the side and saw Tarch still drifting back toward the boat, his chest rising and falling with shallow breath.

Atreus turned back to the slaves and screamed again, “I said row, damn you!”

Seema dropped her blanket over the smoldering fire and came over to him. “Breathe deeply, Atreus. Compose yourself,” she said, touching his arm. He immediately began to feel more calm. “Tarch has used his power on you. If you think, you will recall that the slaves are chained. You will know they cannot do what you ask.”

Atreus’s terror began to subside. After a moment, he nodded. “You are right, of course.” Now that his panic was fading, he was beginning to feel embarrassed by his behavior. “Forgive me. I promised to protect you from Tarch, and now here I am, so terrified that I cannot even think clearly.”

Atreus selected a cloak and a pair of trousers from the dingy pile of clothes still lying on the deck, then turned toward the rowing station. “I’ll start us upstream,” he told her. “See if you can unchain someone and get him to take my place.”

“Whatever you wish.”

Seema surprised him with a bow, then turned toward the cabin, leaving a shivering and staggering Rishi to put out the remains of the deck fire. Atreus pulled on his new clothes and went forward to the rowing station. All that remained of the day’s light was a gray glow in the western sky, and he could barely see the willows stretching away into the vastness. Yago was out there somewhere, either lost or dead, and Atreus had no idea how he would find out which.

He started to call out for his friend, then looked downstream and thought better of it. The last two dugouts were just rounding the bend below, about two hundred paces distant

Calling for Yago would only alert them to his presence and place him in more danger. It would be better to trust the ogre to figure things out on his own. He was a capable hunter and would know how to read the signs when he came to the shore where they had battled Naraka.

Atreus grabbed the monstrous oars and swung the boat around, and soon he was working too hard to notice the growing chill. Seema emerged from the cabin with a hammer and cold chisel that she tried to give to one of the larger slaves. At first, the astonished fellow kept looking in Atreus’s direction and refused to take the tools, but when Seema pointed at the empty rowing station, he finally seemed to understand and began pounding at his shackles.

By the time the slave freed himself, dusk had fallen completely, leaving the boat illuminated only by the light of the full moon. The man approached Atreus warily and carefully laid the hammer and chisel at his feet, then grabbed the second set of oars and began to row.

Too exhausted to puzzle over the peculiar behavior, Atreus gave the tools to the nearest slave and instructed him to free everyone. This occasioned a great deal of confused murmuring, but eventually Atreus managed to communicate what he wanted and went aft to join Seema and Rishi. He pulled a spare blanket over his shoulders and sank down on the deck beside them.

“What’s wrong with them?” he asked. “They don’t seem very eager to escape.”

“They are afraid,” said Seema. She was working by the light of a small oil lamp, poking and prodding at the lance in Rishi’s leg. “They think you will kill them if they try.”

“Me?” Atreus exclaimed. “We’re all in this together!”

Seema looked up. “What do you mean, together?” “They do not understand you, Atreus,” Rishi laughed. “They think you are one thieving devil stealing from another.”

Atreus sighed and looked at Seema. “Is that what you think?”

“I think being a thief is only a small wickedness,” Seema said, avoiding Atreus’s gaze as she continued to examine Rishi’s leg. “There are greater evils in this world.”

“I am no thief,” Atreus declared, “and I am no devil. When we reach the head of the river, they are free to return to their homes. Tell them.”

Seema looked up. “Truly?”

It was Rishi who answered, “Oh yes, truly. The good sir is a silly fool who cares nothing for wealth.” The Mar cast a wistful glance downriver, toward Atreus’s sunken gold. “He will throw it away on the merest pretext.”