Alara Unbroken - Doug Beyer [9]
Tenoch brought the axe handle up above his head, and with a crazy look in his eye, beat Ajani in the chest.
Ajani couldn’t evade the blow, and it struck true and deep, punishing his already battle-weary body. He choked on tiny breaths, clenching his gut muscles in an attempt to find air. There would be pain later, but Ajani only felt the sense of drowning. It was like falling into a pit, and seeing the sun dwindle away into the vertical distance—except that Tenoch’s face stayed right in front of him, upside down and smirking.
“He can’t take it, men. He’s going down from just one. Imagine what two will do?”
There was another blow, a dull thud that reverberated through his organs. It felt like his chest was breaking in two. As he gasped for air, Ajani stared into Tenoch’s eyes. The vertical pupils danced up and down as Tenoch laughed, the sound stabbing like knives. In the center of each eye Ajani could see tiny reflections of his own white furred face, which gave him the odd sense that he was falling into them, falling into Tenoch’s mind.
In a flash, Ajani saw past the eyes. He saw past the soft tissue of the orbs, past the skull and the wrinkly matter behind it. He saw Tenoch’s essence, the pith of his character, as if it were written plainly in the air above him. He felt the recurring rhythms of Tenoch’s life, a series of tests of his honor and integrity, beating around his own mind like the throbbing of crickets. He experienced Tenoch’s suffering, his guilt, and the crushing expectations of his mother. He felt Tenoch’s pangs of envy at every success enjoyed by those more capable than him—including Jazal and Ajani. Tenoch’s soul was a sculpture, carved away from a state of amorphous youth into the person he was, day by day and choice by choice. His soul was a masterpiece, just as beautiful as any work of art Ajani had ever seen.
Ajani’s breath had finally returned. He lay there, heaving breaths, little jabs of pain striking through his lungs on every inhale.
Tenoch looked at him, frowning. “What is it, freak?”
How could he tell him what he had seen?
Ajani couldn’t help but smile a little smile. “Tenoch, I see you,” he said.
Tenoch’s head reared back slightly, then his eyes flared. “What the hell did you just say to me?” Tenoch demanded.
“I see you,” said Ajani. “The truth inside you.”
That was the wrong thing to say, of course. It was too strange, too intimate a thing for the victim to say to his bully, and Ajani knew it as he said it. The beating that followed was all the more brutal because of it. But the blows felt almost irrelevant next to the vision. As unconsciousness gripped him, Ajani tried to recreate it. The more he tried to call back the images, the more they faded. The pain from the thrashing took over, and darkness followed.
When he woke, Tenoch and his gang were gone. The behemoth was a stripped carcass, all the best meat taken. His axe was lying next to him, its handle in splinters. His whole body throbbed with pain, and there were patches of his own blood staining his white fur.
Even in the teeming paradise of Naya, he was alone yet again. There was nothing to do but take up his broken axe and head back to the den.
BANT
It’s not every day you get to be the hand of prophecy, thought Gwafa Hazid.
As his caravan crept its way over a hill, he saw the four white spires of the castle—their destination—emerging into view. The pace was annoying him, so he gave an extra whip-crack to the leotau pulling his wagon. The lion-headed steed looked back at him with something resembling resentment, so he whipped it one more time. It dropped its head and pulled the wagon. Yes, a day of prophecy. A day when he, Gwafa Hazid, would deliver a spell that would kick-start the fate of the entire world. It was a good day.
The checkpoint had been troublesome business. A knight-inspector’s corpse was not exactly the cargo Hazid