Chương 67: The Language of Orders

By morning, the deadlands gave Zayn back to the road. Not for free. They kept part of him. Blood on the stones. Bits of skin on the sharp edges. A portion of sleep he had failed to recover. And one word, lodged behind his eyes like a splinter. Succession. He did not say it out loud. He already had enough things in his mouth. The tracker's half-mask covered the upper part of his face, badly fitted, dirty, scratched by the dust of the ruins.

The darkened leather came down to the bridge of his nose and over his cheekbones, but left his mouth uncovered. A bad idea, at first glance. A necessity, in reality. He had to breathe. He had to drink quickly. He had to be able to vomit without choking. He had to be able to bite if someone got close enough to deserve that mistake. And above all, he wanted nothing between the mark on his tongue and the air. He walked until the broken tower vanished behind the ridges.

The moving bones of the deadlands did not follow him beyond an old line of blackened markers. They stopped there, as if even the dead still respected certain borders the living had forgotten. Zayn paused on the other side. Not for long. Just long enough to understand that he had left one danger only to step into another. Far below, the Cliff Way joined a secondary road. Not the Lorvain road. Not directly.

A maintenance road, hanging in places above a ravine, with old wooden guardrails and several short bridges built between the rock faces. There, at the third bridge, men were waiting. Zayn saw them before they saw him. Four figures. Two ordinary Marches soldiers. One Ashen Circle tracker. One man sitting beside a low fire, writing on a tablet. Values: 22 24 33 12 The scribe was the weakest. The tracker was the most dangerous. And the bridge was the real problem. Not long enough to look impressive.

Narrow enough to become a throat. Below it, a drop of several dozen feet into a dry ravine. Impossible to bypass quickly with his leg. Impossible to climb down without a long rope. Impossible to force his way through. Zayn stayed crouched behind the rocks, the wind striking his uncovered mouth beneath the mask. His tongue brushed his teeth on reflex, then stopped. No. No useless gesture. Not when he needed to think. The men had not built a true checkpoint. No banner. No tent. No fire visible from afar.

They were not checking ordinary travelers. They were waiting for someone. For him, probably. Humor would have wanted him to feel flattered. Fatigue found it heavy instead. The scribe by the fire lifted his head.

"He should've passed before dawn if he stayed on the Cliff Way." The tracker at 33 answered without turning his head.

"He's injured."

"Or dead in Caurane."

"Men who die in Caurane don't silence the bones around a tower." Zayn froze. So the tracker had read the trail all the way there. Bad. Very bad. The scribe swallowed.

"You really think he went into the tower?"

"He came out of it." Silence around the fire. One of the soldiers spat into the dust.

"Then he isn't a man anymore." The tracker replied,"That isn't our problem."

"What is, then?" The tracker finally turned his head toward him.

"Our problem is that if he speaks in Lorvain, people will listen." The scribe lowered his eyes to his tablet.

"The order says avoid public exposure."

"It also says remove the tongue if exposure becomes likely." Zayn felt something cold pass behind his throat. That line again. That word again. Tongue. They were not afraid only of what he was. They were afraid of what he might say. That was almost reassuring. So truth remained a weapon. Even in a world full of hounds, seals, and stolen half-masks. The soldier at 24 let out a short laugh.

"And if we find him already half-demon?" The tracker answered,"Then we remove the tongue first. We decide afterward whether the rest is worth keeping." The scribe went pale.

"Alive?"

"If transportable." Zayn looked at the bridge. Then at the men. Then at the ravine. Four enemies. One mandatory crossing. An order that spoke of his tongue like an object to be retrieved. He should have looked for a detour. He looked for a method. The difference was getting thinner and thinner. He backed away into the rocks, opened his satchel, and took inventory. Gray cloak. Modified Ashen mask. Map. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Knife. Bow taken from the dead tracker. Three arrows. A scrap of scavenger meat. Contaminated flesh from Rhel-Fosse. Ration. Short rope. Antiseptic flask. Order plaque. Not enough to win. Enough to lie. He took the cloak and adjusted it to hide his splint as much as possible, then fastened the mask more securely. The upper half of his face vanished behind the dirty leather. His mouth remained visible—split, pale, stained by cold and dried blood.

He gathered some gray dust and rubbed it over his lips and jaw to break up the outline that still looked too human. Then he pulled out the order plaque taken from the dead tracker. The seal was real. The bearer was not. That could be enough for a few seconds. He descended toward the bridge. Not hiding his presence. Limping openly. The first soldier saw him and immediately raised his weapon.

"Halt." Zayn stopped. Not too far. Not too close. He inclined his head, just enough to show the tracker's mask, the gray cloak, the posture of a wounded man with no desire to explain why he was still walking. The tracker at 33 slowly turned. His eyes fixed on the mask. Then on the uncovered mouth. For too long. Zayn raised the order plaque. The scribe straightened.

"One of ours?" The soldier at 22 frowned.

"Why is his mask cut?" Zayn answered in a hoarse voice,"Because the hound bit it." Not too much detail. Details invite questions. The tracker at 33 took one step toward him.

"Name." Zayn coughed. He put enough pain into the cough to hide the slight delay. Then he said,"Darek." The dead man's name. Not random. Not a good lie, either. A test. The tracker went still. His gaze changed. There. He knew, maybe, that Darek was dead. Or that Darek would never have worn the mask like that. Or that Darek did not have that voice. Very well. The lie did not need to be believed. It only needed to force the other man to think about the wrong thing for one second.

The tracker said,"Darek had brown eyes." Zayn smiled faintly under the mask.

"He doesn't use them anymore." The soldier at 24 understood first.

"It's him." Everything broke. Zayn loosed the first arrow before the word finished falling. Not at the tracker. At the scribe. The 12 did not even have time to scream. The arrow went into his shoulder, not his heart. He fell backward, knocking over the inkwell and the tablet. Why not kill him? Because a screaming scribe draws more eyes than a neatly dead one. The soldier at 22 turned toward the cry. Zayn threw the piece of scavenger meat into the fire. The fat caught immediately.

Black, acrid smoke rose between them. The tracker took one step back. Not from fear. From caution. Good instinct. Too good. Zayn crossed through the smoke with his limp and hurled the order plaque into the face of the soldier at 22. The metal struck his forehead. Not hard. Not enough to truly injure him. Enough to make him shut his eyes. Zayn stepped into his guard and drove the knife into his groin. Dirty. Low. Effective. The man screamed. His value dropped. 22 14 Zayn did not stay to finish him.

The soldier at 24 was already coming. Long blade. Too fast. Zayn retreated onto the bridge. A bad place. Or a good one, depending on who lost their balance first. The 24 attacked. Zayn parried with the knife, felt the shock run all the way into his shoulder, then activated Flesh Assimilation in his forearm. The organic plate appeared. Irregular. Painful. It caught the second blow just long enough to keep the blade from cutting his arm to the bone. Then it shattered.

Zayn slipped under the guard, struck with his elbow, almost missed, bit air instead of the man, and found himself slammed against the bridge railing. The wood cracked behind him. The ravine opened its mouth at his back. The tracker at 33 still had not moved. He was watching. Zayn saw it. And understood. The tracker was letting the others wear his body down. A patient man. Patient men were the worst. The 24 came again. Zayn did not try to match him. He stepped back on the bridge. Then a second step.

The soldier followed. Too aggressive. Too irritated. Zayn took a broken arrow from his belt and flicked it toward the man's eyes. The soldier raised his arm on reflex. Zayn struck the knee. Not with the blade. With his injured foot. Agonizing pain. For both of them. The soldier's knee folded just enough. Zayn activated the claws in two fingers of his right hand, drove them into the armed wrist, and pulled toward the drop. The soldier crashed into the railing. The wood gave way.

For one second, he hung there, clinging to Zayn's cloak. The weight dragged Zayn toward the ravine. His ankle screamed. The tracker finally moved. Zayn did not wait. He cut the part of his cloak the soldier was holding. The 24 fell. His scream lasted a long time. No message. Not his direct kill? Or not dead yet. It did not matter. Zayn turned too late. The tracker was on him. A blow to the stomach folded him in half. Not a blade. A short reinforced baton. The air left his lungs.

The tracker seized his throat, slammed him against a bridge support, then nearly ripped the mask from his face. The leather held halfway. The upper part of Zayn's face stayed hidden in shadow, but his mouth was fully visible. The tracker looked at his split lips. Then at his tongue, when Zayn gasped for breath. Something shifted in his eyes. Recognition. Not of him. Of the mark.

"So it's true," the tracker murmured. Zayn spat blood in his face.

"Could you be more specific? I've got a whole stock of disappointing truths." The tracker did not react to the provocation. Bad.

"Your tongue first." He drew a short pair of pincers from his belt. Not a knife. Pincers. Prepared. Something cracked in Zayn's calm. Not panic. Lower than that. Colder. The tracker had prepared the tool. Not only the order. The tool. Zayn felt the mark burn. The wounded soldier at 14 was still crawling behind the smoke. The scribe was groaning. The tracker held him. The bridge creaked. Everything narrowed into a line. The pincers came toward his mouth. Zayn opened. Not to scream. To bite.

The tracker had prepared for resistance from a prisoner. Not for a deliberate bite toward the tool. Zayn closed his teeth on two gloved fingers and bit down with everything he had. The tracker cursed, tried to pull back. Zayn did not let go. The mark on his tongue pulsed against the taste of leather and blood. He activated Flesh Assimilation in his jaw. A mistake. Blinding pain. His gums burned. His teeth barely changed at all, but the pressure of his jaw increased a fraction—enough to tear through the glove.

The tracker hit him in the face. Once. Twice. Zayn only let go when he felt something give way under his teeth. The tracker staggered back, screaming, two mutilated fingers clutched against himself. Zayn dropped to his knees. The pain in his mouth was so violent he could barely see. Not a controlled transformation. Not a useful power. A reflexive abomination. He spat. Blood. Leather. A piece of flesh that was not his. No. Do not swallow. Not human. He spat again, violently.

The tracker, mad with pain, drew his blade. At last, a mistake. Zayn snatched the dropped pincers from the ground. When the tracker charged, he did not try to parry. He threw himself forward, took the shoulder against the man's chest, felt the blade cut across his back, then drove the open pincers into the man's throat. Not deep. Not fatal. But they caught. Zayn yanked. The tracker choked, staggered back, hands flying to his neck. Zayn grabbed the knife. One step. Two. The tracker tried to lift his blade. Too late.

Zayn struck under the chin. Then again. The value fell. 33 21 10 The tracker dropped to his knees. Zayn stayed in front of him, panting, the half-mask twisted, his mouth covered in blood. The tracker looked up. No begging. Professional hatred.

"You… won't… reach… the west…" Zayn tilted his head slightly. Then he looked at the pincers. The pincers meant for his tongue. He smiled. Not widely. Not with joy. With a slowness that held nothing humanly comforting.

"Maybe." He grabbed the tracker by the hair.

"But you won't even reach the end of your sentence." He opened his throat. [Soul Strength absorbed: +2] Current Soul Strength: 48 The heat entered him. Stronger than disgust. Weaker than pain. Zayn remained crouched over the body while the bridge groaned beneath them. Then he heard the scribe. The 12 was crawling toward the tablet, the arrow still buried in his shoulder. He was trying to write. Or to seal a message. Zayn got up. The scribe looked up.

"Mercy…" Zayn limped toward him. Slowly. The scribe crawled backward on his elbows, leaving a trail of blood.

"I'm not a fighter."

"I can see that."

"I can forget." Zayn looked at the spilled ink, the tablet, the half-written orders, the reporting sigils.

"No." The scribe understood.

"Please…" Zayn stayed silent. Before Rhel-Fosse, maybe he would have hesitated longer. After Rhel-Fosse, hesitation still existed. It simply no longer commanded. He buried the knife in the scribe's heart. [Soul Strength absorbed: +0] Nothing. Of course. Even his death had almost no value. Zayn withdrew the blade. The soldier at 14, the one he had stabbed in the groin, was still breathing near the fire. Not for long. Zayn searched the bodies first. Priorities. The outpost map. A passage seal. Two waterskins.

Rations. A small message case. The pincers. A firestone. A scroll of orders. He opened the scroll. The new wording was shorter than the earlier ones. The subject is likely wearing a partial Ashen mask. Mouth visible. Tongue potentially marked. Do not allow public declaration. If captured: muzzle before transport. If impossible: cut the tongue, burn the body. Zayn read it without expression. Then folded the scroll. The wounded soldier near the fire groaned.

"Help…" Zayn turned his head. The soldier had seen it all. The mask. The bite. The mark, maybe. The dead. A witness. Zayn approached. The soldier tried to retreat, but blood made every movement useless.

"I won't say anything…" Zayn looked at him. The mouth exposed beneath the mask remained still.

"You always say that when there's still someone left to hear you." He killed him quickly. Not out of mercy. Out of economy. [Soul Strength absorbed: +1] Current Soul Strength: 49 Forty-nine. The number stayed with him. Close to a symbolic threshold. Not important. So of course his mind latched onto it anyway. He cleaned his blade, then looked at the bodies. Four men. One bridge. One erased post. One road opened—for a few hours, maybe. He could not leave the place untouched.

He took the inkwell, poured what remained over the tablet, and wrote a short sentence with the scribe's stylus. Not his name. Not too grand a threat. Only: The tongue still bites. He looked at the sentence. Too theatrical? Maybe. But the Ashen Circle would understand. Or think they understood. That was enough. Then he tied the bloodied pincers to the edge of the tablet. Not like a trophy. Like an answer.

Then he left the bridge before the cry of the fallen soldier in the ravine—or the absence of signal—could draw another patrol. His mouth burned. So did his tongue. He had spat out the human flesh. He was almost sure of it. Almost. That uncertainty stayed with him longer than the fight. It followed him along the road beyond the bridge, under the cold wind of the Cliffs, while Lorvain vanished behind him and the southwest road finally opened ahead. He had gained water. A map. Rations. A seal. A road.

And lost something else that had no practical name. Zayn straightened his half-mask. The leather covered the upper half of his face. His mouth remained bare. Red. Split. Alive. The world wanted it shut. So he kept breathing through it.