Return of the Guardian-King

by Karen Hancock

  As twilight deepened around them, they glided along in silence, Abramm seated at Sandpiper’s prow as they searched for Dugla’is’s moorage. Janner followed the contours of the river’s edge, its waters having overrun the city’s ancient retaining walls to lap against the crumbling remains of old buildings and stairways. Shapes and shadows emerged from the gloom seemingly at the last minute, and time and again they narrowly averted collision. As the riverman had said, it was no natural mist, but the dry, chill fog of Moroq’s Shadow.

  Finally they came round a bend and Abramm spied three pale shapes in the gloom ahead of them. Hissing for Janner’s attention, he pointed them out. Even so, the riverman almost hit them, passing them by less than an oarslength. They were Dugla’is’s vessels, snugged up to the city walls and floating there deserted. Which was both blessing and curse. Blessing because it was the only way the rescuers hadn’t been spotted. Curse because it meant Dugla’is was probably already making his evil transaction.

  No one said a word as they continued down the river and around another bend. There Janner guided his vessel up over a submerged shelf of mortared white stone and tied her to an iron ring set into a white wall. Wading through knee-deep waters to a narrow stairway, they ascended to a weed-grown plaza whose walls loomed vaguely in the mist. There Janner said they would camp.

  “But no fire tonight,” he cautioned. “Only warmstars for the children inside the tent.”

  “You think we’re in danger?” Abramm asked him quietly.

  “I think it’s best we not draw attention to ourselves,” Janner said, “and hope they still believe we’re long gone down the river.”

  That only intensified the tension that had been building among them all since they’d first seen the signal lights and realized the worst was coming. They carried out the rest of their preparations in silence, Daesi and Marta hurrying the children into the tent as soon as it was up and preparing the meal over the warmstars within.

  Meanwhile, Janner led Abramm and Rolland into the city’s ancient corridors to try to deliver their friends. But, though Janner had a sword and the other two their staffs, Abramm had no idea what they could do against a full company of Fermikians, whom Janner said went armed everywhere they went. More than that, whatever the situation they encountered this night, they would surely be outnumbered. The only hope of success he saw was if the men in Trinley’s party helped them.

  “How is it ya see so well in the dark?” Janner asked abruptly as they stepped into a narrow alleyway behind the building where they were camped.

  “It’s a gift,” Abramm said.

  “You see through the Shadow, as well.”

  “And your point is?”

  Janner shrugged. “Just unusual. A bit unnerving. Makes me wonder why.”

  “Makes you wonder if you can trust—” Abramm broke off, listening intently. “What is that noise?”

  It was a low rhythmic rumble, though he couldn’t place its direction of origin.

  They all stopped and listened to what seemed a distant bumping, scraping sound that faded into silence soon after they noted it. The riverman shook his head. They walked on in silence, hearing it several more times as they pressed deeper into the ruined city, but never did its nature grow clearer.

  Finally they passed through a short arched tunnel and found themselves emerging onto the midlevel tier of a small amphitheater where Dugla’is had brought his little group to camp. A bonfire of thorn branches danced at the midst of what was once a central stage, its pavement buckled and invaded by grasses and weeds. Two opposing tunnel gateways yawned darkly amidst rising concentric rings of white-granite stairs, one tunnel heading toward the river, the other toward the city’s heart. The fire’s glow lit the amphitheater all the way up to the highest tier, where fluted decorative columns plunged into a thick ceiling of mist. An acrid odor tinged the air, vaguely familiar.

  Though Dugla’is and his company had likely arrived several hours ago, there was no sign of any cooking under way or finishing up, no tents raised, and no bedrolls laid out. Instead, three of Dugla’is’s men stood at intervals around the encampment as if on guard, and Dugla’is himself, conspicuous in his lace-cuffed shirt and leather tunic, paced before a fifth man a little way off from the fire—which left two of his men unaccounted for, one of them the white-eyed, blue-vested deckhand who had so unsettled Abramm when they’d passed them on the river the day before.

  The Kiriathans stood in two groups, the women and children huddled together on one side of the fire, the men standing in an eerie stillness on the other, staring at Dugla’is.

  “Odd the way they’re all standin’ there,” Rolland whispered. “Like they don’t know what they’re doin’. Or they’re asleep ’r something.”

  “They’re drugged,” Janner said.

  From overhead came the sound of leaves rustling in the wind, though the air stood perfectly still. Abramm glanced upward, confirming the absence of trees or vines, only the mist-swallowed columns.

  “Probably put it in the food,” Janner said. He shook his head and murmured incredulously, “He really is a blood-sucking slave trader.”

  “What are we gonna do?” Rolland asked.

  At that moment, the sixth of Dugla’is’s men emerged from the tunnel on the left, the one closest to the river. He strode up to his employer as if to make a report. Dugla’is replied briefly, his motions sharp and tense. The man shook his head and rattled off an elaboration, gesturing back the way he had come. Abramm could hear the mutter of their voices, but nothing discernible as words.

  Overhead, the leaves rattled again.

  Though Dugla’is questioned his man ever more sternly, the latter shook his head with increasing certainty. Finally he fell silent as Dugla’is turned away, barking a heartfelt blasphemy that carried up the stone tiers quite distinctly. The three men who watched him from the midlevel tunnel withdrew to its concealing darkness.

  “He sent that other man back to find us,” Janner whispered. “Now Dugla’is wonders if his ploy failed and we passed him again.”

  “Maybe we should get back to our own camp,” Rolland murmured, glancing worriedly at Abramm.

  The latter had no answer for him, ideas of what they might do tumbling through his head at breakneck pace. They were four men against seven— eight if the blue-vested man returned or, worse, if the Fermikians whom Dugla’is awaited arrived anytime soon.

  Barely had he formed the thought when it became reality and five men emerged from the cityside tunnel, clad in the sand-colored robes and turbans of the desert men. Curved swords hung at their hips, along with shorter blades scabbarded in red or black leather. A long strip of looping gold braid dangled around the neck of the one in front, while two in the rear lugged an obviously heavy wooden chest.

  Dugla’is strode to meet the man with the gold braid, speaking sharply, as if the group were late. The newcomer shrugged lazily and turned his gaze to the two docile groups of people standing by the fire. Both men and women watched the Fermikians as if they were simply more of Dugla’is’s boatmen. The leader smiled, said something more to the riverman, then raised a hand. Immediately the two men with the chest advanced to drop it at Dugla’is’s feet.

  The Chesedhan’s second-in-command stepped forward to unlatch the lid and press it back. Gold coin and tableware glinted in the firelight as he shoved a hand deep into the treasure, then nodded up at Dugla’is. Shortly, two of the Chesedhan crewmen lugged the chest into the riverside tunnel, presumably to load it on their vessel.

  Now the Fermikians advanced on the Kiriathans, who watched them unconcernedly. And when the gold-braid-decked desert man bid them in heavily accented Kiriathan to “Come this way,” they complied as docilely as sheep, Abramm realized two things—one, that they were not the first group to be preyed upon like this, and two, he was not going to stand by and let it happen, regardless of the odds.

  The decision seized him suddenly, surprising him as much as it did everyone else. One moment he
was a passive observer, and the next he was charging down the steps, staff in hand, bellowing at Trinley and Galen and the others to “Wake up! It’s a trap! You’re being deceived.”

  He was halfway to the bottom when he felt a sudden smothering crow of triumph as his arena-trained senses screamed with the awareness of imminent danger. Skidding to a stop, he turned toward the papery sound swooping toward him. Monstrous wings blocked his view of everything but a pair of crested yellow eyes above gaping jaws. A blast of hot, sweetly foul breath caught him square in the face as he hurled himself backward to avoid the talons that came in after the breath, struggling to believe the obvious truth that he was being attacked by a dragon. Not of dream, not of myth, but real flesh and blood and claw.

  Stumbling off the edge of the tier, he lost balance and fell, bouncing and slithering down several more tiers before he came to a stop, overwhelmed by the burning in his eyes and the crawling, gagging fire that seared the inside of his mouth and throat. The dragon’s breath was like that of the tanniym— caustic, poisonous, spore-filled—but in a far more powerful dose.

  A familiar voice spoke in his head: “Still think I’m not a dragon, pup?”

  Tapheina? Shock paralyzed him. What was she doing here? How had she become a dragon? And where was she now?

  Coming for him—that much was sure.

  Calling on the Light to burn off the spore, he scrambled upright, vision still blurred by tears and obscured by the brightness. No matter—he had to keep moving, and down was the best option. Charging down the tiers, he felt the wind of her wings and the hot fever of her essence coming in behind him, too fast, too soon. He stepped suddenly out of her line of attack and ducked, holding his staff horizontally before him and then jabbing one end of it up into her side as she dove past him. Light sizzled up the stick’s length and toppled the creature sideways. One wing hit the stone tiers hard, and she flipped over, stuttering downward over the steps, screaming furiously. But when she hit the paved stage at the bottom, she’d twisted herself round so as to fling herself back at him, her jaws catching the fabric of his tunic as he dodged their vicious snap.

  This time he didn’t turn to face her but charged down the last few steps to the central pavement and out into its center. When he turned back, Rolland was between him and the oncoming dragon, swinging his staff like a bat and slamming it into the side of her head, the force of his blow reeling her backward and onto her side. Trusting that Rolland had his back now, Abramm whirled and brained one of Dugla’is’s men with his staff, jabbed another in the stomach, and had no sooner thought of what he wanted to do next when a burst of white fire leaped off the staff’s end. It hissed through the air toward where the women and children clung together wide-eyed and there formed a dome of light around them.

  Rolland’s grunt, followed by a heavy thud, turned him back to see his friend rolling away from him an instant before the dragon was on Abramm himself, driving the leading, bony edge of her wing into his temple. Whiteness erupted across the world, and he staggered backward, knees wobbling, fighting to keep conscious, praying for the strength to draw himself together. The amphitheater steadied around him again, but he’d lost his staff. His wooziness vanished as the tanniym came barreling at him from the ground, leaping across the pavement with the speed of a big cat, snapping and hissing and blowing gouts of poisonous breath.

  Desperately Abramm dodged and rolled away from her, the Light flickering and flaring within him as the spore invaded his flesh repeatedly. Then he saw that Rolland was up again, stepping between him and his adversary and swinging his staff with a mighty wallop. She was ready for him this time, turning aside so that his blow just glanced her shoulder even as her heavy tail swept his legs out from under him and brought him down a second time.

  With nothing to defend himself, Abramm scurried back from her. He stumbled over one of the men he’d downed earlier and tore the sword from the man’s nerveless grip. As he leaped up, he found himself shoulder to shoulder with Krele Janner.

  His captured friends were fast disappearing into the cityside tunnel now, the Fermikians following after them, swords drawn in a rearguard action even as the dragon took to the air again and exhaled a fine, glistening mist over them all. Abramm was gasping too hard to hold his breath and inhaled the sweet-acrid poison in a great lungful, coughing and wheezing as it seared into his chest, wooziness taking him yet again. They couldn’t last much longer. Please, my Lord Eidon. I need your strength. . . .

  And again the Light flowed through him. Eyes still stinging and full of tears, he brought two hands to the hilt of his stolen sword and braced his feet apart. Behind him the shield of Light around the women and children sizzled as the dragon’s breath hit it, and they screamed in terror. From out of the tunnel somewhere in the blur to his right came the shouts of men, angry and fearful. He saw the vague shapes of the Fermikians backing into its darkness—

  The dragon hit him hard from behind, and he fell forward onto his knees as fire bit deeply into his left shoulder and spore raced wildly through his bloodstream, setting his old wrist wound and the morwhol-caused scars on his arm and face into flames of their own. He saw his wife, dancing with a tall, handsome, dark-bearded man who smiled down at her with a look of possessiveness that provoked Abramm to a rage of jealousy and frustration. The dark-haired lord looked straight at him now, his dark eyes flashing as he smiled in taunting triumph.

  Abramm slammed it all down, forcing the image away and calling on the Light yet again. He bent to retrieve his sword as Rolland stepped protectively in front of him, staff in hand, searching the mist above them, though Abramm knew he couldn’t see through the Shadow. “She’s clinging to the rightmost columns at the top of the ring,” he said. Rolland’s head turned in that direction as the dragon’s yellow eyes skewered Abramm’s own.

  Her laughter sounded in his head. “That one cannot help you, little pup. He is too slow and stupid. . . .”

  The spore raced through him hot and nauseating. His left arm burned as if it were plunged in fire, but he refused to consider it. One of Dugla’is’s men stirred, pulling Rolland’s gaze away, and Tapheina hurled herself off her column. She was almost on them when Abramm erupted from his crouch, knocking Rolland forward with his shoulder as he drove his sword at the creature’s silver-scaled breast. For a heartbeat the tip caught, refusing to penetrate. Then he shoved hard, the Light rushed wildly through him, and steel overcame scale and bone, plunging deep into the dragon’s heart.

  Fire blasted up his arm into the blade as violet blood coursed down it, burning as it came. He felt the dark blue of this new, stronger spore creeping into skin and muscle but refused to let it have more of him than that. The Light shot through him, a current of energy and warmth and searing illumination. He glimpsed Tersius, hanging between heaven and earth, then robed in white and seated on a throne above a vast floor of gleaming crystal. Heavenly voices swelled in powerful chorus, and a sharp, invigorating fragrance buoyed him as he floated on air. . . .

  He awakened to find himself lying on the central stage where he’d fallen, his clothing tattered and stained from the effects of the dragon’s blood. Beside him sprawled a dead woman, long silvery ropes of hair splayed about her head, a bloody hole in the front of her bright blue vest. He recognized her at once and, disbelieving, levered himself onto his elbows for a better look.

  “It was a shapeshifter.” Rolland’s voice drew his attention around to his offside, where the big blacksmith crouched, staring at him white-faced. He glanced first at the dead woman, then at Abramm again, his expression compounded of dread and wonder.

  “Shifted back to this right after the two of you fell,” Janner offered from where he stood at Abramm’s head. He, too, stared at Abramm oddly.

  “She was Dugla’is’s old boatman,” Abramm said. “I never guessed.”

  “Are you all right?” Rolland asked. “Your scars . . . on your face. They’re all red.”

  Abramm sat up all the way and touched the twin tr
acks where they ran over his cheekbone, newly sensitized from the residual spore in them having been awakened. “It’ll fade,” he said, rocking forward to stand.

  “What just happened to ya?” Janner asked tightly.

  “I used the Light to purge the spore she put into me,” Abramm said.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. Can all Terstans do that?”

  “If they’ve cultivated the Light enough to know how to let it work . . .” He glanced at Rolland, nodding at the bloody slices on his shoulder. “Speaking of, you’d better do a purge yourself, my friend.”

  Abramm bent to pick up the sword, then stood looking down at the dead shapeshifter, dismayed to find in himself something that felt entirely too close to sorrow. She’d tried to kill him, after all. . . . Tanniym. Dragon spawn. They’d fled to the Aranaak when the flood had come and there adapted their creature form to the environment—so Laud had speculated. But when she had come down out of the mountains, she’d drawn nearer her dragon roots. Had that prompted the transformation? He recalled now the hump in her wolf-form’s shoulders—wings?—and how the last time he’d seen her she’d been shedding gouts of skin and fur, a white film over her eyes like that over the boatman’s. . . .

  She’d shed her old form and emerged in the new.

  “What was she doing with Dugla’is?” Janner wondered aloud.

  Abramm met the riverman’s blue eyes grimly. “Using him. She was a tanniym, first generation. He had little chance against her wiles. And once she’d won him, I’m sure it was easy to push him into working for the Fermikians.”

  Rolland was staring at him white-faced. “Is this yer . . . Tapheina?”

  Abramm nodded uncomfortably, then switched the subject. “You must do your purge now, Rolland.”

  “But what if they come back?”

  “They won’t,” Abramm said.

  “Dugla’is is surely speeding down the river as we speak,” said Janner. “Trying to distance himself so he can deny it all. And the others . . .” He shrugged. “They have what they came for.”