Chenna’s features became simply the knotted brows and frown of an angry young woman. Bringer released her shoulders. As Chenna tossed her braid and walked back toward the pines, Voskov gave her another inspection. Having her along could be convenient.
When Bringer’s attention left Chenna, the slowly milling Hykori ghouls moved more purposefully.
Voskov guided his horse into Bringer’s path. “You speak as if Chenna is to be my guard.”
The necromancer stared at Voskov, saying nothing.
“I have a Paladin out for my blood and you’ve set a girl to watch my back?”
Bringer gave a slight head tilt, a Hykori gesture as old as time itself signifying agreement with the obvious. “Yes, you’re welcome. She’s the best fighter I have. Now I have work to do.” He dodged around the horse, causing the animal to dance despite over a week’s contact with Bringer’s scent.
The necromancer turned after passing Voskov. “Come with me. If you are to be part of our grand plan, you should know more of the … pliable nature of death.”
Cursing the delay, Voskov dismounted and tied his horse away from where the ghouls had gathered.
A pair of undead dragged the farmer’s corpse out of a shed. The stub of Voskov’s arrow still jutted up between the man’s shoulder blades. Bringer knelt and examined the day-old body before nodding thoughtfully and returning to his feet. He looked over at Voskov. “Soon we will need all the recruits we can obtain. This one won’t be as capable as a properly prepared Hykori, but we will need his type in quantity.”
Bringer pinched the fat in the corpse’s forearms, sides and thighs. “Most undead will only last until their bodies fail or rot away. Proper nourishment is difficult to obtain, so only the strongest bodies are worth my effort, as they will endure more and last longer.”
Bringer glanced up. Voskov preferred Bringer’s more mummified face over this expression. It reminded Voskov of Ulneriev’s chief torturer explaining the advantages of flaying over searing.
A sour expression replaced the necromancer’s raised eyebrows and bright eyes. Bringer waved Voskov away. “I thought you might have a professional interest in what I do.”
Curiosity overcame Voskov’s distaste. He moved over to where he could see Bringer’s actions. As Bringer pulled bags of powders from his robes and sprinkled pinches over the body, he murmured a crooning chant, half-echoed by the ghouls. After several moments of chanting, Bringer knelt by the Macmar’s head and blew across the corpse’s face. Its eyes popped open like a man waking from a bad dream.
It sat up and looked at Voskov, full awareness in its blue eyes. Bringer whispered urgently into the man’s ear. Fear, then anger crossed the newly raised man’s face. The corpse pushed at Bringer, kicking heels into the ground to back away as the necromancer fought to hold it in place. Bringer finally made a chopping gesture. The Macmar farmer’s eyes lost the spark of intelligence. The animated corpse stiffly struggled to its feet and joined the Hykori undead.
Bringer waved a pair of ghouls over to help him up. The necromancer’s features looked gaunter than earlier. “You must learn this, Voskov. It is wearing, and we will want many of these sleeping ones soon.”
“What happened, Bringer? When you first raised him, I saw a spark there; he was complete. You killed something within him. Why?”
“It is a problem with bringing back the dead. A Hykori is born to die. He lives his life knowing he will die for one of his masters and may be called back for service even after that. When such a man is brought back, he knows what is expected. The waves of peoples who have invaded our plains don’t understand this simple fact. When I woke that farmer and explained his new role, he fought to return to death. I had to crush that part of him, expel his soul, to retain command of his body. So few Hykori remain in the highlands that we have learned this technique when we need simple numbers. It matters little. He hasn’t been prepared as my old ones here. His body will rot away soon enough, but he has uses until that time.”
Voskov digested this information. With teachings like that, he no longer wondered why so many Hykori had stayed in the lowlands as slaves each time the Plains were overrun. Who would follow kings into exile when even death wouldn’t end your toil?
Voskov closed his eyes and pictured the flying scout. A moment later, its weight landed on his shoulder. Voskov opened his eyes, staring ahead. The damned thing looked too much like Bors, the servant he’d sacrificed to make the creature. The description in the Book should have mentioned that uncomfortable detail.
“We’re moving west again. Make sure there are no surprises ahead.” It departed without comment.
That evening, while sharing Voskov shared a spitted hare with Chenna. She ate with a good appetite and did not waste a bite. Strong white teeth ripped flesh from bone. She refused his offer of cheese and hearth cakes.
Her movements were smooth and graceful. He had tired of peasant girls before his twentieth summer, but Chenna had a more feral appeal.
He took his bedroll and sleeping furs and left the main camp for a quiet clearing in the woods. Bringer watched him leave without comment. Voskov didn’t sleep well near the undead.
He made a small fire and the spread the furs out. He felt someone watching him.
Entering the clearing, Chenna said, “I’ll not sleep in their camp either. Their pain makes for an unrestful night. And a poor guard I’d be if you were killed in the first night of my service.”
With her so near, Voskov wondered what other duties she might consider. She sank into a seated position. He stripped off his riding clothes and stretched out on top of the furs.
The chill damp drove him under the furs. Chenna hadn’t moved. The rapidly falling night made her a shadow blending completely into the dark.
He said, “Chenna, as dark as it is, you should be nearer.”
“I am near enough.”
I’ve been too long without a woman to put up with this.
“I told you to come here.” He waited a moment before throwing back the furs. He stood and reached for her. “I expect obedience from my servants.”
He was yanked off his feet and sailed through the air into a holly bush. Sharp leaves and branches cut into his back and side, yet hurt less than Chenna’s grip on his forearm.
She pulled him from the bush and whispered in his ear. “You’re not some lord with a cringing serf wench to order about. I choose who I lie with and you’ll do well to remember it.”
He crawled back to his pallet, letting the pain across his back keep him from dwelling on being thrown by a woman.
As he laid face-down on the musky furs, he realized how much he had lost in the past two months. When he attacked Kulkas Manor, he had a score of warriors at his back. Now he had only his own skill and strength. It wasn’t enough to get a half-breed, feral wench on her back.
He flexed his shoulders to stimulate the fire across his back. Here is where I start my return. I will win the wench, make Bringer serve me and use any of these Hykori as I wish.
Voskov woke poorly rested. Chenna stayed close to him throughout the day’s journey. She did her duty as a fully alert guard, no sign of resentment from the night before.
Once or twice, Voskov caught Bringer glancing at him. The gaunt creature’s features made it hard to tell if he was smirking, but Voskov had his suspicions.
By late afternoon, the party had left the rough upland hills and entered a deep-cut runoff from the looming Demon’s Teeth Mountains. Bringer and Chenna both reduced their constant search for danger.
Chenna spoke for the first time in hours. “It’s barren if you’ve no eye for the signs. Not many men will look for you up here. If you don’t see them coming, you deserve to die.” Her eyes swept the trail behind them and the tops of the cut.
“How many of you are up here?” After the quiet of cold the day, Voskov found himself anxious for conversation. The dry, thin air sucked the very life from him and the shuffling undead made the march too funereal for his ta
stes.
She grinned crookedly. “Few enough of us are in these mountains. Too few to stop broken Macmar refugee clans. Too few to keep these last loyal Hykori villages safe. Too many for this pile of dry rock to keep fed.” She punched his booted leg softly. “It would be wise to start thinking yourself one of us. You’ll find no others willing to welcome a sorcerer.” She nimbly dodged through the leading undead and disappeared around a sharp bend in the path.
The tiny scout returned to Voskov’s shoulder. “Duke Voskov, there is a village where this gully opens.” For the first time in their brief association, Voskov saw the small creature tuck its head into the dense fur of its chest and go to sleep.
About that time, the walls of the cut flattened out. From his vantage point on the only horse in the party, Voskov saw a truly miserable collection of piled-stone huts huddling under thatch. Skinny goats milled inside a loosely slatted corral. There were no more than thirty hovels and one partially-dressed stone building. Little wood or worked stone was in evidence elsewhere.
Long-faced Hykori came out of their hovels. The thin, ragged people moved slowly. Until the headman spoke to Chenna, Voskov assumed they were more of the undead.
The speaker’s debased Hykori, clearly corrupted from sorcerous Hykori, coupled with his weak voice kept Voskov from understanding the words.
Several undead dropped sacks of rancid meat and shuffled to stand before a time-darkened wooden statue of an armored female demon. The villagers dove on the sacks, dragging the mess into the stone building. Voskov was glad he had brought his last three burnt hearth cakes despite the green spots growing on them.
After Bringer and Chenna spoke with the village leader, Chenna returned to Voskov. “Timely. The queen comes tonight and she’ll want to see you. The village elder asks if you’re taking your horse back to the lowlands.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” A Shushkachevan noble never traveled on foot without good reason.
“Perhaps as well. We don’t need to waste time finding another warhorse later. The folk will remain hungry, but that’s their lot.”
Chenna gave the villagers the bad news. When she returned, Voskov whispered, “I think my horse needs a bodyguard more than I do here.”
Chenna took his horse’s bridle and led the way around the stone building to a stable that hadn’t held a horse in a long time. The remaining bits of hay in the rick were only suitable as bedding.
As Voskov tended to his mount, he felt eyes on him. He spun around to face a pair of emaciated boys. Though they appeared to be on the verge of manhood, healthy eight year old boys had more height and muscle. They stared at the horse in awe.
Voskov searched his memory for non-sorcerous Hykori. “Grass, fresh grass.”
The boys darted away. He had nearly finished with the animal when they returned with brittle-looking vegetation, more brown than green, and laid it out before the horse. After nosing the stuff around, the horse grudgingly munched on the fodder.
Instead of shuffling around waiting for a coin as stable hands would do, the boys stared at the animal. Voskov rummaged through his saddlebags and pulled out one of the larger hearth cakes. He tossed it to the amazed boys. They looked at each other and scrambled out. He could not understand most of what they said, but the intent was clear enough. He hoisted his bags.
“Maybe you’re not quite one of Bringer’s usual,” Chenna said. “It’s rare I see any kindness in these mountains. This task of guarding you may be worth my effort.” Before he could respond, she turned and left.
Voskov wore his less-patched arming shirt and breeches to the welcoming feast. He brought his saddlebags in case he had to give gifts to important equals, as well as to have the Book close at hand.
Several dozen Hykori were in the main hall of the village’s largest building. Their threadbare clothes and thin faces made Voskov the strongest-looking and best-dressed noble at the feast. The sparse portions of stringy meat and misshapen vegetables were more than enough to make the other nobles cheerful.
I’d slaughter peasants before leaving them to live like this. Had these Hykori nobles no pride at all? Voskov made no pretense of eating what food they offered. He chose to finish the cheese he’d taken from the farm.
At the end of the third meager course, the tables were cleared. Bringer motioned Voskov to his feet and faced the bead-strung archway at the end of the hall.
The woman who stepped through the bead curtain would have dazzled the emperor’s court. Every Hykori Voskov had ever seen was a mere caricature of this woman.
Glowing yellow pearls wound through the thick black hair piled on her head in elaborate curls. Fine-boned, high cheeks focused his attention on her lustrous, kohl-lined eyes. Her skin was pale and nearly translucent. The same style of robes that looked like a shroud on Bringer displayed her full figure to advantage. A hundred noblewomen at court could claim the woman’s physical attributes, her bearing left no doubt she was a queen.
Without thought, Voskov dropped to a knee and swept his arms forward, palms upward in imperial salute. To his left, Bringer fell to his knees, then onto his face. Even Chenna knelt with hands pressed to her chest and head down in the Macmar stance of respect.
While the woman overwhelmed Voskov, the cold part of his mind whispered, ‘With her at your side you would have the Scepter of the Plains by acclaim. But she doesn’t look like a woman who would share anything.’
He started to join the Hykori around him in shouting out praise when he noticed that the dingy wall now seemed freshly whitewashed. The glass bead curtain shimmered like strung jewels. Voskov cleared his mind and concentrated his thoughts.
Stains and grime returned to the wall. Bringer called out, “Mallaloriva, Queen of the Hykori, Mistress of the Plains and the Center of the World!"
The queen remained a striking woman but her hair seemed duller. The pearls in it, while large and valuable, were not a kingdom’s treasure. Her face and figure remained largely the same and her bearing was indeed regal. Seen clearly, her face was that of a pure predator. She combined beauty with an undeniable lethality.
He realized with a start that she looked only at him. Her small smile brought him no comfort. She spoke in musically modulated archaic Hykori. “It seems you’re enough of a sorcerer to recognize and pierce a simple glamour. I’m told you have mastered many manipulative sorceries, nearly enough to win yourself an empire. Perhaps you would make a worthy student if there is time.”
“She’s the Queen Mallaloriva, the Souldrinker who lost the Plains nearly eight hundred years ago,” Voskov whispered to himself in awe. He’d expected to meet some degenerate descendant of the same name, not the ancient queen herself.
Mallaloriva and her greatest nobles learned a way to extend their lives by taking the living essence from human victims. Their hunger slew their subjects by the thousands. In their arrogance, the Demon Lords rebelled against their queen and divided the Hykori Empire. The wars between the queen and her Demon Lords opened the way for wandering Macmar mercenary tribes to conquer her shattered empire. Lore said the queen died while attempting to subdue the last of the rebels.
Clearly, the lore was wrong concerning her death.
Mallaloriva took the only chair along the southwestern wall and court began. Bringer rose beside Voskov, the necromancer’s face nearly alive with pleasure. Though stiff, Chenna’s eyes beamed.
A touch of fear prickled across Voskov. Another spell. He chuckled to himself.
Chapter Five
Talodan finished covering the fire pit. Karro approved of the tracker’s methodical ways. Since they had started on Voskov’s trail, Talodan took on the task of setting and breaking their camp.
Karro tended the horses. Talodan’s ill-favored mount might be as sturdy a beast as the shaggy ponies of the high northern wastes. Karro had the rapidly healing bite marks proved the beast had the Plains ponies’ same evil temperament.
They had lost Voskov’s trail in a freakish, pounding rainstorm followed by dens
e fog. Voskov and his rescuers were headed on a generally northwestern route before the trail vanished. Searching that direction while traveling toward the Temple at Tavma’s Cross for supplies and information made sense. It gave them a purpose beyond the hunt itself.
Karro tightened the cinch on Vision’s saddle and resumed the formal remembrance of a long-forgotten battle. “Elnar, son of Mavanar, fell while rallying his men. He shouted defiance with his last breath as his men fired a volley breaking the Masters’ skirmishers.” Karro mounted his warhorse and settled comfortably in anticipation of the short ride ahead. He waited until Talodan had urged his own horse onto the road before continuing the remembrance.
Karro often passed lonely days of travel with these sagas, his way of honoring the sacrifices of brave men. In some future ride, perhaps another Knight of Auros might keep the name Karro alive.
“Along with Elnar was Savotap, son of Sorvo; Trunar―”
Talodan reined sharply to a halt. Karro searched the brush near the road for signs of danger and saw nothing.
Talodan spoke for the first time in two days. “Enough of these eulogies. I’ve heard you praise so many fallen men that I fear to be near you. Have you ever known a man who didn’t have his head smashed in or get an arrow where he didn’t need one?”
Karro smiled briefly. “The great-grandchildren of those I grew up with are all dead. Most didn’t die in battle, but it’s proper that the warriors I commend to Auros are remembered later. Other servants of the Greater Servants recall the deeds of farmers, explorers and craft folk.”
Since losing Voskov’s trail, the tracker had been wrapped in silence. Only in his sleep did he speak of his wife, murdered in Voskov’s attack. The preceding morning, Karro began reciting the deeds of the fallen to refresh his own memory and perhaps draw Talodan out.
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