The Kagonesti chief was intrigued. He’d never seen a griffon in the flesh. His clan weren’t mountaineers, but the new task was eminently preferable to going any closer to Qualinost’s tomb.
“We will do as Broom says,” Nalaryn announced.
Kerian grimaced. The Kagonesti had bestowed the new sobriquet on her in Bianost. Hardly as fierce or romantic as “the Lioness,” it unfortunately described her mangled haircut all too well. They knew she disliked it, but she knew it would do no good to complain. Her people loved nicknames. Each Kagonesti might be called by two or three different ones at the same time. Among Nalaryn’s clan were elves called Sky, Runner, Three-Fingers, and Breakbow.
“If you can call up Orexas, tell him of the lady’s plan,” she said.
Nalaryn shrugged. “He will know. The Great Lord has ears upon the wind.”
The small band quickly vanished into the trees on the south side of the road. Kerian felt oddly at a loss without them. Through all the struggle for Bianost, not a single Kagonesti had been hurt or killed. They were like warriors of smoke, creatures whom bandit blades could not touch.
She told Alhana of Porthios’s freshly minted notion to drag them around Nalis Aren and attack Mereklar. She expected outrage to match her own, but Alhana, after brief surprise, supported Porthios’s plan.
“He was always a bold strategist,” she murmured.
It was as close as she had yet come to acknowledging the identity of their leader, but all Kerian could think was that Porthios’s wife was as insane as Porthios himself.
The slow-moving column trudged on. The landscape began to look familiar and nightmarishly different at the same time. Shattered stones appeared along the road. Some were the ruins of local buildings; others were debris thrown out of Qualinost when Beryl hit. Vines with blue-black leaves held the broken stones in a vicious grip. Lofty spires lay like colossal fallen trees, stark white against the twisted foliage. Just a few feet from the road’s edge, the south shoulder sloped away more steeply, adding to the uncertain footing. The weird, toxic atmosphere affected all of them. Conversation faded. Draft animals became sluggish.
With dawn only two hours away, the column was strung out along the road. A mist was rising, a grayish fog that smelled faintly of rotten flesh. The odor was too much for many of the Bianost elves. Sickened, they fell out of step to find relief by the roadside.
Even a seasoned campaigner like Samar found the stench hard to bear. Ashen faced, he asked, “Are we doing the right thing? If the air gets much worse, we may not be able to continue!”
“It certainly will discourage the bandits from following us,” Alhana replied, swallowing hard.
Samar was silent for a moment, debating how best to bring up the topic that had consumed his thoughts for days: he knew the identity of the masked elf.
For as long as he could remember, Samar had been in love with Alhana. She did not know, and he intended she never would. Even after her husband’s presumed death, Samar had not allowed his feelings to intrude on her peace. But what would happen to that peace now? Samar feared there could be only one logical reason for Porthios’s masquerade. The fire that had not killed him had maimed him so horribly he could not be seen without his mask. If so, what kind of future could Alhana hope for with him?
So disturbed was he by his concerns, when he spoke at last his words were far sharper than he’d intended. “I see our masked leader is nowhere to be found. I imagine he chose a more salubrious route for himself.”
Immediately, he regretted his harsh words, but Alhana reined up and turned on him before he could temper them.
“You know nothing about him! How dare you presume to judge?”
In the stillness, her voice was very loud. Samar bowed his head. Flushed with anger, Alhana touched heels to her horse’s sides and cantered past Kerian and Chathendor, who were riding ahead.
“My lady,” the old chamberlain called. “This place is not safe! Stay with us, please!” He urged his balky mount after her.
Kerian glanced back at Samar. For a moment, the Silvanesti’s perpetually hard face showed one overriding emotion: fear. She realized it was not personal fear of the dangerous journey, but concern for Alhana.
It was then Kerian realized something else: Porthios and Alhana had come to some sort of an understanding. Whatever it was, it had eased the anxiety that shadowed Alhana’s face. Good for her, Kerian thought; no one should be that lonely and alone.
As for Porthios, wherever he was Kerian wished him bathed in twice the stink that was clogging her nose.
Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky when the wagon carrying the feverish Hytanthas passed under a low-hanging tree limb. A figure dropped from the branch and landed silently in the open cargo box. Hytanthas stirred.
“Who’s there?” he murmured.
“A friend.”
Bare fingers touched Hytanthas’s forehead then withdrew. A twig was placed against his lips.
“Chew this, but don’t swallow.”
“Are you a healer?”
“Don’t ask questions. Chew.”
Hytanthas chewed until the voice told him to spit out the bitter-tasting twig. In minutes, he rested easier, the ache in his limbs subsiding for the first time in days. With a sigh, he relaxed, his head lolling against the lambswool blanket that softened his bed atop bundles of Qualinesti weapons.
“What news have you of Gilthas?”
Halfway lost to slumber, Hytanthas mumbled an answer. Under the stranger’s gentle but insistent questioning, Hytanthas told of the elves’ predicament in Khur and of the Lioness’s reluctance to return. He withheld nothing, not of what he knew or his opinions. The questions finally ceased, and the medicine bark that soothed his fever and loosened his tongue lowered Hytanthas into a deep sleep.
Porthios sat back against the wagon’s side. For a long time, he stayed there, staring at nothing, lost in thought.
11
Breetan Everride had been in conquered Qualinesti less than two months, but the changes wrought in that time were profound. When she traveled to Alderhelm to investigate the disappearance of Nerakan mercenaries, she rode through a land at peace—the peace of those broken in spirit. However, riding from Frenost to Samustal, she passed through a countryside tingling with alarm, the roads choked with people fleeing north or west. Most were buntings heading to the coast, to take ship back to wherever they’d come from. Mixed in with them were the camp followers and sutlers who always trailed mercenary armies.
A few questions, accompanied by a few coins, posed to refugees elicited surprising news. All over northern Qualinesti, natives were rising up against their oppressors. With Beryl gone, and the Knights of Neraka quiescent in the south, the local folk had only Samuval’s bandit army to contend with. The success of the masked rebel in Samustal had shown them victory was possible. In a hundred locations, bandit detachments had been ambushed. Some of these were carefully planned traps; others, spontaneous uprisings. The bandits seemed incapable of regaining control. Whenever they moved to crush one outbreak, two more would erupt behind them. Slowly but surely, Samuval’s men and their allies were abandoning the open countryside and holing up in fortified towns.
Although she wore the full panoply of her Order and carried her new crossbow openly, no one molested Breetan. Rebels kept well clear of the Dark Knight. Bandit officers, conscious of their failings, remained aloof lest their weakness inspire her to intervene against them. Only refugees approached, begging for help and steel. Breetan paid for useful information, but refused otherwise to aid the greedy, defeated leeches.
She reached Samustal as dusk was falling. Her target, the rebel leader known as the Scarecrow, was unlikely to be so near the scene of his first victory, but she might glean valuable information there. Besides, she wanted dinner, drink, and a place to rest for the night.
A pall of smoke hung over the center of town. Gossip was divided as to who was responsible for the town’s torching: bandits or elf rebels. The old core of the city, w
hich Lord Olin had surrounded with a stockade, was a smoldering ruin. With night fast approaching, traffic was hurrying to the town’s south side, where Lord Gathan had erected a palisade around an earthen mound. Breetan headed for that.
There was no gate, just a baffle of timbers to guard the single entrance. The palisade had been erected in obvious haste. The timbers still carried their bark and hadn’t been squared; gaps existed between nearly every one and its neighbors. Some of the gaps were wide enough to admit longbow arrows. Breetan saw no guard towers, just a few open platforms atop the wall. She shook her head. Grayden was garrisoning a deathtrap.
Three foot soldiers barred her way at the baffle. “Who’re you?” growled one.
“A traveler in search of a meal and a bed.”
He laughed harshly. “This isn’t Palanthas. They’re sleeping on mud in there!”
“Mud protected by a wall,” she said mildly.
He stood aside, and she rode through. The enclosed space within the log wall was only two hundred yards across. In the tight confines, tents and shanties had been thrown up in complete confusion, leaving no clear lanes for defenders to reach the wall if there were a general attack. Breetan was disgusted anew. One determined assault and the place would fall like a rotten apple in an autumn breeze.
Ahead, a long tent bore a hand-painted sign proclaiming that Wine, Meat, and Bread (the last two misspelled) could be had within. She dismounted and tied her animal to the picket line. Crossbow in hand, she ducked under the low canvas roof.
Along the far wall was a bar comprising planks laid atop barrels. A muscular man, his head completely shaved, was pouring drinks with both hands. His apron was shockingly white amid the general squalor.
“Step up and state your pleasure!” he boomed.
She called for wine and—after a brief discussion with the proprietor—beef, bread, and whatever came with it. He bellowed the order toward a flap in the back of the tent. She glimpsed flames and saw a large calf turning on a spit.
The wine was a surprisingly good vintage, a Coastlund red. Before her first cup was gone, a trencher of food was placed before her. A generous slab of beef, still red in the center, was surrounded by boiled potatoes, onions, and carrots. Half a round loaf of bread lay atop the meat.
“No food shortage here,” she remarked.
He laughed. “Not for them that can pay!”
She ate standing at the bar, for there were no chairs in the place. At the waist-high tables scattered throughout the room, various folk worked the crowd of bandits and refugees, offering gambling, soothsaying, and love for hire. A few feet down the bar, a blind man played a flute for alms. His cap contained a great many broken seashells and very few coins.
While she ate, Breetan questioned the bartender. He’d been there less than a week and considered ruined Samustal a “ripe opportunity.” He certainly looked able to take care of himself. Replace his wine urn with a sword, and he’d make a formidable fighter.
He wasn’t stupid, either. Eyeing her as he refilled her cup, he asked, “Looking for rebels, Lady?”
“I’m having a look around,” she replied carefully.
“The Knights might need to come in, if Samuval can’t restore order. Roads are so clogged with fools hightailing it out of the area, he can’t get his men where they’re needed. I reckon he’ll lose the province by autumn.”
Breetan swallowed a bite of rare beef. “Are these rebels really so dangerous?”
“They’re fighting for their homeland. Makes them dangerous enough.”
He was called to the far end of the bar to fill tankards. When he returned, Breetan laid several steel pieces on the bar, making sure her trencher concealed them from the room at large.
“I can see you’re a man of wit. Are you also a man of discretion?” she asked. He put his rag over the steel and smoothly drew the coins off the bar. That was answer enough. “What do you hear about the leader of the revolt?”
For the first time, he lost his jovial, assured air and dropped his gaze. He pretended to mop the plank around Breetan’s trencher with his rag. She kept quiet, allowing him to think it over, and he finally answered.
“He’s a wizard, they say. An elf wizard. And he always wears a mask!”
Breetan covered her excitement by chewing and swallowing another bite of food. Striving to keep a casual tone, she asked, “Any word where he is now?”
He looked uncomfortable and edged away slightly. She put more steel under his rag. He took it as before.
“Lord Gathan is said to be pursuing a band of elves led by the masked rebel. Talk is, they’re fleeing to the Lake of Death.”
That was a strange place for elves to hide. If she could confirm that lead, she would go to the Lake of Death, regardless of the danger.
She learned nothing more from the bartender. Spooked by her questions, he retired to the opposite end of the long plank bar and turned his back on her.
She drained her cup and was about to call for another refill when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder. Her crossbow was on the floor, its stock leaning against her leg. She eased a hand down to grip the weapon.
“Don’t shoot, Lady. It’s Jeralund.”
The sergeant moved forward and leaned against the bar next to her. He was unshaven and had a black eye and an ugly cut beneath his chin.
“You look hale,” she said dryly.
“I’m pleased to see you, too. Another day and I would’ve joined the bandit army.”
He related his adventures with the Kagonesti, his entry into Samustal, the riot, and his subsequent survival on the run in the fields and farms around the city. When Gathan Grayden’s army showed up, Jeralund returned, claiming to be one of Olin’s hirelings who’d lost his company. For a lifelong soldier, service to Samuval was better than any other work he could find.
As he finished his story, Jeralund licked his lips and cast a look at the remains of Breetan’s meal. She pushed the trencher to him and called for wine. The proprietor set another cup in front of the sergeant. Before he could make a hasty retreat, Breetan told him to leave the wine jug. She dropped several coins on the bar, although she’d more than paid for her meal and the half-empty wine jug with surreptitious steel.
The sergeant wolfed down the last of the potatoes, meat, and gravy then drained his cup and poured himself another measure.
“Thank you, Lady. I may live!” he exclaimed.
Hunger and thirst appeased, he asked if he could be of use to her on whatever mission she had undertaken. She pondered only a moment then nodded. It would be good to have a man she could trust at her back, and she was gladder than she’d expected to find him safe and mostly sound.
Stars were shining weakly through the smoky haze when the two of them emerged from the tent. The meal lay heavy on Breetan’s stomach, and she pronounced herself ready for bed. Jeralund eyed her skeptically, rubbing his bearded jaw.
“Lady, there’s nowhere in this hole I’d feel safe to sleep!”
“So we’ll take turns standing watch.”
They found cribs at an establishment nearby that called itself an inn, although it was nothing more than a three-sided log structure with a canvas roof. Each crib comprised planks laid side by side, with narrower side slats to keep the sleeper from rolling off. It was the best they could do, and wasn’t cheap, but at least they would be out of the mud.
Jeralund sat up in his crib, unsheathed sword across his knees. Breetan unrolled her blanket and lay down next to her crossbow. Sleep was a long time coming. The denizens of the fort all spoke at the tops of their lungs, and every action seemed to involve clanging, clattering, or crashing. Torches burned all night as sentinels watched nervously for rebels prowling the ruins. There were three alarms, all false. Breetan had been dozing less than an hour when Jeralund’s watch ended. She took her turn without complaint, but watching the veteran soldier curl up on his bedroll and promptly fall asleep did cause her a great deal of envy.
Hollow-eyed, she stare
d into the darkness, flinching at every sound, until the brightening eastern sky finally brought the noisy, anxious night to an end.
Flushed with their first victory in many days, the Khurish nomads gave thanks to Torghan, desert god of vengeance. Each family sacrificed a goat or sheep. When the ceremonies were done, the camp reeked of blood and resembled a battlefield.
Adala sat under the shade flap of her small black tent, wrapping yarn around a spindle in preparation for weaving. Wapah approached, out of deference not speaking until his shadow fell across his cousin’s lap.
“Maita,” he said, “I’ve chosen a fine white goat for the sacrifice. As head of the family, you should offer it.”
She continued to concentrate on her work, wrapping the yarn in smooth, straight loops. Tension was critical in getting a tight weave. Only if the yarn was uniformly wrapped on the spindle would the tension be constant. Wapah waited in silence, knowing she would answer him in her own time.
“Spare the animal,” she finally said.
“Shall I do it for you? If you’re busy.…”
She paused, holding the yarn out taut from the nearly full spindle and looking up at him. “Cousin, if you spoil my work with your prattle, I will be very displeased!”
He bowed deeply, face to the ground. She gave a disgusted snort. “Oh, get up! Am I a khan that you abase yourself before me?”
He squatted on the warm sand and watched her resume her work, wrapping the yarn slowly at first, to get back the rhythm she’d lost. The yarn was a deep, golden yellow, a shade long associated with Weya-Lu weavers. The color was derived from a combination of flowers, including the common dandelion and the rare white desert rose. Other tribes had tried to duplicate it, but no other approached the richness and colorfast durability of Weya-Lu gold.
When Wapah spoke again, he kept his voice low, so as not to throw off Adala’s concentration.
“All the families have offered sacrifices to the Desert Master.” It was considered bad luck to speak Torghan’s name, even among his children. “Will we not do likewise?”
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