Of course, when roll call was taken at dawn, his cohort's officer, Hirini Abaradi, would report Tso Hat missing, but by then surely he would be far enough away to be safe.
If they did come after him they would expect him to head due east, back toward civilization. Therefore he would head south, and sooner or later he would come to either the southeastern spur of the Govya Mountains or to the highlands of Kashbaan. Then he could turn east, and make his way through Olnami back to Matua.
It was a good plan, he thought. He could beg food and water from the farmers on the plain; they would have no way of knowing he had ever rebelled against the Domdur. He could claim to be a refugee displaced by the rebel army's advance. There were certainly plenty of those.
Of course, most of them weren't Matuan, but he thought he could talk his way around that detail.
He began sidling away from the group that had gathered around the Diknoi, listening to his explanations. He worked his way gradually around to the south side of the camp, always looking busy as he moved.
Around him watchfires were being lit, supplies collected and distributed, orders relayed among the living. At the camp's center a ring of dirt had piled up to about shoulder height as the nightwalkers dug with shovels, axes, swords, and their bare hands. Rebiri Nazakri hovered in the air above the hole, shouting orders; his aides – his son Aldassi and a handful of others he trusted – milled about outside the growing mound.
Tso Hat reached the southern perimeter without incident, and stood there, looking alert as he stared out into the night, for a few moments. Then he waved to the nearest officer – an Olnami, of course, almost all the officers were Olnami, standing by a watchfire. Tso Hat did not recognize this particular one.
“I thought I saw something move,” he called. “It could have been one of Balinus' scouts. Out there. Want me to go see if I can spot him?”
“Go ahead,” the officer called.
Tso Hat waved an acknowledgment and marched forward, into the darkness and the green wheat, brushing between the stalks, trying not to trample them. Trampled crops would leave a trail the nightwalkers could follow. He made his way slowly through the rows, glancing back every so often to see if the officer was paying attention.
When he had looked back three times without seeing the officer's eyes he thought he was safe; he dropped down to his knees and began crawling between the rows.
He worked his way southward in zigs and zags, staying down out of sight as much as he could, avoiding the paths and farmhouses. The darkness made it difficult; he was constantly putting hands or knees on sharp bits of stubble or other obstacles. The thick wheat kept most of the moonslight from penetrating.
He used the light of the watchfires to guide him; he steered always into the deeper night.
Sheshar moved eastward, dimming as it moved farther from the sun, its crescent narrowing; no other major moons rose, and the darkness thickened with each passing hour.
Tso Hat lost track of time; it began to seem as if he had been crawling through the wheat fields forever. The night around him was silent and empty.
Then he heard a rustling. He stopped and listened.
Yes, something was definitely rustling the wheat – and it seemed to be behind him and coming closer.
Surely, he thought, surely they couldn't have come after him!
Cautiously, he turned around and got his toes under him; then he gradually shifted his weight backward, off his knees, and raised his head.
Someone was coming through the wheat – and unlike Tso Hat, whoever this was was making no attempt at subtlety or concealment. In the dim light of the scattering of small moons overhead, Tso Hat could see the newcomer only as a dark shape; he couldn't tell whether it was man or woman – or something else.
Then he saw a raised arm, and the glitter of moonslight on the blade of a sword, and a low moan escaped him. It could be one of General Balinus' scouts, he tried to tell himself. It could be a farmer, wanting to know who was creeping about in his fields.
But Tso Hat didn't really believe either of those possibilities, and he drew his own sword and stood.
If it was only a single man, or even a single nightwalker, he might have a chance. He was no swordsman, not really, but neither were most of the others, and he might get lucky.
Then he got a good look at the approaching figure, and he almost dropped the weapon.
It was a nightwalker. A big chunk was missing from one side; exposed hipbone gleamed golden in the dim moonslight. No living man could walk around with such a wound.
Nightwalkers could be slain, he reminded himself. Some of Balinus' men had managed it, in their various skirmishes. If he could separate the heart from the brain, the nightwalker would die.
The nightwalker spotted him, and spoke, its voice harsh and slurred – its throat must be partly decayed, Tso Hat thought.
“They told me that if you surrender, I'm to bring you back alive,” it said. “They'll let you live.”
“Give me a minute to think about it,” Tso Hat replied, trembling.
The nightwalker smiled horribly, and now Tso Hat could see that part of its upper lip had been cut open.
“They didn't tell me to do that,” it said, and it swung its sword.
Tso Hat stumbled and fell backward into the wheat; he clutched his sword in both hands and held it up as if its mere presence would somehow protect him.
The nightwalker advanced, grinning.
Tso Hat jabbed with his sword, but the nightwalker swung its own weapon and knocked Tso Hat's aside. Tso Hat's head fell back as the sword fell from his hands.
Far above, in the sky, something was moving – something the wrong shape for a moon, something that didn't move in a straight line as the moons did. A god, perhaps? Was one of the old gods of Matua coming to guide his soul to its place in the heavens?
“Ka'i!” he called – help!
Then the nightwalker's sword plunged down into Tso Hat's chest.
It didn't mutilate the corpse, or make the wound any larger than necessary; after all, one of its fellows would soon be animating the body that had been Tso Hat's. Instead, once the nightwalker was sure the man was dead, it withdrew its sword, wiped it on the dead man's tunic, and sheathed it. Then it bent down and picked the body up, heaved it up onto its shoulders and turned to head back to camp.
And found itself facing a glowing figure that stood in midair a foot above the wheat, a glittering white crystal in its hands, two smaller glowing crystals mounted on either end of a staff slung across the figure's shoulders.
For a moment the two beings faced each other, nightwalker and New Magician, scarcely two yards apart. Then the magician held out his large crystal, pushing it practically into the nightwalker's face. Two rippling streams of golden force spilled from the lesser crystals into the greater one; then a flash of white fire burst from the large crystal and instantly consumed the nightwalker and its grisly burden, reducing them both to fine ash.
Tebas Tudan settled to the ground and kicked at the little pile of hot ash, scattering it among the trampled wheat.
What a waste, he thought. If he had been just a few minutes sooner, a little closer, he might have saved the deserter's life – but magical fire could not be projected more than a couple of yards, and he had not been able to get near enough in time.
The man might have been useful; General Balinus wanted to know everything he could about how the Nazakri operated. This deserter might even have known why the rebels weren't marching tonight, why they were digging a pit instead. Tebas suspected it had something to do with Rebiri's magic, with whatever power source he had found for his crystals.
It infuriated Tebas Tudan to know that it was the New Magic that had been perverted to this, to the creation of nightwalkers and this idiotic vengeance march. It infuriated him even more that he, Vrai Burrai's own pupil and supposedly one of the true experts in the New Magic, could not figure out how Rebiri Nazakri had done it.
Well, he would have
to return to Balinus and report the incident – and after using so much of his stored sunlight in the fiery burst that had destroyed the nightwalker, he would have to walk at least part of the way.
Whatever the Nazakri used for power was far less exhaustible than sunlight – yet another cause for annoyance. The Olnami wizard just seemed to keep on going and going and going, raising corpses as nightwalkers and burning down anything in his path...
How did he do it?
With an annoyed grimace, Tebas Tudan turned and began walking back toward the Domdur camp.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Malledd pushed aside a parchment, set his ivory case down, and sat on the writing table. It was clear that he was going to be here for awhile.
“Tell me about these nightwalkers,” he said.
Vadeviya shrugged. “You know the old stories,” he said. “A nightwalker is a corpse that lives again, sleeping by day and active at night. Having died once, they're hard to kill – the old stories vary on how to destroy them, but the reports from Govya indicate that the only thing that seems to work is to separate the heart from the brain. The easiest way to do that – not that it's easy – is to cut off their heads; our soldiers have experimented with captives, sticking them as full of swords and spears as a pomegranate is full of seeds, lopping off arms and legs, and so on, and as long as the brain and heart had any connection, even if it's merely a thread, the nightwalkers still lived. They're utterly fearless, and stronger than living men – perhaps because they're unafraid of hurting themselves. Some of them give every appearance of being ordinary people, so that spies were a concern during the fighting in Govya, while others have decayed into foul-smelling monstrosities.”
“And flowers...”
“Flowers do nothing. Perhaps these things are not truly what our ancestors called nightwalkers, but we have no better name for them.”
“They sleep during the day, though – can't they be beheaded while they're asleep?”
Vadeviya sighed. “I am a scholar, Malledd, I'm not a strategist, nor am I one of the messenger magicians relaying everything; I don't know all the details. They tell me some of what they learn in hopes I'll be able to find something helpful in the old records – which I have not been able to do. As I understand it, the nightwalkers do indeed sleep during the day, after a fashion – or perhaps they return to death – but they're guarded by mortal men, soldiers recruited by Rebiri Nazakri. Their guards need only keep our men away until sunset each day. And the Nazakri can always create more nightwalkers if we destroy them.”
“So the stories of victories are true, then? Not lies?”
Vadeviya nodded. “They are true,” he said, “but partial truths. The New Magic can be very effective against the nightwalkers, and our garrison troops have fought bravely. We have destroyed companies of nightwalkers, and slaughtered Olnamian rebels, but there are always more, and our own losses have been heavy, heavier than we are willing to admit. We need to destroy Rebiri Nazakri, and we have not even come close to that.”
“But the army will?”
“The theory is,” Vadeviya said, “that the Imperial Army now preparing at Seidabar will be so overwhelming that it will sweep right through the nightwalkers and the rebels, and even Rebiri Nazakri's magic will be unable to stop it. The New Magicians and a cadre of priests are expected to defeat the sorcerer himself, and put an end to the menace.”
“You don't sound convinced.”
Vadeviya sighed. “I'm not, Malledd,” he admitted. “We don't know what the Nazakri's magic is; how can we know enough to be sure we can defeat it? Twenty years ago we'd have asked the gods what to do; now we can't. There are some who believe that this war is a test the gods have set us, to see if the Domdur still deserve to rule – and maybe they're right. Maybe the gods have turned against us, and this Nazakri is their new champion. It's all guesswork.”
“Who is this Nazakri, anyway? Why has he defied the Empire?”
“Do you know, it took us almost five years to learn even that much? That's yet another reason I am not optimistic.”
“But you did learn it? Who is he?”
“An Olnamian, a descendant of the last of the old Olnamian warlords. Apparently his family, the Nazakri, swore vengeance against the Domdur when they were defeated three hundred years ago, but it's only the discovery of his black magic that has actually given this Rebiri the power to attempt anything.”
“But... but three hundred years?” Malledd stared. He tried to imagine how a family could hold a grudge for so long. His own family did not even know their ancestry that far back, let alone which side they had fought on in any of the old wars.
“Some people have long memories,” Vadeviya said. “Not all the world is like the central provinces.”
“I know that!” Malledd snapped – but in fact, he had never really thought about it much. He had always known that all those faraway places and foreign lands had been different once, but weren't they all Domdur now?
Apparently not.
“Malledd,” Vadeviya said, “why did you come here today?”
“To ask you about the war, of course.”
Vadeviya smiled gently. “Of course. But why did you want to ask? Because you think you might be needed, that the gods want you to save the Empire from this evil wizard?”
Malledd flushed. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I just want to know what's become of Onnell and Timuan and Bousian and the rest, and when we can expect them to come home – if they ever do. Their families miss them, priest, but they expect them to come marching home covered in glory in a few more triads. If they're more likely to wind up as corpses on some distant battlefield, I'd like to know it.”
“So you can be the bearer of bad tidings, the sour voice in the corner that spoils the feast, the pessimist everyone ignores until he's proven right, whereupon everyone hates him for it?”
“Something like that,” Malledd admitted wryly.
Vadeviya shook his head. “I don't know what's happened to your townsmen, I'm afraid, or what their fate will be.”
“I don't expect you to foresee the future,” Malledd said. “I just want an honest opinion of their chances.”
“I don't have one,” Vadeviya said. “I don't know enough. Rebiri Nazakri is a mystery. It may be that the optimists on the Imperial Council are right, and the army will sweep through the rebels, nightwalkers and all, like a scythe through ripe wheat, and the Nazakri will die there, or be dragged before the Empress in chains – but for all I know, it may be that the sorcerer's magic will blast the army in a moment, and he'll be at the gates of Seidabar before the snows come.”
Malledd frowned. “Doesn't anyone know?”
“Only the gods,” Vadeviya said. “And they, alas, are no longer speaking to us.”
“Does anyone know more than you do?”
“Oh, certainly! I'm no expert on this; my job is to study the gods, not to keep up on the latest war news.”
“Who knows more, then?”
Vadeviya considered. “Well, I would suppose the messenger magicians would know the most. They relay all the reports, after all.”
Malledd nodded. “I want to talk to them,” he said.
Vadeviya blinked slowly and studied Malledd.
“That's not ordinarily permitted, you know,” he said. “Only priests and imperial officials, or people who pay an outrageous tribute, are allowed to address the messengers directly. Anyone else must provide his messages in writing, and receive an answer in writing, if he receives an answer at all.”
Malledd had never before had any reason to use the temple's communication services, so this was news to him, but it was not entirely unexpected.
“I'm not anyone else,” he said, tapping the ivory letter-case. If these priests were going to claim he was the chosen of the gods, then he was going to use that. If they backed down and refused him anything, he would use that as proof that the story was a fraud and would be free of this burden that confounded priest had put
on him the day he was born.
“So you aren't,” Vadeviya agreed. He stood up and stretched. “Come on, then.”
Disappointed that Vadeviya had not given him a way out but nonetheless intrigued, Malledd followed the old man through the temple corridors, down a narrow curving staircase to a lower level that was cool and dim, and then down another set of steps farther along, until at last Vadeviya led him into a round windowless chamber so deep within the temple complex that no sunlight reached it, even indirectly, and the air was almost chilly.
They entered through a broad, open archway. Half a dozen doors were spaced along the curve of the opposite side, barely visible in the light of the single candle that stood on a table in the center of the circular room.
An elderly priestess was seated at that table, reading a codex by candlelight; she looked up, startled, as the two men entered. When she recognized Vadeviya she closed her book and set it aside.
“How can I help you?” she asked politely.
“The divine champion wishes to speak to the magicians,” Vadeviya said.
Malledd suppressed a start. Vadeviya had agreed not to reveal his identity...
But then, how else was the old man to convince the magicians to talk to Malledd? And in fact, he had not actually said that Malledd was the champion, merely that the champion wished to speak to the magicians.
“Champion?” she said, startled anew. “Oh!” She looked at Malledd. “Is this really he?”
“So it would seem,” Vadeviya said.
That cut even closer to directly revealing the truth. Malledd frowned.
“I'm honored to meet you, sir,” she said, nodding her head. “Would you prefer to speak to the magicians individually, or all at once?”
“Individually would be fine,” Malledd said, forcing the frown from his face.
She nodded, and turned to scan the doors – seven of them, Malledd realized, not the six he had first thought. Five were closed, two slightly ajar. She rose from her chair and crossed to the first open door, second from the left, and rapped lightly. “Dokar?” she asked.
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