And yet the bird would know where to find water and game.
For a morning he followed, the hawk never lost from his sight. Turning and returning, its circles nar shy;rowing, the bird seemed attentive, almost protective. Far to the west a column of smoke hovered on the horizon-the gray shadow that Vincus had seen the day before, now obviously no mirage, but the watch-fires surrounding an armed encampment.
Istarians. Had he been slightly wiser, and hadn't needed to follow the hawk, he might have walked right into their camp. Vincus shuddered to think what might have happened.
He quickened his step, searching the sky for the hawk that had become his omen and guide.
Seated on his horse, shielding his eyes against the sunset, the sergeant watched the man trudge out of the foothills and onto the dry, waving margins of the grasslands.
A solitary wanderer. On foot.
The sergeant nodded to his three companions- troopers, skilled swordsmen, and even more skillful riders. Dressed in the light brown cotton robes and red kaffiyeh of the Istarian desert fighters, mounted on roan horses, they blended with the brown land shy;scape until, with the blinding sun around them, they were almost invisible-mirage warriors on the high ridge.
In tight formation, the four cavalrymen descended from the high ground toward the trespasser, their horses breasting the tall brown grass in long surges, overtaking him quickly when the grass gave way to rocky flatland.
The war horses' hooves clattered over the ground, kicking up stones and dust. Nearly engulfed, the traveler turned, raised his hands, began an elaborate series of gestures and signals.
Mage! the sergeant's instincts cried. Somatic prepa shy;rations! Since the strange death of his lieutenant- the one dissolved by the spells of a dark enchanter-a month ago, he was wary of encounters with solitary men in the desert.
With the quick reflexes practiced over a dozen years of horse-soldiering, the sergeant leaned back in the saddle, reined his horse to a skidding halt. One of the troopers, a young man named Parcus, weaved and nearly fell as he fumbled to draw forth his short bow.
"Move your hands no more, sir!" the sergeant shouted. "Upon your life, be still!"
Abruptly, the fellow buried his hands in the folds of his tunic. Two of the troopers dismounted and approached him.
Parcus stared at the trespasser over the shaft of a nocked arrow.
Vincus clenched his fists hard in his tunic as the Istarian troopers drew near, tightening his grip on the silver crescents hidden in his robes.
The plains were no city street. Here were no shad shy;ows, no alleys, no dark thresholds. Here in flat bare country and relentless sunlight, there was no place to hide.
He had begun to pray at the sound of hoofbeats, praying ceaselessly until the bowman menaced and the sergeant shouted his warning.
They would find the broken collar. They would….
"Who are you?" the sergeant asked coldly, stand shy;ing up in the saddle.
Vincus did not, could not answer. His great golden eyes never blinked.
"Bring him to me, Crotalus," the sergeant ordered.
The trooper dismounted and seized Vincus roughly by the shoulders.
Aloft in a swirl of wind, his sharp eye scanning the edge of the desert, Lucas saw the riders sur shy;round the man. Saw them dismount, approach him, and drag him toward the horses.
Something in the bird-an old instruction from his mistress, perhaps, or something embedded and pat shy;terned since his time in the egg-stirred him to action.
Folding his wings, the hawk plunged from the sky a hundred, two hundred, five hundred feet. The bird dove gracefully, its talons extended like deadly, curved knives, the falconer's jesses and bells trailing.
In a shimmer of ringing music, Lucas struck the sergeant in the back of the neck just as the man leaned over to question Vincus. The sergeant fell headlong, neck broken in a heap of spattered robes, his horse bolting away with a terrified whinny.
The bird jerked to free himself from the kill, the awkward jesses tangling and knotting in the fabric of the sergeant's robes.
He flies bound. Enslaved, too! Vincus thought. Somehow the thought inspired him.
With a fierce, powerful surge, he shook loose the astonished troopers. Crotalus spun about, his sword ringing as it fell to the hard ground. The other man, quicker and more resourceful, had already lifted his spear.
Rolling away from the flashing pont, Vincus drew forth the slivers of his collar, the edges forming deadly hooks on each side of each hand. They glit shy;tered in the dying sun like scimitars, like the talons of the hawk. Before the spearman could recover, the broken collar's sharp edges whipped cleanly and fatally into his throat. Vincus pushed him aside in a fierce, pantherlike rush toward Crotalus, who had managed to find and draw his crossbow from its place on the saddle of his skittish horse, just as Lucas hopped free of his tangles.
A piercing cry and the flap of wings about his head forced Crotalus's point-blank aim high, and the bolt whizzed over Vincus's shoulder, skidding long and hollowly over the cracked earth behind him. With a lunging leap, Vincus wrestled Crotalus to the ground, and the two men scuffled briefly, until the other collar half flashed high in the sunlight and plunged downward.
Moving away from Crotalus, who had breathed his last foul breath, Vincus covered his head, still expecting a rain of arrows from the last trooper's direction. But he heard the soldier cry out weakly, and looked up to see him already borne far away atop his rampaging horse, the two remaining steeds following close behind.
In high pursuit of them, Lucas swooped and glided and dodged, all the while crying shrilly until they were dwindling specks on the horizon.
Vincus stood up painfully, more bruised than he first had realized by the struggle with the outriders.
The hawk, unruffled and fresh, sailed back to him through the climbing dusk. With a cry it circled overhead, then soared toward the southwest, its flight now framed by Lunitari low in the sky.
His heart rejoicing for the bird-for its mastery and bravery-Vincus threw his hands up and fol shy;lowed eagerly. They had fought together. The hawk would not betray him.
When darkness had fallen and the stars spangled the clear sky, a comforting light seemed to rise from the looming shadows.
Vincus laughed and quickened his pace. He called to mind again the druid's patterns in the sand of the rena garden, the arranged stones, and the instructions.
At last Vincus knew where he was.
The camp of the rebels lay ahead in a soft, waver shy;ing firelight.
Chapter 19
Silently, moving through the tall grass like he moved through Istarian alleys, Vincus made his way to the edge of the rebel encampment.
He was not sure, actually, why he chose such secrecy. After all, he had come this far, through dan shy;gerous country and Istarian patrols, and finally, with the aid of the mysterious hawk, had reached his des shy;tination. But all of his instincts-born, perhaps, of his years in slavery and his childhood on the fringes of Bywall-urged him to be cautious, not to drop his guard just yet.
So he approached the camp stealthily, crouched low to make his movements small and quick through the grass.
The camp was laid out in three concentric circles. The outermost contained the outposts and fires of the sentries, the first warning line against assault or raid.
The men here were young: sharp-eyed, but also inexperienced. If an army had approached, they would have surely given warning, but Vincus was a solitary traveler, and a slippery, streetwise one at that.
Folding his tattered cloak and the bag Vaananen had given him close to his side, Vincus moved easily between two sentries-sallow-faced bandit boys from Thoradin, part of Gormion's following. He crept around the shadowy side of the first tent he came to, then waited until a cloud passed over the red moon, and raced through an open dry expanse until he reached another tent, another shadow, the second circle of the camp.
Instantly, Vincus knew he was among more sea s
hy;soned and watchful troops. These were men and women who had fought the year's war in the service of Fordus Firesoul, and had probably come to the Water Prophet battle-scarred and ready.
As Vincus crouched in the tent shadow, he sud shy;denly heard a low growling behind him. Slowly he turned to face a snarling midsized dog, its teeth bared and its fur bristling with aggression.
Vincus extended his hand. With the last scrap of his Istarian traveling rations, he bribed the dog to silence. He sat in the darkness, rubbing the willow-wounds that scored his shoulders, feeding bread to his newfound friend, mulling over a dozen ways- all unsatisfactory-to try to reach the center of the camp.
Something rattled against the book in the bottom of the bag. Reaching into the dark folds, gently brushing away the curious, snuffling dog, Vincus drew forth something hard and oblong, smelling green and citric, like the soft, thick husk of a freshly fallen walnut.
A zizyphus fruit. It could be nothing else.
Vincus wrinkled his nose. The zizyphus was ined shy;ible, good only for a soporific-to induce the sleep that banished pain. Clerics and druids made infu shy;sions from the fruit that their patients would inhale, and, within a matter of minutes …
Vincus smiled, tight-lipped.
Tossing the very last crust of bread into the shad shy;ows, he waited until the dog vanished after it, then crept around the side of the tent.
He approached another tight circle of tents and fires, perhaps a hundred yards away, that marked the command post of the rebel army. Vincus fell to his belly at the sight of two sentries standing watch by a fire in the open ground.
Raindiver and Bittern, the Plainsman sentries, stood faithfully at their posts, exchanging few words and staring out into the darkness. The banked fire between them was dim but warm, and while they watched, their thoughts slipped in and out of vigi shy;lance like the moon slipped in and out of the scat shy;tered clouds above the plains.
It was a night like any other, until something whistled by Raindiver's ear and skittered into the ashes, scattering sparks and filling the air with a thick, acrid smoke.
Bittern bent toward the fire and saw the small, oblong seed aflame in its very heart. Suddenly, the seed and the fire began to waver and double and blur, and he looked up to call to Raindiver, to warn him that something … something …
But Raindiver was already facedown in the grass, snoring contentedly.
Bittern dropped to his knees and tried to call out to the other sentries, to Fordus or Northstar, but another cloud seemed to pass over the moon and the sky and the fire went dark, and he felt himself falling.
Someone brushed by him, running. Bittern tried to shout again-a cry of alarm, of warning. But a pleas shy;ant dreamless sleep rushed over him, and he remem shy;bered nothing more.
The man had the look of a Prophet.
Vincus, belly-down in the dark grass like some enormous lizard, watched the auburn-haired Plains shy;man from a distance.
It was Fordus, he was certain. The slight blond woman who stood beside him in the firelight spoke in sign language-a strangely inflected version, but easy enough to interpret.
And there was the hawk, perched on a ring near her!
She had called the man "Commander." Called him "Prophet."
Vincus rose to his knees, peering through the last stretch of darkness toward the firelight. Not yet, he told himself. I will wait here for a while. For there is something more I am supposed to know.
"Bring me water!" Fordus commanded, his voice deep and melodious and a little too loud. "Bring meat, and a cup of wine as well."
A young man leapt at his command and rushed off into the darkness.
"Where is that boy? Where is the wine?" Fordus asked, much too soon. His followers stood about him uncomfortably, averting their eyes as he stared at each of them.
Finally, Fordus turned in Vincus's direction.
Though Vincus was well out of sight, hidden by tall grass and shadow, the firelight showed him the full face of the Prophet-the handsome, windburnt features and the auburn beard.
Unusual for a Plainsman. As were the eyes.
Vincus had seen that color before. Sky-blue? Sea-blue? Had seen it in Istar …
At the School of the Games? No. It must have been at the Kingpriest's Tower.
Barely had the name crossed through his thoughts than Vincus remembered. The hushed room of the great Council Hall, the man almost swallowed by a globe of brilliant white light, reflected off the pol shy;ished marble and the luminous pellidryn stones that spangled the Imperial Throne.
The Kingpriest. The Kingpriest had eyes like that.
And the other features. The thin aristocratic nose, the high cheekbones, and even the auburn hair. The resemblance was uncanny. Fordus might have been the Kingpriest's brother. Or …
Vincus's thoughts recoiled from the prospect. The priesthood of Istar was austere and proper. Suppose the Kingpriest…
It was a thought he could not even finish.
For a moment he lay silent in the darkness, his thoughts far away-on Vaananen, on those in ser shy;vice to the Tower and the city. He had come a long way with a single message of great importance.
But now, having seen what he had seen, would he deliver that message?
He would think on this a while, find a sheltered place in a greater darkness. He would have the night, at least, perhaps until sunrise. Then he would decide whether to approach the Water Prophet, or
go-He started to back away from the firelight, intent on losing himself somewhere outside the encircled tents. But suddenly, rough hands seized him by the shoulders and jerked him to his feet. Vincus spun around, but his attacker caught his arm and, with a flawless wrestler's maneuver, twisted it behind his back.
Hot pain shot through Vincus's shoulder, and he looked into the face of his assailant.
A Lucanesti elf, his arms encrusted with the first bejewellings of middle age, regarded Vincus calmly. "I am not sure whether your intentions are good or ill," the elf whispered. "But perhaps by other fires and among other people, we can find out just who you are, and why you spy on Fordus Firesoul."
* * * * *
The elf's name was Stormlight. He was a lieu shy;tenant of the War Prophet, but had fallen from favor in some recent dispute of policy.
After he seized Vineus near Fordus's fire and tents, Stormlight had taken his captive to the other side of the encampment entirely-to quiet quarters, where a half dozen veteran Plainsmen waited in silence.
Stormlight had questioned Vincus, and when he failed to understand the sign language, had reluc shy;tantly sent for the woman, the one with the yellow hair, whose name was Larken. With her odd, alien gestures, she translated Vincus's signs in her own silence.
"What proof have you that you were a slave in Istar?" Stormlight asked finally, regarding Vincus with a stare that was melancholy but not unkind.
Vincus showed him the collar, how the pieces fit together, how they spelled his name. Stormlight nodded, placed the pieces around Vincus's neck, and was satisfied they fit. He started to ask another question, then fell silent.
"How did you find us?" he asked finally, and Vin shy;cus told of his journey, of the pass through the mountains and his guidance by the benevolent hawk.
It was a god, he signed. / am sure it was a god taking the bird's form to guide me. He camps with you? I saw him perched by your fire.
Larken smiled as she translated his gestures for Stormlight.
The elf's expression softened.
"And why have you found us?" he asked. "What do you ask of us? Or what do you bring us?"
Vincus gestured excitedly, knelt on the ground. Stormlight dropped beside him, and the Plainsmen, Larken, and Gormion stood above them, watching curiously and intently.
Though he had mistrusted Fordus from the start, Vincus felt surprisingly safe in the company of the elf. He knew that Vaananen's glyphs were meant for this man, for Stormlight was one who asked instead of commanded.
To Vincu
s, that was a sign of wisdom and discern shy;ment. He had heard enough of command in his servitude.
Confidently, he drew the five glyphs on the ground before Stormlight. After he was finished, he looked up.
Stormlight stared at the glyphs intently.
"Desert's Edge," he said. "Sixth Day of Lunitari. No Wind."
It seemed to be nothing new to him until he reached the fourth glyph.
"The Leopard? And … there is a fifth one that fol shy;lows. Something dreadfully important here."
I shall bring Fordus, Larken signed, but Stormlight waved the thought away.
"Not this time."
Larken frowned, a question forming in her thoughts.
Stormlight stared at Vincus, and a long moment passed in which the camp lay silent.
"Is the Sixth Legion in Istar, Vincus?" Stormlight asked.
Elatedly, Vincus nodded, gesturing excitedly as Larken struggled to translate his account of his own discoveries, of conveying the news to Vaananen, of the whole series of events that boded danger for For shy;dus and the rebels.
Stormlight leaned back, his face lost for a moment in the shadow. Then, craning toward the fifth glyph, he read it and proclaimed: "Beware the dark man."
He looked up at Vincus, then at Larken. A crooked, bemused smile played at the corner of his mouth.
"Hear the word of the Prophet," he whispered, with a laugh.
"Beware the lady," he said flatly. For a while he knelt before the fifth glyph, tracing its outline with a callused finger.
"I see," he murmured. "I should have known by the amber eyes. Tamex . . . Tanila . . . They looked alike. Reptilian.
"And then … the dragon tracks through the Tears of Mishakal!"
* * * * *
"One will ask for it soon," Vaananen had said. "And you will know it is right to give the book to that person." •
So Vincus gave the book to Stormlight, trusting the same instinct that had guided him through the desert and steered him from Fordus at the last moment.
After all, the book was written in Lucanesti. What other sign could a man expect?
The Dark Queen Page 20