“You make it sound as if they’re our betters.”
“In these jungles, they are. Here they’re the hunters and we’re the prey. I told you the trip would be harder from now on. We’ll burn no fire, cook no food, and pitch no tent. Our only hope of survival lies in slipping through unnoticed.”
“Should we bury them?” Wesley asked.
“What the animals do not touch, neither should we. It would announce our presence to the whole jungle. It’s also not wise to linger. We should press on with all haste.”
They traveled steadily downward now, following a rapidly flowing river through a cleft in the mountains. The lower they went, the higher the canopy rose, and the darker their world became. They camped along a bank where the river swirled around a break of boulders. With no fire or tent, it was not much of a camp. They huddled on a bare sandy patch exposed by a shift in the river’s bend, eating cold salted meat. Royce sat at the edge of the camp and watched Thranic watching him.
They had played this game each night since the village. Royce was certain Bernie had filled Thranic’s head with numerous stories about his reign of terror against the Diamond. Thranic appeared aloof, but Royce was certain Bernie’s words had wormed in nonetheless. Without Staul, and with Bernie no longer a trusted ally, Thranic was dramatically weakened. The sentinel’s confrontation with Wesley had revealed Thranic’s growing desperation—his failure another setback. The balance had shifted, he slipped from the hunter to the hunted, and with each day Royce grew stronger.
Royce enjoyed the game. He liked watching the shadows growing under Thranic’s eyes as he got less and less sleep. He savored the way Thranic spun, his eyes searching rapidly for Royce, whenever an animal rustled branches behind him on the trail. Mental torture was never something Royce aimed for, but in Thranic’s case he was making an exception.
Royce’s quick turn had saved his life. Although he might have bled to death if Hadrian and the others had not found him, or died from fever if the Tenkin woman had not helped, the wound itself was relatively superficial. For several days he had portrayed being weaker than he was. He had pain when pressing on his side and was still experiencing some lack of movement, but for the most part he was his old self again.
Royce might have continued the game longer, but it was becoming too dangerous. Wesley’s defiance had changed the playing field. The sentinel’s options were diminishing. The ploy to force Wesley’s hand had been his last civil gambit. As long as Wesley remained a legitimate leader, those like Wyatt, Grady, Derning, and Poe would side with him. Royce knew Thranic saw Wesley as a pawn blocking his forward movement, one that he would need removed. It was time to deal with the sentinel.
Royce curled up to sleep with the rest of them, but selected a place hidden by a small thicket of plants. In the darkness he lay there only briefly before leaving his blanket filled with brush and melted into the jungle.
Thranic had chosen to bed down near the river, which Royce thought considerate, since he intended to dispose of the sentinel’s body in the strong current. Royce slipped around the outside of the camp until he came to where Bernie and Levy slept, but Thranic was missing.
Thwack! A narrow tree trunk splintered.
At the last moment, Royce had moved. A crossbow bolt lodged itself in the wood where a second before he had been crouching.
Thranic struggled desperately to crank back the string on his weapon. “Did you think to find me in my bed?” he said. “Did you really think killing me would be that easy—elf?”
He cranked back on the gear.
“You shouldn’t fear me so much. I’m here to help you. It’s my responsibility to help all of you. I’ll cleanse the darkness in your hearts. I’ll free you of the burden of your disgusting, offensive life. You no longer need to be an affront to Maribor. I’ll save you!”
“And who will save you?” Royce replied.
He was just a few feet from where he had been. Thranic glanced down to set the bolt in the track. He lifted the bow, but when he looked up, Royce was gone.
“What do you mean?” Thranic asked, hoping Royce would reveal his position.
“You see awfully well in the dark, Thranic,” Royce said from his right.
Thranic turned and fired, but the bolt merely ripped through an empty thicket.
“Well, but not perfectly,” Royce observed, appearing once more, but much closer. Thranic immediately began ratcheting back his bow.
He had two more bolts.
“You also managed to slip into the trees without me seeing you. And you crept up behind me. That’s indeed remarkable. How old are you, Thranic? I’ll bet you’re older than you look.”
The sentinel loaded the bolt and looked up, but once more Royce was gone.
“What are you driving at, elf?” Thranic asked, holding his crossbow at his hip. Backing against a tree, he peered around the jungle.
“We’re alike, you and I,” Royce said from behind him.
Thranic spun around. He saw movement slipping through the brush and fired. The shot went wide and he cursed. Thranic began cranking back the string once more.
“Is that why you do it?” Royce asked. “Is that why you torture elves? Tell me, are you purging them—or yourself?”
“Shut up!” Thranic’s hand slipped on the gear and the string snapped back, slashing his fingers. He was shaking now.
“You can’t kill the elf inside, so you torture and murder all those you find.”
He was closer.
“I said shut up!”
“How much elven blood does it take to wash away the sin of being one yourself?”
Closer still.
“Damn you!” he screamed, fighting with the bow, which refused to cooperate with his shaking fingers.
He drew the string back again only to have it jump the track and snap free. He put a foot through the loop at the bow’s nose and pulled. Now it was stuck. He pressed desperately on the ratchet handle. It refused to move. Crack! The winch snapped.
In horror, Thranic stopped breathing as he looked down. He struggled to pull the bowstring back with just the strength of his arms. He pulled with all his might, but he could not get it to the catch. He was giving Melborn too much time. He let the bow fall to the grass and drew his dagger.
He waited. He listened. He spun. He looked.
He was alone.
“Get up.” Hadrian woke to Royce’s voice as his friend moved through the camp. He knew the tone and instantly got to his feet.
“What is it?”
“Company,” Royce told him. “Wake everyone.”
“What’s happening?” Wesley asked groggily as the camp slowly came alive.
“Quiet,” Royce whispered. He crouched with his dagger drawn, staring out into the darkness.
“Ghazel?” Grady asked.
“Something,” Royce replied. “A lot of somethings.”
The rest of them heard it now, twigs snapping and leaves rustling. They were all on their feet with weapons drawn.
“Backs to the river!” Wesley shouted.
Ahead of them a light appeared, then disappeared, and then another blinked. Two more flickered off to the right and left and sounds of movement grew louder and closer. Dovin Thranic stumbled back into camp, causing a brief alarm. Several people looked at him oddly but said nothing.
Everyone’s attention remained on sounds from the trees.
Shadowy figures carried torches within the thick weave of the jungle. Slowly they climbed out of the brush and into the clearing around the riverbank. Twenty approached from all sides at once. At first, they appeared to be strange, monstrous beasts. When they fully entered the clearing, Hadrian saw that they were men: stocky, bull-necked brutes with white-painted faces, bone armor, and headdresses of long feathers. They moved with ease through the dense brush. In their hands were crude clubs, axes, and spears. The men circled in silence, creeping forward.
“We come in peace!” Hadrian heard Dilladrum shout in Tenkin, his voice so
unding weak. “We have come to see Warlord Erandabon. We bear a message for him.”
As they grew nearer, the men began hooting and howling, shaking their weapons. Some brandished teeth, while others beat their chests or stomped naked feet.
Dilladrum repeated his statement.
One of the larger men, who carried a decorated war axe, stepped forward and approached Dilladrum. “What message?” the Tenkin asked in a harsh, shallow voice.
“It is a sealed letter,” Dilladrum replied. “To be given only to the warlord.”
The man eyed each of them carefully. He grinned and then nodded. “Follow.”
Although it was the best they could expect, Dilladrum mopped his forehead with his sleeve as he explained the conversation to the party.
The Tenkin howled orders. Torches went out and the rest melted back into the jungle. The leader remained as they quickly broke camp. Then, with a motion for them to follow, he ran back into the trees, his torch lighting the way. He led them at a brisk pace that had everyone panting for breath—and Bulard near collapse. Dilladrum shouted forward for a rest or at least a slower pace. The only response was laughter.
“Our new friends aren’t terribly considerate of an old man.” Bulard panted in between wheezing inhales.
“That’s enough!” Wesley shouted, and raised a hand for them to stop. The crew of the Emerald Storm needed little persuasion to take a break. The Tenkin and his torch continued forward, disappearing into the trees. “If he wants to keep jogging on without us, let him!”
“He’s not,” Royce commented. “He’s hiding in the trees up ahead with his torch out. There are also several on either side of us, and more than a few to our rear.”
Wesley looked around, then said, “I don’t see anything at all.”
Royce smiled. “What good is it having an elf in your crew if you can’t make use of him?”
Wesley raised an eyebrow, looked back out into the trees, then gave up altogether. He pulled the cork from his water bag, took a swig, and passed it around. Turning his attention to the historian, who sat in the dirt doubled over, he asked, “How you doing, Mr. Bulard?”
Bulard’s red face came up. He was sweating badly, his thin hair matted to his head. He said nothing, his mouth preoccupied with the effort of sucking in air, but he managed to offer a smile and a reassuring nod.
“Good,” Wesley said, “let’s proceed, but we will set the pace. Let’s not have them exhausting us.”
“Aye,” Derning agreed, wiping his mouth after his turn at the water. “It would be just the thing for them to run us in circles until we collapse, then fall on us and slit our throats before we can catch our breaths.”
“Maybe that’s what happened to the others we spotted. Perhaps it was these blokes,” Grady speculated.
“We’re going somewhere,” Royce replied. “I can smell the sea.”
Hadrian had not noticed it until that moment, but he could taste the salt in the air. What he had assumed was wind in the trees he now realized was the voice of the ocean.
“Let’s continue, shall we, gentlemen?” Wesley said, moving them out. As they started, the Tenkin’s torch appeared once more and moved on ahead. Wesley refused to chase it, keeping them at a comfortable pace. The torch returned, and after a few more attempts to coax them, gave up. Instead, the man carrying it matched their stride.
Travel progressed sharply downward. The route soon became a rocky trail that plummeted to the face of a cliff. Below they could hear the crashing of waves. As dawn approached, they could see their destination. A stone fortress rose high on a rocky promontory that jutted into the ocean and guarded a natural harbor hundreds of feet below. The Palace of the Four Winds looked ancient, weathered by wind and rain until it matched the stained and pitted face of the dark granite upon which it sat. The palace was built of massive blocks, and it was inconceivable that men could have placed such large stones. Displaying the same austerity as the Tenkin, it lacked ornamentation. Ships filled the large sheltered bay on the lee side of the point. There were hundreds, all with reefed black sails.
When they approached the great gate, their guide stopped. “Weapons are not allowed past this point.”
Wesley scowled as Dilladrum translated, but he did not protest. This was the custom even in Avryn. One did not expect to walk armed into a lord’s castle. They presented their weapons and Hadrian noted that neither Thranic nor Royce surrendered any.
Thranic had been acting oddly ever since stumbling into camp. He had not said a word and his eyes never left Royce.
They entered the fortress, where a dozen well-equipped guards looked down from ramparts and many more lined their route. The exterior looked nearly ruined. Stone blocks had fallen and were left broken on the ground.
Inside, the castle decor was no more cheerful. Here, too, the withering decay of centuries of neglect had left the once-great edifice little more than a primordial cave. Roots and fungi grew along the corridor crevices, and dead leaves clustered in corners where the swirl of drafts deposited them. Dust, dirt, and cobwebs obscured the ancient decorative carvings, sculptures, and chiseled writings.
Over the walls, the Tenkin had strung crude banners, long pennants that depicted a white Tenkin-style axe on a black field. Just as in Oudorro, row upon row of shields hung from the ceiling like bats in a cavern. A huge fireplace occupied one whole side of the great chamber, a massive gaping maw of a hearth, in which an entire tree trunk smoldered. Upon the floor lay the skin of a tiger, whose head stared with gleaming emerald eyes and yellowing fangs. A stone throne stood at the far end of the hall. The base of the chair had cracked where a vine intertwined the legs, making it list. Its seat was draped in a thick piling of animal skins and on it sat a wild-eyed man.
His head sported a tempest of hair, long and black with streaks of white, jutting in all directions. Deep cuts and burns scarred his face. Thick brows overshadowed bright, explosive eyes, which darted about rapidly, rolling in his skull like marbles struggling to free themselves from the confines of his head. He was bare-chested except for an elaborate vest of small laced bones. His long fingers absently toyed with a large bloodstained axe lying across his lap.
“Who is this?” the warlord asked in Tenkin, his loud, disturbing voice echoed from the walls. “Who is this that enters the hall of Erandabon unannounced and unheralded? Who treads Erandabon’s forest like sheep to be gathered? Who dares seek Erandabon in his den, his holy place?”
A strange assortment of people surrounded him, and all eyes were on the party as they entered. Toothless, tattooed men spilled drinks while women with matted hair and painted eyes swayed back and forth to unheard rhythms. One lounged naked upon a silk cushion, with a massive snake coiled about her body as she whispered to it. Beside her an old hairless man with yellow nails as long as his fingers painted curious designs on the floor, and everywhere the hall was choked with the smoke of burning tulan leaves, which smoldered in a central brazier.
In the darkest shadows were others. Hadrian could barely make them out through the fog of smoke and the flickering firelight. They clustered in the dark, making faint staccato chattering sounds like the whine of cicadas. Hadrian knew that sound well. He could not see them, merely the suggestion of movement cast in shadows upon stone. They shifted nervously, anxiously, like a pack of hungry dogs, their motions jittery and too fast to be human.
Dilladrum shooed Wesley forward. Wesley took a breath and said, “I am Midshipman Wesley Belstrad, acting captain of what remains of the crew of Her Imperial Eminence’s ship the Emerald Storm, out of Aquesta. I have a message for you, Your Lordship.” He bowed deeply. Hadrian found it comical that a lad of such noble bearing bowed before the likes of Erandabon Gile, who was just shy of a madman.
“Long Erandabon has waited for word.” The man upon the throne spoke in Apelanese. “Long Erandabon has counted the moons and the stars. The waves crash, the ships approach and gather, the darkness grows, and still Erandabon waits. Sits and waits. Wait
s and sits. The great shadow is growing in the north. The gods come once more, bringing death and horror to all. The undying will crush the world beneath their step, and Erandabon is made to wait. Where is this message? Speak! Speak!”
Wesley took a step forward as he pulled the letter from his coat, but paused after noticing the broken seal. As he hesitated, an overly thin man dressed in feathers and paint snatched the letter away. He growled at Wesley like a dog showing his teeth. “Not approach the great Erandabon with unclean hands!”
The feathered man handed the message to the warlord, who studied it for a moment, his eyes racing madly back and forth. A terrible grin grew across his face, and he tore the note into pieces and began eating them. It did not take long, and while he ate, no one said a word. With his final swallow, the warlord raised his hand and said, “Lock them away.”
Wesley looked stunned as Tenkin guards approached and grabbed him. “What’s happening?” he protested. “We are officials of the Empire of Avryn! You cannot—”
Erandabon laughed as the guard dragged them down the hall.
“Wait!” another voice bellowed. “It was arranged!” Thranic deftly dodged the guards, advancing angrily on the warlord. “My team and I are to be given safe passage. I’m here to pick up a Ghazel guide to take us safely through Grandanz Og!”
Erandabon rose to his feet and raised his axe, halting Thranic mid-step. “Weapons did you bring? Food for the Many did you deliver to Erandabon?” the warlord shouted at him.
“It sank!” Thranic yelled back. “And the deal wasn’t based on the weapons or the elves.”
The chattering sounds from the darkness grew louder. The noise appeared to disturb even the Tenkin. The hairless man stopped drawing his designs and shuddered. The woman with the snake gasped.
Erandabon remained oblivious to the rise in their tenor as he gibbered in glee. “No! Based on the open gates of Delgos! What proof of this? What proof does Erandabon have? You wait here. You stay sealed and if Drumindor does not fall, you will be food for the Many! Erandabon decrees it! Who are you to defy Erandabon?”
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