IV
TORI EDGED THROUGH the limestone passageway, thrusting a torch before him. The Undercliff dwellers had assured him that this was the way to the preservation chamber, not that any of them had visited it since the king’s temporary entombment there. Nor had he told any of his command that he was coming here, given the uproar they would have raised. If he didn’t return, they would find a note in his quarters.
Firelight sparkled on upthrust stalagmites, on the fangs of stalactites. Water dripped.
“Hello?” he called. With no chance of approaching undetected, some warning seemed due.
Light shone ahead. Tori wedged his torch into a crack and proceeded. He could smell water, and stone, and blood. Beyond a rock formation, the cave opened up, some twenty feet wide and too low for a man to stand upright. One end dipped into a still pool. The other rose to a shelf, on which lay a body. Over it crouched a shining white figure with eyes aglow and a gory muzzle. The blood was fresh. Trickles of it ran down from the ledge to the floor and across that to the pool.
“Well,” said the Gnasher, adjusting his jaw for human speech. “This is unexpected.”
Tori sat on his heels. The low, rocky ceiling and general lack of room to maneuver made him nervous, but there was no helping that. At least he had been right to think that no backup could help him here.
“I have to know,” he said. “Are you finished with King Krothen?”
The other laughed soundlessly through sharp teeth. “And if I’m not?”
“We fight. On the level of the soulscape or hand to hand.” He touched a knife at his side. “It isn’t much, but I must do what I can to ensure my friend’s safety before I march out with the Host to Urakarn.”
“If you march out.”
“If.”
“You puzzle me, lordling. You beard the monster in his den, but cannot face what lies within your own soul.”
“You couldn’t either.”
The wolver licked his lips with a long, red tongue. “I was caught unaware. Another time, a different father . . . But yes, I will leave Kothifir after one last gorge. This city has nothing more to offer me.”
Tori nodded toward the sprawling body. “Is that Kruin? What happened to him?”
“He started screaming and wouldn’t stop. Is that how you found us? No doubt the Undercliffers talked, although none of them had the nerve to investigate.”
The body twitched and whined.
“I want to live, I want . . .”
The Gnasher’s jaw extended to tear again. Wet sounds of carnage echoed off the stone walls and the trickle became a pulsing flood. Tori winced.
The Gnasher grinned over his prey, white fangs dripping red.
“You see how hard it is to kill a god-king,” he said. “Not long now, though.”
Tori forced himself to remain still. His instinct had been right: until Kruin died, Krothen couldn’t truly become king, and after what he had done, no one wanted Kruin back.
Like your own father, eh?
Still, it was hard to watch.
The Gnasher lowered his head again and chewed. Kruin shuddered. Then his head tipped back and fell off the ledge. It rolled almost as far as Tori. For a long moment, he looked into Kruin’s horrified eyes. Then, at last, they glazed.
“There.” The Gnasher wiped his muzzle with a paw and spat. “Immortality is too much for the weak. Kruin wasn’t quite dead when his attendants brought him here, you see. I nursed him with soul-shreds from his heirs, even provided a wooden dummy to take his place on the pyre, but something in his mind broke. Never mind. I now know what I came here to learn.”
“You didn’t come to serve the Prophet?”
“Oh, he put me on the track. Our purposes ran parallel for a time, but now he has fled, and so we part.”
“What will you do now?”
“Why, go home, of course, and kill my father. I advise you to do the same.”
Tori shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Then go, lordling. Test yourself against your enemies, but always remember that that which you fear most, you hold closest to your heart.”
V
THE ONLY ARMY that Kothifir had was the Host, supplemented by a few overenthusiastic native brigades commanded by nobles set on avenging their kin. Urakarn lay some two hundred and fifty miles to the southwest over the desert, far enough to require significant logistical planning. While this was being arranged, the Host argued among itself.
“This is madness,” said Harn, stumping restlessly back and forth in his cramped quarters. “Genjar thinks that a token garrison of fanatics holds Urakarn. We don’t know that. Of course, we’ve sent out scouts, but most haven’t come back, which isn’t encouraging in itself. And those who do return report a proper hornet’s nest. The Karnids will also know that we’re coming long before we get there. They still have sympathizers in the city. Trust me, they knew about this farce of a war as soon as it was declared. What are we supposed to do, eh? Walk up and knock on the door? What does your friend Krothen say?”
“Kroaky thinks it’s a bad idea, but he hasn’t yet fought free of his precious Council.” Tori paused to sharpen a quill pen with his knife. Genjar, as usual, had dumped all the responsibility for preparation on his second-in-command, meaning that his self-appointed clerk had to copy out every one of Harn’s scrawls. The Host was growing used to accepting orders at his hands. “He will soon, though, as the new god-king. Give him time.”
“That we don’t have. We’re due to march tomorrow, before half our preparations are complete. Genjar smells glory. It’s been too long since we last proved ourselves in battle, he says. Fah.”
“It has been a long time,” said Tori thoughtfully. “There haven’t been any major conflicts since the White Hills.”
“That was a slaughter, Kencyr against Kencyr, all because Ganth Gray Lord chose the wrong enemy. Are we doing that again? D’you think we need a fresh blooding too?”
“I think we have a generation of young soldiers who have never gone to war. Genjar’s talk is contagious. I’ve heard a lot of enthusiasm around the camp hearths.”
Harn turned to regard him from under shaggy brows. “Don’t tell me you’ve caught the battle bug too.”
Tori considered that. On the whole, he didn’t know if he was excited or scared. Uneasy, more like: the whole expedition felt rushed and haphazard, barely under control.
“I’ve never fought before in a general engagement,” he said.
“Huh,” said Harn. “Then stay close to me. Senior officers usually survive debacles. Unfortunately.”
VI
THE MARCH TO URAKARN took fifteen grueling days, with Genjar pushing hard. At the end of it, he used the vanguard as bait.
Tori rode with Harn Grip-hard in the first rank, followed by five thousand mixed Kencyr and Kothifiran troops. Day by day, the range of black, smoking mountains had drawn closer on the western horizon, and the sunsets behind it had grown more lurid. Now they were among the foothills, riding on a bed of old lava amid a fall of ash as light as a dusting of snow. Stinking gas rose out of holes in the ground. Every so often, the earth quivered and the horses spooked.
“Which one is Urakarn?” asked Tori.
“There, straight ahead, with its summit blown off.”
Not only was it big but wide, perhaps twenty miles from side to side. The walls towered, despite missing their heights, snow-crowned, black and forbidding below. Trickles of smoke rose from several points in the interior.
“You’ve been here before?”
“Once as a junior officer. Kruin wanted to set up trade connections. The Karnids led us into their stronghold blindfolded and then laughed in our faces. It must be a bleak life inside an active volcano, but it apparently suits them.”
The ground became more broken and the horses began to stumble.
“This is no good,” Harn grumbled, and signaled the dismount. “We’ll have to leave them here or risk half going down with broken legs.”
/> “And what about our legs?” Rowan murmured, too low for the commander to hear. She, the rest of Tori’s small command, and Burr had insisted on joining the vanguard with him, although he had tried to talk them out of it, especially Rose.
“Think of your daughter,” he had urged the Caineron. “This could be a suicide mission.”
Iron-thorn had only shrugged.
Now they were climbing up among jagged rocks and boulders, some the size of small houses. All provided excellent cover for an ambush. Heat rose off the black rocks in waves that distorted the air and soaked the climbers with sweat. Carrion birds flew overhead. Beyond the scrape of boots and the rattling of rocks, an eerie silence lay over the hills like a thick blanket.
“Maybe no one is home,” said Cully.
The next moment he fell, an arrow through his throat. Tori knelt beside him, protected by Rowan’s and Rose’s shields. More arrows plinked off of them. Cully scrabbled at the wooden shaft, struggling to breathe around it, then his big hands went limp. Tori closed his eyes.
“Where are they coming from?” he asked, rising and unslinging his own shield.
“Pick a rock. Any rock,” said Harn. “Circle!” he bellowed at his troops.
Most one-hundred-commands already had formed knots, those innermost raising their shields to create a roof over their heads against which arrows and stones clattered down like hail. Many Kothifirans, slower to react, fell.
It wasn’t clear if they had sprung the trap that the Commandant had anticipated or if the Karnids were merely playing with them. In either case, where were they to go from here? They had reached a kind of amphitheater surrounded by a circle of fanged boulders, perhaps the site of an ancient, lateral eruption. To advance, they would have to climb out over the Rim. Even then, it was unclear where they could go, except on up the steep flank of the mountain. Urakarn was indeed huge even with its truncated top, its shoulders hunched above its neighbors, snagging clouds. If it had anything resembling a front gate, it wasn’t visible from where they stood.
Black-clad figures rushed out from behind boulders and threw themselves against one of the armored huddles, only to be driven back with sword and lance.
“Hold your positions!” Harn shouted. Even as he spoke, however, a Kothifiran formation broke in pursuit, disappeared among the standing rocks, and didn’t return. The others shifted restlessly, as if eager to follow.
“We can’t just stand here, waiting to be slaughtered,” protested Duke Far. The Kothifiran’s heavy face shone with sweat and his eyes reflected near panic, but he was holding himself together—barely. “We have to rejoin the main body of the Host.”
“Huh,” said the commander. “We can try a breakout. At any rate Genjar should be told what he’s gotten us into. Blackie.”
“Here, Ran.”
“Take a contingent of mixed troops. Try to reconnect with the central command.”
“Yes, Ran.” Tori hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Trust me. The Kencyrath will follow you.”
More missiles whistled overhead. People ducked under their shields. Harn gave a grunt as if of surprise and staggered against Tori. Tori and Burr caught the big Kendar and lowered him to the ground. The right side of his broad face was a sheet of blood, his temple gashed open by a flung stone, down to the bone.
“Damn. I think his skull is cracked. Harn? Can you hear me? Harn!”
The big man said something in a slurred voice. His eyes fluttered open, then closed again.
Tori felt panic tremble like a bubble in his chest. Whatever happened, he had always counted on Harn Grip-hard being there, a wall against which disaster dashed itself in vain. What was he supposed to do now? He looked around for Harn’s second-in-command, then remembered that the man had fallen in an earlier attack. Everyone was looking at him.
They will follow you.
“All right,” he said, and was glad to hear that his voice didn’t shake. “Harn’s last order stands. I’ll take five ten-commands and anyone else who wants to go.”
Most of the Kothifirans quickly volunteered, which surprised no one.
They edged up the slope of the depression, shields raised, and entered the forest of standing stones. Random arrows plucked at them, felling a few. For the most part, however, they proceeded unmolested, although with the sense that they were surrounded by many hostile, watchful eyes.
Here was the place where they had left the horses. The animals were gone and their guards sprawled on the ground, dead.
The dull roar of combat came from ahead, punctuated by shouts, the screams of horses, and the clang of weapons. The Kothifirans strained forward, but hesitated as they came to the edge of another, much larger hollow, this one seething to the brim with Kencyr troops. It appeared that Genjar had walked into the ambush that he had intended for his advance guard. A flight of arrows darkened the sky, whirring like enraged partridges, from the right, then from the left, until raised shields bristled with shafts. In their wake, riders on black thorns swept in from all sides. Tori watched as the charge crashed into one circle, rupturing it. The thorns screamed, bit, and kicked, savaging their way in among the Kencyr, barely under their riders’ control. More arrows flew. The Host was obviously vastly outnumbered. So much for Genjar’s belief in a sparse resistance.
How many? thought Tori, holding his own small command in check with a raised hand. Fifty thousand? More? Double the Host, at least.
But no one was attacking from the east, the direction from whence they had come. The vacancy there drew the troops like a cool draft in that scorching cauldron. Another trap, or were they being invited to retreat? Genjar was shouting, gesticulating. Slowly, reluctantly, his forces withdrew eastward, taking their wounded and dead with them. He raised his glance to the west and for a moment locked eyes with Tori up on the basin’s rim.
Yes, here we are, Tori thought. Remember us?
But Genjar turned away and his gestures grew more frantic. Now he was pushing through the Host, trailed by his command staff, in flight, drawing the others reluctantly after him. They poured out of the cauldron, the rear rank guarding against a pursuit that did not follow.
Tori sighed. “We’re on our own now,” he said to his followers.
Duke Far gave him a wide-eyed stare, then bolted in pursuit of the retreating forces. His men threw down their weapons with a clatter and ran after him, unimpeded.
Tori stood aside for another moment, but no one else followed, nor were they hindered on the way back to the vanguard. It felt like reentering a dark, breathless room and closing the door behind them. Kneeling beside Harn, Tori brushed the bloody hair off the Kendar’s forehead. Someone had bound up the loose flap of skin with a strip of cloth. Harn twitched and began the disconcerting snore of the deeply concussed.
“What now?” Tori asked him, expecting no answer, receiving none.
“Blackie. Look.”
Dark-clad figures had silently emerged from around the hollow and on top of the rocks that surrounded it, more and more of them, ranks deep. It seemed as if the entire Karnid horde had followed them back, but it neither charged nor made any sound.
“I said that we would meet again.”
Tori suppressed a start at that deep, rich voice, speaking so close to him, too softly for most to hear. He squinted up into the setting sun, at a figure standing silhouetted in fire on a rock behind him.
“Shall I offer you a bargain, Grayling’s son? Of these all, only you interest me. Your life for theirs.”
Rowan caught his sleeve. “Don’t listen to him, Blackie. He’s lying. We’ll take our chances.”
Tori indicated the silent horde surrounding them. “What chance is this?”
His heart was in his throat, threatening to choke him. Could he really walk away from his friends, into enemy hands? What would they do to him? Then again, what did it matter if he could buy his followers’ freedom? He swallowed.
“Your word on it, Prophet?”
The other nodded
solemnly. “My word on it.”
Karnids advanced and seized his arms.
“On second thought,” said the Prophet, “take a quarter of them prisoner. Kill the rest.”
Tori twisted in his captors’ grip, aghast. “You swore!”
“You may also remember that I said honor was a failed concept.”
Karnids swarmed into the cauldron, no longer silent. The Kencyr shouted back their defiance, each in the battle cry of his house—the Brandans’ deep, sure note, the Edirrs’ jeering shriek, the Cainerons’ bellow, the Daniors’ howl, the Jarans’ defiant cry in High Kens: “The shadows are burning!” and on and on, until the uproar of battle swallowed them.
Tori used water-flowing to free himself. He started back into the fight, but hands gripped him again. Then the back of his skull seemed to explode and he fell into darkness.
VII
THIS IS JUST A BAD DREAM, he told himself, over and over. Wake up wake up wake up . . .
His chafed wrists were chained to the wall, pinioned too low for him to stand upright, so he sat with his numb arms raised. Water trickled down his sleeves and puddled under his buttocks. His clothes rotted. Sometimes the room seemed cavernous, sometimes as small as a closet, and it stank like spoiled meat.
Voices echoed in the corridor outside. Some called back and forth to each other in Kens: words of encouragement, words of despair. Some swore, others cried. Not long ago, black-robed Karnids had passed carrying an incandescent branding iron.
“Do you recant . . . do you profess . . .” had come their murmur down the hall. “Then we must convince you, for your own good.”
With that, he had heard Rowan scream.
. . . the dead, ripe and rotting in piles in that cauldron under the scorching sun—no, don’t think of them. It does no good, no good . . .
Somewhere, someone breathed heavily, almost in a snore. Harn? The rasping noise stopped and Tori held his own breath.
Breathe, Harn, breathe! Oh Trinity, don’t be dead . . .
The sound started up again. And stopped. And started, in an echo of his own anxious breath.
They were coming for him now as they had day after day, week after week, month after year. Sandaled feet shuffled on the floor. Hooded figures entered the room and stood in a crescent facing him, themselves faceless.
The Sea of Time Page 21