Hammer of the Earth

by Susan Krinard

  “All children and youths like her. Each of them is gifted in some way…what I have heard called ‘godborn.’”

  “What gifts? The control of fire?”

  “And of other elements.” She paused at the first torch to relight her lantern. “Most such would ordinarily have gone to Baalshillek, but these were rescued by Nikodemos and his men and brought here.”

  “What purpose do they serve for Nikodemos?”

  “He has not told me. But I would not lie to you, Quintus. They are safe.” She continued the next hundred paces in silence. “You are very fond of Briga after such a short time together.”

  “She is a child, an innocent. You put her in my safekeeping.”

  “It was a mistake. Now I know I can go to the emperor.”

  “But not with everything, Danae.”

  She stopped abruptly. “No. Not with everything. I—”

  Her words were muffled by the loud creak of a hinge and a trio of rough voices. Quintus pulled her hard against the wall and held his breath. The sounds came not from the tunnels but just outside, and they rang clear as cymbals.

  “…the prisoner?” one of the voices said.

  “The emperor’s agents took him yesterday as he attempted to enter the city,” another answered. “He comes within the hour.”

  “One of their great leaders, so I hear. Their rebellion will suffer without him.”

  “They call him Buteo…the hawk.”

  “Tiberian scum,” another said. “His wings have been clipped. At least Baalshillek won’t have the chance to destroy him before our interrogators can do their work.”

  The voices faded, and Quintus released his breath. Buteo. He knew the name as well as his own…the hard soldier’s face, the close-cropped hair and piercing eyes. Nausea curdled in his throat.

  “We must go,” Danae said.

  “Where are we?”

  “Near the dungeons, I think.”

  “Where you rescued Nyx.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is the portal?”

  “A hundred paces ahead. Quintus—”

  “How did you get Nyx out of the palace?”

  “There is a tunnel leading to a door in the outer palace wall.”

  “You must show me this door.”

  He could hear the growing alarm in her voice. “Whatever you are thinking—”

  “Those men spoke of a new prisoner, a Tiberian. What have you heard of this?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I knew him,” Quintus said. “Buteo. Why would he come to Karchedon?”

  “Perhaps we can learn more,” Danae said, “but not here.”

  He relented and let Danae lead him back through the tunnels, but he committed every turning to memory, counting doors and torches until he was sure he could find his way back unaided. He worked the mechanism to open the door into the abandoned suite and preceded her, listening for intruders. He carefully observed Danae’s path from the uninhabited section of the palace back to the servants’ courtyard.

  Ashtaph was waiting to meet them, clearly uneasy at their long absence. The moon had set.

  “Ashtaph will take you back to your room,” Danae said. “Good night.”

  Quintus caught a handful of her cloak. “I must know more about this Tiberian prisoner. Will you learn what you can?”

  “I no longer have any connection to the Resistance, if any of the rebels still survive.”

  “You know all that goes on in the palace.”

  She met his eyes, and her own gleamed with concern. “There is nothing you can do, my friend. If this Buteo has fallen into the emperor’s hands, Nikodemos must act.”

  “To expose the rebels in Tiberia? I know Buteo. He would never speak.”

  “You cannot save him.” She touched his good arm. “Please, Quintus. You have come too far to turn back now.”

  “Will you listen, and tell me what you hear?”

  She withdrew her hand. “I can promise nothing. Be cautious, Quintus. Be safe.” She hurried into the shadows.

  “My lord?” Ashtaph said.

  Quintus nodded, and the servant set off ahead. Quintus turned half his attention to memorizing Ashtaph’s route, but the rest of his mind was in turmoil.

  Buteo was a prisoner of the empire. He, most honored of all the Tiberian rebel leaders, had taken the grave risk of coming to Karchedon, where somehow he had been exposed. Quintus could think of only one reason why he would have attempted such a dangerous journey.

  He had come to look for Quintus. And now Quintus, alone of all the inhabitants of the palace, had both motive and means to help his countryman escape his inevitable fate.

  If Quintus was prepared to give his own life for Buteo’s freedom. If he chose to throw away his unique opportunity to change the empire from within.

  The time for choices was almost over.

  Chapter Nine

  T he fallen City of the Exalted had lain buried for thousands of years, and yet Cian knew they had arrived long before he saw the first broken stump of some ancient monument jutting out of the sand.

  The journey from mountains to City had taken three days of steady travel to the southeast, passing through many leagues of flat gravel plain and entering at last into a country of high sand hills. Tiny golden grains infiltrated mouths, hair and every fold of clothing; sand sank and shifted under the horses’ hooves, yet the beasts seemed well adapted to the endless climbs and descents, as well as to the careful rationing of food and water that made such journeys possible.

  Hunger and thirst were the least of Cian’s concerns. He tried several times to join Rhenna and the others, but he was kept in a kind of respectful but implacable isolation. Madele sent young warriors to bring him refreshment, and he was surrounded by the constant coming and going of curious tribesfolk who wished to catch a glimpse of the legendary Guardian.

  Once the party of Imaziren and their guests stopped at an island of fruit-bearing trees and grasses surrounding a large spring, one of many such sources the tribe claimed in its vast and hostile territory. Horses and men drank their fill, the waterskins were replenished, and Cian let himself imagine what it might be like to lie beside the cool water with Rhenna in his arms.

  Such dreams were futile. Cian saw nothing of Rhenna, nor did he learn anything more of the elders’ decision regarding the significance of his coming. Just as he had decided to approach the elders directly, he felt the change that vibrated through his horse’s legs and lodged in his own belly like the rumble of a distant avalanche.

  He crested a tall hill with his escort and looked down upon a level ocean of sand, a full league in diameter, dotted with hundreds of tents and countless lumps of dark stone. Far across the plain was a patch of green, the remnants of an ancient lake or river; a few herds of lean cattle and horses straggled to or from the waterhole.

  “The City,” Nyx said, riding up beside him. “I never believed I would see it.”

  Cian turned in surprise to find the Southern woman with Madele. “How are Rhenna and Tahvo?” he asked quickly.

  “Well enough. They asked the same of you.”

  “Why do the Imaziren keep us separated?”

  Nyx sighed. “I have listened carefully to the Imaziren during the past several days. They are still in disagreement about the meaning of your arrival.” She patted her horse’s sweating neck. “You see, the Imaziren believe their gods abandoned them in ancient days, after the Godwar. Though the tribes earned great honor in the battle with the Exalted and were given all this land as their own, still the gods for whom they fought chose to leave them.”

  “Then this is why Tahvo complained that she couldn’t find her spirits,” Cian said. “Why did the gods disappear?”

  “The Imaziren do not know, but they consider it a grave betrayal. For millennia they have had no priests. They work no magic and regard most such powers as evil sorcery. Yet their legends predict the coming of the Guardians…and it is also said that when the Guardians return, so will
the gods.”

  “And some do not wish the gods to return.”

  Nyx nodded. “They have lived so long without them. Some believe the Imaziren would lose the freedom they cherish and resent the thought that any god should demand their reverence. They would deny the great changes your coming portends.”

  “And the others?”

  “Like Madele, they believe the Imaziren have lost their purpose and now have the chance to find it again. They have struggled to survive in a difficult land, and this has made them strong as a people. But if the gods return and the evil one is defeated once and for all, the desert will become a paradise as it was before the Godwar.”

  Cian laughed. “So I am to determine the future of an entire race.”

  “You see why your presence is the source of much confusion.”

  “Then it might be best for all concerned if I remove the source of conflict. Can we escape?”

  “It is unlikely the Imaziren would harm you or our companions even if you attempted to leave.” She paused, shading her eyes against the sun’s glare. “But I cannot be sure of finding the safest route through the Southern desert.”

  Madele spoke, interrupting their conversation. Nyx cast her an impatient glance. “I have been asked to interpret for you now that we have reached our destination,” she said. “Madele says that this is their tribe’s true home, their most sacred dwelling. Their herders and warriors may wander far in search of forage for their beasts, but to the City they always return. None but the Imaziren dare intrude—on pain of death.”

  Cian shuddered. He could not imagine why anyone would challenge the Imaziren for such a place. Old evil persisted here, deeply buried but not forgotten; when he slid from his horse’s back Cian felt it in stone far beneath the sand. Ruins of the Exalted’s creation.

  “Madele says that you need not be afraid,” Nyx said. “The evil ones have no power here now.”

  Cian knelt and sifted a handful of sand through his fingers. “Her people are not troubled by what lies under their feet?”

  Nyx consulted Madele. “We were given this City by the gods,” she translated. “It cannot hurt us.”

  Cian closed his eyes, slipping his hand under the hot golden surface. He felt as far as he could reach, seeking the poison he had sensed in Hellas and Karchedon. There was none; it had been leached from the earth long ago, driven out as thoroughly as the flowing waters and fertile fields destroyed in the Godwar.

  Yet evidence of the City remained. As he, Nyx and Madele rode down the long slope toward the encampment, Cian saw the first of the stone blocks and wind-scoured obelisks that had defied the centuries. Most were shapeless, all hard edges and sculpted details smoothed away by the desert’s unforgiving caress. But some—like the great head buried to the chin, dwarfing the tents beside it—still preserved a faint likeness to what they had been: the faces of the gods.

  Cian stared up at the immense visage and almost felt the helpless rage locked behind blind eyes and pitted lips. To which of the Exalted had such a massive monument been erected? Did the Imaziren know the names of the gods who had brought ruin on the world and might bring it again?

  He had no chance to ask the question. Madele’s warriors—and several hundred new ones from the dead City—closed in around Cian, herding him and Nyx toward the innermost encampment. Some tribesfolk reached out as if to touch him, but most simply repeated the word he had come to recognize as “Guardian.”

  At the center of the tent city was a group of a dozen dwellings larger than the rest, staked so firmly in place that Cian doubted they were often moved. Goats wandered among them, and children peered out from behind the flaps of ocher-dyed goatskin that served as doorways. The sand closest to the tents was smooth and white, as if it had been recently swept clean.

  Cian was asked to dismount before one of the biggest tents, and Madele dispersed the crowd with a few sharp words. While Nyx and Cian waited outside, Madele and several senior warriors entered the tent. They emerged with a trio of elders in long robes the deep blue of a clear evening sky. The elders addressed Madele and examined Cian with dark, unreadable eyes. One of them spoke to Cian.

  “He asks you to change,” Nyx said, disapproval clear in her voice.

  Cian held very still, banking his anger. Nyx began to speak, but Madele interrupted. Her hands drew elegant shapes in the air, illustrating the story of how Cian had appeared at the end of her duel with Rhenna.

  “She tells them that she witnessed your changing,” Nyx whispered. “She gives her most solemn word that you are of the Guardian race.”

  The elders consulted among themselves and, after some disagreement, went back into the tent. Madele’s shoulders dropped.

  “A full council must be held to discuss these events,” she said through Nyx. “Come. You may rest and take refreshment.”

  “I wish to see my friends,” Cian said.

  “Please be patient. They will be well cared for.”

  Cian stared at Madele and finally relented with a shake of his head. Nyx spoke to Madele. “I am to stay with Rhenna and Tahvo,” she said. “Go with Madele, and I will come when I can.”

  Ill at ease, yet not prepared to challenge the Imaziren outright, Cian went with the warrior to the tent they had made ready for him. He was left alone with a generous supply of flat bread, roasted meat, small fruits and a tart beer that he ignored in favor of plain water. The stifling heat gradually gave way to the coolness of dusk.

  Voices rose outside the tent. Cian opened the flap and found Nyx and Madele arguing softly. Nyx saw him and broke off.

  “Madele asks if the Guardian will honor the Imaziren with his presence,” Nyx said. She glanced at Madele and moved closer to the tent. “Something is about to happen, Cian. Perhaps they plan to resolve their arguments with a test.”

  “As they tested Rhenna?”

  Nyx addressed Madele, who answered Cian directly. “She asks you to trust her,” Nyx said.

  Cian met the desert warrior’s gaze. “She swore to her elders that I was of the Guardians. Does she also swear that my companions will come to no harm no matter what her people decide about me?”

  Nyx conveyed his words. Madele extended her hand and then drew it back to touch her chest.

  “She swears,” Nyx said.

  “Then I will come.” He and Nyx followed Madele to an open space between the tents, where there waited a delegation of elders in their long robes, and warriors in short tunics, cloaks and headbands set with the gray and black plumes of enormous feathers. The warriors and elders bowed to Cian. Something in their manner demanded both formality and absolute silence, and Cian knew that Nyx was right. This was indeed to be some ritual test meant for him to pass or fail.

  The tribesfolk turned and set off from the encampment, striking across the plain toward the dark blotch of the distant waterhole. Broken black stone pillars thrust from the sand like decayed teeth, radiating malignancy. The Imaziren ignored them. They climbed a gentle rise to the bank of the amda, where trees with broad, fringed leaves hung over a carpet of lush grasses.

  The elders and warriors knelt and lay on their bellies in the sand. Madele signaled for Cian and Nyx to do the same. A hush of expectation settled over the group. Cian’s heartbeat drummed in his throat.

  Something moved on the hill beyond the waterhole. A wedge-shaped head on a long neck lifted to smell the air. The creature climbed over the rise and descended toward the water, bizarre and nimble, humpbacked and knobby-legged, its wooly hide gleaming in the moonlight.

  Madele grabbed Cian’s arm and squeezed it hard enough to bruise. The strange beast snorted and flicked its small ears toward the watchers. A second animal joined the first. The two creatures stood as still as the ancient pillars, waiting in the breathless quiet.

  And Cian understood. He got slowly to his feet. No one moved to stop him. He crested the hill and walked along the bank of the amda, footsteps whispering in the grass. The beasts watched him come, nostrils flared to capture his
scent. He passed the trees and the far edge of the water, and still they did not flee.

  Cian held out his hand. Flexible lips drew back from strong, yellow teeth. The larger beast extended its neck. Long-lashed brown eyes gazed into Cian’s. Immense, two-toed feet shuffled in the sand. Then the creature gave a deep groan and bent its legs before and behind, settling into a surprisingly graceful crouch.

  The short, pale fur was both soft and harsh under Cian’s fingers. He stroked the ugly head, scratching between the beast’s intelligent eyes. The second animal pressed forward and pushed its muzzle against his free hand. Cian laughed.

  Tahvo woke with a start. Nothing had broken the quiet of the Amazi camp; she felt no change in the thrum of awareness that had seized her mind since their arrival in the City of the Exalted. Her dreams here were filled with vague premonitions that always evaporated in the light of morning, but it was still night.

  She listened to the sigh of Rhenna’s breathing. The warrior slept as she hadn’t done for days, exhausted by her constant vigilance and worry over Cian. She desperately needed the rest, and Tahvo had no intention of waking her for so small a reason as a peculiar feeling inside her head.

  Tahvo crept to the tent flap and eased it up. She could hear no guards outside, nor any stirring among the other tents. Yet the very quality of the silence itself was more telling than the roar of a crowd.

  Wrapping her cloak about her shoulders, Tahvo slipped out of the tent. The sharp, welcome cold of the desert night stung her cheeks. She crossed the open space between the tents and traced the deepest silence, avoiding the piles of stone that murmured with the voices of an ancient evil. At last she found a depression in the sand made by many feet. She heard a ringing in her ears, as if someone spoke just beyond the range of her hearing. Then came distant shouts, cries of shock and agitation that pierced the stillness like the crack of falling branches.

  Tahvo turned away from the noise and began to retrace her steps back to the tent. Her thoughts raced so far ahead of her feet that she didn’t sense the beast until it was almost on top of her. It half reared, casting a spray of sand.