A sort of glow filled Kath when he had those memories, but when they faded he was left only with sorrow. Kath’s legs were weak, and his stomach clenched like he’d been stabbed in the gut. He was crying, but no one seemed to notice.
Lost now, all lost. All of his family was gone, and they weren’t coming back.
What did we do to deserve this?
The Red Hand all bore the unnaturally black tongue of Bloodspeakers, but unlike Ijanna they took no pains to hide them. The woman had cold blue eyes that seemed to illuminate the air around her, the broad-shouldered man with the white hair had the countenance of a gargoyle, and Gilder…Kath couldn’t tell if the man had contracted some sort of flesh disease or if he’d been tortured and burned, but whatever had happened he looked like something straight out of a nightmare.
He didn’t trust any of them, because they were liars and monsters all. Kath knew he was being narrow-minded, but he felt he’d earned that right. Only Ijanna was different, and even she needed to be watched. He still wondered about her sanity – how could she be in her right mind if she was raised believing she was supposed to resurrect Carastena Vlagoth?
The Red Hand seemed to feel the same way about Kath as he did about them, and Gilder kept Ijanna close and only spoke to her in hushed tones. The other two kept their distance, casting occasional suspicious glances Kath’s way. He couldn’t hear what they said, but he wasn’t really listening. His mind was elsewhere.
He was looking forward to killing Malath Zayne.
The group approached the ungainly spires, jagged stones like rusty swords standing some thirty feet tall. Nearly a dozen of the crumbling monuments stood there on the field of rock and ash. Kath saw dark silhouettes move near the base of the spires, and several horses were tethered to rope lines between the stones. Cloaked figures armed with bows and rods perched atop the rune-carved markers.
It seemed to take hours for them to cross the last stretch of desert to the Red Hand’s camp, and Kath was beginning to realize how exhausted he was. His face was glazed with sweat. Blood pulsed in his neck, and he felt himself growing lightheaded. His pain and fatigue must have shown on the outside, as well, and to his surprise it was Gilder who asked if he was all right. Kath just nodded; he wouldn’t show weakness, not in front of these creatures.
Why am I so tired? Yes, it had been a hard week’s travel and they’d already been through hell, but he still shouldn’t have felt so suddenly fatigued. Not when I’m so close. Not when I’m about to meet Malath.
From the shadow of the stones he saw the ruins of Corinth, one of the few remaining cities of what had once been Gallador. Even at a distance the damage to the city was clear: many of the walls were broken, the leaning towers were cracked, dozens of buildings had collapsed and all but one of the roads leading into the city had been reduced to shattered slate.
Kath squinted to try and get a better look, and he swore he saw activity down in the city. People moved about on the broken parapets and toiled near a massive pit – some sort of excavation was taking place, and the ruins of Corinth were being patrolled by an occupying force.
They reached the spire formation, and the Red Hand’s camp. Finely woven tents stood within the circle of stones, staked there with iron poles and white ropes. Kath saw elaborate tapestries just inside the open tent flaps. A pair of bare-chested Bloodspeakers – one bone-white, the other nearly pitch-black – sat cross-legged and locked in trance on a long rug stretched between two of the spires.
Gilder directed Kath and Ijanna to a large mustard-colored tent next to the tallest stone. Heavy wind blew chalk and sand across their path, and Kath felt tiny rock fragments strike the side of his face. The sky was thick and red and full with heavy black clouds. Gilder led them inside, while another Bloodspeaker closed the flap behind them. The tent was decorated with a black and purple rug covered with crimson images of razor coils and winged serpents, a simple cot, a tiny oak chest splayed with dizzying patterns of red and black stars and a low wooden table, atop of which rested a clay jug, a single cup, and a handful of ash. Gilder removed his cloak and set it on the cot, then motioned for Ijanna and Kath to do the same.
Ijanna sat cross-legged on the floor, and the tent filled with the creak of her boiled leather armor. Kath considered joining her, but even if his bulkier chain-and-leather would have allowed him the flexibility to sit his leg still ached from the battle with the Razorcats, so he remained standing, not really giving a damn if Gilder took offense or not. He felt better than he had during their approach to the camp but was still light-headed, and Kath wondered if the Razorcat hadn’t done some damage to him that couldn’t be easily seen or healed.
Gilder pulled out a large piece of soft cheese, a loaf of black bread and a frosted jar of milk from a cloth sack. He broke the bread in two and tore the cheese into chunks before offering any of it to his guests.
“I apologize,” he replied. “I don’t seem to have another cup for milk….”
“It’s fine, Gilder,” Ijanna smiled. “I hope we’re not taking your good food.”
Kath bit hungrily into the bread, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if it was tainted by the man’s touch. It didn’t matter – compared to jerky it was a veritable feast, and he wasn’t about to miss out.
“Thank you,” he said.
“It’s the least we can do,” Gilder said softly. “I can’t exactly say we were expecting you, but you’re always welcome among us, Ijanna, as are any of your friends.”
Ijanna looked ready to say something, but Kath cut her off.
“How did you know we were here?” he asked.
“We’ve been using the Veil to search this area for signs of life,” Gilder said. There was no question the man was from somewhere far away – his accent was slight, a blend of Den’nari and Allaji, which meant he likely traced his heritage to the far northern tribes, people who’d been all but wiped out during the destruction of Gallador. “We try to stay alert to the presence of Razorcats and Runefiends, and the Veil allows us to keep track of the person we’re searching for.”
“And that would be Kala,” Kath said.
Gilder looked at Ijanna as if to confirm. Ijanna gave Kath a look – likely she wanted him to exercise a bit more discretion, but Kath was beyond the point of caring, and he was sick of having information held from him. He’d show Ijanna by example what it meant to be upfront and honest.
“Imperial Princess Kala Azaean,” Gilder said. “Yes. The most powerful of the Skullborn.” He bowed his head in acquiescence to Ijanna. “No disrespect meant, of course.”
“How many people know this?” Ijanna asked. “How many know that the heir to the White Dragon Throne is a Bloodspeaker?”
“Not many,” Gilder said. “It’s one of the Empress’s best kept secrets, but one Malath is privy to.”
Kath hoped his hatred wasn’t too apparent. He tried to keep his voice in check.
“Is he here?” he asked Gilder. “Malath?” Ijanna gave Kath a dangerous glance, but Gilder didn’t seem to notice.
“No,” Gilder said. “I’m not sure where he is at the moment, to be honest. Out with another group, I’m sure.”
Kath felt Ijanna watching him, but he ignored her.
I have nothing left to lose, he wanted to tell her. I’ll help you, but I swear on my sister’s names I’ll kill Malath Zayne before this is done.
“Why are you searching for Kala, Gilder?” Ijanna asked him.
Gilder watched her carefully. Though his face-wrap kept his mouth concealed his face curved into a smile.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he said. “Malath wants to establish an alliance with Kala. He believes her power and position would be a benefit to our cause, from both a pragmatic and a…symbolic standpoint. Malath discovered she was here in Corinth through a common friend they share.”
“And who would that be?” Ijanna asked. “Who is she here with?”
“You ask many questions, Ijanna Taivor
kan,” Gilder said, his voice growing colder. Kath heard motion nearby. At least a couple of the Red Hand waited just outside the tent, and the noise they made was undoubtedly deliberate, for they wanted he and Ijanna to know Gilder had help practically within arm’s reach. “In answer to your question,” Gilder said, “Kala is in Corinth with quite a few others. We only arrived here last night, but we’ve already spied mercenary soldiers, slaves, servants…unfortunately, we’re not sure what her business is here. Digging, it seems.”
Ijanna nodded.
“Who is this ‘common friend’?” she asked.
“You first,” Gilder said. “Why are you looking for Kala Azaean?”
“Because a dream told me to,” she said. “I believe she has information that can help me elude my enemies.”
“Which enemies?” Gilder pressed.
Kath had barely noticed the shift in the conversation, but it was becoming clear that Ijanna and the Red Hand might not have been on such friendly terms after all. Kath smiled – it was nice feeling like she was on his side again.
“The Phage,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the…altercation I had with them in Kaldrak Iyres.”
“Oh, yes,” Gilder said with a nod. “And the Phage are no friends of the Red Hand, or of the common friend you asked about: Crogas the Red.”
“Crogas?” Kath asked indignantly. “Crogas the Red is working with Princess Kala?”
“Who is he?” Ijanna asked him.
“He’s a Drage lunatic, a kidnapper and a murderer,” Kath said. “The City Watch almost captured him when he was in Ebonmark about a year ago, but he escaped.”
“Crogas has a colorful past,” Gilder said. “But he’s a close ally of Kala.”
“You haven’t revealed your presence to her yet, have you?” Ijanna asked. “I sensed the Veilcrafted wards over your camp, which I presume keeps us out of sight.”
“Yes, but I doubt it’s done much good,” Gilder said. “Trust me…they know we’re here. If Kala hasn’t detected us, Crogas has.”
Kath shook his head. To think that Kala Azaean had once been heralded as a paragon of truth and beauty, a spitting image of her Goddess-touched mother. It seemed inconceivable she was one of the Unmaker’s own.
That’s how the Unmaker does his work, he reminded himself. The worst evils are disguised as friends.
How did the Empress feel about her daughter? The White Dragon’s disdain and hatred of Bloodspeakers was widely known, but until Ijanna had told him who they were searching for he never would have guessed the Imperial Princess was a Bloodspeaker herself, and one apparently on the run and consorting with known criminals. He was beginning to understand the importance of Kala Azaean.
Would the Empress hunt her own daughter? Is that who the Jlantrians are really after?
Ijanna seemed to have the same notion.
“You said Jlantrians were following us…” she said.
“Yes,” Gilder answered. “We can’t be sure who they are, exactly, but they have a pair of Den’nari and a troll with them.”
“A troll?” Kath asked in shock. “Oh, Goddess…they work for the Empress, they have to. They’re probably on their way to find the Princess…”
“Yes,” Ijanna said. “Yes, of course. They must have known I was looking for her, too, which is why they modified the thar’koon so they could follow me. They wanted me to lead them to Kala.”
Kath’s heart pounded with fear. It was all too much. A couple of weeks ago he’d been on the City Watch, patrolling for bandits, eating in awkward silence with his family. Now he was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by bizarre creatures and enemies, and every direction he turned there was more danger waiting. He was trapped in one of those pulp fantasy stories he’d read as a youth, the Fires of Saint Korton or Sir Tristram of the Cold Blade, tales of heroes who battled their way through the Unmaker’s hordes, rescuing innocent people and laying evil creatures to waste.
Only you’re in the story now, he told himself. And you’re no Sir Tristram.
“So what now?” he asked.
For long and silent moments the three of them just sat there as wind rippled the tent. They heard slave songs in the distance, workers toiling away in the burning heat.
“The Red Hand will formally reveal our presence so Kala doesn’t mistakenly perceive us as a threat,” Gilder said at last. “Both of you are welcome to accompany us.”
“Thank you,” Ijanna said. “I’ll speak with her when I have the chance, once your business is done.” She looked at Kath. “How does that sound?”
He hesitated, but she smiled warmly, and he realized she was trying to include him in the decision.
Well it’s about time, he thought.
“That sounds good,” he said.
“Excellent,” Gilder said. “It’s nearly noon. Let’s have a proper meal.”
Forty-Five
A proper meal, it turned out, involved much of the same food Gilder had offered them before, only this time they sat with the rest of the Red Hand in a larger tent, while three sentries stood watch.
The Red Hand were a wicked lot, Ijanna noticed, much more devious and criminal-like in their behavior than the last time she’d been in their company. They openly joked about men they’d killed and places they’d terrorized, married women they’d bedded or young girls they’d carried off and rescued from a dismal life of virtue and sexual innocence. Scars and ritual markings tracked kills and deflowered girls, but for the most part they all kept themselves well-healed in order to preserve their appearances...all save Gilder, which led her to believe he kept his wounded face either out of some religious belief or because the injuries were magical in nature and simply couldn’t be mended.
Malath had to recruit from wherever he could, and that meant tapping into Bloodspeakers who already had trouble with Jlantrian authority. Ijanna understood that he’d grown much more ruthless since the two of them had last crossed paths, but in the brief time she’d spent with Malath he’d come across as something of a diplomat, with a cool and even disposition and a great deal of charisma. He was the sort of man who earned loyalty without ever having to demand it, so it was of little surprise that even these ruffians and cutthroats followed his lead.
The feasting tent was large, sturdy and round, as black as night and supported by iron poles and tightly knotted ropes. Thick burgundy rugs and small wooden tables were spaced around the center of the room in a loose circle. Rye bread, blocks of moist cheese and sealed jugs of wine were passed around in cloth sacks, and Ijanna, Kath, Gilder and the others each knelt at the small tables as if in prayer.
They were a motley bunch, of all nationalities and age. One of them appeared to be little more than a boy, while another seemed to be well into his fifties, and Ijanna could only imagine what restraint it must have taken for him to survive so long. There was one woman among them, a Den’nari who wore intricate tattoos of serpents and scales on her cheeks and neck; Ijanna noticed a slave bracelet around the woman’s wrist, clearly broken but likely kept as a reminder of where she’d come from.
All of them, regardless of age or creed, had eyes and expressions made hard with pain and devotion. They were united by a common purpose to take revenge on those who’d hurt their kind, exacting blood for blood, wrong for wrong, violence for violence. It wasn’t a tactic Ijanna endorsed, but that drive to punish the Empires for their crimes was how Malath Zayne drove the Red Hand, and it had been their single-minded purpose ever since he’d taken over. They were soldiers, fighting a war they could never hope to win.
They sat, no one touching their food. Kath looked like he was about to eat but Ijanna signaled him to wait, and though he gave her an indignant look he acquiesced.
She was worried about him. While part of her was happy he was being more assertive she knew he was barely holding on, and she was afraid he’d do something foolish. She had no doubts he’d protect and aid her, but she also knew he felt he had little to live for, and she was glad Malat
h had decided not to come to Corinth.
They ate in silence. Ijanna nibbled on the bread, lost in thought. Rumor had it Malath had changed since the death camps, and not for the better. If the stories were true he’d become a sadist and a butcher, a man who ordered the torture of prisoners and targeted women and children so he could inflict as much pain on the Jlantrian Empire as possible. He’d taken it upon himself to repay the White Dragon for what she’d done to hundreds of Bloodspeakers in the mountains, even if she still denied her involvement.
Ijanna remembered him in the camps, shaken and sickened, nothing like the hardened outlaw and killer he’d become. The Dawn Knights had been searching for him, but they’d never even known they had him as a prisoner. If they had, Ijanna doubted he would have lasted a day. At the time the Red Hand had just been a group of thieves with a supposedly political agenda, a mob of Veil-yielding brigands who argued that the Empire’s persecution of Bloodspeakers had driven them to their actions. Most of their time had been spent smuggling other Bloodspeakers to safety, but since they continued to gain some support the Empress decided to act.
Now, in the wake of the camps, the Red Hand were considered a potent threat to Jlantrian authority. Their daring raids, assassinations and military-style ambushes had gained them notoriety, and even after the Dawn Knights were disbanded for supposedly acting without Azaean’s blessing the general hatred and fear of Bloodspeakers had risen to levels never before imagined.
The Red Hand were shaped by Malath’s experiences in the camps. Empress Azaean inadvertently created the very monster she and her Empire had mistakenly believed existed all along.
Ijanna nibbled on the cheese and enjoyed a cup of strong wine. She understood where Malath was coming from, at least to a certain degree, but she couldn’t condone the slaying of innocents, and for that reason she knew she and the Red Hand could never be more than temporary allies.
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