Citadels of the Lost

by Tracy Hickman

  Soen lifted his head back slightly. The points of his ears itched. “What do you mean?”

  “The Blade of the Northern Will!” Gobekandrus said as though stating the obvious. “The Legions of the Rhonas Empire are coming this way—two or three days at the most!” The goblin leaned in, his voice conspiratorial through his smile. “You bring your wagons here to me, and we’ll be the only game in Scheliss City! The Legions will pay far more than those religious fanatics—and in solid Imperial coin! I can guarantee that by the time I’m finished with your crates, there’ll be no trouble with any manifest. We’ll split the take in half?”

  “Half!” Vendis exclaimed.

  “I’m taking all the risk!” Gobekandrus snapped, his eyes narrowing. “All you have to do is count your coin!”

  “One tenth,” Soen stated.

  The goblin snarled. “I’d rather sell them my inn.”

  “If you think they’ll buy it, but knowing the Legions, they would just as soon burn it to the ground,” Soen answered. “Without our goods, you have nothing to sell.”

  “One in three,” the goblin said.

  “One in five,” Soen responded, “and I see that I can still walk right out your door.”

  “One in four!” Gobekandrus said as his eyes narrowed.

  Soen turned to Vendis. “You know, I seem to recall a tavern up past that wreck of a smithy . . . that seemed to be a nice place . . .”

  “Fine!” The goblin pushed out his bony hand. “One in five it is.”

  Soen smiled. “I’m sure you will not live to regret this, Master Gobekandrus. Are you certain the pilgrims are well on their way? War is always good for business but not if you’re caught up in the middle of it.”

  “Nah, they went up the north road happy as you please four days ago. At their rate, they’re probably crossing the Shrouded Plain as it is. Good a place to die as any, I suppose,” Gobekandrus shrugged. “So what do you say? Have we a bargain?”

  “You can trust me when I say that the moment our goods arrive,” Soen said through his best sharp-toothed smile, “we will bring them straight to you.”

  “Thein Tja-kai,” Vendis asked after they had stepped out into the dusty path that passed for the main road through Scheliss. “What was that about?”

  Soen turned, answering to his adopted name without hesitation. Hesitation always kills you, he thought. “Friend Vendis, our new acquaintance and partner Gobekandrus has no intention of splitting anything with us. I suspect he would murder us in our sleep once the goods were delivered . . . fortunately for us, he will wait until we do deliver the goods and, since there are no goods to deliver, we should be reasonably safe before we leave this ridiculous excuse for a town.”

  “But why all the . . .”

  “You want to find the Prophet, don’t you?” Soen said as they walked briskly side by side. “I want to find the Prophet, too. All I did was to offer him one kind of profit in exchange for information on where to find the other kind.”

  “The Shrouded Plain?”

  “A migration that size shouldn’t be terribly difficult to track.”

  “So that’s where we find him?”

  “Perhaps . . . if we’re quick enough. Now, it seems, that the Empire wants to find this Prophet as well, and I suspect that since they have sent the Legions to do the job, they do not have any expectation of treating him or his followers kindly. If we’re going to ask this Prophet any questions, we’re going to have to find him before the weight of Imperial Might does so.”

  “But the Shrouded Plain?” Vendis asked. “It’s a terrible place. Why would anyone want to cross that?”

  “I’ve got a better question for you,” Soen replied as he hefted his pack to his back and shouldered his mundane-looking staff. “Why should the Empire send an entire Legion to deal with a migration of religious pilgrims?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Panaris Road

  SCHELISS FIELD WAS NOT the last town on the north road but it certainly was the biggest. The settlements Soen and Vendis encountered as they followed the emigration trail along the western slopes of the Whispering Hills got progressively smaller—each barely more than a collection of a few houses huddled in proximity against the wild expanse around them. As they passed by these smaller, outlying farms, Soen occasionally saw their goblin residents standing by their doors and watching them with suspicion. They were never threatening nor did they come any closer to inquire about the passing strangers.

  At least the trail was an easy one to follow. The wide swath that the emigrants cut both down the old road and to either side of it where possible would have been difficult to miss blindfolded. The smell of oxen droppings ground into the earth was pronounced—a sure sign of manticores on the move.

  For once, Soen was glad to be on so obvious a course despite the inherent dangers it presented. It meant that he could concentrate on his companion Vendis. The chimerian remained irritatingly cheerful even at his most serious. He was also, unfortunately, a most affable companion on the road. For Soen, who was used to maintaining long silences as he strode the face of the world alone, the constant need to keep up a conversation that Vendis demonstrated was exhausting and demanding. As an Iblisi, few would have dared to approach him in dialogue and those who did—even in his own Order—would have preferred to keep their exchange short. But he wasn’t an Iblisi to Vendis or, gods willing, anyone else for the unforeseeable future: he was Thein Tja-Kai, the wandering merchant of the Paktan in search of some Prophet of the North. He was supposed to be interested in the torrent of unending words coming from Vendis as they walked.

  So, on those occasions when Vendis stopped and asked why the elf merchant was so quiet, Soen had learned to respond with something on the order of “Oh, I’ve just been thinking.” To this, Vendis invariable and earnestly replied, “Thinking about what?” at which point Soen would have to elucidate on whatever subject Vendis had been chatting about. This, of course, would set Vendis off on another line of thought that, Soen fervently hoped, would occupy his companion for a long stretch of the road.

  “. . . As I’ve heard from some of the Ephindrians who occasionally make their way through this country, it has something to do with the rock formations at the northern end of the Whispering Hills. You can see them just up there beyond the rise. See how that granite upthrust splits in several places? Well, the wind crosses there pretty much throughout the day and night, and the currents and eddies through those crags make a peculiar sound very much like voices. For a time there were shamans who would camp at the foot of those crags, listening to the voices in the wind and interpreting their words for pilgrims who came to them trying to speak with their dead relatives or loved ones. That all started because of a legend the local goblins had from their ancestors who first settled here during the Age of Mists before the Shadow War. Have you heard of them?”

  Soen cleared his throat, trying to bring his mind back to the conversation. “Heard of who?”

  “The Shamans of the Whispering Hills?”

  “No, I don’t believe I have,” Soen replied. Privately he wondered if Vendis was now referring to the original Shamans who initiated the cult during the Age of Mist or the revival Shamans who came to the area during the Age of Fire and twisted the rituals into a powerful death cult, or was he referring to the most recent incarnation carried on by the local goblins who used it as an easy source of money from those few travelers who either by mistake or design came upon them. The history of each was a separate subject tied together only marginally by the legends regarding the winds blowing across the rocks, and none of their histories was particularly interesting.

  “Well,” said Vendis after taking a deep breath, “there actually were three separate incarnations of the Shamans . . .”

  Soen groaned.

  “Are you feeling all right, Thein? Vendis asked.

  “Yes, I am fine,” Soen answered. “Something from my lunch did not agree with me.”

  “Oh! Would you like to s
top?”

  “No!” Soen said emphatically. Walking at least gave him something more to do than just listening to Vendis. The chimerian appeared to be taken aback by the strength of his refusal. Soen noted with satisfaction that the shadows had lengthened considerably. Soen tempered his voice. “No, I’m fine—the walking helps me feel better. We’ll soon be stopping for the night.”

  “Of course,” Vendis said with satisfaction. “I recall that there’s a good spot just atop that next rise . . . Hey, where are you going?”

  Soen broke into an easy run, putting some distance between himself and the four-armed chimerian. Maybe it was the road, he thought, that was playing tricks on his black, featureless eyes. The closer he got, however, the faster he ran. Then, abruptly, he stopped.

  The red dirt of the road had been worn away. In its place lay a patch of gray granite stones, each fitted together with such precision that Soen could not have wedged the sharpest blade between them.

  Soen smiled broadly, exposing his sharp teeth.

  Vendis ran up behind him. “What is it?”

  Soen smiled. “It’s the Panaris Road. I didn’t think it would still be here. This was built early in the Age of Fire and leads directly . . .”

  Soen stopped talking as his gaze followed the road.

  “Leads directly where?” Vendis asked.

  “There, my friend,” Soen pointed with his long, narrow finger.

  Two lone figures sat on the broken stones at the side of the ancient road. One was a human male who, upon seeing Soen, scrambled to his feet. He was middle-aged as humans go, a remarkable feat considering he was wearing an incongruously shiny armor breastplate over his otherwise dull slave’s tunic. His exposed head was shaved as was typical of all slaves. He was short and stocky in build with a great hooked nose and dark, piercing eyes that seemed fixed on Soen. He leaned heavily upon a staff with a crystal fixed at the top of its shaft.

  The other was an elven captain. His long armored helmet gleamed among the blades of grass where he had set it next to him. The captain’s pinched face had a long scar that ran from his forehead past the corner of his right eye and nearly to his ear. The right eye was a dull, graying color—now useless. One of the captain’s sandals had also been removed as he sat vigorously rubbing his aching foot.

  The human spoke first, his eyes fixed on Soen as he approached. “You’ve come at last, I see, but you’re still behind. Will you ever catch up?”

  The captain gave the human a quick kick with his bare foot, and then groaned from the pain he had caused himself. “Braun! Shut up!”

  Hunter or prey, Soen thought. Which is which?

  “My apologies for this fool,” the captain said to Soen. “We found this Proxi wandering about the northlands a few days ago. My Tribune seems amused by him, but I don’t find him quite so entertaining.”

  “No apologies necessary, valiant captain,” Soen said with a slight bow. “I am Thein Tja-kai of the Paktan; this is Vendis, a merchant trader of these lands. We are all far from Rhonas, are we not Captain of the Imperial Will?”

  “We are, Thein Tja-kai,” the captain acknowledged through a heavy sigh as he gazed around at the open lands around them. “I am Captain Shuchai of the First Modalis Legion . . . and I feel as though I have walked every step of the road from Rhonas today. But I believe I have walked far enough.”

  The captain nodded toward the north.

  They had crested the rise at the end of the Whispering Hills. The broken granite crags stood off to their right, but it was the vista before them that caught their attention. The plain sank down before them as though the thumb of some god had pressed down into the face of the world. There, in the last rays of the setting sun, lay the salmoncolored tops of clouds beneath them in the distance, holding close to the ground in a perpetual fog that extended beyond the northern horizon.

  But it was the encampment that bordered on the near edge of the fog that held his fixed attention. It was a tremendous collection of tents, wagons, animals . . . nearly a mile wide where it nestled near the strange and permanent bank of fog.

  “Then we take our leave of you, great Captain,” Soen replied, “for it seems that our remaining road must, perforce, be one quickly traveled.”

  “If that road continues to the north,” Shuchai chuckled as he went back to rubbing his foot, “then I might suggest a different road entirely.”

  “Your council is good,” Soen replied. “We shall divert as soon as possible. Fare you well in the Emperor’s grace.”

  “And you,” the captain answered with a shrug.

  Soen turned and continued down the road to the north, his eyes fixed on the encampment.

  Behind him, the Proxi called after them in his strange, unhinged voice. “He isn’t there, you know! But he will be . . . just you wait! He will be!”

  Through it all, Vendis had not said a word.

  It was almost thirty minutes before Vendis found his voice. “Who was that back there?”

  “You heard him,” Soen answered without breaking his stride. “He’s Captain Shuchai of the Modalis Legions out for a stroll with his Proxi Braun. They won’t be lonely for long, however. Within a few minutes of that captain getting the ache out of his feet, that same Proxi undoubtedly began propagating gate fold symbols all along that ridge. By now more Proxis from the following Centurai have propagated an exponential number of gate symbols. It won’t be long before those two hapless servants of the Rhonas Empire have been joined by the entire Blade of the Northern Will—at least two full Legions—almost sixteen thousand warriors.”

  Vendis looked back. “I don’t see any . . .”

  “It’s the perfect position,” Soen continued, his gaze fixed forward as he walked with a brisk pace. “Deploy the army behind the rise so that it can be hidden from the enemy and then deploy the command tents along the ridge last so that you can command a proper view of the field of battle.”

  Vendis took several quick steps to catch up to the elf. “They mean to attack the encampment?”

  “I believe we may have found your fellow pilgrims, friend Vendis,” Soen said in an eager voice. “But I believe the Legions have found them as well.”

  “There must be . . . more than ten thousand in that camp!” Vendis stammered. “Surely they’re mostly families . . . children . . .”

  “Closer to fifteen thousand, I should think,” Soen replied. “They are at least another three leagues away. Look there. The trailing elements have not yet caught up with the main encampment. You can see the dust still rising behind them, so they are still moving.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means,” Soen grinned once more, “that we are not stopping until we’ve reached that camp.”

  Twilight was nearly over by the time they approached the trailing end of the migration.

  Soen had given considerable thought to their approach. He was not concerned about being a prisoner—indeed, it was part of his plan to become a prisoner. No, the real difficult part was not being killed in the process of becoming a prisoner. The signs on the trail had clearly indicated that they were following a huge encampment of manticores—lion-men of the Chaenandrian Steppes. They came from a fierce and proud warrior tradition where the family’s status and honor were embodied in the ancestral armor that passed down through generations. Though the elders of the Manticas Assembly—the closest the clans ever came to a central government—had surrendered their conquered lands to the greater glory of the Rhonas Imperium, they had not surrendered their warrior hearts as well. Several of the clans had left the Assembly rather than submit to the elves, and one Imperial Eye was forever trained on Chaenandria where the fire may have died but the coals still burned hot in manticore hearts. These manticores had left their ancestral lands and journeyed beyond the boundaries of Chaenandria, taking everything they possessed with them into a strange and hostile land beyond the control of the Emperor or any respect for an elf.

  As an Iblisi, he might have walked into s
uch a camp without fear of protecting himself. However, as Thein, a lowly Fourth Estate merchant wandering about in the night on the edge of their camp, his fate might very well be in question. He held his Matei staff in his right hand but to use it would unequivocally expose his true nature. That would defeat the entire purpose of his journey.

  Prey or hunter . . . always the same question.

  “So, how do you think we should do this?” Vendis asked.

  “Do what?” Soen replied casually. They were rapidly getting closer to the massive wagons of the manticores ahead of them, the dust from the eight-foot-tall wheels settling on their robes.

  “Let them know we’re here,” Vendis said sotto voce.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Soen said easily. “I’m sure we already have. Will you do me a favor?”

  “A favor?”

  “Yes, a small favor really.”

  “What?”

  “Would you just walk in front of me for a few minutes,” Soen said pleasantly. “Just until we reach those wagons.”

  “Just until . . .”

  “Yes, until we reach those wagons.”

  Vendis shrugged and then took a few quick steps forward. “You mean like . . .”

  Something huge smashed against the chimerian, driving him forward ten feet and into the back of the wagon with a sickening splat.

  Soen was already moving. He had felt the movement more than seen it, the thin hairs that circled his elongated head shifting with the air about him. At once, he fell flat against the ground.

  The massive dark form flew over him, with a roar of angry disappointment, huge arms clawing at the darkness above him.

  “Any gods who can hear me,” Soen muttered, “pray this works.”

  Soen let go his staff, pushing it slightly away from him even as he felt the pounding feet of the enraged manticore charging toward him. Slowly and deliberately, Soen pulled his knees up under him but he kept both of this hands flat against the ground, his face down and his eyes averted. Then he held very, very still.