"I seek the true leader of the Dorokti, the descendent of Ve the Ravager."
Vor circled the group slowly, taking time to look each of his captives over from head to toe. The room was hushed, and the gathered Dorokti seemed to breath in time with his heavy steps. Finally, he returned to his throne and sat. "You will be our guests until we find out more of you and your claims."
He nodded to the guards who dragged them all from the tent amidst jeers and laughter.
"If this is how they treat their guests, I'd hate to be a prisoner," Kiff said.
Heavy skins formed the tent walls and blocked out all light but a thin sliver that sneaked in through the closed entryway. Flint had no need for greater illumination as his Faldred eyes were capable of seeing with minimal need for light, but that did not make him any more comfortable with his situation. His neck itched terribly, and his fingers were too thick to get a good scratch with the cursed black iron collar in the way.
"Wonder if they threw the two of us together on purpose," Kiff said. The Undlander boy had not even removed his goggles, but was walking around checking the boxes that served as makeshift seating and the pile of furs that was likely to be their beds for the night. "Kind of thoughtful, really. They put us in a pitch-dark tent so we both feel more at home. I'm sure they've got Xandra and the Butcher in some bright, open-top with nice down pillows and comfy, plush chairs."
Flint did not think that likely. "I believe that we are prisoners in truth, Kiff, and I would assume that the Ginakti put Xandra and Master Kas Dorian in a similarly outfitted hold."
"Tell me, Flint," the Undlander said, "do Faldred ever make jokes?"
"Well of course we do. We Faldred are very well studied in the humors. In fact, a close acquaintance of mine wrote his dissertation on the pranks of the Lildrin peoples. Why do you ask?"
"Never mind." Kiff sprawled out on the stack of furs and put his hands behind his head. "How long do you think it will be until they eat us?"
"It's more likely they will escort us out of their lands or, in the worst case, slay us here and take our bodies to the edge of their territory and bury us there. From what I know of the Dorokti, they are not the type to resort to cannibalism despite their fearsome visages. I should think an Undlander would be less likely to judge a being based on his appearance. Besides, these Ginakti seem to have a strong respect for death, which implies that they also hold life in deference."
Flint walked to the tent's opening and peeked through the folds of hide. He saw a similar, heavily draped tent about five horse-lengths away with three guards stationed in front of it. A group of six children kicked a leather ball in an open circle while their mothers kept watch and rolled out flat bread from mashed grains. He noticed that the ground was mostly grass and not worn down with much traffic, as though the group had not camped long. Lastly, he saw the wooden grip of a heavy club as it grew in proximity to his face.
The blow took him between the eyes and knocked him onto his seat.
"That went well," the Undlander said.
Flint stood, dusted off his backside, and picked up his pack. Thankfully, the Dorokti had left him the majority of his scrolls and gear. "We need to begin formulating a plan and a few contingencies to run alongside. Do you speak any other languages? We should probably avoid High Peltin based on its similarities to the Dorokti tongue."
"Well enough, I guess, 'cause I don't speak High Peltin."
"Ah, Corash, the native language of the Underlands. I am chagrined that I did not think of it first." Flint pulled out a small scroll and a cinder stick. He began to draw hard lines, dashes, and tick-marks along the top of the parchment.
"That's a no for me," Kiff said. "And I certainly can't read it."
Flint looked up from his writing. "Truly? An Undlander who does not speak or read his own language? What do they teach in your elementary schools?"
"Tell you what; you go ahead and work on those plans. Use whatever language you like. Heck, use Cairtol for all I care. Take your notes while I take a nap, and then we'll discuss."
Flint scratched his bald head. "The Cairtol have no written language. Theirs is a completely oral tradition. Perhaps I should use Waysmahli. Yes, that seems fitting considering our destination. Very well, I will wake you when I have a simple plan drawn up."
"Well, not too soon," Kiff said. "Take your time. Make sure you cover every angle."
"My Undlander friend, when a Faldred says he will make a simple plan, you can be certain all possibilities are included."
The cool morning air found Polas waiting in his tent as the first trickle of light beaded through the entryway. He had discovered that he no longer needed the sun to wake him; his body would do that with its aches and pains and the tingle of coldfire that burned in his legs. Perhaps he had spent too many years sleeping. He sat in silence, barely able to see the edges of his stiff, hide blanket.
Xandra slept peacefully a few feet away, undisturbed by the chill. Or, at least, Polas assumed so. He would not have been able to tell her from a lump of pillow or another sleeping figure in the darkness if he had been asked.
Polas heard soft footsteps approaching. He closed his eyes so that he would not be blinded as he had the first time the Seer had come to visit him. It was three days past since Ezree had introduced herself to him, and she had repeated her visit each morning since.
The light burned at his eyelids, flashing red. Polas slowly opened his eyes and let them adjust. Ezree was a beautiful creature. She stood silhouetted at the entrance as she pinned the tent flaps back, citrine light trickling over her shoulders. She was slender and graceful and had an air of strength about her. Her golden fur danced in a passing breeze, and the beads and bones strung around her neck rattled against her pelage with each step. She came alone, as she had each day, and sat on the ground in front of Polas with her staff held across her lap. When first she came to see him, Polas had questioned the absence of guards. "I do not need them," she had said, and Polas believed her. It was not that she threatened power or prowess in combat, but rather that she exuded a sort of calmness and comfort that made him feel completely disarmed in her presence. Were he not immune to such things, he would have attributed to the effect to a spell or aura she wore.
"Kas Dorian, you are surely hungry. I will have breakfast sent for you as soon as we speak."
"Thank you, Seer," Polas said. "What would you ask of me today?"
She had asked him the same questions every day so far. Who was he? Where was he from? Where was he going? Who was Ve the Ravager and why should her people be bound to his word? She was prodding for holes in his tale, something to verify or discredit his story completely.
Polas heard Xandra stirring at the sound of his voice. The girl did not like Ezree and was convinced that the woman would have their hearts freed from their chests sooner than she would free them from their prison.
"Should I just start from the beginning again?" Polas asked.
"No," Ezree replied. "No, today we move forward. You have said much of your cause and the one you have called Ve the Ravager. Today I want to ask you about the four-legged man."
"Four-legged man? I have not spoken of one before now. To whom do you refer?"
Ezree stared at him, her fierce blue eyes searching him for any signs of a lie. Polas stared back at those eyes and thought of his wife. At once, he understood why he felt so at peace with this Dorokti woman. She had Finadel's eyes, and when he thought on it, she had her calm, tranquility, and quiet strength too. Not the power of a king or a warrior, but something that could make men bend their knee or climb mountains at a word. He remembered her voice, strong but soft, like the eddies of a rippling brook.
"Iron Blood." Ezree's voice pulled him back to the present. "The four-legged man. Do you know of him?"
Polas shook his head. "No. You know those I travel with, and I have told you of Narci, Ranar, and the others. There were Yarsacs who fought alongside us, but none I knew by name."
She was quiet for a
moment, and the song of a meadowlark drifted in on the wind. "And you seek no army, only the Lord of the Dorokti? Tell me again of your reason."
"I'm not fighting a war. You see the company I keep, and already this is more than I would wish to take with me to Waysmale's shores. I did not come here to take your hunters away and leave your clan undefended."
"You came only for our king, yes?"
The way she said it sound so much worse that it was. "Yes. Only the direct descendant of Ve."
She stared at him as though her eyes could see into his very soul. Outside the tent, Polas could hear the sounds of horses and men going from one place to another, of songs being sung, and of blades being sharpened. The smell of strip-steak and eggs caught his nose and his stomach growled audibly.
"Your breakfast will be sent." Without a further word, Ezree stood, exited the tent, and closed the flaps behind her, leaving them once again in darkness.
"Master Kas Dorian?" Xandra's voice was still scratchy from sleep. "Do you think it is wise to be so open with her? How do you know that she's not twisting everything you say against you?"
"I don't, but it is better that I give her the whole truth of my past, or as much as I know of it, in hopes that they have kept their own histories."
Morning light blinded them both as a gruff Dorokti with dark grey skin, thick shoulders and a round horn at the end of his snout brought them their breakfast. Polas had to fumble about in the dark to find his plate. "Sure wish I could tell what I'm eating."
"Hold on. I've been practicing."
A pinpoint of brilliant white light glowed from Xandra's direction. It grew steadily until it became a bright saucer of illumination, and Polas realized that the girl was using her plate as a focus. The light filled the tent, and he saw how dirty he was from the long ride and sleeping on the ground the last few nights. His hands were brown, and his fingernails looked as though they held all the dirt between the Dorokti camp and Odes'Kan. His plate held a mash of eggs and meat covered with a bit of crushed pepper for flavor. All in all, not a bad breakfast for a prisoner.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" Polas asked between bites of eggs.
"I've been practicing for a while now, but I just figured out that it's easier to hold the light if I focus it into something."
"Very well done, but let's keep that hidden from the Dorokti for now. We may need as many extra dirks in our boot as we can hold."
Xandra grinned ear to ear, and Polas thought of little Leyryl the first time she caught a fish big enough to share with the family. This girl was far too young to be throwing her life away in Waysmale, no matter who had raised her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lacien of the Shining Feather was broken. His long, black hair was knotted and unwashed, and his clothes were in tatters. He lay on his side on the floor of the dark prison cell watching days and years pass him by. The proud Melaci was reduced to a memory, and his once lustrous wings were now a dull black. His eyes and face held no emotion, and his meal of thick curd acted as a feeding trough for the rats.
His cell was cold and hard, drilled into the rock beneath the Cratin city of Berco. Mildew cleaved to cold stone dripping with rust-colored water. A heavy door made of steel bars caged his once glorious form. Spiders spun their webs over his unmoving body, and insects crawled over his face and through his hair. The gentle rise and fall of his chest were the only signs that life still flowed within him.
Eight cells comprised the small jail, and all seven others were devoid of sentient life, though many held the remains of once-living beings and the carrion that crawled upon their bones. A single door acted as entry and exit to the prison, and it was watched over by two guards on the inside as well as two in the antechamber.
The guards were Cratin, powerful and intelligent beings with the torso and shape of a man and the head of a bull. Their bipedal legs ended in hairy hooves that clacked against the stone floor. Beneath their silvered mail, they had the musculature of men devoted to the pursuit of strength. One had thick, black hair across his arced back, and his neck was like a cedar branch. The other had brown fur coating his veiny arms, and his horns were capped with black beads. Despite their barbaric appearances, Cratin were possessed of a keen and often devious intellect. The two sentries sat beside the door playing a strategy game, each one pondering over their moves with due deliberation. The scrape and tick of moving pieces and the scurrying of vermin were the only sounds in the hopeless den.
At the far end of the hall against a wall covered in manacles, chains, and collars, a small golden portal sizzled to life. Out stepped Matthew the Blue, still carrying the ornate bow and dragging his stack of books behind him.
The guards sprang to their feet, sending their game pieces flying. They snorted as they drew their weapons and charged the tiny Cairtol.
Matthew smirked and waved his hand, and a yellow portal opened in the floor beneath the guards’ feet. The two fell into the yellow abyss, yelling curses in their guttural Cratin tongue.
Matthew laughed and dusted his hands off before gesturing to close the portal. He took a quick survey of the prison, and upon seeing Lacien, walked hurriedly over to his cell. Once there, he dropped his stack of books on the ground beneath the lock. With some effort, he climbed on top and examined the keyhole. He closed his eyes tightly, and when he opened them again, they glowed bright yellow. A tiny, golden pane appeared, no larger than an apple. Matthew motioned downward, and the glowing circle consumed the lock. He blinked the color away from his eyes, and the cell door swung open.
"Come, Lacien," Matthew said, "it is time you left this prison cell. Fate has given you another chance to restore your family’s name."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vor sat on his throne and stroked the edge of his axe. He had sent away all of his guards so that he could speak privately with the Seer and his Kei'ensah. A small bowl of charred tesleaf twigs sat in the middle of the group with a fire pit lit beneath it.
The trespassers were wearing on his patience, and he wanted to be rid of them, but he could not do so without knowing everything they knew. They dared to claim the right of Blood Debt, and the one who called himself Kas Dorian knew too much about the histories of his people and of their ways. The only explanation was that the Faldred was a scholar who had studied with another tribe; they had learned much from the Clan of Wind or the Clan of Fire, and now they were attempting to use that knowledge against the Clan of Earth. Vor would not be taken for a fool.
"He is either truly Kas Dorian or a very good imitation of the man, my lord." Ezree spoke the language of the Dorokti, a language more ancient than the Iron Blood or even some of the races of Traesparin.
"But he knew nothing of the four-legged man?" Vor asked in kind.
"That is true," the Ezree said. "But if he does not seek an army, then perhaps he would not know one is to be gathered."
"And your arts?"
Ezree shook her head. "I have tried many ways, but he defies all of them. In fact, I do not believe he even feels the presence of my arcanis. It is not as though he resists, more that he is untouched by them."
"Then perhaps he does have Iron Blood, or more likely he wears a spell himself to keep yours at camp."
"No. I would be able to see its glow, especially one so powerful as to block my arts."
Vor laughed. "You have forgotten your modesty, or have these outsiders stirred up the warrior in you?"
"I am the Seer of the Ginakti Clan. I carry the pride of my people. False modesty does not help our king to understand his prisoners."
"Well said." Vor reached for his cup and took a long drink of melon wine. "And what does my Kei'ensah say of these trespassers?"
Kertyah watched the small fire dance beneath the incense bowl. His black fur caught the orange light, but gave back only ripples of deep blue and violet. It was as though he carried the night with him wherever he went.
"My lord, I have seen true honor in their leader. He risked himself for his captor t
wice and has not raised a blade against any of our people. Perhaps we should again consult the mists. There might be something hidden there that we have forgotten."
"No, we have looked enough into the past. It is time my people looked forward." Vor stood. "I must decide, for we cannot have these beings in our midst forever. Call for a gathering, and I will see to the prisoners."
The giant tent was full once again, as all the Ginakti wanted to see what would become of the strangers. Kiff was pretty sure he saw a few of the Fallen exchanging bets, probably wagering on which would be killed first. Unfortunately for them, Flint had made a simple plan. Seventeen of them to be exact, and Kiff knew his role in each. Cause trouble. It was easy for him, and he was impressed that the Faldred scholar had come up with so many creative uses of his talents.
Kiff watched and waited as the Seer stepped between Vor and Polas. She ran her fingers along Polas’s chest and shoulders and waved her staff above his head. Ineffective sparks of light leaped from her fingertips and fizzled against his masked face. Polas did not flinch.
After a few more failed tests of her arcane skills, the Seer turned and nodded to her king. Murmurs tore through the crowd, and Vor had to raise his hand to silence them. Kiff laughed to himself. They were probably all aghast that their precious Seer could not conjure enough magic to harm a full-grown man. It was a joke, really. Kiff had seen better magic tricks in the tavern at Dethel's Bend, but these barbaric people had likely never seen what a real mage could do with a little practice.
"Kas Dorian," Vor said, "you and our ancients fought many battles together. How is that you still live?"
"I do not know," Polas replied. "But your ancients’ Seer told me this day would come. You, Lord of the Dorokti, owe me your service."
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