Rhune Shadow

by Vaughn Heppner

  The Gepids rushed to the ledge where she’d been standing. Elissa couldn’t see them, but the barbarians watched her in openmouthed astonishment.

  “She’s a goddess,” one of them whispered.

  Two made warding signs against evil.

  Another whistled in amazement.

  Elissa swung down toward the street and then up like a pendulum toward the sub-temple across the way. She let go of the line at just the right moment. Any normal person would have flopped with sickening force onto the temple roof. Elissa hit with a controlled tumble the way the troubadour had taught her. Whatever else the Rhune had been, he had been a superb teacher.

  As Elissa came to a stop, she could hardly believe the world no longer rocketed past her in a blur. This was fool’s luck. She knew that’s what the troubadour would have told her. Yet, his dark eyes might have shined with the hint of secret approval even as he spoke.

  With a nervous laugh, Elissa sat up, looking around.

  One of the Gepids on the other roof raised his sword as if saluting. Another waved to her. The rest of the barbarians lifted their swords, shouting.

  Were they making dire oaths to slit her throat? Elissa blinked in astonishment. No. They seemed to be cheering her accomplishment. That didn’t make sense. They were murderers. They wanted to destroy her. Now they were going to cheer what she had done?

  Elissa jumped to her feet. She saw her silken line dangling from the plinth. She’d miss it, but at least she was alive. The question was, how long would she remain free?

  Elissa staggered for the sub-temple’s trapdoor. The Temple Mount on which the palace and temples were built crawled with Gepids. And despite the cheers over there, the sorcery-driven barbarians would still drag her to Himilco if they could lay their hands on her.

  Still, Elissa had her Rhune dagger. Now, she needed to remain free long enough to construct her skay. Then she could be about her business and assassinate the Tyrant of Delium, the ruler whose galleys had kept Karchedon hostage to the nomads. If she could kill the Tyrant soon enough, she might yet save the city from Himilco’s treachery.

  She wiped a tear from her cheek. That would be her tribute to her departed father. She would miss him—

  Elissa began to run. She couldn’t dwell on her father now. She had too much to do just to stay alive for another few hours.

  -3-

  Himilco Nara, Priest of Bel Ruk in Karchedon, stared from a window in the Suffete’s Palace. He was a thin man with black eyes in a face that seemed to be all nose and narrow forehead. He had nervous hands and the odd habit of letting his fingers linger upon whatever they touched, as if debating whether to steal the thing or not. He’d survived a harrowing and terrible childhood through theft and a quick tongue.

  Blood stained the walls behind him in the room, while several of the suffete’s favorite concubines lay dead in grotesque postures. One yet held the dice cup with which she’d idled away her last hours of life. The two bone dice lay in the cup’s inner lip. The pips were three and four, showing seven, a winning throw. A passing Gepid had already snatched up the meager winnings from the overturned table.

  Himilco wore a red robe and boots that granted him several extra inches of height. He knew Zarius had joked about the platform boots before. Afterward, priests had whispered what to them must have been delicious gossip. Mercenary commanders and merchants had eventually heard about Himilco’s boots. Many had no doubt snickered about it behind his back. Some said he was vain, others that he was insecure.

  Himilco’s lips peeled back, showing yellowed teeth in a sardonic grin. He had begun life as a vagabond, a runt with an ugly face. His earliest memories in life were those of being alone and fending for himself. Many had kicked him in those days. Many had struck him, especially when they caught him in their orchards stealing pears or pomegranates to fill his withered belly. Yet even then, he’d possessed guile, and he had worked harder than anyone else around him. He’d learned to read and had tried to enter the priesthood. That was normally reserved for the children of nobles or rich merchants. Finally, Zarius had granted him an interview. The suffete had discovered Himilco’s proclivity for spell casting.

  Against much protest, Zarius had enrolled Himilco in the priesthood, continuing to elevate him to higher and higher ranks as he proved his skills. Instead of being grateful, those mercies had ignited Himilco’s hatred as not even kicks in the face had been able to do.

  Now, at last, Himilco gazed out of Zarius Magonid’s window. Standing in his platform boots, he peered across the city over the massive wall that guarded them from the nomad horde camped outside. Thousands of black tents dotted the plain.

  Several weeks ago, Himilco had secretly walked among those tents. He knew that in the high desert, children collected fallen goat hairs from the herds. The women wove the coarse hairs into the black Nasamon tents. Each tent was low and oval-shaped, the right flap tied back every morning. A reed mat rested at the entrance. There, the owner sharpened his dagger, worked on his leopard-skin saddle or instructed his family hidden in the tent’s interior. A clay jug of fermented goat’s milk waited at his left, the stopper fashioned out of witchweed.

  Out beyond the city walls, each clump of tents surrounded various clan banners. The nearest to the city was the Diraish-i-kaviyani, the glittering banner of the Red Scorpions. The banner was the leather apron of a legendary smith, once a slave in a caravan-trading city. He had escaped and led the nomads on countless plundering campaigns. In time, the leather apron had become a banner fifteen feet by twenty, a crust of precious stones. The Nasamons regarded it as holy, and each clan chieftain of the Red Scorpions had added new decorations to it with the help and approval of the desert shamans.

  “Archpriest,” a woman said.

  Himilco turned from the window, from his study of the besieging horde. He tilted his head in greeting to the Lady Sidi. Behind her stood the Gray Wolf, a gigantic Gepid.

  Lady Sidi wore a white linen veil and costly Carazian linen garments, with silver slippers. She wore a chain of gold around her slim hips. The gold clasp was of a leopard’s head, two jade fangs holding the end in place. Like the delicate clasp from Lokhar, Lady Sidi moved with grace. She had painted eyes like a courtesan, watchful and far too knowing. She was the chief of the perfumers, one of the central powers in Karchedon.

  “The Suffete…?” she asked delicately.

  “Is quite dead,” Himilco assured her.

  Her linen garments rustled as she glanced at the carnage in the room. She took several tentative steps nearer.

  “You have the Gauntlet of Ice?” she asked.

  “Alas, in his pride, Zarius destroyed it.” Himilco smiled softly. “Some might think it vanity that I should say this, but I surprised Zarius by the power of my spells. He attempted to match me and then lost control of the forces he had summoned.” Himilco shrugged his narrow shoulders in an offhanded manner. “What of the commanders?”

  Lady Sidi took several steps closer, careful to keep her slippers from pools of clotted blood or severed limbs.

  Himilco tried to leave the question hanging, but proved unable. The Lady Sidi wielded great power, and her presence bothered him.

  “The nomads grow restless,” he said.

  Still, she said nothing.

  Himilco hated and respected her reserve. Even so, she must understand what was at stake. He indicated the nomad horde beyond the walls.

  In the distance rose two new siege towers. The first three were burnt cinders, the work of Zarius’s spells several days ago.

  The siege towers were evidence of the Tyrant of Delium. He had brought wood as cargo. He’d brought nails, iron clasps and mechanical and construction knowledge. Until then, the nomads’ primary siege tool had been patience, having cut off Karchedon from her fertile fields and tributary lands. Their Prophetess had given the nomads unnatural staying power. Three times, Karchedon’s mercenary host had marched out of the city to give battle. Each time, the nomads had baffled and eve
ntually driven back the more sedentary army. On their small desert ponies, the unequaled horsemen had maneuvered like flocks of starlings that wheeled and changed direction as if by instinct.

  The chief Nasamon weapon was an incredibly long javelin. It was springy, fashioned out of tempered Tem wood and varnished black, with a glinting bronze tip. Some javelins had hollow bone tips that whistled as they arced through the air. Many a Nasamon could hurl his javelin from a galloping horse farther than a skilled archer could shoot a distance arrow. From the wheeling, taunting desert horsemen had showered thousands of such javelins, too many finding their marks in the mercenary host.

  As Karchedon possessed the world’s greatest merchants, the city used her fabled wealth to recruit her soldiers instead of using patriotism to inspire her local sons into joining the standard. If the mercenaries deserted their posts, Karchedon would be defenseless.

  “The commanders are restless,” the Lady Sidi said softly. She meant the mercenary commanders, of course. “Yet, the commanders fear Zarius too much to believe any tales about his death, especially without evidence of the Gauntlet of Ice.”

  “I speak the truth concerning it,” Himilco said.

  “Of course I believe you,” Lady Sidi said. “Others…might recall past tales concerning you.”

  Himilco’s face burned with embarrassment and resentment.

  “Others mistrust me only because Zarius cleverly sowed the seeds of disunity among us. Yet I bid you to look around you, Lady. Zarius’s retainers are hacked corpses. If the Suffete were alive, do you not think he would have already struck me with vengeance?”

  “That you stand so boldly at his favorite window speaks well of your boasts.”

  “I never boast,” Himilco said.

  Lady Sidi took her time answering.

  “Perhaps if you could produce some ice shards from the gauntlet,” she said. “That would persuade my…confederates. Then we would declare ourselves bankrupt and let the commanders know that no more pay would be forthcoming for their hirelings.”

  Himilco shook his head. “Time is critical. If we are to gain Karchedon the Prophetess’s mercy—”

  “Please!” Sidi said, interrupting him. “That is foolishness. I will hear no more about it. It’s time you learned about our plan.”

  Himilco glanced past Lady Sidi to the impassive giant waiting by the door. He’d wondered about double-dealing from her and her confederates. He saw that he would have to do this the hard way.

  Himilco nodded as if implying he wanted to hear more from her.

  “I understand that you think you need the Prophetess’s favor in order to seal your position as the new Suffete,” Lady Sidi said. “The commanders lack faith in you, however. That means we need to—”

  Lady Sidi never finished her words. The Gray Wolf had correctly read Himilco’s nod a second ago. The barbarian chieftain clapped his hands on either side of the perfumer’s head and twisted sharply. Lady Sidi’s neck snapped. The Gray Wolf let go, and her corpse collapsed like a linen sack, joining the dead on the carpeted floor.

  Himilco knelt beside her and unpinned the veil. Lady Sidi’s porcelain beauty startled him. Her death had been so swift that a surprised look showed in the raised eyebrows. The abrupt murder hadn’t otherwise twisted her delicate features.

  Himilco had always supposed she’d veiled her face because she was hideous looking. To find the opposite to be true angered him. Had she believed he belonged to the vulgar masses? Did she believe him too lowborn to gaze upon her beauty?

  Because the Gray Wolf was watching, Himilco restrained an impulse to hack at her face with a knife. Instead, he gave her a pitying smile.

  “I hope to win Karchedon a reprieve,” he told the corpse. “The Tyrant’s fleet means there will be no salvation from abroad. Sadly, I must now open the gates and let the nomads disarm the mercenaries. If I thought you would have understood, you would have lived.” Himilco glanced at the Gray Wolf. “If only she had possessed greater faith in me.”

  As Himilco stared, the Gray Wolf grudging knelt before him. The chieftain was a giant and a legend among the Gepids. Even on his knees, the Gray Wolf was taller than Himilco. The chieftain was supposedly descended from one of the northern forest gods. Looking at the brute, one could almost believe it.

  “My lord,” the Gray Wolf rumbled in his heavy accent. “What is your wish?”

  “Catch the half-Rhune and bring me the Gauntlet of Ice.”

  A hint of fear showed in the barbarian’s gray eyes. “She is a were-creature, Lord, one of the beastmen of Darkness.”

  “You’re Gepids,” Himilco said. “I thought you were supposed to be the world’s deadliest warriors, afraid of nothing that breathed.”

  The Gray Wolf’s heavy features tightened. He wore the spiked helm of a temple guard, but instead of wild hair, his uncut, graying hair fell in a single braid down his massive back.

  “We are the deadliest warriors,” the Gray Wolf said, “against human foes.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more excuses. Do you understand?”

  After a moment, the Gray Wolf nodded. With the clink of mail, he rose to his imposing height. “We may take the Rhune’s head?”

  Himilco had often wondered about barbarian head hunting. The warriors liked to nail the heads of worthy foes to their barrack’s wall. Was there magical significance to the act?

  “The jump from the palace—”

  “The head is yours once you capture her,” Himilco said, interrupting.

  With a grim smile, the Gray Wolf stalked from the room.

  Himilco moved back to the window as he blotted his narrow forehead with Lady Sidi’s veil. He’d promised the Prophetess a tranquil city. Now the Prophetess would have to defeat stubborn mercenaries who refused to lay down their swords. Still, he would give her the victory she craved. And once he had the Prophetess’s ear, he could maneuver for even greater power.

  Himilco rubbed his hands. The next few hours were going to be hard. But once he won through them…no one would ever laugh behind his back again.

  -4-

  Elissa lay on her belly. She peered past a dragon statue on the edge of the roof of the Great Temple of Bel Ruk. The stone dragon towered over Elissa, perched as if about to swoop down upon the unhappy citizens below. The unknown sculptor had masterfully chiseled the talons. Elissa peered between them and noticed how the stone claws seemingly dug into flesh. The edge of the roof where the claws pierced seemed to bleed granite spurts of blood. What had inspired the artist to bother with such exquisite detail when he or she must have known that nobody except perhaps a desperate half-Rhune assassin would ever witness it?

  The Temple Mount dominated the city of Karchedon and the Great Temple of Bel Ruk dominated the mountain in the middle of the city. The city spread out below. It had a huge marketplace to the west. Closer by were squat manufactories where artisans created glassware, made perfumes and pottery and dyed garments. Much of Karchedon’s riches came from trade in those items. Throughout the city were merchant palaces. Around each of them were smaller adobe homes. The merchant princes rented those homes, creating yet more wealth for themselves and an army of clients.

  Few people were abroad in the city today. Those who were on the streets hurried with hunched shoulders and furtive glances. Perhaps they sensed the great tragedy that was about to take place. Flags yet waved on the stone towers that were part of the city walls, and flags waved on the main city gates, showing that the mercenary companies still maintained their posts and that Karchedonian officers still commanded the paid formations.

  Slaves unloaded a ship on the quays to the east. It was the fifth blockade-runner to have reached Karchedon since the Tyrant’s fleet had arrived. Slaves tramped across gangplanks with sacks of flour on their sweaty shoulders.

  Across the bay was the Tyrant’s camp. There, most of his galleys were beached like stranded whales. Workers scraped away seaweed from the bottom of one. A few galleys patrolled the waters.
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br />   The Tyrant’s camp was Elissa’s destination. She planned to sneak into his tent and garrote him in his sleep. Without his iron hand at the helm, his island empire would splinter into separate city-states. The sailors and soldiers that made up the armada would surely demand to sail home. The captains would undoubtedly feel likewise. Without the blockading galleys, Karchedon could resume her trade, rebuild her navy and hire more mercenaries to defeat the nomads.

  Now, Elissa wondered if she was too late. The Donkey Gate, the fortress built around the largest entrance into Karchedon, faced the waiting nomad horde. Great blocks of stone made up the tower, each block ten tons or more in weight. They made for a vast square of unconquerable granite. Higher square towers rose on each corner of the Donkey Gate. Archers normally peered between each tower’s merlons, ready to pour withering fire upon anyone attempting to storm the Donkey Gate. Now, those towers appeared to be devoid of soldiers.

  Lord Jubal commanded the Golden Lions, a mercenary company of Mazaran archers, proud soldiers, their history of service unequaled. Yet the Donkey Gate seemed empty. What had happened to the archers, and where was Lord Jubal?

  In peacetime, thousands of merchants and country folk poured into the city or left on journeys into the hinterland through the Donkey Gate. Since the siege began over a year ago, the mighty gate had only swung open three times. Each time, Karchedon’s mercenaries had marched outside to do battle. Each time, the companies had staggered back into the safety of the city.

  The sons of the desert were tough fighters. Their best warriors, Elissa had heard, could heave their deadly missiles with equal dexterity from either hand. Such champions roamed the battlefield as they guided their nimble mounts with their knees. The leopard-skin saddles hardly afforded any help remaining seated. From birth, the nomads learned how to ride. The best killers always led the way into battle.