Rhune Shadow

by Vaughn Heppner

  Despite the breeze, sweat prickled Himilco’s face. There was too much concentrated magic here: the Great Altar and the skull baton. Protective spells almost certainly lay in her wand.

  “Speak to us, Prophetess,” Mab begged. “Instruct us. Tell us what we should do.”

  “Priest,” the Prophetess wheezed.

  “Yes?” Mab asked, kneeling.

  The Prophetess gnashed her teeth so the muscles hinging her jaws bulged. She strained to lift her head. Her hands opened, and the scepter clattered onto the marble.

  With everyone’s attention fixed on her struggles, Himilco dared a spell-casting stance. With the fallen scepter, he had a chance. He wove his hands, whispering words of power.

  The Prophetess arched upward as her eyes bulged with pain.

  “Prophetess!” Mab screamed.

  “Lies,” the Prophetess hissed.

  Himilco clenched his hand into a fist and spoke dire words.

  The Prophetess slumped back upon the obsidian altar. She began to thrash back and forth.

  “Hold her!” Mab screamed.

  Himilco squeezed his fist. All his hate and fear of the Prophetess shined on his sweaty features.

  With tears streaming down her cheeks, Thirmida turned from the Prophetess. She hiccupped and might have burst out crying. At that point, her gaze fell onto Himilco. Maybe his hate-filled features and odd stance startled her. She brushed away her tears and looked at him more closely.

  Although consumed with fierce emotions, Himilco’s jackal-like alertness caught Thirmida’s sudden turn toward him. He noticed her startled glance. He broke the spell by ripping open his hands. He thrust his arms star-ward.

  “Bel Ruk!” he cried. “Save our Prophetess. Let her marry you for all Karchedon to witness. Let them see the beauty of her prophecies and let them know she was correct in her teachings concerning you.”

  Mab wailed a Nasamon death-cry.

  Himilco lowered his arms, and he dared glance at Thirmida. She stared at him wide-eyed. He attempted a timid smile even as he used a sleeve to wipe sweat from his face.

  “I’ve prayed with all my strength,” Himilco told Thirmida. “We should all pray. Oh, how I hate this helplessness.”

  Thirmida nodded woodenly. Then she turned to Mab as they ministered to the slack-faced Prophetess, unconscious again on the altar.

  Himilco moved closer. He strove to look concerned instead of terrified. The spell should have slain the witch. The Great Altar, or maybe the blasted baton’s nearness, had weakened his spell.

  Mab stroked the Prophetess’s check.

  “What did the Prophetess mean by lies?” Thirmida whispered.

  Mab laughed scornfully as she glanced over her shoulder at Himilco. There were tears in her eyes, but she looked upon him with venomous hatred.

  “His tales are a pack of lies!” Mab hissed. “I don’t know how I ever believed otherwise.”

  “I grieve for our Prophetess,” Himilco said.

  “Seize him!” Mab shouted.

  The two warriors without torches leaped to their feet and grabbed Himilco’s arms.

  “Mab,” Himilco said as he strove for serenity. “Bel Ruk gave Thirmida a vision. Because of it, I saw that the Prophetess was in danger. No one else saw that. It was my idea to check her. You know that’s true.”

  Mab turned to the Prophetess on the altar.

  “Lies likely means that it lies in the inner sanctum,” Himilco said.

  Mab tenderly straightened the Prophetess’s limbs. Perhaps without thinking, perhaps absorbed with worry, she reached for the baton with its dwarf dragon skull. It might have been that Mab meant to put the baton back in the Prophetess’s grip. Whether in her grief she had forgotten the Prophetess’s warnings, or whether the Prophetess had ever warned her, it was impossible to know. Mab gripped the baton and lifted it.

  “Mab, no!” Thirmida shouted.

  It was too late. Mab groaned, unable to let go of the baton because her hand and then her arm had withered. With incredible swiftness, her entire body began to wither.

  In terror, the warriors scrambled away from the old crone. One of the warriors, one who’d earlier held onto Himilco’s arm, raced back too far. He screamed as pitched off the pyramid, landing at an awkward head-first angle on the step below and continuing to tumble until he hit the asphalt at the bottom, dead within moments from a broken neck.

  Thirmida wailed with despair.

  The baton’s protective spell flooded across Mab. It shriveled her neck and her face. Her torso, legs and finally her feet shriveled into a mummified thing.

  Awed, Himilco stood rooted at his spot. He’d almost picked up the baton earlier in the inner sanctum. Mab was dead. The surprise of his wonderful luck—Himilco slapped his hands over his mouth. He pressed his hands against his face to keep from braying with laughter. The crone was dead. The suspicious, foul-eyed crone could no longer plague him. Himilco shivered, but not from the cold. Waves of laughter shook him. Mab, the wicked crone, was dead. She’d been about to order him slain and now she was shriveled and gone. Maybe his luck had finally turned around. The suspicious old biddy would no longer chirp her qualms concerning him. Now he had to make sure Thirmida slew the Prophetess before that scourge awoke a second time.

  He stepped near the altar. The Prophetess hardly breathed. In another few hours—

  “This is horrible,” Thirmida whispered.

  Himilco swallowed the last of his laughter as he contained the shaking.

  The new Prophetess touched his arm. “I’m sorry I doubted you earlier.”

  He didn’t dare look at Thirmida or she might see his glee.

  “You shook with horror at these sights,” Thirmida said softly.

  Himilco realized she’d been watching him.

  “You covered your mouth to keep from screaming and you’ve convulsed in sorrow at Mab’s death, even though she doubted you. You are a good man, Suffete.”

  Himilco bowed his head and tried to control his twitching lips. He was beginning to crack under the stress. In just another few hours, the witch on the altar would be dead, as well. He should concentrate on that.

  “We must find my uncle and tell him what has happened,” Thirmida said.

  That sobered Himilco. Mab had died in his presence. He was going to need more than luck with that cunning old war-chieftain. He was far from safe yet. Yes, he was still going to need all his wits to survive these desert dogs.

  -9-

  Thirmida and Himilco hunted for the war-chieftain. The warriors surrounded them, the four remaining of the five who’d been atop the pyramid, and the thirty who had guarded the base. The four kept a close watch on Himilco, on edge after witnessing the death of their cohort. The others either carried torches or gripped gutting knives. The torches cast lurid flames, creating shadows everywhere and hissing when they came too close. Himilco was amazed the entire city hadn’t burned down. He’d never seen so many torches in a single night.

  Chaos ruled the city. Confusion dominated the Temple Mount. There were horsemen everywhere. They shouted orders or simply yipped victoriously, sometimes pumping their javelins in the air. Most had bulging sacks draped over their steed’s hindquarters. The sacks clanked or clinked with precious objects or fistfuls of coins. Sometimes sheiks appeared in the company of their clan champions. One told Thirmida that the war-chieftain was watching an assault on a Karchedonian tower full of enemy soldiers. Another claimed the war-chieftain weighed spices in an underground vault. The third said the war-chieftain had galloped to the Tyrant’s camp for a meeting.

  “I must find him,” Thirmida declared.

  Streaks of red appeared in the east. Himilco’s left foot shot pain up his leg each time he set weight on it. He was tired, dispirited and growing dull-witted. Worse, his guardian warriors kept him from hailing the Karchedonians he spotted on a temple roof. Where was the Gray Wolf?

  “There,” the leader of the Nasamon warriors said. “It is the war-chieftain’s ban
ner.” He pointed down the Processional Way into the city below.

  Himilco saw a forest of banners among a milling throng of Nasamons down on the parade ground. That was at the bottom of Temple Mount. He couldn’t make out any individual banners, and he doubted the warrior could either. Himilco winced, and he put all his weight on his right foot. He would drop soon. Either that or he would have to take off his binding shoes. The thought filled him with shame. Thirmida and all the other Nasamons would know that he was short.

  Himilco took a deep breath, held it and let the air out slowly. He did it again, calming his nerves. Then he pushed past several warriors, grimacing each time he put weight on his left foot.

  “Prophetess,” he said.

  Thirmida peered at the distant banners and only reluctantly cast him a worried glance. “We must find my uncle. Javan says—”

  Himilco laid a hand on her forearm. “I want you to listen to me. It’s important.”

  She frowned. So did several warriors.

  “Sometimes an outsider can see things an insider cannot,” he said.

  “We must find my uncle.”

  Himilco squeezed her forearm. She had such youthful flesh. He pitched his voice low and leaned toward her. “Are you purposefully trying to destroy the Prophetess’s vision?”

  Thirmida gasped as if he’d punched her. Then anger creased her otherwise smooth forehead. “How dare you insult me?”

  “Do you love the Prophetess?”

  “I served her. I was first among her attendants.”

  “Then you have watched the Prophetess, yes?”

  “I’ve bathed her. I’ve—”

  Himilco squeezed her forearm a second time. “Do you realize that you’re the Prophetess now?”

  “She spoke to us up there. She’s alive, and she—”

  “Bel Ruk gave you a vision,” Himilco said. “Bel Ruk has chosen you above all others to give him his bride in marriage. Bel Ruk has also chosen you to carry on her work.”

  “I’m trying to find my—”

  “The Prophetess did more than give us Bel Ruk’s words,” Himilco said, interrupting her. “She united the Nasamons, all the tribes of the desert. As an outsider, I see that. I understand.”

  “We understand it just as well,” Thirmida said.

  “You’re the Prophetess now.”

  “I heard you the first time.” She ripped her arm free from his grasp. “Furthermore—”

  “A Prophetess does not scurry about the city like a frightened attendant looking for her uncle to sooth her sorrows.”

  Thirmida’s cheeks flushed crimson. Warriors began to mutter threats.

  “You’re the heart of the Nasamon Horde,” Himilco said. “You’re the Prophetess, the chosen of Bel Ruk. He gives you visions. You lead the people, not the war-chieftain.”

  Her angry retort died as her shoulders deflated. She looked away.

  “Would the Prophetess of old have run after your uncle?” Himilco asked. “Or would she have summoned the war-chieftain to come see her?”

  “I’m his niece.”

  “You’re the Prophetess,” Himilco said. “These warriors are your chosen bodyguard. What if vengeful Karchedonians rushed out to slay the horde’s heart?”

  The muttering among the warriors stopped. They gripped their knives and warily glanced about.

  Thirmida noticed.

  “I’ve been a priest all my life,” Himilco said. “I know how military men try to take over. You should surround yourself with your attendants. You should rest, bathe and eat. You should await the Lord of Dragons and prepare yourself for the wonderful marriage about to take place.”

  The leader of the warriors spoke up. He wore a red string around his forehead to keep the hair out of his eyes. During the night, Himilco had learned it was a courage string, won by galloping at a lion, jumping down, touching the beast, remounting and galloping away. The warrior’s name was Javan, and he had the impetuous look of a wild-eyed youth stupid enough to do something like that.

  “I heard Mab call you the Prophetess,” Javan said. “I’ve heard about your vision and this one’s unraveling of its meaning. You should go where we can keep you safe.”

  Thirmida touched her throat. “I am the Prophetess.”

  “By Bel Ruk’s choice,” Himilco said, “you are the heart of the Nasamons.”

  Thirmida stared at him. A timid smile touched her lips. She cleared her throat and turned to the warrior. “We’re heading back to the temple. Tell my uncle…”

  “Should I send runners ahead of us?” Javan asked.

  Thirmida cleared her throat a second time. “It is wrong for a warrior to interrupt the Prophetess when she’s speaking.”

  It took several heartbeats, but Javan said, “Forgive me, Prophetess.”

  “I have,” she said. “Now, obey my orders.”

  -10-

  The rising sun found half the giant galleys afloat in the Bay of Sails. Gangs of neck-chained slaves guarded by soldiers waded into the surf. Soon, they ascended slippery gangplanks, each gang descending into the belly of their particular behemoth. Sailors and soldiers hauled water casks, hardtack and sundry supplies into the vessels.

  The scene on the beach was more like a slow riot than an orderly maneuver. Amidst it, the Nasamon messenger carrying the tale of a dagger held by a sleeping Rhune failed to find Ert or his vultures.

  Ert stood with Tyrant Alexon on the rear deck of the Tyrant’s quinquereme. It had a purple awning to protect them from the sun, and crimson-colored oars. The waist of the ship bustled with busy sailors. The Tyrant wore a hardened linen breastplate. It was lighter and cooler than bronze armor, and it was nearly as effective. A leaf-shaped sword dangled at his hip and he stood with his muscular legs braced wide.

  Ert was shorter and seemed to lack a neck. For a Nasamon, he had unusually wide shoulders and ham-like hands. His black eyes were close-set and he had a ring of hair around an otherwise bald head. It was what had led to his nickname, “the Vulture.”

  Alexon found the man hideous, although to his credit the nomad had sea legs. The creaking, tilting deck had done nothing to upset the warrior’s balance. Even so, in a perfect world, Alexon would cull people like Ert and use their corpses as fertilizer. The Tyrant sighed and faced the gentle breeze.

  “You’re loading everyone,” Ert said in his harsh voice.

  Alexon shrugged.

  “Have you found the Rhune?”

  Alexon shook his head, although he was careful to keep his curls in place.

  “Are you departing our coast?” Ert asked.

  “I’m awaiting the slave ships. I’m also ensuring that no Karchedonians escape our net.” Alexon gave Ert a bland look. “Have you secured the city harbor?”

  “The war-chieftain failed to inform me,” Ert said.

  “Ah.”

  “No Karchedonians will threaten the sea.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Do you have any messages for the war-chieftain?”

  “Yes. I congratulate him on breaking into the city,” Alexon said. “Now my merchants will pay you good coin for an excessive number of slaves.” The Tyrant spotted an oddity on shore. He lifted his eyebrows, an expression he practiced before his mirrors.

  Following the gaze, Ert studied the shore. Several Nasamons walked their stallions through the surf and between lines of marching rowers and sailors. The desert warriors were searching for someone. They bore black on red flags.

  “Zama clan,” Ert said.

  “Should I send them a launch?” Alexon asked.

  “No,” Ert said. “I’ll speak with them ashore. It is time for me to report to the war-chieftain.” He faced the Tyrant. “The Rhune may still be lurking nearby.”

  Alexon affected an easy laugh. It was often useful for his foes to think him foolish. It had worked to his advantage for many years. Rhunes and slaves, slaves and harbors. He had an idea churning in his mind. Its success could pay for this month of idleness.r />
  As the hideous Ert departed, Alexon began to pace, with his head tilted leftward and with a wry smile. It would be a signature assault—his plan—and it would add to his legendary status. Yes, he believed he rather liked his new-formed idea.

  -11-

  Dabar of the Zama clan, the youth with the greasy lock dangling from his tattooed head, thumped an elbow into Himilco’s side.

  Himilco stood beside the Prophetess. She sat in a chair. They were in Zarius Magonid’s old palace, in his largest audience chamber.

  Himilco turned abruptly.

  Dabar grinned. The youth still had his elephant-hide shield strapped to his left forearm and still wore the green sash of a messenger. He showed Himilco the stolen star ornament.

  “Your death will make this powerful,” Dabar said. “It will be even better if you burn to death.”

  Himilco smoothed his scarlet robes.

  Dabar’s grin turned nasty. “The war-chieftain is in a foul mood. All night, he has ridden throughout the city, leading warriors in the assault and bellowing commands. Twice, he has hurled javelins in anger, slaying dirt fighters foolish enough to try to kill him.”

  Himilco smiled. “Have you felt an ache in your side yet?”

  “Why should I?”

  “No reason,” Himilco said.

  “Have you cursed me?”

  Himilco smiled knowingly.

  “You’re going to burn, dead man. The war-chieftain is angry with you.”

  “I’m going to collect your shield when they bury you,” Himilco said. “That will be my talisman.”

  Dabar’s right hand dropped to the hilt of his sheathed dagger. Before he could draw it, the war-chieftain shouted at him.

  Dabar jerked around, lifted his shield-arm in acknowledgement and turned back to Himilco. “Move to the front of the dais, dead man.” On the sly, Dabar showed him the glass ornament again. Then the youth concealed it in his fist and led the way.

  The war-chieftain of the Nasamons sat cross-legged on a pillow. Soot scarred his pitted cheeks, and his good elbow rested on a knee. His chin rested on top of his good fist as he watched Himilco approach. Several sheiks sat behind the war-chieftain in a semicircle. One guzzled wine from a flagon, another gnawed jerky. A grinning sheik showed his neighbor a fine scimitar he’d stolen this fine night, its jeweled pommel glittering in the firelight..