Rhune Shadow

by Vaughn Heppner

  He’s playacting, Elissa realized.

  “You have disobeyed my instructions,” the dragon said.

  “My fingers have touched nothing,” Himilco said.

  “You picked up a baan.”

  Knuckles rapped against hollow-sounding metal, likely against one of the rusty armor-suits. “So that’s what these are called,” Himilco said.

  “Your deceptions are futile,” the dragon said.

  “What is a baan?”

  “Now we enter a new relationship, Himilco. Behold this.”

  “If that’s a Sivishean crossbow,” Himilco said, “it lacks a bow and a bolt.”

  Elissa heard a hiss and then the crumple of a falling body.

  “He is unhurt,” the dragon said. “Search him. Hand me the baan. It will look like a knife. Then take him to his wagon. Return with several drivers and carry…that one.” Claws rattled against hollow metal, an armor-suit. “Take this one too. Afterward, fire the temple.”

  -13-

  The freeze spell began to wear off as flames roared above and as chunks of masonry thudded against the temple floor, the cellar’s ceiling. Elissa tried to move faster. Her fingers twitched. She concentrated and managed to move an elbow. Slowly, she dragged the edge of the tarp off her head.

  A chunk of masonry smashed through the ceiling and clanked against a rusted automaton. Marble pieces ricocheted. With an arrow’s speed, one piece hissed past Elissa’s face. Intensified roars of fire came through the hole up above. Heat billowed downward.

  Elissa swallowed in a numbed throat. She had to escape now or die. She crawled as smaller marble pieces rattled against the ceiling. The foul freeze spell had rusted her joints. She tried to crawl faster. Then, she fell off the display and onto the dirt floor. She couldn’t stand yet, but she crawled to the wine caskets. By the time she reached them, her joints had loosened enough for her to sway onto her feet. An axe lay nearby. She lifted it, needing both arms, and hammered the cask until wine sprayed. She tasted it. She went to another cask and did the same. She smashed them until the juice of the grapes sprayed out, and not flammable wine. She doused herself with purple grape juice, soaking her garments, her hair. Then she headed for the stairs, finally able to move freely.

  She opened the trapdoor into a flame-roaring hell and billowing waves of heat. There was nothing elegant about it. She ran past licking fire and jumped through a wall of flames. Marble rained. A stone-sized chunk rebounded off the floor like a spent catapult ball and hit her leg, dashing her to the floor. Her shin throbbed like crazy, and it bled, but the bone was whole. She leaped to her feet as her garments smoldered. The heat was suffocating. Her throat was raw, maybe blistered. She dodged another ricocheted marble chunk and burst out of the temple.

  If the dragon had left guards, they could have easily slain her. Fortunately, she was alone.

  Smoke hid the morning sun. The upper terraces of Mogador looked like the charred remains of a giant campfire. Elissa staggered to the lagoon and fell in. The cooling liquid was heavenly. She lazed there, idly watching the water around her turning purple as it leached the juice from her clothes, hair and skin.

  Soon, she waded ashore and watched the temple burn. Later, she spied a smashed rowboat on the other side of the lagoon. A thought struck. Last night, the priests had tried to hide ancient artifacts. What had happened to the priest of Ankey in the boat? What might he have done if he thought invaders would capture him?

  Elissa stripped off her garments and waded into the lagoon. The water was cool against her thighs. She studied the water. It was spring-fed clear, the juice having already dissipated.

  As she stood there, Elissa exhaled and inhaled several times. Soon, she felt lightheaded. She held her breath and dove underwater. As she kicked down, she opened her eyes. Everything was blurry. She kicked and used her hands. Then she grabbed her nose, squeezed and blew air against it. That made her ears pop so they no longer hurt.

  There, by those rocks—slowly flapping red cloth waved. The air burned in her lungs now. She relaxed as best she could and continued flutter kicking.

  The need for air was strong. She should turn around. She swallowed, and released a tiny bit of air. That eased the urgency a little, enough.

  Just a little more, she told herself.

  She touched the cloth, kicked again, and lifted something heavy in the cloth. She turned and used her feet to push against the bottom of the lagoon. She shot upward for the surface, frantic for air now.

  Her head broke the surface and she gasped. It felt glorious just to breath. Slowly, she swam to shore, dragging the bundle and herself to her clothes.

  After drying off and donning her garments, she examined her catch. It was a short-handled spear. The handle was metal, the length of her forearm. The spearhead was just as long, and it was black with strange and sinister runes etched into it. It didn’t seem like a throwing weapon, more like a close-fighting spear as some warriors used short swords.

  Elissa thought about testing the blade’s sharpness with her thumb. But those runes made it seem like a bad idea. Carefully, she rewrapped the red cloth around the spear and put it in a small pack.

  She slunk through the charred town afterward, keeping to the shadows. Wheel tracks through soot and ash showed where the invaders had driven their wagons to the lagoon and out again. In time, Elissa hid behind the mud-brick wall and spied the enemy wagons.

  A handful of Nasamons deposited unconscious or dead Gepids into coffins. They carefully put something onto each corpse, then closed the lid and hauled the coffin into a wagon, one after another after another. If the barbarians were dead, why load them? Why not burn them? The Gepids were mercenaries, and she knew Himilco wasn’t sentimental. Maybe it had something to do with their transformation into demonic warriors. That was a horrifying thought—that they could rise again. Since Bel Ruk’s awakening, these kinds of evils had multiplied.

  Her father might have known how to soothe Bel Ruk. She had no idea, and wondered how far the bloody conquest would spread before it burned out or Bel Ruk walked across Dar Sai with annihilating power.

  Before long, the wagons headed south, moving in the direction of the Great Sand Belt. What could Himilco or the dragon want out there?

  Elissa considered her options. The traitor had patted her cheek. He had gloated, and frozen her as if she were a child. His Gepids had slaughtered the exiles, and now a dragon—no doubt a creature of Bel Ruk—had finished the destruction.

  The earlier battle between the dragon and the temple priests of Ankey showed…something significant. What, though? What did it have to do with Bel Ruk and with Himilco?

  What should I do? Where should I go? Everyone I know is dead.

  Elissa’s thoughts hardened as late morning shifted to hot afternoon. This setback changed nothing. She owed Himilco Nara a blood debt, and she would pay it in full. Or die in the trying.

  After the wagons departed, she gathered mules from various places. In the town wreckage, she found water-skins, dried dates and crusty bread. She loaded her finds onto the mules and trekked to the barren hill two miles out of town where she pulled out her sectioned skay. Then she unloaded everything. She would rest the night and begin tomorrow. It was better if they got a good head start. She would trail a day behind and use her skay to scout. She would kill Himilco Nara, and if she could, she would solve the mystery of the dragon and its hatred of the priests of Ankey.

  -14-

  Himilco thrashed in his wagon. Two merciless Gepids held him down as mucus dripped from his nose. His eyes watered and he sweated a foul stench.

  “Give me lotus,” Himilco wept. His throat was raw. He shivered uncontrollably even though the sun baked the wagon.

  Once, the Gepids had cowered at his commands. Now, they stared at him stonily. Himilco let himself go limp as he attempted cunning and waited for them to relax their grip. One did. Himilco lashed out and kicked the man in the chin. As the Gepid rolled back, Himilco tried to free himself. The unhurt G
epid slapped his face, stunning him by the action. Then, the kicked Gepid revived and latched powerful hands onto his ankles.

  “No,” Himilco moaned. “Give me black lotus.”

  Neither barbarian spoke.

  This went on for many nightmarish hours, for what seemed like days. Himilco fouled himself. He screamed until his raw throat only allowed him to whisper, and even that felt like razor blades. He drank gallons of water and sweated it back out.

  Finally, one day during mid-morning, Himilco huddled miserably in a corner. He sweated, but from the heat, not his withdrawal. He was alone. He wore crumpled linen garments and he was barefoot. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. The wagon was motionless. He frowned. It hadn’t moved…for an entire day, he realized.

  Despite his stiff joints, Himilco climbed to his feet. He peered outside and winced at the sunlight. Like a mole, he withdrew into the comfort of the wagon and rubbed his aching eyes. By degrees, he accustomed himself to the brightness until he could look outside. The wagons surrounded a small pond of a desert oasis.

  What are we doing out here?

  Himilco counted seven palm trees and numerous bushes. The mules, horses and Nasamons waited in the shade. There was no sign of the camels or their riders.

  They were obviously in the Great Sand Belt and therefore far from Karchedon. What did Ophion want out here? It made no sense. Did the dragon work counter to the wishes of Bel Ruk?

  What had happened to the Rhune? At Ophion’s orders, the Nasamons had fired the Temple of Ankey. But she was Rhune, a master assassin, and had likely escaped death in some incredible manner. An elementary rule was to watch your enemies die. Never leave them to die a slow death because that gave them a chance to escape. By the time he had recovered from Ophion’s magic, they had left burnt Mogador behind them. Until Himilco confirmed her death, he would assume Elissa lived and therefore tracked him. She would desire revenge now more than ever.

  Himilco shuffled into the depths of the wagon. He drank warm water and blanched at the sight of bread. On impulse, he unlocked his chest. In it lay the staff and emerald, but no lotus. He might have taken the emerald to search for Elissa. Not yet. His mind was too tender for that now.

  It had been years since he had been fully clean of lotus. The reality of the situation startled him. The Prophetess had used him. Bel Ruk had used him. Ophion no doubt thought he was cunning. The dragon had stolen the baan and taken his lotus. Himilco stirred, and his lined face became mulish. The game wasn’t over, not by a long shot. He would begin again with a new plan. He always did.

  He would start by repairing his fences with the Gepids. After a short rest, he went outside and apologized to the warrior he had kicked in the face.

  “You helped me,” Himilco told the barbarian. They stood by the pond in the narrow shade of a palm tree. Beyond the oasis was shifting sand. “The black lotus was a curse, and by your effort, the curse has been lifted from me.”

  The Gepid muttered his acceptance of the apology.

  Himilco gave him a wry grin. “I have a bad reputation. Therefore, allow me to show my gratitude in a more meaningful manner.” Himilco pressed a double-weight Cyrenean owl in the barbarian’s palm.

  The Gepid brightened and nodded.

  “I didn’t deserve your help,” Himilco said. “I’ve been arrogant and ungrateful. But I’m going to remember those who helped me.”

  Himilco considered a similar ploy with Dabar. The trouble was the Nasamon would want Himilco to slash his own throat to prove his sincerity. Therefore, there was no point trying to make amends.

  Several hours later, the Gray Wolf entered the wagon. He dragged a stool near and sat down.

  “Do you know why we traveled here?” Himilco asked.

  The impassive barbarian chief stared at him. “I ordered your black lotus destroyed, not the dragon. As long as you can cast the needed spells, I doubt he cares what happens to you.”

  Himilco blinked in surprise. This was news.

  The Gray Wolf showed him the double-weight gold owl Himilco had given the warrior.

  “You, too, have my thanks,” Himilco said. “I am grateful for all that you have done for me.”

  The Gray Wolf studied him. Finally, he said, “We have survived troubles before. Surely, we shall survive this desert.”

  “You have my hand on that,” Himilco said. He held out a pudgy hand, and the Gray Wolf dwarfed it in his grip. They shook solemnly and traded knowing glances.

  Can Ophion hear our words through his dragon magic? Himilco wondered.

  It was a shocking thought. So was the idea that the Gray Wolf realized as much and had acted accordingly. The chieftain was more cunning than he looked, or perhaps circumstances had sharpened the warrior’s craftiness. Soon, the Gray Wolf departed the wagon.

  Himilco took out his staff and tapped the end against one of the coffins. A Gepid was within, with a beetle on his forehead, a stinger in his flesh.

  What did he know about Ophion? Precious little.

  Himilco read as befitted a priest and a sorcerer. He did not read as much as Zarius Magonid had. The old suffete’s library…it once filled several rooms in a palace on the Temple Mount. Himilco had pored over the catalog list. The majority of the scrolls and folios had concerned the history of various lands. A few were treatises on arcane subjects. Himilco had skimmed one that concerned Bel Ruk and another on a strange realm called Avernus.

  According to the scroll, the realm of Avernus had a different sun and moon. It was a world apart from theirs. The author of the scroll had suggested that certain alien creatures had once journeyed from Avernus to Dar Sai.

  Could Ophion have been such a traveler? If so, what connection did Ophion have with Bel Ruk, the Lord of Dragons? Perhaps as interesting, why had Bel Ruk allowed Ophion to make this journey?

  I am blind. I need more knowledge before I act.

  He had the Emerald of Vision. It was the perfect tool for acquiring knowledge. Unfortunately, he was too weak to attempt its use now. Maybe in another day, he would be ready for some exploratory magic.

  The thought left Himilco breathless. Who was he to pit his spells against a dragon, a creature that had lived—for centuries perhaps—under the Temple Mount? At the dragon’s orders, they had traveled deep into the Great Sand Belt. Perhaps as ominous, Ophion had acted against him, stealing his Ankey artifact.

  I have no choice, Himilco told himself. I must strike against Ophion before the dragon strikes me down.

  The Gray Wolf must have already come to the same conclusion. That must have been the reason the chieftain had instructed his men to sweat the black lotus out of him.

  “Yes,” Himilco said, as he rubbed a thumb against his staff’s wood. “Yes.” It was time to plot with his greatest cunning.

  -15-

  Elissa realized she had to make a decision. At vulture height, she soared above the oasis, studying the enemy through her spyglass. She found the dragon’s wagon—that was easy to spot. She knew where Himilco stayed. The Nasamons slept in tents, and the Zant nomads had left with their camels. As she floated in the burning updrafts, she memorized the oasis’s layout down to each wheel track in the sand.

  Using Rhune logic, she had three choices. One, she could take her mules and leave. Live for another day to strike her enemies later. Under the circumstances, it was the reasonable choice, but also her least favorite. Two, she could slip into Himilco’s wagon and poison him. The trouble with that option was the lesson of Mogador. The traitor had known she was coming and had frozen her. How he had known baffled her. Perhaps it was a defensive proximity spell. If he froze her again, he would surely forgo the speeches and kill her. With throwing knives and poison, she could probably kill him before or while he froze her. The plus was Himilco’s death. The minus was her likely demise by the others. The third choice entailed the greatest risks and potentially the greatest rewards. It could also be the most foolish option.

  She soared above the oasis and thought about Karchedon. She tho
ught about the Nasamons and their Bel Ruk-driven conquest. She thought about the growing mountain of skulls in Karchedon. Did the grisly act have a point, or was it mere megalomania?

  Elissa banked the skay to return to her mules. She would water them a last time before letting them go. She would give them a chance for life. Tonight she would attempt the third choice and gamble her life for a Rhune feat of glory.

  -16-

  Himilco grew thoughtful as he watched the Rhune fly away on her skay.

  He sat in his wagon, on a cushion, with the Emerald of Vision clutched in his hands. She was a bird of ill omen that watched, waited and surely hated him. Her presence hardened his resolve regarding his maxims. Always kill your foe. Never put them in an elaborate trap and walk away. Another maxim was to know your enemy.

  He breathed deeply. There were too many mysteries concerning Ophion. The dragon used him as a tame sorcerer. That was good in one sense, for it meant he had lulled Ophion. Himilco preferred to strike from a position of trust. That was how he had toppled Zarius Magonid from power. What kept troubling him was Bel Ruk’s trust of Ophion. Why had the god allowed the dragon to make this journey?

  After years of black lotus, his mind had dulled. That was an unforgivable mistake. Fear had led him down the blind alley. He prided himself on telling himself the truth. The truth was that he had survived in a tough world through the lotus, but he could no longer survive that way. The truth was that he had erred by helping the Prophetess. Then again, she had erred in trying to harm him. But that did not matter—she had received the consequences for her foolishness. This was about him.

  Himilco concentrated. For the first time, he would dare to use his emerald against Ophion. It was time to collect every morsel of information he could. Then, when he struck, he would strike vitals and win the great prize. He must use the dagger of opportunity (some called it treachery) at exactly the right moment.