Sadira recognized the mark as the Serpent of Lubar, the crest of a noble Urikite family. She knew the emblem from the personal standard of Maetan of Lubar, the Urikite general whom King Hamanu had sent to invade Tyr the year before. During the war, Maetan had stolen the Book of Kemalok Kings from the dwarves, and Rikus had promised to recover it. Unfortunately, the book had not survived, but the mul had managed to kill Maetan and return to Kled with the only living person who had read it—Er’Stali.
The old man did not even look up as Sadira and the others entered his hut. Instead, he kept his attention focused on his table, using a wooden stylus to scratch at one of the dozens of diptychs scattered around the room. The clay tablets filled the air with a musty smell and were stacked everywhere; in his cabinet, on benches, beside his bed, and all across the floor.
The old man held up a finger to keep them silent, then finished scoring his next thought onto the tablet. Finally, he looked up and squinted. “Who are you?”
Rikus stepped to where Er’Stali’s view of him would not be obscured. “They’re friends of mine,” the mul answered.
“Rikus!” Er’Stali gasped. “How good to see you again! What are you doing back in Kled?”
“We’re hoping you might have the answer to a problem we face,” the mul explained.
“Perhaps I do,” the old man said, grimacing at some pain deep within his body. He dipped his stylus into the bowl of water, then cleaned the end on a cloth. “What problem is that?”
“We’ve learned that the Dragon will soon visit Tyr,” said Agis. “Our king intends to sacrifice a thousand people to him.”
Er’Stali’s stylus slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. “Then I suggest you let him,” the old man said. “Better a thousand lives than the entire city.”
“No,” Sadira answered, shaking her head. “Tyr stands for freedom. If we yield to the Dragon’s demands, we’ll be no better than any other city.”
“Can you remember anything from the Book of Kemalok Kings that might help us?” asked Rikus. “The Dragon must have a weakness.”
“If Borys has any weaknesses, they were not described in the Book of Kings,” Er’Stali snorted. Nevertheless, he rose and, braced himself on the mul’s arm, shuffled over to the tablets next to his bed.
“Borys?” asked Sadira. Rikus had mentioned the name to her, but had not identified it as that of the Dragon. “I thought Borys was the Thirteenth Champion—”
“Of Rajaat,” Er’Stali finished, moving a stack of tablets aside. “Yes. He is also the Dragon.” The old man looked up at Rikus. “You remember the story Rkard’s specter told us, do you not?”
“Yes,” Rikus said. He looked to his friends, then explained, “Er’Stali was reciting the story of the battle between Borys of Ebe and Rkard, the last of the dwarven king. According to what Er’Stali had read, both Borys and Rkard died after the fight.”
“But the ghost of King Rkard appeared to tell us the account was wrong. Borys and the Dragon returned years later to destroy the city,” Er’Stali added. “Unfortunately, Rkard vanished before I could ask about the relationship between the two, but I have found an account that clarifies it.”
The old man sat down on his bed, then laboriously searched through a pile of tablets until he found the one he wanted. “If the Book of Kings has any help for you, it will be here,” he said. “It’s the last story, set down by a scribe who returned to Kemalok long after Borys destroyed the city. As I recall, the hand was jittery and frail. Leaving the tale in the book of his ancestors may well have been his dying act.”
Er’Stali read: “The day came when Jo’orsh and Sa’ram returned to Kemalok and saw what Borys had done to the city of their forebears. Both men swore to track down the butcher and destroy him. They set off for the mighty Citadel of Ebe with all their retainers and squires. When they reached his stronghold, however, they found it long abandoned, occupied now only by a handful of wraiths patiently awaiting the return of their master. These, Jo’orsh interrogated with the Way of the Unseen, learning that Borys had mysteriously lifted the siege of Kemalok just when it appeared it would succeed. He had sent his army back to the Citadel of Ebe and left for the Pristine Tower, the stronghold of Rajaat himself, to meet the other champions.”
Er’Stali looked up from his tablet to add an explanatory note. “The Book of Kings did not name all of these champions, but from what I can tell, each was to anihilate an entire race, much as Borys tried to destroy the dwarves. I have seen references to Albeorn, Slayer of Elves, and Gallard, Bane of the Gnomes.”
“Gnomes?” asked Rikus.
“The book doesn’t say who they were,” answered Er’stali. The old man looked back to the tablet, then continued reading. “Jo’orsh and Sa’ram left the Citadel of Ebe and traveled with their retainers into the wild lands beyond the Great Lake of Salt until they sighted a spire of white rock in the distance. Here, all manner of horrid guardians appeared. They left their squires and retainers in a safe place, then continued to the white mountain alone. When they entered the Pristine Tower, they found that, like the Citadel of Ebe, it was abandoned, save for the shadow giants—”
Sadira noticed Rikus’s face go pale, so she asked, “What do you know of these shadows?”
The mul shrugged. “Maybe nothing, but during the war with Urik, Maetan sometimes summoned a shadow-giant that he called Umbra,” the mul said. “The thing wiped out an entire company by himself.”
As Rikus spoke, Er’Stali began to wheeze. He feebly clutched his bandages, as if they were squeezing his ribs and making it difficult to breath.”
“I’ll get Caelum,” Rikus said, starting for the door.
“No,” Er’Stali croaked, waving him back. “He’s done all he can today.”
Fearing that the stress of their visit had weakened the old man, Sadira said, “Perhaps we should let you rest and come back later.”
Er’Stali shook his head, uttering, “Later, I might be dead—just give me a minute to catch my breath.”
They waited several moments for the old man to regain control of his breathing. Finally, pausing at short intervals to gasp for air, he began to read again.
“Here Sa’ram met the shadows, whom he bribed with obsidian. They told him that Rajaat and his champion had argued over the annihilation of the magical races, then fought a terrible battle against each other. By the time it had ended, Rajaat ruled the Pristine Tower no more. He was taken to the Steeple of Crystals and forced to use its arcane artifacts to make Borys into the Dragon.”
“To make Borys into the Dragon?” Rikus gasped.
Er’Stali nodded. “Now you know all the Book of Kings says about the Dragon.”
“It’s not much help,” said Rikus.
“What happened to Rajaat and the other champions after Borys became the Dragon?” asked Agis.
“The book did not say,” Er’Stali answered, wearily. “Jo’orsh and Sa’ram left the tower and sent their squires home. They were never seen again, but, obviously, they did not slay Borys.”
“That’s all?” asked Agis, incredulous. “The champions helped Borys become the Dragon, then disappeared without resuming their attacks on the other races?”
Er’Stali shrugged. “Who can say? You already know that after Rajaat’s fall, Borys returned as the Dragon to attack Kemalok. It also seems that Gallard destroyed the gnomes—I have never seen one, have you?” When Agis shook his head, the old man continued. “Perhaps the other champions fell against Rajaat, or perhaps they were too weak to fight any longer. All I can say is that the book ends with the disappearance of Jo’orsh and Sa’ram.”
The old man returned the tablet to its place.
Rikus turned to Sadira and Agis. “I’m sorry,” said the mul. “It was a wasted trip.”
Sadira frowned. “How can you say that?” she demanded. “We don’t have the answers we need, but we know where to look.”
“The Pristine Tower?” queried Rikus.
Sadira nodde
d. “If we are to learn more of Borys, we will learn it there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Agis. “Even if we knew where to find it, we can’t be sure the place still stands.”
“The Pristine Tower still stands, far beyond Nibenay,” said Er’Stali. “The elves know where.”
“What makes you so certain?” asked Rikus.
“Because the shadow giant you mentioned came from there,” Er’Stali explained. “In exchange for Umbra’s services, Maetan hired a tribe of elves each year to lead a caravan loaded with obsidian balls to the Pristine Tower. The caravan drivers never returned, but Umbra always appeared when Maetan summoned him. I assume the obsidian reached the tower.”
Sadira gave Agis a haughty smile. “You see?” she asked. “We’ll go to Nibenay and hire a guide in the Elven Market.”
“The journey could take a month, even longer!” Rikus objected.
“Which is why we must hurry,” Sadira countered. “We don’t know how soon the Dragon will come to Tyr, and it would be best if we returned to the city as quickly as possible.”
“And what do you hope to accomplish at the tower?” Agis demanded.
“What we failed to accomplish here,” Sadira answered. “To learn enough about the Dragon to defy him. Besides, if we’re lucky, we might even find some relics in the Steeple of Crystals that can help us.”
“Forgive me for saying so,” said Agis, “but I suspect that’s the real reason you want to go to the Pristine Tower.”
Sadira frowned. “What do you mean?”
“He means that when you smell magic, nothing else matters,” Rikus said. “Not even Tyr.”
“That’s not true!” Sadira retorted. “I love Tyr more than my own life!”
The mul shook his head. “It’s magic you love,” he said, pointing at the cane in Sadira’s hand. “Otherwise, you’d have returned Nok’s staff by now.”
“We’ll need it to deal with the Dragon,” the sorceress countered angrily. “And if you had kept the Heartwood Spear—”
“I promised to return it to Nok,” Rikus interrupted, his tone sullen and final. “Just as you promised to return the staff.”
“And I will keep that promise—when Tyr is safe from the Dragon,” Sadira said. She moved to the door and flung the curtain open. “Now, when do we leave for the Pristine Tower?”
TWO
SEPARATE WAYS
UPON CRESTING THE SCARLET DUNE, THE KANK lurched to a halt. The beast twisted its blocky head from side to side, searching for a route down that Sadira saw it would not find. The wind had scoured the crest into a sheer face that dropped more than a dozen yards to the steep slip face below.
In the valley between Sadira’s dune and the next one, the hard-packed sand of a caravan road snaked its way toward the mountains of the Tyr Valley. In the distance, just coming around an outcropping of yellow sandstone, were the dark specks of a caravan’s outriders.
Sadira looked over her shoulder, to where the kanks of Rikus and Agis were continuing to struggle up the slope. “The way’s blocked by a scarp here,” she called, waving her hand toward the west. “The descent looks easier over there.”
After the two men signaled their acknowledgement, Sadira returned her attention to her own mount. When she tapped its antenna to make it turn left, the kank merely fixed one globular eye on her face and did not move. The sorceress frowned at the strange look, wondering if the beast could sense the disquiet in her heart.
It had been two days since she and her companions had left Kled, and the sorceress had spent most of that time asking herself why Neeva’s pregnancy disturbed her so. Her friend’s condition made Sadira feel as though the world had become a prison, as if someone were forcing her into a subtle bondage more inescapable than any she had known in Tithian’s slave pits.
The sorceress knew such feelings had no basis, for she was not the one who would soon be bound by the chains of parenthood. She suspected her uneasiness had more to do with her own family history than with Neeva’s child.
In the days before Tyr’s liberation, Sadira’s mother, an amber-haired woman named Barakah, had supported herself through one of the city’s few illegal occupations. King Kalak declared it unlawful to buy or sell magical components in Tyr. Naturally, a thriving trade in snake scales, gum arabic, iron dust, lizard’s tongue, and other hard-to-acquire items had sprung up in the notorious Elven Market. Barakah had made a living as runner between the secretive sorcerers of the Veiled Alliance and elven smugglers. She had almost made the mistake of falling in love with an elf, a notorious rogue named Faenaeyon.
Shortly after Sadira had been conceived, Kalak’s templars had raided the dingy shop where Faenaeyon traded. The elf had escaped into the desert, leaving the pregnant Barakah behind to be caught and sold into slavery. A few months later, Sadira had been born in Tithian’s pits, and that was where she had been raised.
Given this history, it was no wonder that Sadira did not trust the bonds of family love. Neeva might be happy living the rest of her life with Caelum and their child, but such domestic bliss was unthinkable for the half-elf. Deep inside, she would always be expecting the man to abandon her, as Faenaeyon had abandoned her mother. For Sadira, it was better to love two men at once. That way, she would never need either one so much that his departure would destroy her.
Sadira’s thoughts came to an end when the kank began clacking its mandibles, then tried to back away from the edge of the bluff. When the sorceress tried to make it turn left instead, the beast froze in its tracks.
From the sands beneath the beast’s feet rose a sigh, so deep and quiet that Sadira did not hear it so much as feel it in her stomach. The ground shuddered, then the kank squealed in alarm. The sorceress felt herself falling.
Sadira screamed and leaped from her bone saddle. She landed at the kank’s side in a choking cascade of sand. She and the beast tumbled down the steep slope head over heels, a blood-colored cloud of grit billowing around them. In the whorl of sand, legs, and antennae, the sorceress lost all sense of direction. It was all she could do to hold onto her cane.
The half-elf glimpsed the kank’s gray body crashing down upon her, sticklike legs flailing madly in the air. She cried out in alarm and kicked at its carapace with both feet. A painful jolt shot through her body and she rolled away from the massive beast, descending the rest of the slope in a wild series of backward somersaults.
Sadira came to a rest in a tangle of hair and limbs, buried to the waist and spitting bitter grit. The kank slid to a stop within a mandible’s reach of her head, and the roar of avalanching sand continued to sound from above. Fearing she would be buried alive, the sorceress pointed her cane at the descending wall of sand.
“Nok!” she cried, speaking the word that activated the cane’s magic.
A purple light glimmered deep within the weapon’s obsidian pommel. Sadira felt an eerie tingle in her stomach, then started to grow queasy. Beside her, the kank hissed in alarm as it, too, felt a cold hand reach inside it and draw away a portion of its life-force. Normal sorcery drew the energy for its spells from plants, but the cane utilized a more powerful kind of wizardry, one that drew its power from the life spirits of animals.
“Mountainrock!” she cried.
The sorceress moved her arm across the slip face. A vaporous wave of energy issued from the cane’s tip. It settled over the slope like a net, catching the cascade in its golden light and bringing the avalanche to a quick halt. Crackling and hissing, the yellow haze lingered on the surface for several moments. Finally, it began to drain away, leaving a sheet of sandstone in its wake. By the time the fog was entirely gone, the unstable dune looming above had become a butte of solid rock.
Sadira breathed a sigh of relief and began digging herself out. The kank also began to claw itself free. With its six legs, it finished the task much more quickly than the sorceress, then dropped to its belly and lay trembling with its antennae pressed back against its head. It closed its formidable mandible
s and plunged them deep into the ground, splaying its legs out to the side in a display of total submission.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” Sadira said, finally pulling herself free. “The spell is permanent.”
From above, Rikus yelled, “Sadira, are you hurt?”
The mul came plunging down the rocky slope, his tough hide scoured red from sliding over the sandstone. In his hand he held the Scourge of Rkard, a magical sword that Lyanius had given him during the war with Urik. Behind Rikus followed Agis, his expensive wool burnoose hanging from his shoulders in tatters.
As soon as they reached the bottom of the butte, Rikus pointed toward the caravan Sadira had seen earlier. “Did they cause the avalanche?” he demanded.
Sadira shook her head. “The bluff just collapsed,” she said. “Put your sword away. We don’t want the drivers to think we’re raiders.”
As the mul complied with her request, Sadira turned her attention to the approaching caravan. The entourage had come close enough for the sorceress to see that its members were mounted on inixes. Most of the fifteen-foot lizards carried ingots of raw iron on their broad backs, though several were burdened with a rider’s howdah instead. As they trundled along, their serpentine tails swished back and forth, sweeping up a small cloud of sand that kept the next beast in line from following too closely. They had long horny beaks, with pincerlike jaws that looked powerful enough to clip a man in half with a single snap.
“I wonder if they’re bound for Nibenay?” Sadira asked.
Rikus and Agis gave each other a forbearing look. Since leaving Kled, they had been trying to talk Sadira out of going to the Pristine Tower.
“I thought we’d decided against that plan,” Agis said, his tone overly patient and paternalistic.
“You decided,” countered Sadira, turning toward her kank. The beast still lay in the sand trembling, but did not shy from her approach.
“Don’t be a fool,” growled Rikus. “Even if we find something to help us, we have little chance of returning in time to help Tyr.”
The Amber Enchantress Page 3