The Amber Enchantress

by Denning, Troy

  As Dhojakt clattered over Faenaeyon’s unconscious form, Sadira tossed a tube of carved wood onto the steps and spoke a string of mystical words. With a sonorous rumble, the stairwell stretched to an impossible length. Suddenly the prince and her father were so far away they could barely be seen.

  The sorceress turned away, already listening to the distinct tick of Dhojakt’s claws growing louder in the magical tunnel. She had delayed the prince for the time being but Sadira knew it would not be long before he and the templars who followed were upon her again.

  The sorceress stepped onto the third story, where the stairwell opened into a round chamber. At one time, the room may have been divided into smaller compartments, for the stone baseplates of the long-vanished walls still traversed the floor in various locations. Now it was a single large garret, littered with pottery shards, scraps of hemp cloth, and the bones of a small animal.

  The Sun Runners had tied a half-dozen ropes to the ceiling beams, but had not yet thrown the lines out the tower windows. Instead, the warriors were firing arrows at someone below. Sadira found Rhayn and Huyar standing together, on opposite sides of a doorway opening onto empty air. A pair of stone buttresses were all that remained of the balcony that had once hung outside.

  As she approached, Sadira said, “Let’s go! Dhojakt is less than a minute behind me.”

  “You first,” said Huyar, waving Sadira ahead.

  The sorceress peered outside and found herself looking down upon the avenue that bordered the outside wall of the Elven Market. Standing in the street directly below the tower was a company of Nibenese half-giants. To defend themselves from the Sun Runners’ arrows, they were holding their wooden shields over their heads in a makeshift roof.

  Sadira pulled a handful of powdered sulfur from her satchel. “Tell your warriors to put their bows away and drop their lines on my command,” she said. “And have someone bring Magnus. I’ll clear the way for our escape.”

  As Rhayn passed the instructions along, the sorceress turned to Huyar. “I need some water.”

  The elf ignored her and searched the room with a frown on his face. “What happened to Jeila and Faenaeyon?”

  “Jeila’s dead, and Faenaeyon’s with the Nibenese.”

  Huyar clamped a hand over Sadira’s arm. “You won’t save yourself that way,” he growled. “You’re not leaving until Faenaeyon’s safe.”

  “You left him downstairs, not me. I’m the one who tried to help him,” Sadira said, jerking her arm away from the warrior. “And if you don’t get me the water I need, I’ll leave the Sun Runners here to face Dhojakt’s wrath. It’d be easier if I didn’t have to save your whole tribe as well as myself.”

  Huyar glared at her for a moment, then spun around and grabbed a skin from a nearby warrior. Sadira opened her hands and instructed him to pour water over the sulfur. When the powder had turned into yellowish muck, she flung it out the window and spoke the words of her spell.

  Instead of falling to the ground, the mudball hung motionless in the air. A cloud of yellow mist began to form, spreading steadily outward. From the street below came the concerned murmurs of half-giants, along with their commanders’ exhortations to stand firm. Sadira allowed the cloud to expand until it covered the entire company.

  Rhayn came over, two huge satchels slung over her back and dragging Magnus’s floating form behind her. “Hurry! Dhojakt’s coming—with a company of templars behind him.”

  “Storm!” Sadira said, waving her hand outside.

  With a peal of thunder and a flash of golden lightning, the cloud burst open. Fire rained down on the half-giants in a deluge of flame. The shields covering their heads dissolved into shreds of fume, and in the next instant the air was heavy with the rancorous smell of burning flesh. The half-giants stumbled away, their bodies trailing smoke and their screams ringing through the streets like howling wind.

  Sadira waited an instant for the firestorm to die down, then yelled, “Drop your lines!”

  A half-dozen ropes sailed out the windows. Almost before the ends hit the cobblestones, the first elves were dropping to the streets below. Sadira moved toward the line dangling from the balcony door, but Huyar pushed her back.

  “Not before the last Sun Runner has gone,” he snapped, waving forward a powerful woman with a heavily lined brow.

  Rather than hold things up by fighting over the matter, the sorceress stepped over to wait with Rhayn. Already, half of the tribe had left the chamber, carrying their personal satchels on their back. Nevertheless, thinking it would be wise to be prepared for Dhojakt, Sadira scooped a handful of grit off the floor and prepared another spell.

  Once that was done, Sadira looked across Magnus’s body and asked, “Do you rehearse these sorts of escapes often?”

  Rhayn shook her head, keeping a careful eye on the stairwell. “We never practice,” she said. “We do this so often there’s no need.”

  Sadira heard Dhojakt’s legs rattling. She cried out her incantation and threw the grit in her hand at the sound. A furious sandstorm rose at the mouth of the stairwell, blowing down the dark hole with such fury that the entire tower trembled. Although it was impossible to hear anyone screaming above the wind, the sorceress knew that those trapped in the squall’s fury would be crying out in agony as the flesh was scoured from their bones by whirling sand.

  “That should stop him!” Rhayn yelled.

  The elf had barely spoken when Dhojakt stepped from the stairwell. The prince’s expression showed no sign that he felt the sand raking over his skin. He held his body perfectly upright, as though the ferocious wind were no more than a breeze to him.

  Sadira looked toward the ropes and saw that there were still several elves waiting to descend each of them. Even if she were able to push her way into line, she would never be able to reach the street before Dhojakt was once again upon her.

  The prince’s black eyes searched the room for a moment, then came to rest on the sorceress. When he moved toward her, a pair of elven warriors stepped to block his path—not so much for Sadira’s benefit, she was sure, as to protect Huyar and the other elves who still had not descended the rope.

  The warriors swung their bone swords, striking Dhojakt so hard that, even over the roar of Sadira’s magical wind, the thud of their blows was audible. The blade of one weapon snapped at the hilt and went skittering across the floor, while the other bounced off as though it had struck stone.

  The prince did not even slow down. Stepping between the two elves, he finished one with a punch to the heart, sinking his hand fist-deep into the warrior’s chest. The other he killed more artfully, reaching up behind the tall elf’s back and snaking a hand around to grab his chin. With a quick jerk of his arm, Dhojakt snapped his victim’s neck, then threw the body aside and continued inexorably toward Sadira.

  “Let go, Rhayn!” the sorceress yelled, taking Magnus’s wrist and pulling the windsinger toward the doorway. “Unless you want to learn to fly.”

  “I’ll take my chances with you!” Rhayn answered, casting a frightened glance at Dhojakt.

  Huyar and the other elves in front of the door scattered before Magnus’s bulk. Sadira and Rhayn pushed the windsinger out of the tower, throwing themselves onto his immense chest. At first, they dropped rapidly, but their descent slowed after a few feet, and they sank toward the scorched street more or less under control.

  “Just hold tight,” Sadira advised. “Were going to be fine.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rhayn answered, looking toward the tower.

  Sadira craned her neck and, to her dismay, saw that she and Rhayn were descending more slowly than the elves on the ropes. Already, Huyar had jumped onto a line and descended farther than they had.

  That was not what concerned Rhayn most, however. Dhojakt stood in the doorway of the balcony, pointing a slender finger in their direction. He held his other hand turned palm down, and Sadira could barely make out the shimmer of magical energy rising into his body.

  �
��No!” she cried. “Don’t tell me he’s a sorcerer!”

  Rhayn had no chance to reply. Dhojakt uttered his incantation, then the magic Sadira had used to levitate Magnus failed. The windsinger plunged to the street below, with Sadira and Rhayn still clinging desperately to his arms.

  Magnus crashed into the charred body of a dead half-giant. The sorceress heard the staccato cracking of the guard’s ribs, then a brutal jolt rocked every bone in her body. The air left her lungs in an agonized scream, and her mind went numb with shock. She felt herself bounce off the windsinger, but barely noticed as she dropped back to the cobblestones at his side. There was a sick, mordant smell, a spray of black ash, and an explosion of unimaginable agony.

  Sadira did not lose consciousness. She remained alert enough to see a pair of fleeing elves stoop to gather up Rhayn’s form. Several more paused to grab Magnus and drag the heavy windsinger to safety. The task of helping the sorceress fell to one of the last stragglers, a pregnant elf with green eyes.

  As she tried to lift Sadira, the woman gasped in pain and clutched at her swollen abdomen. “I can’t lift you,” she said, grasping the sorceress’s wrists. “Maybe I can drag—”

  “Go on,” Sadira said, shaking her head. The sorceress knew that if she could not stand by herself, the pregnant elf would be risking her life with little chance of saving Sadira’s. “I’ll be fine.”

  The woman did not need to be told twice. Without saying anything more, she turned and ran out of sight.

  Sadira pushed herself up to her knees. Her entire body protested in torment, but she did not stop. The sorceress gathered her legs beneath herself and rose to her feet. For a moment, Sadira actually remained upright.

  Then a terrible burning ran through her legs, as though her veins were filled with fire instead of blood. She lost control of her muscles and collapsed back to the cobblestones.

  Sadira did not allow herself even a moment of self-pity. Instead, she immediately resorted to pulling herself across the street with her hands alone. She did not dare look back, for fear that she would see Dhojakt swooping down like some bird of prey to snatch her away.

  A few feet later, it was clear to the sorceress that she would never escape this way. Her only hope was to cast another enchantment and hope Dhojakt did not dispel it, too. The sorceress reached for her bag.

  A sandaled foot pinned her arm to the street. “There’s no time for that,” said a familiar voice.

  The sorceress looked up and saw Raka’s boyish face bending over her. Though one side of his jaw was mottled with scabs from a day-old burn, he looked more or less the same as he had when she last saw him.

  “You escaped!” Sadira gasped, delighted.

  “Yesterday, at least,” the youth said, grabbing her under the arms. “Today, we may not be so lucky.”

  Sadira followed his gaze to the tower. Dhojakt was coming down the wall headfirst, easily clinging to the rocky cracks with the sharp claws of his two dozen legs.

  The sight brought new vigor to the sorceress’s legs. She managed to push herself up high enough to slip an arm over Raka’s shoulder. The youth led her into one of the narrow lanes down which the Sun Runners had fled. Instead of following the elves deeper into the city, however, he ducked into a doorway of a half-collapsed hovel.

  “What are you doing?” the sorceress asked.

  “My master sent something along to hide us from the prince,” he answered, pulling a small ceramic plate from his purse. “This will put him off our scent for a while and give us a chance to escape.”

  “Then you were looking for me,” Sadira surmised. “I guess it makes sense that this is no chance meeting.”

  “Correct,” Raka answered, laying the plate on the floor. “After you disappeared from the Sage’s Square, we set a watch on the gates of the Forbidden Palace. When Dhojakt left this morning with a company of templars and another of half-giants, we knew we’d find you by following him.”

  “Then the Alliance will help me?” Sadira asked hopefully.

  “As much as we are able,” Raka answered. He passed his hand over the plate and whispered a command word. The disk melted into the ground and faded from sight. “But not as much as you would like. We cannot take you to the Pristine Tower.”

  “Why not?” Sadira asked.

  Raka took her arm and guided her through the ruins of the hovel. “Because we don’t know where it is,” he answered. “From what my master can learn, only the elves have visited it—and even then, just the most courageous have dared to attempt journey. There might be no more than a dozen warriors in the Elven Market who know where to go. We’ll try to help you find one, but time is running short. We’ve learned that the northern cities sent their levies to the Dragon many weeks ago, while the Oba of Gulg is gathering her slaves even as we speak. My master believes this means—”

  “That the Dragon is going from north to south,” Sadira surmised. “Tyr is after Gulg, leaving Balic for last.”

  Raka nodded, then helped the sorceress climb through the hovel’s back wall. “You have perhaps three weeks left to stop him.”

  “Then I can’t waste time searching for a guide,” Sadira said, looking toward the tower where her father had been captured. “But I do know someone who can take me there—provided you’ll help me get him back from the prince.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Raka promised.

  The muffled rattle of Dhojakt’s feet echoed through the hovel. Raka smiled and held his hands to his lips. An instant later, an enormous hiss sounded from the other side of the shack and a spray of green sparkles shot into the sky. Dhojakt roared in anger, then such a terrible stench filled the air that Sadira could not keep from retching.

  “There,” said Raka. “Now you’ll be safe—at least long enough to leave this part of the city.”

  TWELVE

  TILE EMPORIUM

  THEY FOUND FAENAEYON CRAMMED INTO A STALL at the back of the emporium. He sat with his knees pulled to his chest, staring blankly at the cracked flagstones of the floor. One hand incessantly searched along his belt for his missing purses, and his haggard face was twisted into a scowl. With a long line of drool dripping from his pointed chin, he mumbled incoherent phrases and seemed completely oblivious to what was happening around him.

  Clearly, the elf was in no shape to attempt escape, but the emporium agents had restrained him the same way as every other slave in the market. Around his neck, the chief wore a collar of coarse black rope. Spliced into this was a cord running a few feet back to the wall, where the other end was attached to a bone ring set between the stone blocks. From her own days in bondage, when she had slept with a similar rope around her neck, Sadira knew that even Magnus could not have snapped it. Nor could the line be easily cut, for it was braided from the hair of giants. The resulting cord was so tough and resilient that even steel blades would, be dulled on it.

  “I hope you’re alert enough to know how being tethered feels,” Sadira whispered, looking away from her father’s pen.

  Even had he been lucid, the sorceress doubted that her father would have recognized her. She had used henna root to dye her hair swarthy red, the bark of an ashbush to darken her skin, and black kohl to decorate her eyelids. She had also exchanged her customary blue smock for a green sarami.

  As Sadira and Raka moved down the aisle, she paused several times in front of other slaves, as though evaluating their suitability for her home. The Slave Emporium of the Shom Merchant House was larger and more crowded than any Sadira had ever seen. It was a single cavernous gallery, lit by huge windows and buzzing with the drone of hundreds of bickering buyers and sales agents. The chamber’s ceiling was high and shadowy, supported by hundreds of double-stacked arches and marble columns. These pillars were almost hidden beneath the lush climbing vines loaded with aromatic blossoms.

  Beneath each row of arches ran a wide aisle, flanked on either side by stalls barely large enough to hold the men and women lying in them. Along the back of the pens stood th
e high brick walls to which the slave ropes were attached.

  As they reach the end of the aisle, Raka asked, “Is that the elf you seek?”

  Sadira nodded, then led the way around the pillar so entwined with vines that its stone surface was not visible. “I saw no sign of templars or royal guards,” she said.

  “Nevertheless, they are here,” the youth answered. “One of our agents tried to buy him this morning, but the price was outrageous. House Shom does not wish to sell this particular elf—no doubt because Dhojakt has concluded that he is your guide. The prince is using him as bait.”

  They passed a bony old man watering the gallery’s vines from a huge bucket. He kept his eyes focused on his work, paying no attention to pleas for water coming from his fellow slaves.

  “You’re right, of course,” Sadira answered, casting a wary eye toward the crowd ahead. For all she knew, half the sarami-clad women in it were templars, and the agents wearing the tabards of House Shom could just as readily have been royal guards. “It’d be too simple if all we had to do was buy him back.”

  They made their way up the aisle, to where Magnus and Huyar were studying the gangling arms and square heads of two tareks. Though the windsinger had used his magic to heal the injury he had suffered during yesterday’s battle, he seemed tired and could not quite keep his massive body from swaying as he stood waiting. He wore a dark burnoose with the hood pulled over his head. The robe did little to hide his immense size, but at least it concealed the burn marks on his chest.

  “Did you find him?” asked Huyar, who had not bothered with a disguise. If Dhojakt’s agents were present, they would not be able to tell him from a warrior of any other tribe. “Has he recovered from his stupor?”

  “We found him, but he’s still sick,” Sadira said. “Our agreement stands?”