“That’s enough,” Faenaeyon said, roughly pulling Raka back into the alley. He raised a hand to cuff the youth. “Stop preaching and—”
“Don’t hurt him,” Sadira said, grabbing her father’s arm. “He’s right.”
Taking her comment as a signal to continue, Raka said, “What’s worse, you’re killing the future. If the land will grow no food, not only does the man die, so do his children—and all the children that would have lived there for the next thousand years.”
The young sorcerer had just finished his lecture when Rhayn approached from the other end of the tunnel.
“Good,” called the elf. “The guide’s here.”
Noting that her sister did not have her mount, Sadira asked, “What about my kank? I can’t go very far like this.”
“It wasn’t there. I’ll tell you why later,” said Rhayn. “But right now, we’d better go—there’s a press gang coming this way.”
“A press gang?” gasped Faenaeyon. “I’ve never seen that in Nibenay.”
“The sorcerer-king’s son has never been wounded before,” said Raka. “He has sent his templars out to gather sacrifices to make Dhojakt well.”
Magnus frowned. “No healing magic I know demands a living sacrifice.”
“Sorcerer-kings have their own kinds of magic,” Sadira said, turning to Raka. “Will you help us leave the city?”
When the youth shook his head, Huyar grabbed him by the throat. “You’ll show us or die!”
“Then I’ll die,” gasped a youth. He glanced at Sadira. “I won’t aid a defiler.”
Sadira tried to pull Huyar’s arms away. “Let him go,” she said. “You won’t save us by killing him.”
Instead of releasing the youth, Huyar pressed his thumbs into the boy’s gullet. A terrible gurgling sound came from Raka’s throat as he struggled to free himself.
The sorceress turned to her father. “This will accomplish nothing,” she said.
The warrior reluctantly took his hand from the boy’s throat, then pushed him away. “Go, and be happy Sadira of Tyr is a forgiving fool,” he said.
From the far end of the alley came the shuffle of dozens of stumbling feet, accompanied by the cracking of whips and the harsh commands of Nibenese templars. When the youth grasped his bruised throat and started in the opposite direction, Faenaeyon caught him by the shoulder.
“Not into Sage’s Square,” said the chief, pointing Raka toward the press gang. “You can repay me by serving as a decoy.”
“That’s not why I saved him,” Sadira objected, taking Raka’s arm. “He’ll come with us. If it comes to a fight, we’ll all be better off.”
The youth pulled free of the sorceress. “I’d rather take my chances with the templars than a fight at defiler’s side.” With that, he reached into his purse for a spell component, then ran down the alley screaming. “Death to Dhojakt!”
“Raka!” Sadira cried. “No!”
She started to follow, but Faenaeyon caught her arm and held her back. “This way, daughter,” he said, carrying her into Sage’s Square.
They had barely entered the smoky plaza when an olive-colored light flashed from the alley, accompanied by a sonorous hiss of air. For a moment, Raka’s triumphant voice echoed through the lane, but it was abruptly cut off by the sizzle of a lightning bolt.
Ahead of Faenaeyon, a trio of huge silhouettes came rushing toward the clamor. In one hand, each of the half-giants carried a curved sword, and in the other a trident with barbed tongs. The dark circles of their eyes were fixed on Faenaeyon and his group of elves.
“If I put you down, you won’t do anything foolish, will you?” whispered the chief.
“I’ll be fine,” Sadira answered, her voice unusually timid. Raka’s last words weighed heavily on her mind, and she found herself wondering if she really could justify all the vile things she had done in the name of fighting the Dragon.
The half-giants stopped in front of Faenaeyon. “What’s that noise?” demanded the leader, regarding the elf suspiciously.
“Alliance ambush,” Faenaeyon answered, casting a nervous glance in the direction of the alley. “It looks like they’re coming this way—probably to attack you.”
“Why d’you say that?”
Faenaeyon looked in the direction of the alley again. “Haven’t you heard? Sadira of Tyr’s in the city,” he said. “If you ask me, she’s come to free the slaves, like she did in her own city.”
The comment set Sadira’s heart to pounding madly, but the half-giants remained oblivious to her discomfort. Instead, they studied each other with worried expressions, then the leader waved the group onward. “You keep quiet about that sorceress,” he warned. “No one’s supposed to know she’s here.”
The chief shrugged. “If that’s what you want, but you hear of nothing else in the Market,” he said. “Which way to the Snake Tower from here?”
The half-giant pointed toward the hazy mouth of another alley, then took his two companions and cautiously crept toward the lane where Raka had just perished. Faenaeyon led the group across the plaza, half-carrying the sorceress to prevent her limp form being too noticeable.
As they passed through the covered lane, the chief finally released Sadira’s arm.
“You were a little brazen back there, weren’t you?” the sorceress asked.
It was Rhayn who answered. “It’s the best way,” she said. “Otherwise, they think you’re trying to hide something.”
“We are—remember?” Sadira replied, her limp forcing her to struggle in order to keep up with the others. “And what happened to my kank? Did the liveryman have it killed?”
“I think you have it backwards,” answered Rhayn. “According to his slaves, when the old man opened the gate to have someone look it over, the drone grabbed him and left. His assistants followed the thing to the palace gates, where your beasts performed some tricks for the guards. After that, both the kank and the man were taken inside. Neither one’s been here since.”
“Tithian!” Sadira hissed.
“What does your king have to do with this?” asked Faenaeyon.
“According to Dhojakt, Tithian’s the one who told him I was in Nibenay,” Sadira answered.
Magnus shook his head in bewilderment. “How?”
“Through the kank,” Sadira replied. “Tithian’s become a fair mindbender. I think he’s been using the Way to spy on me through my mount. That’s the only way he could have known I’m in Nibenay, or that I was going to the Pristine Tower.”
“I thought Tithian was supposed to be a good king,” said Faenaeyon. “Why would he betray you?”
“You were a better father than Tithian’s been a king,” Sadira retorted. “As for his betrayal, apparently he doesn’t want me going to the Pristine Tower. Neither does Dhojakt.”
“So perhaps you should rethink your plans,” suggested Faenaeyon, ignoring the sorceress’s backhanded slight. “If the son of a sorcerer-king doesn’t—”
“I’m going,” Sadira interrupted. “If they’re so determined to keep me away, there must be good reason. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’ve got to hurry. It won’t be long before the Dragon reaches Tyr, and I want to be waiting for him,”
“Then by all means, let us hurry,” Faenaeyon said, somewhat sarcastically.
The chief led the way out of the alley and into a broader street that ran along the back side of the merchant emporiums. He always moved more or less toward the mountainous bluff on the north side of the city, stopping occasionally to ask his way. Sometimes, the nervous pedestrian would refuse to answer, scurrying past with a protective hand on his purse. More often, the passerby appeared relieved that the elves had only stopped for directions and not to accost him.
The walk was hard on Sadira’s injured leg. Even had she been healthy, it would have been a struggle to keep pace with the elves’ long legs. Now, with them in a hurry and every step a struggle for the sorceress, it was all but impossible. Within a half hour, she had t
o ask them to slow down.
“Perhaps we should hide in the city for a day or two,” Magnus suggested. “I can’t do anything more for your leg until tomorrow, and without a kank you won’t make it more than a few miles into the desert.”
Sadira shook her head. “No, we must leave today. From what Raka said, the sorcerer-king’s busy healing his son. When that’s done, he may turn his attention to me.”
“In that case, perhaps we should leave Sadira here,” Huyar suggested, looking at his father. “We wouldn’t want to endanger the tribe on her behalf.”
“I decide when the tribe is in peril, and on whose behalf we should endanger it,” Faenaeyon said, frowning at his son. “If necessary, you’ll carry Sadira on your back.”
“Thank you,” the sorceress said. “It’s nice to know you can be a man of honor.”
Faenaeyon smiled insincerely. “Thank you.”
“But before we leave the city, there’s one thing I need to get,” she added.
Her father’s smile vanished. “No,” he said, starting off again.
“It won’t be much trouble,” Sadira insisted, “and I’ll need it when I reach the Pristine Tower.”
Faenaeyon stopped and gave her a puzzled look. “What is it?”
“Obsidian balls,” she answered. “For the shadows.”
By the way the color drained from her father’s face, the sorceress knew he had seen the shadows when he visited the tower. After a moment, Faenaeyon regained his composure, then asked, “Do you have any coins?”
“Of course not,” Sadira answered. “You took all—”
“I have no coins, either,” the elf answered. “And now is no time to steal them. If you need obsidian, we’ll trade for it on the trail, or take it from a caravan.”
Before she could object, Faenaeyon motioned to Magnus and Rhayn. “See that she keeps up,” he said, resuming his pace.
It was not much longer before they came to a small plaza. Across the square rose the sheer-sided bluff that bordered Nibenay’s north side. Carved into the rocky face of this crag were dozen different palaces, each a different height above the ground. Above the mansions, a low stone wall crowned the cliff, forming the defensive fortifications that protected this part of the city.
Before the cliff, separated from it by a short distance, rose a high tower. It had been fashioned in the form of a tangle of coiled snakes, with hundreds of scale-shaped windows glistening along its exterior walls. At the base of the turret, the entrance was shaped in the form of a serpent’s gaping mouth.
A meandering skywalk, also carved in the shape of a serpent, ran from the tower to each cliffside palace. The highest walkway ran to the city wall, atop which Sadira could barely make out the tiny forms of a half-dozen sentries scattered over a distance of many yards.
Faenaeyon led his small group to the base of the tower. As they reached the mouth of the stone serpent, a pair of mul guards stepped out to block their path. The two men were armed with curved swords of obsidian, and wore tabards bearing the crest of a black scorpion. Although neither appeared much older than Rikus, their bodies had grown soft. To Sadira, their appearance suggested that they were the pampered gladiators of a nobleman, and had been retired from combat for use as household guards.
The sorceress’s father tried to walk directly between the two men, not bothering to acknowledge them. The tallest mul placed a hand on the elf’s chest and shoved him back down ramp.
“Where are you going?” the guard asked.
Faenaeyon glared at the mul. “I’ve business with Lord Ghandara,” he said. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”
The two muls lowered their swords, but did not step aside. “No one told us to expect you,” said the second one.
“That’s because I haven’t announced myself,” Faenaeyon replied. He grabbed Sadira by the arm and pulled her roughly forward. “I thought perhaps he might be interested in making a purchase.”
Accustomed to the role of a slave, Sadira lowered her chin and looked frightened. At the same time, she allowed her pale eyes to wander over the muls, as though unable to resist the temptation of admiring their bodies.
Her silent appeal worked well. The mul circled around her, studying her figure from every angle. “Lord Ghandara has fine tastes,” said the tallest. “I’m not sure this stock is up to his standards.”
Sadira lifted her chin and scowled, then bit her lip as though preventing herself from making a sharp retort. As she had hoped, the guards laughed, then stood aside. “I’ll show you the way,” said the tallest.
“No need to trouble yourself,” answered Faenaeyon, leading his small company up the ramp. “I’ve been there before.”
As Sadira entered the tower, she felt as though she were plunging into an enchanted well. An ambient green light suffused the air, lighting the dust on her skin like tiny gems sparkling in a thousand colors. Ahead, the corridor divided into three branches. From each puffed a hot breeze thick with the smell of mildew and rot, masked by the overly-sweet aroma of burning incense.
Faenaeyon ushered them into the right-hand corridor and started up the steep, spiraling slope. The hallway was lined by the scale shaped windows she had seen from outside. By peering out the openings, she could see that they were rapidly climbing to the top of the tower. Whenever they circled around to the north side, the view of the plaza below was replaced by the sheer crags of the rocky bluff. Once in a while, they passed one of the cliffside palaces, where a pair of stern-faced sentries stood guard over the causeway connecting their master’s home to the tower. Sometimes, it seemed to Sadira that she heard feet walking down the corridor toward them, but only once did they meet anyone—an old woman carrying an empty fruit basket to market.
When she felt reasonably certain they would not be overheard, Sadira asked, “Faenaeyon, what are we going to do once we reach the top of the tower?”
“There’ll be a pair of royal guards,” the elf answered. “I’ll kill them, and we’ll cross to the wall.”
Sadira peered out a window. It was fifty feet to the ground, and the sorceress could not imagine the height of the outside wall would be any less. “Then what?”
“You’ll cast the spell you used to bring the tribe across the canyon,” the chief answered. “We’ll be gone before the sentries notice us.”
Sadira stopped walking. “No,” she said. “To use that spell, I’d have to defile. I won’t do that again.”
“You must,” Faenaeyon said, continuing up the ramp. “It’s the best way.”
“Then you should have asked me before bringing us here,” Sadira said.
Faenaeyon whirled on her. “I don’t need to ask!” he snapped. “I am chief, and you’ll do as I say.” He glared at her for a moment, then continued up the corridor with no further discussion.
Rhayn slipped a hand under Sadira’s arm and dragged her after the chief. Soon, the passage leveled off and curved toward the north side.
“Leave the guards to me,” Faenaeyon whispered. “Magnus, you and Huyar keep the gate open. Rhayn, watch over Sadira!”
A few moments later, the corridor broadened into a square foyer. To one side, a bone portcullis hung over a short passage leading to the causeway. Just behind this gate, a narrow hall opened off the main corridor and turned sharply to the right, apparently opening into a small chamber that could not be seen from the main passage. A short stretch of the causeway itself was barely visible, suspended over the empty space between the tower and the city wall.
As Sadira’s father had predicted, a pair of guards stood at the portcullis. They were both full humans, wearing purple saramis, with white tabards bearing the insignia of a cilops over the top. In their hands, they held short spears and shields, both made of blue agafari wood.
The guards crossed their spears in front of the causeway. “What are you doing here?” asked one.
Faenaeyon continued to walk toward them at a leisurely pace, holding his hands well away from his dagger sheath. The guar
ds took the precaution of leveling their spearpoints at him, though they did not seem alarmed by his innocuous approach.
“You can’t come any farther,” said the first guard.
The chief stopped in front of the two men and allowed them to press the tips of their spears to his chest.
“Go on and get out of—”
Faenaeyon sprang into action, thrusting his hands up between the two spears and spreading them apart. Before the guards could cry out, he grabbed them both by the backs of their necks. One after the other, he pulled their heads down and smashed their faces into his knees. The Nibenese cried out and dropped their spears, then the elf pushed them over to a wall and beat their heads against the stones until they fell unconscious.
“As I promise, a simple matter,” he said, motioning the others forward.
Magnus and Huyar went into the passages and picked up the spears of the unconscious guards. Before Rhayn and Sadira stepped beneath the portcullis, however, a Nibenese templar rushed out of the side corridor. She took one look at the unconscious guards, then turned toward the causeway, already opening her mouth to call for the king’s magic.
Sadira grabbed the woman’s hair and jerked her head back, smashing the edge of her other hand into the templar’s throat. The Nibenese gurgled in pain, then Rhayn ended her life by plunging a bone dagger into her heart.
“Not as simple as you thought,” Sadira said, shaking her head at her father.
“Things have not turned out so badly,” Faenaeyon said, leading the way across the causeway.
By the time the small company stepped off the bridge, the sentries scattered along the butte were rushing toward them. Faenaeyon took the spear from Magnus’s hand and sent it sailing into the chest of the nearest guard, while Huyar threw his at the one approaching from the opposite direction. Seeing that the elves now had nothing but daggers, the next men in line drew obsidian short swords and rushed forward.
“Cast your spell,” ordered Faenaeyon.
“I’ll cast a spell,” Sadira said, taking a small disk of wood from her satchel.
Faenaeyon ignored her and pulled the dagger he had taken earlier from Huyar. As the chief prepared to meet the first sentry, Rhayn gave her own dagger to Huyar, then took a shard of kank shell from her satchel and began preparations for her own spell.
The Amber Enchantress Page 20