R’ksis emerged in stages, skittering out into the sunlight, then dipping back into darkness. Each time, she stayed out longer. Finally, clinging to the shady side of the trees, she remained above, but not far from the mouth of the cave. No disr wanted to leave the dark, cool safety of its underground home.
The world outside was thick forest. Golden leaves overhead filtered the bright light. Scrubby bushes and a thick carpet of decaying leaves lay underfoot. The boulders that hid the entrance to the subterranean home had a coating of gray-green fungus. R’ksis scraped some off with a crescent-shaped claw and stuck the appendage in her mouth.
She spat it out. Compared to the rich, moldy taste of such food from beneath, it had little taste. It was sun-spoiled. It was not what she and the others had braved the surface for, anyway.
R’ksis sniffed, testing the air. Blood. Sweat. The odor of horse and Ogres hung in the air, scenting the forest. “The Old Ones,” she nearly hissed, motioning for the males to come forward.
They stayed inside, in the comforting darkness. When she motioned again, they hissed and clicked their claws against the rock walls. “Light bright. Too bright. Hurt eyes. Sun too warm,” they protested.
With an oath, she left them, knowing they would follow.
The scent of the Old Ones thinned as she moved through the forest. She adjusted her course. By the time she’d picked up the trail once more, the ten males had caught up. They had taken the time to roll on the ground, camouflaging their pasty green flesh.
She nodded her approval, then quickly flung handfuls of leaves and dirt across her own body.
“Food,” G’hes, the oldest male, clicked and hissed, sniffing. He sounded much more assured now.
“Old Ones!” She bent, scooped up a large rock and crushed it in her claws, as she would crush the Old Ones. The Ogres were an ancient enemy, thieves who lived above, yet forced their slaves to tunnel into the mountains-not to make homes, but to rob the earth.
“Old Ones taste good?” The youngest member of the party asked eagerly. S’rk was the only one of them who had never been above before. He stood completely upright, taller than the others, his compact body taut with excitement and fear.
The others hissed their pleasure. Ogres tasted even sweeter than the tunnelers, the slaves of the Ogres.
It took almost an hour to find the source of the lush blood scent. As they walked, trees and boulders thrust up through the earth’s surface, and dense patches of undergrowth, where the sun broke through the canopy of leaves, passed by unnoticed. It was all featureless terrain to eyes accustomed to the lush darkness of the underworld, to the beauty of dripping caverns.
As the scent of the Old Ones grew unbearably thick, G’hes, the oldest male, chortled, “Tribe be pleased.”
“First, catch,” she warned him.
Jyrbian ranged from the front of the procession, where Lyrralt rode silent and morose, to the back, where Khallayne did the same.
He joined her for the third time in as many hours, asking the same question he had before. “Why so glum? Isn’t this a beautiful day for a ride?” Then he loped ahead once more when she refused to talk with him. Then Tenaj called, “Quiet!”
They obeyed at once, because Tenaj was the hunter of the group, the one who spent long hours on the trails, in the forests.
Jyrbian waited for Tenaj to catch up with him, motioning the others past. “What?” He mouthed the word, making not a sound.
Tenaj glanced down the trail, the way they had come, then into the forest. Except for the unnatural quiet, which could easily be caused by their passing, everything appeared normal.
Except for that sense of someone-something. Not watching exactly, but waiting.
Tenaj shook her head. “Something,” she said quietly. “I don’t know.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Maybe I should ride back a ways, just to check things out.”
“Not too far, okay? There’ve been a couple of attacks on hunting parties on this trail. I don’t think we should get too spread out along here.”
Nodding agreement, Tenaj reined her stallion around.
She kept her hand on her sword as she rode toward Takar. The forest was too still, showing no signs of life, even though the party had passed by several minutes before. It made her jittery, and her horse, already half-wild, skittish.
Then she went around a turn, and there was the reason. Disr, four of them, on the trail! They blinked their pale, watery eyes. Dirt and leaves stuck to their slimy flesh. Probably more of them in the shade beyond, she thought. For a second, they gazed at her, eyes blazing with hatred and hunger. Then there was noise from the forest, and the dense, compact bodies moved in unison.
Tenaj turned and ran. “Disr!” she screamed, as soon as the others were in sight. “Disr! At least five of them!”
Khallayne was in the rear. She slowed her horse as she heard Tenaj yell and half-turned in the saddle.
From the left, something hit Khallayne’s arm. Something dense, but slick and large. Her breath left her lungs. She felt numbness shoot through her shoulder and arm. She cried out as the ground came toward her face with startling speed!
She struck the hard, packed earth, then glimpsed something dank and dense, with claws and a compact body, moving impossibly fast. Horses’ hooves danced near her eyes. Pain shot through her thigh, as if a knife had just ripped the flesh.
Screams sounded from above and in her own throat. Fear, warning, pain! An even more frightened scream came from a horse. The slimy thing, smelling of vinegar and rot, was upon her, tearing at her flesh. Everywhere it touched, pain.
Through the confusion, she heard someone scream her name. She heard a war cry, terrible yet reassuring. There was frenzied movement above her. Then away from her.
The Old One surprised them! The scent had been so strong, they hadn’t sensed the Ogre female on the trail. At a hiss from R’ksis, the group divided, scuttled back into the forest, and pursued, dropping to all fours for speed.
As they flanked the Old Ones, the scent of food was overpowering. The voices of their prey were raised in alarm, the hooves of their mounts sending a fear-filled vibration through the packed earth.
Leading her group, R’ksis attacked first, using the momentum of her speed to launch herself at the first Old One she encountered. The Ogre’s body was knocked from the saddle, falling heavily to the ground.
With the battle lust of the young, S’rk was upon the stunned Ogre in an instant. He ripped at the leg of the creature, opening the flesh. Ripped again with his jagged fangs.
The Ogre screamed, flailed weakly at her attacker, then collapsed. To R’ksis, the sound of her enemy’s pain was as welcome as home; the scent of the warm, steaming blood was sweet.
A terrible screech rent the air as S’rk reached again for the fallen Ogre. R’ksis glanced up to see a large Old One leap to the ground. A male, from the looks of it, drew his sword as he jumped. Another Ogre, the one from the trail, joined him.
The very sight of them infuriated her. Meal forgotten, R’ksis jumped up to meet them. Her nostrils flared as she caught the scent of Ogre sweat, of fear. And then the Ogres were upon her!
R’ksis swiped at the bigger one, claws extended to their full range. But her reach couldn’t match that of the Ogre’s sword. The blade struck her a glancing blow, bouncing off the natural armor plates covering her shoulders.
The Ogre attacked again, swinging his sword in a low, whistling arc. R’ksis rolled and dove between the two attackers, slashing at their legs. They wheeled with her, and the female’s blade sang in the air above R’ksis’s head. She backed away as they split, trying to flank her.
All about her were the sounds of battle. The hissing and clicking of attacking disr. The scream of a wounded animal. The hiss of a dying disr.
The Ogres attacked in unison, and R’ksis ducked beneath the swinging weapons. The female changed her tactic, lunging forward with one foot and thrusting with her sword. R’ksis stumbled back, falling out of range of t
he sword.
Two of her males were dead, their bodies crumpled in the sunlight. But across the path, G’hes was closing in on a female Old One, his long, sharp tongue tasting the air in anticipation.
S’rk joined the fight, leaping in from the side.
R’ksis heard the female Ogre’s sword bite into the thick covering on S’rk’s back. He rolled and came to his feet, eyes clenched with pain.
R’ksis met their assailants alone, protecting S’rk with her body. She stumbled backward, avoiding a sword thrust, would have fallen but for S’rk. His hands were trembling. She could smell the sharp odor of disr blood.
“Run, youngest! Run far!” She pushed him, just as the male Ogre swung. The blade, wicked and gleaming, missed her, missed S’rk. Then, incredibly, reversed its direction, slicing back. The edge, as sharp as disr claws, bit into S’rk’s throat. The youngest one gurgled, gazed up at her as he fell.
Just as she saw the life dim in S’rk’s eyes, she heard G’hes’s death cry, saw him fall, clutching at his chest. Before the Ogres could attack again, she screamed a wordless warning of retreat to those of her pack still standing. Then she blended into the forest, so quickly that the Ogres couldn’t respond.
Topsy turvy, the sky tilted, trees growing sideways.
Khallayne saw Jyrbian battling a nightmare, a thing with armor plates on its rubbery, four-legged body, with eyes as red as Lunitari. It reared up on its hind legs and stood as an Ogre, met him with hissing and clicking, like a beetle.
Jyrbian swung with his sword. Blood, as red and thick as any Ogre’s, spurted from the creature’s neck. It choked and crumpled. Another creature, standing near Tenaj, darted a panicked glance about, then melted back into the forest.
The sky tilted sickeningly again. Khallayne remembered no more.
She woke with dirt clogging her nostrils and the smell of something rotten mixed with her own blood. The hands that were turning her over were not gentle, and pain throbbed dully in her shoulder, thigh, and arms. Voices, warped and only vaguely recognizable, filtered through to her mind.
“Careful.”
“How bad is it?”
“Don’t touch the slime around the bites! It’s poisonous.”
‘Tenaj, Levin, stand guard.”
“We need to get moving. There may be more.”
This voice she recognized as Briah’s, and she struggled to sit up. But hands held her down.
“How bad?” another voice insisted again.
“Can you heal her?”
“Yes.” The hands probed the wound on her thigh, sending bursts of pain like glass shards rocketing up her leg. “But there will be a price.”
She gasped aloud with pain.
“Do you understand, Khallayne? Do you agree? There is always a price from the gods for a healing.”
At last, she knew the voice, knew the hands. She opened her eyes and stared into the face of Lyrralt.
“I can heal you if Hiddukel grants it, but there will be a price. Sooner or later, he will ask something of you and you will have to give it. Do you understand?”
“Just do it, Lyrralt!” Jyrbian snapped. “Do you think she has any choice?”
Now Jyrbian’s face, shining with sweat, eyes glazed, exhilarated with battle lust, came into view. “That thing ripped her leg open almost to the bone. If she doesn’t bleed to death, the disr poison will kill her. Get on with it.”
Khallayne caught the sleeve of Lyrralt’s tunic, remembering the feel of the runes on his skin. To whom would the price have to be paid? “I agree.”
He laid his hands on her and raised his eyes to the sky, lips moving. He twitched. His fingers tightened, then relaxed.
The pain surged, worse than anything she’d ever dreamed. As she opened her mouth to scream, she felt her flesh ripple, join, torn edge against torn edge, and begin to knit.
CHAPTER FIVE
Passing of the Gift
The estate of Lord Igraine, called Khalever, after bis daughter, was different from any Jyrbian had ever seen.
“What is it? Do you feel it?” he murmured to Khal-layne, who rode behind him, her arms linked around his waist.
The creature in the forest had killed her horse, and since no one had wanted to turn back, they had been taking turns riding double.
Khallayne shook her head. “I don’t know.” Peace, quiet, contentment were the words that came to her.
There were sounds aplenty, wind in the trees, bees, birds, a door slamming, the nickering of their horses, and the welcoming neigh of one of Igraine’s animals, but quiet was still the sense of it. Quiet… but something missing… She looked about uneasily, puzzled, as her fingers clutched Jyrbian tightly.
At the end of the long drive stood the main house, tan stone decorated with insets of pinkish shale around the sparkling windows. Gently rolling fields of grain stretched away toward the hills, verdant and lush in the summer sun.
Lord Igraine, governor of Khal-Theraxian himself, came out onto the wide porch to greet them. He was small for an Ogre, a good two hands shorter than Jyrbian, and simply dressed. His skin was a rich green. His eyes crinkled as he smiled, welcoming them to his home. “It is always a pleasure to have visitors from Takar. How was your trip? What is the news of court?”
Nylora and Briah both spoke at once of the attack in the forest and Jyrbian’s bravery in dispatching the danger, of the death of Khallayne’s horse and the hardship of riding double, of the Keeper’s sudden sleep.
Igraine smiled through all of it, turning his head from person to person, seemingly fascinated.
As he listened to each person in turn, Igraine gave them such attention that each felt all-important. His demeanor was compelling. Jyrbian had to study the technique, for surely anyone could learn to feign such intense interest.
“How terrible!” Igraine pulled a sad, shocked face when told of the Keeper. And, “I hope you are not too badly shaken,” when told of what had happened to Khallayne and her horse.
The group grew silent as they waited for Khallayne to respond. Though nothing had been said, the silence between Khallayne and Lyrralt had grown increasingly uncomfortable over the last three days.
“I’m fine,” she said, then, because everyone still waited, she added, “Lord Lyrralt healed me.” She could barely say the disgusting words.
“A healer!” Igraine’s gaze settled on Lyrralt, on the robe with one long sleeve. “A cleric of Hiddukel. Honored Sir, you are welcome in my home.”
Lyrralt’s expression was smug.
Jyrbian’s frown drew his brows almost together.
Igraine made an expansive gesture that included his house and the surrounding areas. “You are all welcome in my home.”
The chatter started immediately, Nylora and the cousins exclaiming at the loveliness of Igraine’s estate and about parties and such at court. Khallayne cut through the babble without raising her voice. “You are the news of the court, Lord Igraine. Everyone is talking of your new prosperity and wondering how such a thing is possible.”
The crinkles around Igraine’s eyes grew even deeper as his smile broadened. “Lady, I should be glad to tell you all.” He bowed low over her hand as she passed by him and entered the large foyer.
Jyrbian glared at the back of her head and imagined his fingers closing around her lovely neck. It wasn’t that he minded her bluntness with the governor, but that she had said such things in front of all the others! Such matters should be discreet. And he wanted to be able to report back to Teragrym, without word-of-mouth stealing his thunder.
At the same time he admired her agile mind, her smooth tongue. He wished he could extract both from her head, slowly, painfully. “I, too, would be interested in hearing your story,” he said quickly, wiping the perturbed expression off his face for the benefit of his host.
“Yes, of course. Come inside.” As Igraine turned, a lovely young woman, tiny for an Ogre and unusually delicate, stepped into his path. He caught her hand and drew her through the door. �
�Meet my daughter, Everlyn, who is really the beginning of and the reason for my tale.”
Jyrbian knew his eyes widened and his smile came alive, but he was unable to control his reaction to the sight of Everlyn.
She was as delicate as a flower, as bright and unblemished as the purest of crystals. Her eyes were the silver green of sunlight sparkling on a clear water, her shining hair almost too thick against her small face. Though she was at least two hundred fifty years old, he guessed, fully grown, the top of her head barely reached his chin. Even more intriguing, she smiled with an expression unlike anything he had ever seen in his life, an enigma he could not solve.
Jyrbian bowed low. “If I hear no story at all, this trip will not be a loss.”
Instead of the ardent response he expected, she smiled mysteriously and glanced away from the intensity in his eyes, murmuring a thank you for the compliment.
Playing the part of gracious host, Igraine led them into a large, cool room outfitted as an office. With its heavy oak walls, it would have been dark but for the gallery of tall windows that looked out over the back of the estate. The ceiling was painted the color of the night sky, and silver had been worked into it in the pattern of the constellations of the gods.
As everyone exclaimed at the beauty of the room and asked how the slaves had created the decoration, Khallayne strolled along the windows and gazed out toward the mountains that ringed the perimeter of Igraine’s property.
Careful to make sure she was unobserved, Khallayne whispered the words to a “seeing” spell, shivering as the power rose up and skittered along her nerves. As the power took hold, she realized what it was about Igraine’s estate she found so disquieting. Her mouth fell open.
“What is it?” Jyrbian asked. He had Everlyn’s hand tucked firmly through his arm and was leading her along the windows, admiring the view. He had come up behind Khallayne.
Khallayne was so surprised, so astounded, she spoke without taking note of Everlyn. “Where are the wards?” She gestured outside, toward the estate. “There are no wards, nothing, to prevent the escape of the slaves. There aren’t even any guards!”
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