by J. C. Staudt
There is a stroke of insanity spreading through my feiach to make them behave this way, Lethari thought. They were like a group of children, each trying to reach their parents’ ears first with a tale to best the other. It does not matter who gets to Sai Calgoar first, he decided. It only matters whose voice is the loudest.
The feiach gathered around the slave cages. Feeling powerless, Lethari came closer to watch. He saw then what Cean Eldreni’s men had done. They had arrived late to the ambush that day on purpose, preserving their number while forfeiting that of the feiach at large. They were still too few to challenge the rest, if it came to that, but those loyal to Lethari would be hard-pressed to overpower both Cean’s and Dyovan’s detachments combined.
Cean’s liberation party pressured the men guarding the cages until they handed over the keys. The cage door opened. Cean’s men unlocked his manacles and helped him out. To Lethari’s astonishment, Cean noticed him from afar and came over, rubbing his wrists. Dyovan and his warriors followed, as did the rest of the crowd.
“Return to your cage at once,” Lethari told him.
Cean smirked. “Who will put me there? Will you do it, Lethari?”
“Dyovan,” Lethari said. “When did you reject your master’s call? Do you truly mean to allow this?”
Dyovan averted his eyes. “What I do, I do for Sigrede.”
“Sigrede was my friend,” Lethari said. “He was my sand-brother.”
“True sand-brothers do not honor one another with the knife,” Cean sneered.
“Return to your cage, Cean. I will not say it again.”
“Nor will I. I am free, and I will not go back. I make for Sai Calgoar tonight, with the full strength of Dyovan Angeides and his forces behind me. My own men have pledged themselves to my service once more, despite your attempt to take them from me. If you know what is good for you, you will lay your sword at the master-king’s feet and accept the disgrace you deserve.”
“For Sigrede,” said one of the warriors behind him.
“For Sigrede,” another echoed.
Soon the crowd was filled with voices raised in support of Sigrede and the injustice they perceived had been done him.
How could something done of kindness come to be held in contempt by so many? Lethari wondered. He wanted to strike Cean down for the insolent skite he was. Dyovan, too, had taken Lethari’s reward and turned it against him. He had given Dyovan a larger force to command, and still it had been insufficient to buy his loyalty. Perhaps the kind of loyalty I need is the kind which cannot be bought.
Cean came closer, whispering while the others shouted. “The fates have turned against you, Lethari. This feiach is yours no longer.”
“Even from behind the bars of a cage, you have undermined me at every turn. Tell me why, Cean.”
“Sigrede told me of your grand visions; of the flaw Amhaziel gave you. But he was holding something back. I know this campaign’s success has been more than some fortunate twist of the fates. You killed Sigrede Balbaressi because you are hiding something.”
“He was near death already. You saw him yourself.”
“I did not think it necessary to mention that to anyone else.”
Lethari’s mouth fell open. “You have been telling them I killed Sigrede in cold blood…”
“A warleader with such lofty designs as yours cannot be left unopposed while his head grows as big as his purse,” Cean said with a pleasant smile. “It is time the king appointed a new warleader. Someone who does not murder his own captains. I am wasting my time with you, standing here when I should be on the back of my corsil, riding for our fair City of Sand. When I arrive, I will tell Tycho Montari what I have told everyone else. Unless of course, you admit what it is you are hiding. Then I may reconsider…”
Lethari swore. “Go then, cur. Beg at the king’s feet for the scraps you were only worthy to take by deceit. Bring your men, whose loyalties change with the wind, and find the empty promise of your ill-gotten achievement.”
Cean brushed Lethari’s shoulder as he passed, pausing to whisper. “By your fortune favored… my master.”
Moments later, the canyon thundered with the departure of a hundred riders on horse and corsil, more than half the feiach’s remaining strength. I should never have left Sigrede’s men behind, Lethari thought with dismay, though he could not have been certain of their loyalties either.
Lethari returned to the fire and stood there alone for a time. Though the remainder of his feiach faded into the night, he could not help but feel watched. For a moment he regretted refusing Cean’s offer, but then assured himself it would’ve been a mistake to reveal the goatskin. Better not to clear his name of one crime by admitting to another. Doing so would’ve given Cean all the evidence he needed to have Lethari cast into disgrace—although it appeared he was doomed to suffer disgrace anyway.
When the light-star cleared the tops of the canyon walls the next morning, Lethari was wide awake. He’d spent hours digging the deepest hole he could manage inside his tent and burying the goatskin record there. Afterward, he’d lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, numb with dread. He wasn’t about to return home and walk into the master-king’s luchair with the goatskin in his pack, and there would be no funeral pyre in which to burn it. The ground was his only alternative.
There were too few porters and servants left to pack the camp in a timely manner, so Lethari helped them dismantle his tent. He tried not to keep glancing at the spot where he’d buried the goatskin. More than once he found himself checking to see whether he had adequately hidden the signs of disturbance in the sand. To him it seemed impossible for anyone not to detect the place where the rolling drifts had been disturbed by more than footprints. No one appeared to notice, though.
At its best, the feiach was a moving village. It needed to be well-populated in order to function that way, though, and just now Lethari’s feiach was missing several key components. The wounded from yesterday’s ambush numbered in the dozens, and the skeleton crew of shamans, warlocks, and soothsayers had their hands full. Fates forbid any of the slave cages should come unsecured, for a revolt might prove uncontainable. And so, crippled and poorly provisioned for anything but a plodding retreat toward Sai Calgoar, the feiach limped off through the wasteland. If they ran afoul of another trade caravan now, they were more likely to become its victim than its conqueror.
Sai Calgoar was three days away. Lethari pitched in each time they made camp, performing menial tasks alongside the feiach’s lowest servants. Everyone had to help, or things simply would not get done. Though he was always exhausted after a day’s ride and an evening’s work, he slept fitfully.
Whenever he wasn’t dreaming about Sig, the desert came to him in nightmares. It was a malevolent thing, alive, horizons deep and waiting to swallow him behind every dune. The people of the steel city strung him to a girder and crowded around to plunder everything he owned. They took his clothes. When those were gone, they began to take parts of him. Hands reached inside him. Then he would wake, cold with sweat.
It was late afternoon when at last his feiach made its triumphal entry through the market streets of Sai Calgoar. Merchants were closing their stands and returning home for the night. At first they paid Lethari and his meager band so little mind, one might’ve thought they were simple travelers, rather than a great warband returning from a successful campaign.
Lethari guessed the city’s cheer had been wasted on Cean and his riders, who had probably arrived with great noise and fanfare. Then someone recognized him, and the sparsely filled streets turned icy. ‘Sand-killer,’ they shouted. ‘Pale-brother,’ and ‘coward-betrayer,’ they called him.
Lethari rode on, shamed on behalf of those who rode with him. He tried to ignore the hecklers, but he could think only of their insults. Word spreads quickly, he thought, wishing for home. Wishing for Frayla, and solitude.
It was a long ride to the base of the mountainside, where the city’s tiered dwellings rose before them like
steps on a giant staircase. Though Lethari longed for his household, it was customary for a warleader to report to the master-king upon his return. He wheeled Teibast to face the fifty-or-so who remained with him, having it in mind to express some form of gratitude. Ceallach Golandi, the shaman; Amhaziel Bilmadi, the soothsayer; Luchlais Haredin, the tracker and scout; Eoghan Teleri, the herdsman; Aerlan Relisteri, the warrior who had found Lethari’s sword in the ocean; Joarim Beisar, his treasurer; Koiras and Frathair, his tent guards. Familiar faces, all. They had remained faithful to the end, though Lethari did not doubt some had been tempted otherwise. Covered in dust, they watched him and waited.
Lethari dismounted, handed his reins to Eoghan Teleri, and adjusted the sword on his back. He was prepared to lay Tosgaith at Tycho Montari’s feet if it came to that. He stood there for a time, searching for words. The words would not come. When he spoke, all he could say was, “You are free to return home to your families.”
No sooner had he spoken than he wished he could’ve articulated how grateful he was for all they’d done. They had been through much together, and they deserved better from the master they had followed across so many horizons. Perhaps it was time for them to serve someone new, after all.
The mouth of the master-king’s luchair yawned before him. Lethari steeled himself for what was to come. As his feiach disbanded, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it would be the last time he would ever lead such a force. This was the end of an era, and of his honored position among the high households of the calgoarethi.
He willed himself to take that first step into darkness, but he could not. Guilt gnawed at him, fiercer than ever. Over the past few days he had begun to believe what everyone was saying. He knew Cean had spread lies about the circumstances of Sig’s death, yet his belief in his own innocence was wearing thin. Sigrede asked me to take his pain, Lethari reminded himself. Did that make it right? It wasn’t fair that he be judged as a murderer, but if so many thought he had done the wrong thing, didn’t that mean he had?
A hand fell onto his shoulder. “Lethari. Will you be alright?” It was Luchlais Haredin.
Lethari shook himself from his trance. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t know the answer to that question. He said so.
“Forgive my disrespect, master, but… is it true, what they are saying?”
“I am a fool for what I have done. I made myself believe my intentions were pure, but that is not so.”
The tracker inched away from him, looking less comfortable than before. “Then may the master-king find reason to grant you his mercy.”
How could he find mercy for me when I cannot find it for myself? Lethari wanted to say. The great deeds he’d done in the master-king’s name seemed small and faraway in comparison to the future looming before him. “Whatever his judgment, I will submit to it.”
Luchlais gave a grunt, as if making up his mind. “You have been a good warleader. Brave, and honorable. The king will not forget that.”
Lethari hoped he was right. “Farewell, Luchlais.”
It was time to go. Lethari would not delay it any longer. The feiach was still dispersing behind him as he pushed himself forward and entered the palace of his king. All grew dark, until the ancient halls shone only with torchlight. The echoes of his men outside came to him even after he was deep within, yet all he could hear above that clamor was the swelling pulse of his own heart.
CHAPTER 42
Showdown
“You’re tellin’ me you don’t feel a daggum blasted thing…”
“Not a thing,” Toler said. “This is the second time in about three months I’ve been miraculously healed from a debilitating injury. It’s coffing incredible.”
Lokes rubbed his stubbled chin. “Ain’t you a lucky bastard.”
“I didn’t used to think so.”
“Well, start thinkin’ so. The fates is on your side, kid. Don’t know why or how, but you’re one big steaming sack of good luck.”
“Seems to me we ought to keep him with us,” Weaver said.
Lokes nodded. “That’s the plan, for now.”
The three travelers had retreated from the old church to spend the night at a local inn and watering hole called The Attic. It was almost midnight, and they were hunched over a round bar table on bolted-in stools, nursing pints of homemade brew in dirty glasses. Starlight filtered through narrow floor-length windows, casting the smoky room in a silver glow beneath the arched, exposed-beam ceiling.
“Mind filling me in on the rest of your plan?” Weaver asked, knowing she wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Rest of the plan ain’t changed,” Lokes said. “We make for the western outskirts first thing in the morning. Take us a day or two to get there, ‘specially if we come across any unexpected roadblocks on account of all them earthquakes we been having. We get Shep home to Unterberg, then turn north over the Clayhollows and never look back.”
“You’re really not scared of this Fink dway at all?” Toler asked. “I think you might benefit from a healthy fear of someone like that.”
“Naw, I ain’t scared of him,” Lokes said with a scowl. “Shit, Shep. You still don’t know me very good, do you?”
“You’ve been shitting bricks about him ever since we got here, hoping you’d earn the hardware to pay him back before he found you. Now you’ve got the chance and you’re doing just the opposite. No offense, but that’s just plain stupid. Actually, I hope you do take offense to that. You’re an idiot.”
Lokes took a sip of his brew, wiping foam off his mustache. “You really think so, huh?” he said, eyeing him. “You too, Jal?”
Toler nodded.
“Coff it, Will. Yes. Yes I do. I been trying to tell you that this entire time.”
Lokes leaned back on his barstool, stretching his spine and inhaling deeply. “Alright,” he grunted. “That’s the way y’all want it, I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna go against my gut and let you have this one. We stop by the Scorpion’s Uncle on our way outta town and drop a load of hardware on ol’ Fink. But I’m telling you right now… he and his posse pull some kinda funny business on account of us showing up late, I ain’t taking no responsibility for it.”
Weaver clapped her hands, relieved and grateful to him for finally doing the right thing. Maybe her influence—nagging or otherwise—was making an impact on him. “That’s it, then. Just one simple transaction and we can put this all behind us.”
“Let’s hope it’s simple. They come up on us guns blazing, you’ll wish you’d done things my way.”
Weaver was feeling good when they paid their tab and left the bar—the first time she’d felt good in days. They crossed the hall to their respective rooms and said goodnight. Weaver and Lokes had actually agreed on something today: renting Toler his own room. For her, it was an attempt to make him feel less like a captive and more like a travelling companion. For Lokes, it was an excuse to engage in some long-overdue lovemaking.
In spite of Weaver’s every forecast to the contrary, the sex was good. Great, even. The thought of setting things right with Fink and the old gang put her mind at ease, melting off the stress she’d bottled inside through months of looking over her shoulder everywhere they went. Though the city was far from her favorite place, she let her hair down and focused her newfound serenity on giving Lokes the sort of night he’d been wanting.
The bed was comfortable, and she slept soundly even though the sheets were musty with stale smoke. In the morning she was pleasantly sore in all the right places. Lokes grabbed her as she tried to get out of bed and pulled her down for one last round before they left their room.
Lokes wasn’t about to shell out for a third horse, so Toler walked. Weaver offered to let him ride Meldi a few times, but Toler always refused. “I’ve got my legs back,” he’d say. “Might as well use them.”
Around mid-morning, Weaver noticed Lokes rubbing his earlobe, a nervous habit he exhibited before broaching an uncomfortable topic. Since few topics ever ma
de Lokes uncomfortable, she knew this must be a big one.
“So, uh… what happened to you back there, Jal? What did you see when you fell over?”
Weaver didn’t want to think about what she’d seen, much less talk about it. “In the mall, or outside the church?” she asked.
“Either or. Was it the same thing both times?”
She spent a moment collecting her thoughts. “It was a little different each time. But they both felt the same. The first time, in the mall, I saw this… opening. Everything around me was this big gaping wound. Whitewashed. Then pieces started falling away, turning black. But behind the black, there was life. Color.”
Lokes grunted, wrinkled his lips. “How ‘bout the second time?”
“The second time was similar as far as what I saw. The way I felt, though… that was different. The world was dying around me. Funny thing was, I wanted it. I mean I really wanted it. Didn’t feel like it was my idea, neither. Felt like something was making me want it. Making me believe it was good.”
“Making you believe the end of the world was good…” Lokes said skeptically.
“It sounds crazy. I know.”
“Crazy like a desert fox. Ain’t nobody ever said you was a scholar, Jal. Never understood them guilders and all that mumbo jumbo they was always spouting off. Peace and balance and tranquilitude, and all that.”
Weaver tried not to be hurt. She tried not to be angry. She and Lokes had been getting along so well since the old church. She’d assumed facing down death and escaping with his life against the odds had knocked something loose in that thick skull of his, but apparently she’d overestimated him. “Yep. Just a bunch of weirdo freaks,” she mumbled.
The narrow lanes leading to the Scorpion’s Uncle, with their towering brick walls and tiny window ledges overlooking the asphalt, made Weaver feel boxed in. Any one of those windows could be hiding Lally McNally, or Keeton Dunn, or Pretty Portia LeMeire. Much as she tried to keep her mind off it, Weaver could only think about two things: what a terrible place this was to get ambushed; and that she hoped they’d see Fink before Fink saw them.