by Court Ellyn
Thorn bowed his head in greeting. “Miraj.”
She raised her chin. “Avadri.” The difference in pronunciation was startling to Thorn’s ear. Her voice too was like bronze, struck with a velvet hammer. She turned to Laniel, looked him up and down as if she was just as astonished to find an Elari in this northern country. In Elaran she said, “Goddess’ blessing on you,” and touched her heart in a gesture of greeting. “We believed all Elarion outside the desert were ash in the wind. From where do you hail?”
Laniel touched his forehead in his version of the gesture. “There is a wood to the north that has been our haven since the War.”
“A wood?” The bronze shield of her face gave way to an infinitesimal smile. “Do you walk the trees?”
He grinned and nodded.
“We thought you merely legend, treewalker.” Her manner chilled. “You will translate.”
“My pleasure.”
Thorn shoved a thought into Laniel’s head: How different her dialect is. Best not tell her I can understand what she’s saying.
Laniel raised a glare. “Why not?”
But the Miraj spoke over them: “I am Sha’hadýn, Sahani of the host of Harena, Land of the Sun. Tell them.”
“What is ‘sahani’?” Laniel asked her.
She glowered as though he were simple. “Leader, captain, sahani.”
“Ah, sheannach.” He looked up at Kelyn and rattled off the Miraj’s introduction, then explained to Sha’hadýn that she was the guest of Kelyn, War Commander of the armies of the Northwest, Lord of Ilswythe, and of the avedra Kieryn Dathiel, Lord of Storms.
Why did you say that? Thorn demanded.
Shut up, Laniel tossed back.
“Good,” said Sha’hadýn. “Tell them this: we of the sands are not here for you. We have no love or sympathy for humankind. We come because the dragon brings us. We come because we obey the Mother-Father.”
Laniel peeked an eyebrow and told Kelyn, “The great dragon brings these allies to our aid. They are … pleased … to do the Mother-Father’s will.”
None the wiser, Sha’hadýn went on, “We will help you restore the balance, not only for your people, Sahani, but for ours as well. Despite my reluctance, my host is at your disposal.”
Kelyn nodded thoughtfully at the translation. “When Rashén honored me with his visit, he failed to warn me to anticipate allies. Your arrival is a gift beyond expectation.”
A subtle move, Thorn thought, calling the dragon by name.
Sha’hadýn stammered, “The dragon condescended to speak to you?”
Laniel left out the ‘condescend’ part.
Kelyn gestured at the sky, as if he and the dragon were old chums. “Rashén told me that those who do the Mother-Father’s will are on the same side, and her side is the only one that matters. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Sha’hadýn had no choice but to agree, though her nod was curt.
“Then I hope your reluctance will wane in time.”
The Miraj half growled, half cleared her throat. “The last time I bandied words with a human, Sahani, I lopped off ten heads. That was more than a thousand years ago, during the last years of the War, and there is nothing that I have seen of humanity since to alter my opinion of them. I doubt my reluctance will wane.” She glanced at Laniel. “And you, kinsman? No, you have no memory of the War. Your eyes speak of unawareness.”
A muscle twitched in Laniel’s jaw. “Daily do I feel the consequences of those days, Commander.” She couldn’t know that it was his own brother, shattered by the War, who led their enemies against them.
“Yet here you are, more than just an ally to these humans?”
“I own these men as kin, and the avedra as my brother. There is honor in them, and they have done me no wrong.”
Sha’hadýn’s grin was as cold as that of a water dragon. “Give them time.”
Laniel turned to Kelyn but didn’t seem to know how to choose his words.
Better tell him straight, Thorn advised, so he knows what he’s dealing with.
This time, Laniel translated word for word, while the Miraj leveled a chilly glare.
Kelyn considered in silence for a long moment, then said, “I hold Rashén’s words to heart, so I care little for the wars fought between my forebears. The present war is all my concern, and from this moment forward, it will be yours as well. The only grudge we will carry onto the field is that against the ogres and Elarion who march against us. Am I clear?”
Wincing, Laniel translated faithfully.
Sha’hadýn’s eyes narrowed. “When the dragon described you, Sahani, he warned me you could be a domineering bastard.”
“Then we understand one another.”
~~~~
42
Lothiar’s hands shook as he dumped the basin of marsh water. The sight of Da’ith fleeing from a vast golden shimmer dispersed in a cascade and splashed upon the floor. The basin itself shattered at his feet. He raced from the blinding confines of Bramor’s corridors, across the castle compound, and up onto the curtain wall. The noontime sun glared white across the sky. The summer heat steamed the waters of the moat and set them to reeking like only an ogre’s cesspool can reek. From the main gate, the King’s Highway branched in four directions. Lothiar watched the road that led southwest to Tírandon. Upon the white gravel a mirage danced, mirroring the hedgerows.
The dragon hadn’t lied after all. Something massive moved against him, and it was here at last. But what was it? Lothiar had expected the dragon to strike here at Bramor, not at Tírandon. But Tírandon was only a day’s hard march away. The dragon might have divided his mysterious army. Did the mirage below hide an enemy? Lothiar couldn’t see beyond its quivering curtain.
After Ruvion delivered word that the humans had taken Tírandon, Lothiar realized that the dragon had succeeded in distracting him from more important things. He now paid closer attention to the happenings outside Bramor. Lasharia had taken Windgate Pass and stationed a squad of ogres on the mountain road. Iryan and the Black Marsh clan were encamped outside Linndun’s gate. Tréandyn and the ogres from the Shadow Mounds still held Brynduvh and half a dozen more Fieran strongholds. And the Fire Spear ogres guarded the few remaining avedrin deep underground. A couple days ago, Lothiar had watched as Da’ith routed the humans, and satisfaction welled in his chest like a song. His avedra, too, was a sight to behold; it was a relief to be free of Dashka’s watchful, probing presence and a delight to watch him unleash gouts of flame, to see the War Commander tumble with his horse. Afterward, Dashka had examined the red swellings on his hands and smiled.
On the highway below, something moved inside the mirage. Lothiar shouted for the ogres to ready the catapults. They plodded along. Didn’t they see this was urgent? Growling, Lothiar turned one of the cumbrous engines himself and cranked down the arm. As he was loading shot into the cup he peeked at the highway and saw an ogre emerge from the mirage. Just a bloody damn scout. Lothiar dropped the shot into place, somehow disappointed. “Give them a test firing,” he ordered.
A dozen catapults thumped to life.
In the wake of dissipating terror and cooling rage, a surge of dizziness swirled through his head. He was desperate for sleep but didn’t dare, especially now that the dragon had made good his threat. One dose of poppy wine at the wrong time and Lothiar might sleep through the alarm, then this … whatever it was … might be right on top of him.
His nape shivered with a caress. A sorrowful whisper fell into his ear: “Why did you not listen to me?” The hot gusts snapped Amanthia’s black hair around her face like a banner of victory, but there was no gloating in her eyes. “You left us no choice but to play this game your way. Do you like our move?”
Lothiar rounded on her, squeezed her pale lovely throat with both hands. “Betrayer! I nursed you! I loved you!”
She gasped only once, then his hands were clutching at air. He spun, searching. Her voice glided past him on the summer wind, “Your heart was never pu
re enough for love. It was I who loved you. But, even then, you would not let me save you from yourself.”
Lothiar remained on the wall until the mirages dissipated with evening. The highway branched out, not a traveler on any of its four long arms. The sunset blazed orange and struck Bramor’s rust-colored wall in a fury. Dare he leave his vigil? The thing he’d seen in the basin, if it traveled at the speed of a man, could arrive in the middle of the night. If it flew? Yes, better stay where he was.
“Sir?” Ruvion approached. Despite the concern on his face, he ambled loose-limbed as if he were out for a stroll. As long as the avedrin were ensconced inside Tírandon, there was no point in Ruvion sitting on a hill, hoping they’d step out alone for a breather, just for his convenience, so he had provided Lothiar with an irritating sort of company the past couple of days. Paggon Ironfist trod along behind him, great fists swinging at his sides like boulders, heavy brow drawn low over his small red eyes. The ogre, too, was concerned. “Is something wrong, sir? Paggon said you’d been up here all day.”
“So?” Lothiar didn’t want this swaggering scout to know what he’d seen in the basin. Not until he’d concocted a plan to undo the disaster. And how many of Paggon’s denmates had been lost to the mirage? He had six or seven sons, maybe more. How many lay dead on the plain? Not that love existed between ogres. Still, there was loyalty.
“Have you eaten lately?” Ruvion persisted. “You look … ill.”
“I am ill!” Lothiar blurted, patience gone. “Blame it on the … the lack of sleep.”
“Let me send for food, sir.” Fretful as a mother hen.
“If it will keep you quiet—”
A rush of sound broke the softness of the twilight: ogres grunting, heavy feet thumping, angry voices bellowing. Lothiar feared trouble among the regiments in the Green, but when he turned he saw the window crackling a few feet away. Da’ith’s eyes were wild, looking for enemies in lengthening shadows. “Captain? Captain, can you hear me? We’ve set up camp, on the highway a few miles from Tírandon. We have no defenses. Should we withdraw to Bramor?”
Cat out of the bag. “Captain…,” Ruvion breathed.
“Shut up,” Lothiar snapped. He glanced at Paggon. Did the old chieftain realize the implications of his clan’s retreat? He merely blinked dull red eyes and watched Da’ith in a distrustful fashion.
Lothiar paced before the window. If the companies of Dragon Claw and Storm Mount returned, there would be nothing barring the path of the dragon’s enigmatic army. “No, Lieutenant, stay where you are. Barricade yourselves as best you can. Report any sightings.”
“But, Captain—”
Lothiar had no patience for insubordination. “What exactly attacked you, Lieutenant?”
“They were Elarion, sir. I swear it on Ana’s bright bosom!”
Impossible. That mirage had been no common veil. They have perfected the avë that your people merely dabble with, the dragon had told him. When they come, you will not see them. “But where did they come from?”
“From the south,” Da’ith said. “I’ve never seen their like.”
The dragon chuckled in Lothiar’s head. Tables turned? Pleasant feeling, isn’t it, Azhdyr?
“So this is your mysterious army?” Lothiar asked. “Elarion? Not very imaginative of you.” But highly insulting. He turned to square off with the dragon, but it was Ruvion standing at his side. Beyond, Paggon’s muzzle pulled back into a snarl. The na’in detected something he couldn’t see, like a dog growling at ghosts, but Ruvion merely raised an eyebrow.
The outburst confused Da’ith, too. “Sir?”
“Never mind! You have your orders.”
Da’ith opened his mouth to argue, muttered some curse instead, and sliced a hand through the window, dispelling it.
“Damn you, dragon,” Lothiar whispered into the deepening twilight.
I warned you, Exile. If the Miraji are not enough, I will bring the Ice Dwellers from the Crown of the World, they who ride their wingless dragons and bring the cold wherever they go. They will imprison you in a block of ice and oh, so carefully keep you alive for another thousand years. You locked inside that prison with only your guilt.
Lothiar glimpsed a silver smirk over his shoulder. He heaved an elbow at it, caught only air. “Liar! They don’t exist.”
You refuse to believe what your own eyes have seen? There is so much in this world that you don’t know, Azhdyr. You are a babe. And a fool.
“Sir? Captain?” Ruvion ventured. “If these really are Elarion, we can send a courier, convince them to join us against the human rabble.”
Your scout is worried about you, Azhdyr, for good reason. You don’t look well.
“Aye, it’s your fault.”
“Sir, I’ve done my best!” Ruvion cried. “If you don’t want my advice, just say so.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, Lieutenant! The dragon! Don’t you hear it? Don’t you feel it? Ironfist does.” He jabbed a finger at the snarling ogre. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you, sir? There is no dragon!” His arms opened to take in the whole of the sky, the city, the moor. Damned childish of him, to think a dragon was as large and obvious as a mountain.
From the corner of his eye, Lothiar saw Rashén Varél grinning at Ruvion. A forked tongue flicked between the youth’s teeth, as if he thought the scout’s blindness most delectable. His advice will come to nothing anyway, Azhdyr. The Miraji do not ally themselves with ogres. For three thousand years they have guarded the desert against ogre-kind. They guard it still. They will not taint their pride.
Lothiar ran at the dragon, waving his arms as if to dispel a fog. “Go away! Shut up!”
For once, Rashén did as he was told. But not before irreparable damage had been done. Ruvion blinked at Lothiar with wide, apprehensive eyes.
“I’m not mad,” he insisted.
The scout humored him with a tight smile. “I’m sure, Captain.”
Goddess help him, the dragon was building a wall around him. A wall of illusion, of fear, of enemies. Lothiar gripped his head between his hands. Think, damn you! He swayed, crashed against the wall.
Ruvion ran to him. “Sir, you must lie down.”
“Cap, eat, sleep,” said Paggon. Even an ogre could see it.
He shoved the scout away. “No! I don’t care what the dragon says. Once the War Commander is dead and Dathiel in chains, we stand a good chance of forging an alliance with these Miraji.”
“With the what?” Ruvion asked, startled. Yes, how would Lothiar have learned their name if someone hadn’t told him? Da’ith hadn’t known it, hadn’t spoken it.
Lothiar grinned. All was not lost. “With the help of our desert cousins, we can subdue every human between the Glacier and the Ixakan jungles.” And we need not rely on naenion to accomplish it, he thought, sneaking a glance at Paggon. He liked the ogre. He was faithful to a fault, like any hound, but he was just an ogre in the end. “And the avedrin. I doubt the Miraji hold an ounce of loyalty toward avedrin. Unlike Aerdria, unlike my brother.”
“Pardon, sir, but you’re obsessed. Is not this new enemy of greater concern than three avedrin?”
“No! The Sons of Ilswythe are the resin holding everything together. Without them there will be no resistance. Without the avedrin, the War Commander has nothing. It’s Dathiel’s fault our people fight for the humans. Once we collect Dathiel, everything will unravel.”
“You plan to send me inside the walls of Tírandon?” Ruvion shook his head vehemently. “An armed camp was bad enough. That bitch nearly cooked me, and those guards—”
“Stop fretting! With Elaran sentries on alert, you wouldn’t make it ten feet without being turned into a pincushion. But we might lure the avedrin out to you. Maybe even the War Commander.”
“How?”
“Like you said, we’ll send a courier.”
Dawn was loud with the screams of men. They lay spread-eagled upon the trampled lawn of the Green. Thre
e of them, former city watchmen or garrison soldiers, dragged out of the dungeon at random. The ropes stretched their skin taut. Paggon walked back and forth touching them with hot iron. Each time a prisoner howled, Paggon looked to Lothiar. Was he hurting the men too badly? Did Cap approve? Lothiar sat in a folding leather camp chair and yawned.
About the time one of the men passed out, Ruvion returned one last time from the dungeon, prodding Captain Tullyk at sword point. The man limped from some past injury, but Lothiar had confiscated his walking stick. His ginger hair was dull and matted; a growth of beard gave him the look of a wooly goat, though he reeked like a pig. “This is outrageous!” he declared, pointing at the prisoners. “These men have done nothing to earn this.”
“Correct,” Lothiar said, rising. “Yet they will all suffer the same.” He indicated a dozen more bedraggled, sun-starved humans waiting their turn. Over a hundred soldiers and watchmen had been captured in the barracks and in the city streets while Valryk hosted his final, bloody feast. Afterward, when the ogres were ousting Bramor’s citizens, they had rounded up all the city’s virile young men and tossed them into the dark as well. The dungeons were full to bursting.
Valryk might have served Lothiar’s purpose this morning, but he didn’t expect Tullyk to hold much affection for his king these days. Traitors didn’t provide reliable leverage.
“Sadistic bastard. Why not kill them outright?” Tullyk demanded.
Lothiar grinned. Because dead men provided no leverage at all. “You’ll go last of all, after you’ve watched every delightful moment, unless …” He let the words hang on the raw, scorched air.
Tullyk listened to one of the prisoners beg Paggon to stop. “Ah, Goddess, what do you want, for the Mother’s sake?”
Lothiar leant close until Tullyk gave him every scrap of his attention. “I want you to deliver a message.”