Stroan turned from the scenery and made towards the edge of the bluff. Coming to the cliff’s lip that hung over the labyrinthine levels of crags and ridges below, Stroan leisurely hopped off and caught the ledge with his right hand as he fell. Using his falling momentum, and gently—almost effortlessly—rocking his body inward, he swung himself onto the bank of the precipice where his hide boots slid against the stone.
He coasted down the precipice, squatting low to keep his balance on the steep and slippery bank. He was fast approaching a crag protruding from the rocks, and as the incline pushed him swiftly towards it, Stroan straightened out his legs and hopped up. Bending his knees in sync with his landing, he dropped softly atop the peak, skipped a few times to keep his momentum, and hopped onto the hill below.
His body floated well among the cliffs, and he took pride in it. Being able to “fly the cliffs” was a skill that brought much status in the Clan of the Condor. It was the reason women ruled and were favored, being naturally lighter and more agile than men, and why any large or overweight person was the object of continual scorn and condemnation. Flying the cliffs like the ancients was something they were all trained to do since they could walk, a skill that was necessary for both mobility and status in the City in the Clouds.
He ran left on the hill and jumped to a tall rocky spire, hugging it tightly. He wouldn’t waste time following the hill all the way down to the low city then climbing back up the cliffs to reach the Long Column. This was his shortcut. He stayed higher in the cliffs, bouncing from bluff to pillar to ledge, then dropping and sliding down to his destination instead of having to climb up.
Still hugging the pillar, Stroan scooted around it to the other side. He lifted his feet higher on the rock and unwrapped his arms from around the stone. He pushed off hard with his legs and turned to catch the cliff that poked out behind him. His body soared as he reached forward with both hands, catching the ledge first with his right hand, his fingers curling into a pocket of stone. His left hand slipped upon first impact with the bluff, but he let it slide down a few inches until it met with a protrusion, and he quickly wrapped it around the stone knob.
He scaled the bluff and made his way down the sharply steep, almost vertical bank that would lead him to the Long Column. With one leg straight and stretched out, the other bent and close to his body, his left hand periodically tapping the rock wall for balance, he coasted down the slope and prepared himself for the big jump ahead.
Stroan pushed off hard and shot through the air.
Pebbles jumped from under his feet as he lifted off the slope, clearing the gap between the hill running down into the gorge below and the column that lay flat like a great stone bridge, resting on giant boulders and leading straight to the foundation of the Great Aerie.
He landed on the column and followed it to Anza’s perch, a tall, high hill with steep sides and a plateau top. It was unlike the other aeries, being built from brick and mortar like a castle in one large circle upon the entire top of the hill. There were four doors allowing entrance from the north, east, south, and west. The walls of the structure were so close to where the slope of the hill began that it was hard to distinguish the structure’s walls from the dirt of the mount. It looked as though the aerie was a part of the hill; swinging doors and windows made of woven sticks and thatch the only things distinguishing it from the mount itself.
Stroan looked up to the Great Aerie from the base of the hill. On its roof perched a giant and regal bird with feathers dark as coal. A frill of black furry feathers adorned the bird’s neck like a mane. From it extended its bare neck and head—pale pink skin with highlights of orange around the eyes.
The bird had long noticed his presence, and as he approached the base of the hill, reached out its great span of wings and made a loud and distinct hissing noise. It was telling Anza he had arrived.
Moments later a window swung open in the aerie, and Anza looked down. “Come, Stroan,” she called, shutting the wicker window.
Stroan proceeded up the slope and into the chamber, standing before the lady. She was there by herself, as she usually was, sitting in her elaborately woven seat that lay snug between two pillars equipped with sconces on the tops. She was reading a book. She was always reading books: books on war tactics, books on love, ancient poems, mythical beasts, witchcraft and dark arts, etiquette—she had so many, and Stroan didn’t doubt that she would have them all read before long. It was her knowledge that made her such a great leader, that and her undying desire for excellence. She only accepted the best, and those who served her brought their best, or nothing at all.
“Did you meet with him?” asked Anza, closing the tome in her hands and walking it back to its place on the shelf. “Did he agree?”
“He did,” Stroan answered, “but that man is a barbarian—”
Anza broke into laughter. “Aye, he is,” she said, “and perfect for this job. Come, join me near the fire.”
The lady walked over to the fireplace, lying out on the badger-skin rug that covered the ground. She wriggled around in the soft gray fur before making herself comfortable lying on her side, her weight leaning against one arm while she stared into the fire. Not a foot away from Anza, Stroan took his seat upon the fur, crossing his legs and remaining upright.
“If he should harm those girls,” said Stroan after sitting down.
“Do you think I haven’t thought this through?” Anza cut in. “He is of the worst kind, I know, but we need men like him. We will not be directly involved in rounding up girls for Tiomot, even if it did happen to work to our advantage last time.”
It worked to your advantage, Stroan thought. It’s nearly killing me. “Apologies, my lady. I don’t doubt your judgment, I was just being certain.”
“Do spare me the formalities, Stroan,” Anza said smiling. “Please, call me my name. And worry not, Ozgan will complete this job.”
“But how can you be certain of his loyalty?”
“I can’t,” Anza replied quickly. “In fact, it’s his disloyalty that I’m certain of. Do you know who that man is?”
“An assassin,” Stroan replied.
“Aye, of course, but not just any,” Anza stated. “Ozgan knows the penalty for betraying the Condor. He knows us very well, in fact.”
“If you believe in his ability then so do I,” Stroan stated. “I didn’t mean to question you. I was just—”
“You were just being certain,” Anza interrupted. “Aye, Anza.” Stroan chuckled.
“Stroan, when I take the throne, if the people discover that the Condor had anything to do with the disappearances of their daughters my rule will be ill favored. You see, Ozgan is perfect. He was born one of us—raised one of us. He knows our ways. Most importantly, he knows if he crosses us we will kill him.
“He was one of us?”
“But since he deserted the clan he can no longer be called a Condor. If he dies, it means nothing to us. If he’s caught, he cannot be tracked back to us. He’s perfect.”
“The three apostates,” said Stroan in wonder. “He is one of them?”
“Aye. He belongs neither to our world nor the outside world. Men like him are merely whispers and shadows— nothing more. So you see, we lose nothing by employing Ozgan.”
Stroan almost cringed at thought of those three. The three apostates—deserters of their clan and cause, selfish rogues of the outer world, and now the lands’ most feared mercenaries. There was no law for them, not Condor law, nor the law of Tiomot or Dandil.
“What of our ears in Snowstone Castle?” asked Anza, making it clear she was finished speaking on the previous subject.
“Good news, Anza, good news,” said Stroan with a grin. “Tiomot and Dandil are at odds because of a small goldmine that was found in Cyana not long ago.”
“A goldmine?”
“Aye, and Tiomot has been raiding it.”
“Of course the greedy king has.”
“He has done it several times now, and Dandil w
on’t long tolerate it.”
“There will be war between Snowstone and Cyana,”
said Anza, sounding as if she were quite sure of it.
“There may be,” Stroan said, nodding. “After the last raid Dandil sent a letter to Tiomot saying that his men were seen raiding the mine. He threatened Tiomot, saying there would be war between the two kingdoms unless Tiomot wrote a sworn testimony that his men had nothing to do with it.”
“Will Tiomot write this letter?”
“Well, Yuna said Tiomot didn’t want to.”
“With that fool the war will come easily.”
“Aye, but prince Tharid urged the king to send the letter, offering to take care of the matter himself.”
“The lad has sense,” said Anza. “It’s him and the queen who, I believe, have kept Snowstone strong for all these years.”
“So the letter will be sent.”
Anza sat quiet a few moments, wearing a thoughtful grin. “Even without our efforts Snowstone and Cyana are nearly at war. Dandil knows it’s the Snowguards who are raiding his gold mine, but for sake of his pride he’s allowing Tiomot to deny the claim and stop the raids.” The woman chuckled. “But he’ll go to war if he doesn’t get the letter or his mines are raided again. We are going to make sure both happen.”
“We can have someone intercept the messenger,”
said Stroan, “but do you think the Snowguards will raid again?”
“If they don’t we will make it appear as if they did, but we’ll give them time. For now, we will make sure that letter doesn’t get delivered.”
“Do you want me to do it?”
“No. The capturing of women, the assassination of a royal envoy—it is too vile for us. Our hands will be clean of such affairs so that when we come to power there can be no fault found in us. Let us be as puppeteers, pulling strings from the shadows behind the drapes.”
“Aye, Anza. Then who?”
“Another of the three. You may remember him from times past. Valak, a master of stealth. He would be the best for this job.”
“Valak,” said Stroan, closing his eyes as he tried to remember the man. “Aye, he kills with knives. Where will I find him?”
“He drifts between Karthin and Vaul, but he is a hard man to find, for he doesn’t like to be known of men. Hang a white cloth high in a tree, on a main way where it will be seen. If he sees it, he will come near that place.”
“Very well. I’ll find him.”
“Good.” Anza lay back and rested her head against the fur. “We have done much, have we not?”
“Aye, everyone is working hard.”
“I meant you and I,” said the lady, offering a smile that looked like gratitude and a bit of something else.
“You have inspired us all to want much more than we have.” Stroan bowed his head.
“Soon, Stroan.”
“My lady?”
“Soon we will descend from the clouds. We will no longer live in hiding. We will dine in the castle, and you will be the first prince of the new kingdom.”
Once Snowstone was taken, and they were no longer bound by the duties required of them, Yuna would be at his side to share in that glory with him. Stroan could barely contain himself at the thought.
It wasn’t long before he would break the news to Anza—that he and Yuna were in love—and ask her to send another in Yuna’s stead to gather their information. Anza favored him, he knew, and they had become something like friends in the years they had worked side by side, carefully planning and carrying out the necessary evils to bring about their new kingdom. As well as he had served her, and as well as he would continue to serve her, the small favor of returning Yuna to the city and rotating another spy into the castle would surely be granted.
7
ZAR SQUINTED AT THE MORNING SUN, smiling ponderously at the familiar sights. It had been some time since he’d been so far east. He had thoroughly explored Cyana, spent some time in Lolia, and now that he was back in the mainreach he aimed to line his purse with gold—and he could think of no better place to do it than Lindoth. There was no other place in the mainreach that was more corrupt, more prone to violence and plagued by thieves than there. The vileness of the place almost matched that of the cities of the far east—like in Xahka, one of the dark places of the world, where even the sun seemed to shine less brightly.
Even with the temple standing just outside the city, the monks offered the people little guardianship. Even the bravest monks with their iron hands of Vyere knew it was all too easy to wind up dead for a few gold pieces in Lindoth . Only when Zar came about would this cycle be interrupted, and doing so usually earned him a lovely portion of gold.
“I must say you look quite beautiful this morning,” said Zar, glancing down on Asha’s golden-brown fur as he rode. “The way the light’s hitting your coat … it’s rather radiant, really,” Zar praised.
Asha turned her head back toward Zar and gave a slight groan.
“You owe me no thanks,” Zar replied. “Truly your coat is dazzling in this light. More dazzling than a thousand gold pieces, I daresay.”
Asha kept forward without uttering a sound.
Zar laughed. “No need to be modest, now, it’s true.
Have I not complimented your beauty before? Surely I have. Asha, let me tell you, I’ve traveled to the far corners of the land and I’ve seen many beautiful girls and you are still one of the most beautiful—if only we could work on your manners a bit.”
Zar leaned forward, peering at Asha as if expecting an answer.
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Spitting isn’t exactly ladylike. And furthermore, it puts us in danger when you behave like that—not to mention it’s quite rude. I cannot count the days it’s been since I was that rude. Can you, Asha? Good thing I’m different now.”
His golden mount grunted and lowered her head as she continued across the plain.
“What? You don’t think so?” said Zar, sounding genuinely astounded. A prickle of discontent stung his face before he raised his voice at his friend.
“I may be a vile man, but I’ve come a long way. You know I have!”
Zar folded his arms tightly across his chest, and Asha, after traveling a few more paces, let out a series of low pitched groans as if she were mumbling.
“What’s that?” Zar asked, still sounding annoyed. “I didn’t hear what you said, but if you’ve nothing good to say, by all means hold your tongue.”
Zar grabbed the water-skin that hung from Asha’s front saddle pommel and took a drink. “I’ve changed much,” he said, “I think—no, I’m certain.”
Asha fell quiet and Zar returned the water to its place and folded his arms across his chest.
“It leaves you in an odd position having tasted of evil; pure things lose their ardor for you’ve seen the darker side of them, and that thrill of wickedness is too close, too familiar. It’s probably the reason I can’t live a good, quiet life on a farm somewhere. That simply wouldn’t do, would it, Asha?”
It was midday when Zar led Asha to graze on a thick patch of shrubs growing outside of a dell, dismounted and grabbed some food from the saddlebag. He was nibbling dried venison when a murmur snuck from the dell and fluttered past his ear. Zar listened. Something was happening.
Creeping closer to the woods he could hear it better—the voices of several men—but he couldn’t see anything. The young trees were dreadfully dense and garnished with a violent thicket of saplings tangled with vines and ferns, blocking any hope of seeing clearly into the dell. But a moment longer of quiet listening told Zar he didn’t need to see it. He could hear it, and he had heard it before— far too many times. He briefly considered finding another way into the dell, but he dismissed the notion as a few more shouts rang out. Zar sighed and crawled into the thicket.
Swimming through the brush and holding on to his swords’ hilt to prevent it from being snagged, Zar bent back the saplings and made his way through. He peered through the wo
od to see a group of men who seemed to be in disagreement. Their clothing and armor told him immediately they were Snowguards—five that he could see so far, now six, and one more, a set of them. Moving closer still he saw one man that wasn’t a Snowguard, and, naturally, the one they were in disagreement with was him.
He proceeded quietly.
“Consider it a tax from Tiomot,” a guard called. The man was mounted on a tall bay and it was clear he was the set’s commander.
Two of the other guards had some fellow pressed against a tree with blades to his throat. He was middle-aged and rather small, and clung to his coin purse as one guard pulled at it and the other pushed his swords’ blade tighter against the man’s throat.
“It’s only six gold pieces!” the man yelled frantically. “Six gold! Please!”
“That’s all?” the commander bantered. “Then why so much trouble?”
Laughter erupted from the group, moving from the set commander to the four mounted behind him, before finally passing to the two on foot carrying out the orders.
“Snowstone is quite far off.” Zar’s voice sounded from among the trees The soldiers looked around, their laughter cut short. Zar stepped into view. “I must ask, I really must—what are Snowguards doing this far east?”
The company looked to Zar with confused eyes, though they tried hard to maintain their casual faces.
“You know that Snowstone rules these lands, stranger,” the commander explained.
Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten (Order of Fire Book 1) Page 6