Destiny

by Paul B. Thompson

  The Speaker’s cough broke the stillness. All eyes went to him, then away, giving him a sort of privacy as he fought the spasm. Truthanar offered a draft. Gilthas sipped it and ignored the healer’s worried questions. The past had just ridden away. There was no reason to delay any longer.

  Pointing to the center of the valley, Gilthas raised his voice, saying, “My people, our future lies that way.”

  The Speaker did not have to make the journey on foot. A band of eight elf women came forward bearing a high-backed chair cunningly crafted from mats woven of local grass. They had made the palanquin for the Speaker, to spare him having to walk. Gilthas was deeply touched. So was Kerian, although she covered it with gruffness. The chair was unfolded, and a stout pole run through woven straps on either side. Two male and two female elves stood by the poles, waiting to hoist the Speaker onto their shoulders. Gilthas would have protested—the Speaker of the Sun and Stars ought not be borne on his people’s backs like some cruel despot—but one look at Kerian silenced him. If he were honest with himself, he knew he had no choice. He simply wasn’t up to making so long a journey on foot.

  However, he intended to make one small portion of it under his own power. Taking Kerian’s hand, he stepped into Lioness Creek. The stream was slow flowing and not above knee deep there, so the crossing was simple enough. On gaining the far side, Gilthas halted then realized he was holding his breath. Such a simple thing, the fording of a creek, but fraught with great import. From here on, they would be subject to the strange forces at work in the valley. Yet Gilthas was aware of a great exhilaration flooding through him. The last part of their journey had finally begun.

  The bearers brought the palanquin across, and Gilthas seated himself in it. The bearers lifted the poles. A flush of embarrassment gave Gilthas’s face more color than it had had in a long time.

  “Forward, my people,” he said. “To the land of our dreams!”

  5

  Adala slapped the lump of cold dough against her palm. The patty was half the size it should be for a proper loaf, and the coarse flour they’d had to accept in trade felt gritty under her fingers, but it was all they had. The black iron pan was ready, so she laid the dough in the scant smear of cooking oil. The dough sizzled.

  The beast lay next to her. Saliva trickled out its open black lips. Adala pinched off another ball of dough and worked it into a patty. The beast’s tongue came out.

  “You are hungry?” she asked.

  “Yes!”

  “Supper will be ready soon.” The meal would be a poor one, but what she had she would share. Adala would not let a guest starve, no matter how strange the guest might be.

  Work on the wall had ceased for the day. Exhausted men and women trudged back to their tents to eat a similarly paltry meal and fall immediately to sleep. Four had watch duty atop the wall. Adala had kept twenty on watch at first, but as the days passed and the laddad did not emerge, the size of the night watch shrank. Too many exhausted sentinels had fallen asleep on the cairn and hurt themselves tumbling off.

  The beast had been with them two days. At night it hunted, appeasing its hunger with the odd ground rat or rabbit, and returning before dawn. By day, it kept to Adala’s tent, only the greenish reflection of its eyes visible to anyone passing. Few passed. Word of the beast’s supposed identity had spread. Nomads believed curses were catching, like a disease, and that anyone who strayed too close to the afflicted prince could fall victim to the same misfortune. Adala’s followers begged her to kill it or send it packing. No good could come of having such an unnatural thing close at hand, they said. But she did not heed them.

  With her unshakable maita, Adala did not fear the monster. Its submission to her proved Those on High had sent it to her for a purpose. Normally, she would not have hesitated to destroy such an abomination, but it told her of its intention to enter Alya-Alash and she stayed her hand. Let the beast kill laddad if it wished, then let it be killed by them in turn.

  The bread was done. Adala removed it from the pan. She poured in a bit of water. Gouts of steam hissed upward. Pieces of dried mutton went into the bubbling liquid. A hairy paw came into view, reaching for the small pile of flatbread. Adala rapped it smartly with her brass ladle. The paw retreated.

  “You may eat when all is ready,” she said. “Not before.”

  She dropped a handful of rice into the simmering broth then covered the pan with an inverted wooden bowl to hold in the steam. Despite the cookfire, Adala shivered. The sun had set, and an unhealthy chill was creeping into camp. Clammy cold oozed out of the valley every night. It seeped into the bones and set the body to aching as though every particle of warmth was being leached away. Only a good, hot fire kept the gravelike chill at bay. If the cold was bad there, at the mouth of the valley, she could only imagine how much worse it must be within. Perhaps that was the death Those on High had chosen for the laddad, freezing them into corpses while they slept.

  When the rice was done, Adala removed the covering bowl and spooned a modest portion of mutton and rice into it. Two loaves completed the meal, and she passed it to her peculiar guest. Shobbat inhaled deeply over the steaming bowl and licked his chops.

  “When will you enter the valley?” Adala asked, partaking of her own meager meal.

  “Soon. Wait for sign.”

  He’d said the same each evening when she’d posed the question. This time she did not accept it.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Shobbat’s tongue ceased lapping up food. He regarded the somber woman with a twitch of his brow.

  “Why … tom-ow-row?” His beastly mouth was ill suited to forming certain sounds.

  “Those on High teach us to be hospitable for three risings of the sun. After that, a guest becomes a pest. You will go tomorrow.”

  “I Shobbat!”

  “So you have said, but prince or monster, you have worn out your welcome. Go of your own will or be driven out. It is your choice.”

  He snarled, baring wicked fangs. She pulled a burning branch from the fire and thrust it at him. He shrank back. Lips writhing to cover his long teeth again, he capitulated.

  “Tom-ow-row.”

  Since the beast began sleeping in her tent, Adala had taken to sleeping outside. She unrolled her bedroll in front of the tent and settled herself for the night. Although she trusted her maita to protect her from the craven creature, she also kept a dagger hidden underneath her round, brocade pillow. As always, the day’s work had exhausted her so thoroughly, she was asleep seconds after closing her eyes.

  * * * * *

  Atop the unfinished wall, the four nomad sentinels drew scarves close around their necks and huddled together. With no fire to keep the cold at bay, their duty was misery. An enterprising Weya-Lu provided the next best thing to fire. A flask of palm wine was passed from hand to hand. One of the watchmen left to answer nature’s call. He’d gone only a few steps when his feet suddenly flew out from under him and he fell into the shadows on the valley side of the wall. His comrades laughed and called out rude comments about his inability to hold his drink. One nomad, more sympathetic than the rest, went to help him. He stumbled down the rock pile, calling his comrade’s name. The calls abruptly ceased.

  The last two Khurs waited, but the missing men did not reappear. They called for their missing comrades.

  before they’d done more than exchange a befuddled look, the darkness came alive. Phantoms swarmed noiselessly up the cairn, overwhelmed the two sentinels, and carried them away to be dispatched just as silently. Then the raiders subsided back into the darkness.

  With the force available to him, Porthios could have ridden straight through the nomads. The majority of those remaining were old people, but stealth suited Porthios better than brute force. It spared his army any unnecessary losses and concealed their departure from the wider world. Otherwise, every informer and loose-lipped traveler between Khur and Qualinesti would spread the news that a force of armed elves was on the move. It would not require a
military genius to deduce the goal of such a force. Samuval and the Nerakans would be forewarned.

  Alhana, leading her griffon by the bridle, joined Porthios as he waited at the head of the concealed cavalry. He explained his plan.

  “We’ll circle around the end of the wall. We must be utterly silent. No one is to fight unless attacked. The griffons will be muzzled.”

  “There’s no need. I’ve explained to them—”

  “Muzzled, Alhana. All of them.” He drew his cloak close and walked away.

  A snort from Chisa drew a conciliatory pat. “I know,” Alhana murmured, resting her forehead against the griffon’s feathered neck. “It will be for only a short time, I promise.”

  Alhana had suggested the griffon riders take to the air well in advance of the nomad camp and fly high enough to hide the animals’ scent from the Khurs’ ponies. Porthios said no. His best archers were among the griffon riders, and they might be needed should the nomads try to fight. Alhana did not dispute with him as the Lioness might have. She simply waited, and Porthios found himself offering a compromise. The griffon riders would fly over the camp, but only after the army, leading its horses, was safely by.

  Elves and horses crept along in a narrow column. The nomad camp was located not behind the wall, but a short distance from its unfinished end. The rocky terrain meant the elves had to pass much nearer the human camp than Porthios would have wished. All went well for a time; then a Khurish pony neighed suddenly. Perhaps it scented the foreign horses, or perhaps it was unsettled by the strange, dank atmosphere near the pass. Porthios, waiting at the rear of the warriors, gestured toward the griffon riders. One put down the animal with a single arrow.

  Shobbat opened his eyes. He did not go out to hunt until the night was well advanced, but something had disturbed his rest. He nosed the tent flap open. The camp slept. He sniffed deeply several times. The odors of wood smoke and charred meat interfered, but he caught the scent of blood, newly spilled, coming from the wall. Never taking his eyes from its dark bulk, he skirted the sleeping Adala and stalked toward the cairn. The smell of blood grew stronger the closer he came. His ears swiveled forward and back. Sounds came to him, sounds out of place in the sleeping nomad camp: the creak of harness leather, the deep breathing of horses on the move, and twice, the muffled clink of metal on metal.

  In one bound he gained the top of the wall. There was movement to the northwest. A line of dark figures was coming through the gap. Although they were wrapped in cloaks and scarves, Shobbat’s beast-sharpened eyes detected the telltale glints of metal armor. The elves were on the move. He threw back his head and howled.

  Adala awoke at once. She looked to the wall, expecting to see four sentinels. Instead, she saw the beast silhouetted in the pale starlight. He was galloping to and fro and howling as though he had gone completely mad. She pushed herself to her feet and ran to her banked campfire. She dropped a few handfuls of kindling onto the faintly glowing embers. The twigs blazed up.

  A line of men leaped into view. They were on foot, leading horses. No, not men: laddad!

  “To horse! To horse!” Adala cried. “The laddad are here!”

  She ran through the camp, rousing everyone and rekindling campfires where she could. Worn out by the day’s work, most of her people hadn’t bothered to bank their fires; nothing remained but dead ash. Befuddled by sleep, her people were in disarray. They stumbled through the poorly lit camp to their horses but were forced to halt as arrows rained down from the night sky to land in front of them. They were cut off from their animals.

  Alhana saw fires blooming in the semicircle of tents and knew surprise was lost. There was worse to come. Samar hurried back with an appalling report. Porthios had ordered the cavalry to attack. He intended to extinguish Adala’s followers once and for all. Alhana and the griffon riders were aghast, but Samar had seen no hesitation in the cavalry. Elves who’d fought their way to Inath-Wakenti through hordes of merciless Khurs had no compunction about obeying their leader’s ruthless order.

  The griffon riders took flight. Alhana led them straight to the fore of the galloping warriors, hoping to prevent a massacre. The griffons landed amid the swirling melee. Taking advantage of their intervention, many nomads fled, abandoning everything but the clothes they wore, making a dash for the open desert.

  Porthios strode through his thwarted cavalry, his ragged robe whipping around his legs.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “What are you doing?” Alhana replied, face pale as alabaster. “The archers had cut them off from their horses. You could have ridden away and left them behind. Why attack?”

  “Dead humans cannot speak.”

  Furious, Alhana jerked the reins and Chisa reared, scattering the nearby horses. Porthios did not flinch. “If you have no stomach for this war, you may rejoin the Puppet King,” he said bluntly.

  She devoted a few seconds to calming her fractious griffon, using the time to get herself under control as well, then proclaimed, “I am going with you, Porthios, as your wife and your conscience. Do not try to evade me in either role!”

  So caught up were the elves in the confrontation between husband and wife, none noticed Shobbat creeping along the wall. When the Golden griffons had swooped overhead, Shobbat flattened himself on the rocks and froze in place lest he be torn apart by their powerful talons. Then he was on the move again, resolved to strike. His target was not the laddad woman mounted on one of the terrible griffons, but the masked elf in front of her. His voice rang with cold command, as did the voice of Shobbat’s father, the khan. The masked one apparently was the leader of the laddad, and Shobbat intended to kill him. Moving with patient care, Shobbat crept closer and closer then gathered his rear legs. He sprang.

  A hardwood shaft hit him in midflight, sending him crashing among frantic horses and hostile warriors. The arrow had come from the hard-faced elf mounted on the largest griffon.

  Even an argument between Alhana and Porthios could not long interrupt Samar’s vigilance for his lady’s safety. He took aim to finish off the beast, but it scrambled away. Yowling horribly in pain, it zigzagged between the horses’ legs and was quickly lost in darkness.

  The shock of the creature’s attack put an end to the argument. Porthios ordered the site cleansed of any evidence of the elves’ passage. Arrows were retrieved, tracks cleared away. What remained of the camp was put to the torch.

  Warriors on the edge of the group noticed her first: a lone woman clad in a black geb. She walked slowly toward them. A donkey followed close behind her, although its reins hung free, dragging in the dirt. The elves watched her warily but allowed her to pass unhindered. She moved like a sleepwalker, eyes staring straight ahead, shuffling feet stumbling occasionally on loose stones. When she drew near, Alhana recognized her.

  “Go back, Weyadan,” Alhana warned. “The fight is over.”

  Her warning went unheeded. Adala kept coming. She veered toward Porthios. Drawing to a halt, the nomad woman said, “Faceless One, you were cursed by Those on High. Adala Fahim curses you too. By your bloody deeds, all shall know you for the insatiable monster you truly are!”

  Porthios turned away from her in silent disgust.

  “The lightning will take you,” Adala added and stared up at the night sky, waiting. Nothing happened. The night was cold and quiet but for the crackle of the fire consuming what remained of the camp. Those of Adala’s people who had survived the fight had fled into the desert. The Weyadan was alone.

  The warriors, with Porthios at their head, turned their horses and rode away. The griffon riders lingered, awaiting their mistress. Alhana dropped a skin of water and a bundle of food for Adala. The nomad woman did not even look at them. Her unblinking gaze was focused on the departing Porthios, as if she could compel his destruction by her will alone. There was nothing more to be done for her. Alhana signaled the riders to fly.

  The dust and ash churned up by griffon wings slowly settled. Adala sought her tent. L
ittle Thorn clopped along patiently behind her.

  Her tent had fallen but was unburned. Kicking at it, she wondered what Those on High intended for her now. How could she complete the wall by herself? A weaker person might have yielded to despair. Adala decided there was a greater plan at work, a plan so vast and complex she couldn’t see it yet. But she would.

  Her fallen tent rippled, though no breath of breeze stirred. Little Thorn brayed.

  The beast exploded from the collapsed tent, teeth bared and paws extended. He hit Adala and knocked her flat, rolling her over and over on the ground. His head thrust forward, and he sank his fangs into her throat. To ward off the valley’s cold, she wore several layers of cloth around her neck, and those stopped his teeth from piercing her skin. His four legs securely pinned her limbs.

  “You,” he rumbled. “Sign is you. Now you die!”

  She twisted her face away from his foul breath and groped with one hand, seeking the dagger hidden in her bedroll. Her questing fingers found cold metal. Heedless of the pain, she grasped the bare blade and pulled the weapon closer so she could take hold of the hilt. She plunged the dagger into the beast’s neck.

  Shobbat grunted in pain, but his suffocating grip on her throat did not ease. Instead, he rose up on his haunches, lifting Adala off the ground. With a single sideways snap of his wolfish head, he silenced her breathless gasps.

  Immediately he released her. It felt as though the dagger had gone completely through his throat; he could hardly breathe. He managed to hook the thick fingers of one front paw around the slender cross guard and drag the blade out. Next, his blunt fingers gripped the laddad arrow. It had hit at an oblique angle and hadn’t gone deep but had scored a long bloody trail in his furry flesh.

  The Weya-Lu woman hadn’t moved. She didn’t breathe. Her neck was twisted so that her open eyes gazed unblinkingly at the stony soil.

  Shobbat had killed. As prince, he had ordered the deaths of others, but never had he killed anyone personally. Killing was an ugly business, but the ignorant desert fanatic was too unpredictable and too proud to be a loyal underling. Better for him if she be dead. Such were the choices of fortune.