What he said mattered little. The important thing was that the plan had been hatched and put into place in a very few minutes. Which was good, as they were advancing toward Kuthmet, and there were precious few minutes to spare.
THE MERCENARY CREW stopped that night on a low crest of rock that looked out toward the lights of Kuthmet. The nature of the desert they traversed over the course of the day had changed. The ground had become deep sand that shifted and blew in the ever-present winds. Gorian didn’t like it. The sand stung when it blew at him, particularly since his skin had been dried out and burned by the heat of the sun. With the fall of night, however, the wind had died, and the temperature dropped with it.
Now he hunkered down on the ridge looking out toward Kuthmet. Somewhere down there was the crown that Kanilla Rey wanted. He hoped they could achieve their goal. The nineteen soldiers he’d started with had been winnowed down to eight, plus himself and Sullas. And one of those eight, Elonius, was back on the Restless Heart to make sure the sailors didn’t just take off and leave them stranded here.
He had seen those damnable Stygians at work once, and knew that the whole force of twenty would have had a hard time defeating them. The only hope would have been for some of the men to rush the wizards while the others were blasted by their mystical ways. Or course, it was possible that Kanilla Rey could help, even over this distance, as he had with the pirates back in Shem.
Still, twenty would have been better. An army, better still.
The other unknown was the young people, the strange trio of the Pict and his two Aquilonian friends. They had never given any indication of why they had come to Stygia. The longer they traveled with his group, the more he wondered if they were after the same thing. After all, the crown had Pictish origins, it was said. That in itself had raised his suspicions from the start. But the Pict in particular had proven useful from time to time, so as long as they weren’t too near the goal, he had not bothered to do anything about them.
Now, however, they were near the goal. Something would have to be done.
The Pict would be a hard one to kill. The Aquilonians easier, although the ship’s boy from the old Barachan Spur would likely complain when they went to do the girl. She was a fine-looking one, at that.
Maybe they could just kill the Pict and the brother, and keep her alive. Looking back down the slope, he spotted a Gunderman mercenary named Hakon squatting down and drinking water from a bladder. He called the man’s name and beckoned him up the ridge.
“Yes?” Hakon asked when he arrived. He dropped to his haunches next to Gorian. He was a tall man, well over six feet, with muscles like corded steel. His shoulders were wide. A massive two-handed broadsword hung in a scabbard on his back, tied across his huge chest. His light brown hair was trimmed close to his head, and Gorian had seen him shaving his beard with a dagger most mornings, scraping its edge across a prominent jaw. Like all the mercenaries Gorian had hired, he spoke Aquilonian well.
“That Pict boy. What do you think of him?”
Hakon considered the question only briefly. He blinked a couple of times, long, almost feminine lashes fluttering over eyes of a deep cerulean blue. His lips were thin and pale. “A good fighter. I saw him put down what seems like ten of those Argossean dogs, back on that beach in Shem.”
“He is that,” Gorian agreed. “Anything else?”
“Smart, I think. For a savage. I spent some time on the border, and made a few raids into the Pictish wilderness. I have no love for that kind. I’ve seen what they do—taking heads, boiling the skin off, and piling the skulls in their villages like some kind of . . . mementos, I guess. And you would not want to be a woman in that land, I can tell you. But most of the Picts I encountered—not that they lived to have conversation with—seemed little more than forest beasts to me. Might as well have been wolves as men. This one—he’s different. Not just that he’s friends with those two Aquilonians. I have heard him speak, and he uses the language well. Not like a native. But nearly as well as I. And more than that. He seems to be thinking, all the time. I know not what about. But there is intelligence in his eyes, not the animal dullness I would expect there.”
Gorian nodded. He had reached similar conclusions about the Pict. But he knew what the Gunderman didn’t—that there was a probable connection between the boy and the prize they sought.
“Can you kill him?”
Hakon’s unexpectedly blue eyes widened in surprise. “I am right here next to you. Many have tried to kill me. They are dead. Not me.”
“You yourself said he was good, and smart.”
“I am better,” Hakon said. “Without question.”
“Very well,” Gorian said. That was the answer he had wanted to hear. He was glad, too, of the confidence in Hakon’s voice.
“When do you want it done?” Hakon asked.
He had not decided yet. There was still time—they weren’t moving on Kuthmet until the next night. If they tried tonight, after walking all day, they would not be at their best. And to go up against those Stygians they would need to be. They would camp here, just out of sight of the city. Restore their energy. Then when darkness fell again, they would move.
“I will tell you when,” he said. “Just be ready, on my word.”
“Worry not, Gorian. When the time comes, I will do it, and happily. As soon as I saw we had a Pict on the ship with us, I wanted to do it then. I hate them. Every last one of them.”
Gorian promised that Hakon would get the chance, then dismissed the man so he could get back to planning their next move. He had found out from Kanilla Rey that their target was a sorcerer named Shehkmi al Nasir. The men who had taken the crown had been acolytes of his. He had many followers, it seemed, in Kuthmet, where he was regarded as powerful, a force to be feared.
Well, Gorian had seen that, firsthand. He was already afraid of Shehkmi al Nasir, and he had not even met the wizard yet. But he would do his master’s bidding, no matter what. He was Kanilla Rey’s man. He did what he was told.
4
“LET’S GO!”
Alanya woke suddenly, startled by Mikelo’s hand on her shoulder and his urgent whisper in her ear.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“We should leave,” Mikelo said. He turned away from her, shook Donial awake. Kral was already sitting up. It was still night. A sliver of moon floated just above the horizon.
“What have you learned?” Kral asked. As usual, Alanya thought, he was alert immediately upon awakening. It still took her a minute to get her bearings, and she had not remembered at first that they had feigned the fight with Mikelo so that he could get information from the mercenaries.
“Come on,” Mikelo urged. “We should get away from here quickly. I can tell you on the way.”
Alanya shrugged off the cloak that had covered her. “Very well,” she said. “I am ready.” She got to her feet, glancing toward the nearby slope where the mercenaries slept. So far, none of them seemed to be looking their way. She kept expecting someone to notice them, to come running, as had happened when the same group of four had tried to escape the pirates in much the same fashion. But the pirates had not wanted them to leave; these mercenaries probably didn’t care one way or the other.
Within moments, the others had gathered their things. Except for the clothes he wore, Mikelo had nothing but a sword and a couple of knives, affixed to his belt. They moved out as silently as they could, finding their way by the moon’s faint glow toward the distant lights of Kuthmet.
When they were a comfortable distance away from the mercenaries, Mikelo said, “The men were talking about a magician named Shehkmi al Nasir. That’s who Gorian said they would be looking for.”
“So this magician has the crown,” Kral speculated.
“Or will soon,” Donial said. “That storm that blew us off course might well have done the same to the Stygians.”
“It’s possible,” Kral agreed. “We were delayed many days by fixing the Restless Heart,
but they may have been equally delayed. Assuming he already has it is probably our safest course, though.”
“Aye,” Mikelo said. “My thought as well. The soldiers seemed to think he did. Their plan is to rest tonight and tomorrow, then to attack his home tomorrow night.”
“That leaves little time for us to locate him,” Donial pointed out.
“But locate him we shall,” Kral said. “Getting the crown back is too important not to. And we cannot let Gorian and his crew get their hands on it.”
“Kral,” Alanya said, an idea occurring to her on the spot. “If he means to take it back to Aquilonia, to deliver it to some sponsor there, why not let him? Would it not be just as easy to let them carry it back to Tarantia for us, then take it from them once they get there?”
Kral shook his head. “I had thought of that,” he admitted. “But I know not who in Aquilonia Gorian works for. What if it is a more powerful mage than this al Nasir? What if there are a hundred soldiers in Tarantia to guard it instead of a handful? Besides, if we can get the Teeth now, we can take the Restless Heart and sail all the way around to the western edge of the Pictish lands. It will save time and be safer than going overland, back through Aquilonia.”
She remembered that Kral was a wanted man in Tarantia, still suspected of murder, and that he had escaped from an Aquilonian prison. He would probably be happiest never to have to set foot in Tarantia again, or in any of the lands ruled by King Conan.
“That makes sense,” she said, easily accepting his reasoning. “If we can take the Restless Heart.”
“We can take it,” Kral said. He sounded utterly confident of his ability to do just that.
They walked along in silence for a while. Overhead, the sky grew more gray. As sunrise neared, the wind began to pick up again. Alanya was trudging along, head down to keep windblown sand out of her eyes, when Mikelo sidled up next to her.
“What they said earlier?” he began. “About me . . . you know, watching you.”
“Yes?” Alanya said. She didn’t know where he intended to take the conversation, but was uncomfortable with just about any direction it might lead.
“I think . . . I think they were right,” he stammered. “It . . . it is difficult for me to admit it to you, but I . . . I do consider you a very beautiful woman. Never do I remember seeing another such as you. I cannot help but stare whenever my gaze falls upon you. If this displeases you or causes you discomfort, then I apologize, but my will is not my own in such matters. If I thought that you would have me, I would ask for your hand now, our ages and circumstances be damned.”
Alanya kept walking, trying not to laugh, because Mikelo was clearly so serious, even solemn, about what he confessed. She would not take him as a husband, now or ever. She was sure about that. He was a perfectly nice boy. But that was all he was, and that was how she suspected she would always see him. A boy, not a man. Certainly not a vigorous, vital man like Kral.
He had admitted that it was hard for him to say, and she had no doubt that it had been. Probably also something he could not bring himself not to say, once Kral had started the argument about it. “I . . . appreciate what you say,” she managed. “And I like you, Mikelo. But I am not interested in being betrothed. To you, or anybody. I hope you can understand that.”
“Of course.” Mikelo sounded morose, but she could not see his expression. He had probably brought up the topic just now for that exact reason, knowing that the blinding sand would make it hard for her to watch his face.
“Did the men give up the information about Shehkmi al Nasir easily?” she asked, hoping to push the discussion onto less uncomfortable ground. “Did they trust you after they overheard our fight?”
“Not at all,” Mikelo replied. He gave a chuckle, sounding relieved that Alanya had not taken offense at his advance. “No one wanted to tell me anything. But they talked among themselves, and after some time, they stopped working so hard at trying to prevent me from hearing.”
“And you are sure about the name?”
“I am as sure of it as I am that the sun is rising, and with it the wind,” he said. As he spoke, he batted at sand as if he could knock it away with his hand. “I feel like I will be tasting sand for the rest of my life.”
Depending on how powerful this sorcerer is, you might, Alanya thought. But she held her tongue. In fact, the wind blew harder, and she pressed her lips tightly together, closing her eyes but for tiny slits to see through. Sand lashed at her, stinging like the tails of thousands of tiny whips. She felt Kral’s presence beside her, and realized he was moving out in front to block some of the worst of it with his body. She would have said something about it, told him not to bother, but the steady hum of the wind had escalated to something like constant thunder. To speak would have required shouting, and she did not want her mouth open that wide.
So she kept her mouth shut. Kral’s efforts were for naught; the wind blew too hard, the sand flew everywhere. She felt it caking the corners of her eyes and mouth, felt it snaking beneath her clothing. Head down, buffeted now by the wind, she walked on. It pushed at her, tried to knock her down. Kral leaned into it and Alanya did the same. Her hair broke free of the band that held it together and flew unrestrained. The cloak across her shoulders fluttered and snapped like the sails of the Restless Heart during the storm that had nearly torn the ship apart. The blue of the sky had disappeared, shrouded by sand.
She was vaguely aware of sudden motion up ahead. She dared to lift her head, to peer through her slitted eyes. Kral was running toward Donial, who had wandered farther from the others than was safe in this—already, she could barely make him out. She glanced to her right to make sure that Mikelo was still there. Having retrieved Alanya’s brother, Kral drew him back toward the other two. He motioned for them to stop where they were.
“The storm is getting worse!” he shouted when he reached them. “We cannot keep going in this! We need to wait and let it blow over!”
Alanya nodded her assent. She saw Kral straighten and look about, and a moment later he gestured them all toward a wispy bush, blown almost sideways by the wind. “It will not provide much shelter!” he called. “But better than none at all!”
He led the way over to the little scrap of brush and dropped to his haunches behind it. The others did likewise. At Kral’s signal, they moved about until they formed a kind of circle, facing each other, backs out. They wrapped cloaks about themselves as best they could. Still, sand bit and insinuated and scoured, but not quite as bad as before. Alanya wondered how long it could last. Every minute they sat here was another minute they would not have to find the Teeth of the Ice Bear before Gorian and his men came looking for it.
But the wind showed no sign of letting up.
They waited.
5
GOVERNOR SHARZEN OF Koronaka heard the drums even in his sleep. He would have sworn that they never stopped, never paused, but perhaps they did. Perhaps it was only in his imagination that they went on hour after hour, all through the night, and were still sounding come morning.
Or perhaps not.
Now, standing by his window in the first rays of the sun, the drumming was definitely real. It seemed to fill every valley of the Pictish lands, to echo from every mountain. It sounded as if the forest itself had come to horrible life, trees beating against their own bark-covered chests with branch arms and fists of twigs.
It had started with the dawn, six days before. A persistent, tuneless drumming. Less like music than like random sounds. Scouts had been dispatched into the forests to find out what it meant. First a pair of them, then when they did not return, six more. Then twenty, in groups of four.
None came back.
Sharzen poured himself his first flagon of wine for the morning. Ever since the drums began, he had not been able to start his day without one. And he kept one close at hand until he could finally fall asleep at night.
He had never felt so alone. Not for the first time, he realized that he missed Lupiniu
s. The man had been a scoundrel, out only for himself, as false a friend as anyone could fear to have. But even with all that, he had been a reassuring presence. When one was virtually friendless, isolated by power and position, even a make-believe friend was better than none. Lupinius would have had some idea of how to deal with the interminable drumming noise.
Sharzen had had ideas the first day or so, but now the drums rattled him so much that he could barely think straight. When the scouts had failed to return he had been unable to come up with any new thoughts. Instead, he had summoned Gestian, the captain who commanded Koronaka’s troops, and told him that the defense of the settlement was in his hands. Gestian had accepted the responsibility without comment. His ranks had been swelled lately, with the addition of many of the Rangers left unemployed by Lupinius’s sudden absence. Without funding from Aquilonia, Sharzen was not sure how long he would be able to pay any of the soldiers. But he had sent several urgent messages to King Conan, telling him that the Pictish problem was getting worse, and he needed more support from Tarantia. He had heard that the King was, in fact, taking the situation seriously, and had ordered troops sent to the Westermarck to reinforce the settlements there.
Listening to the drums, Sharzen just hoped it wasn’t too little, too late.
WHEN KRAL DARED to move again, his joints were locked, his muscles aching from sitting rigid and motionless against the punishing winds. He was entirely crusted with a coating of sand. He kept his eyes tightly shut and wiped their outer surface, but with hands so sandy he was not sure if it did any good. He was sure the wind had died at last, so he forced himself to look.
The sun was visible again, its rays already beginning to heat the air. Kral’s companions were practically indistinguishable from the desert floor itself, so caked with sand were they. Donial had fallen asleep, so Kral shook him gently. Alanya and Mikelo moved under their own power, but they were all sore and stiff.
Dawn of the Ice Bear Page 3