“He never performs magic in that room,” Tarawa explained.
“Then how did he kill that man?” Mikelo wondered.
“Almost never. Not serious magic,” she elucidated. “Killing someone like that, for him, is as easy as breathing or swallowing for you and me. But to find what happened to any missing teeth from that crown will require a more intense effort. He has a special room for that, with all of his magical equipment and tools in it. This is more a place for reflection or relaxation.”
“But . . . he left the crown sitting there!” Kral pointed out.
“He must not need it for the spell he plans,” Tarawa reasoned.
“Does anything prevent us from going in and taking it now?”
“If it doesn’t matter that it is not complete,” she answered.
“It does,” Kral said. “We need the whole thing, ultimately. But I doubt the missing teeth are here in Stygia. Better to take what we can now and find the rest ourselves.”
Frustration caused Alanya to clench her fists so hard that her fingernails dug into her palms. To have come so close to the prize they sought, and now this!
She tried to remember in whose hands the crown had been. It must have been whole in its cavern beneath the Bear Clan’s village, she reasoned. Then Uncle Lupinius had stolen it. He had carried it with him to Tarantia, where he’d taken refuge in the home of her late father. A thief had stolen the crown from him, then the Stygians, according to Conor, had taken it from the thief. If they didn’t have all the teeth, then it must have been the thief who took them.
Him, or . . .
“Conor!”
“The Cimmerian you hired?” Kral asked. “What about him?”
“We should have known better than to trust that lout,” she said. “He might have taken them from the thief who stole the crown from our uncle. At the very least, he would have been among those who had access to them, and he never mentioned them to us.”
“You could be right,” Kral said. “That thief had the crown for long enough to have removed some. If Conor took them . . . Is he still in Tarantia?”
“He disappeared before we left,” Donial said. “No doubt headed home to Cimmeria. That’s what he said he was planning. He never did care for civilized life.”
“That’s the one thing we share, then,” Kral said. “But we tarry too long. Tarawa, open the door.”
She did so. Kral passed through, nervously entering the wizard’s chamber. Nothing stopped him, however, and within seconds he was back at the door with the crown’s container in his hands. “We’ll transfer it to something less showy after we get out of here,” he said. “Now, Tarawa, how fast can we leave this place?”
Alanya had never heard more beautiful words in her life. Leaving the sorcerer’s den seemed like the best idea a human mind had ever conceived. Tarawa hoisted her torch high and led the way back up the same tunnels that had brought them here, but faster, with less regard for stealth. Kral followed, carrying the crown in its container, then Alanya and Mikelo, with Donial in the rear. With every step toward the surface, Alanya felt her spirits rising.
Coming across Gorian’s body brought her a momentary panic, but they made it through that intersection with no trouble. Farther along, Tarawa’s torch illuminated the bodies of the other mercenaries. None of them had made it out, it seemed.
“If they could not gain the exit, how will we?” Mikelo asked anxiously. “They had not even stolen anything from al Nasir.”
Tarawa hesitated to answer, and her uncertainty sent fear through Alanya like a bolt of lightning. “I know not,” she admitted. “Unless it is as Kral suggested, that because I am known here, the traps that lie in wait for others allow us passage.”
“I should not like to rely on that,” Kral said. “But I see little choice.”
“Let’s not tarry then,” Donial urged. “Before whatever force controls them changes its mind.”
Tarawa seemed to agree with him. She swallowed hard and stepped around the bodies scattered on the passageway floor with eyes wide, hands hooked into claws, as if they had tried to catch whatever had slain them.
Whether she was right or not, Alanya would never know. But nothing attacked them as they made their way up the narrow corridor. In less time than she would have believed possible they were back out into the cool night air of the desert. There were undoubtedly dangers yet to be encountered—the great snakes, for example, were certainly still on the hunt. But soon enough, the walls of al Nasir’s compound were in sight, and Alanya felt that she could finally breathe again.
When they could see the gate through which they had entered, Mikelo broke into a sprint. Alanya tried to catch him, but missed, and dared not call out to him. Nothing interrupted his dash, though. Almost before the others could react, he had his hands on the gate’s bolt and was drawing it open. But as she watched—and it could have been a trick of the faint moonlight painting the scene with its silvery glow, but she didn’t think so—the bolt wriggled in his hands, lunged, and bit Mikelo’s hand.
It had only been a snake for a second, maybe less. By the time the boy crumpled to the dirt, it was nothing more than a bolt again. They ran across the empty space to him, but he was dead when they reached him. Like the mercenaries inside, he had died with his eyes wide open, as if staring at something he would never see.
Tears sprang to Alanya’s eyes. “Mikelo . . .” she said. “He should never have—”
“He died free,” Donial interrupted. “To him, that was the most important thing. Not to be a prisoner of those Argossean pirates anymore—that was all that mattered.”
“True enough,” Kral said. “You knew him best, of us, Donial. But that is what I believe, as well.”
Alanya dabbed at her cheek. “I suppose you’re right,” she admitted. She was going to say more, but Tarawa had the gate open.
“Come,” she said. “We have spent enough time here and lost enough lives. When Shehkmi discovers his prize missing, he’ll be furious. I would rather not be close by when he does.”
None could argue with her reasoning. Even the great snakes beyond the compound’s walls held less fear for them than Shehkmi al Nasir’s wrath. The relief Alanya felt at putting the place completely behind her overwhelmed even her sorrow at Mikelo’s loss.
Still, as they returned to Tarawa’s house through Kuthmet’s night-shrouded lanes, she could not erase from her mind the image of that bolt turning into a quick-striking snake, and back again, as fast as the eye could follow.
And as she saw that, she wondered what kind of trouble they had taken on when they had decided to steal from Shehkmi al Nasir.
12
BACK IN TARAWA’S small house, Kral opened the box and took out the Teeth of the Ice Bear. The crown was not beautiful in itself, but he was surprisingly moved by the experience of holding it. It was a part of his history, his heritage as a son of the Bear Clan. He had never held the crown, had only seen it a couple of times, during rituals held in the Guardian’s cave. But there was no mistaking it.
“We need to replace that fancy box,” he said. “Carrying that around would attract all manner of attention to it. Have you a sack or something, Tarawa?”
“I can probably find one,” she said.
“Good. Then we must figure out where to go and how to get there.”
“Cimmeria,” Donial reminded him. “We believe that’s where Conor would have gone. I know he mentioned the name of his village.”
Alanya had screwed up her face. “Taern!” she burst out. “I have been trying to remember it ever since we found out the teeth were missing. If Conor had not boasted so about his status there, I would never have remembered.”
“Cimmeria is far from here,” Tarawa pointed out. “How will you travel?”
“The Restless Heart!” Donial said.
“But the sailors are still on it,” Alanya protested. “And Elonius, last of the mercenaries, with them.”
“Then they’ll accept me as their cap
tain,” Kral said. “Or they’ll die trying to keep us off.”
“But are we enough to sail her?” Alanya asked. “And if we fight them and win, what then? The three of us could never do it.”
“Four,” Tarawa corrected.
“You would leave Stygia and accompany us?”
“She is no longer safe here,” Kral said.
“Kral speaks the truth,” Tarawa agreed. “Shehkmi will figure out who let you in. His magic will reveal it to him. I have as much reason as you to want to be away from here as soon as possible.”
Alanya nodded. Kral suspected that she was worried about what would happen when they returned to the ship without Gorian and the others. She was right in guessing that the Heart’s sailors would not readily accept them. But there was every likelihood that they were anxious to be away from Stygian waters, no matter who was aboard.
“And I believe I can find a few more who would love to put Stygia behind,” Tarawa added. “So we should be able to form a crew for your ship.”
“Not our ship,” Kral amended. “At least, not yet. But it will be.”
GOVERNOR SHARZEN LISTENED to the continuing chaos outside with a growing sense of dread. For a second night, the walls had held against the Pictish assault. But how much longer could they last? Fires burned throughout the fort. Waves of attacks came and went, as Picts climbed the walls or broke through the burned-out sections. Runners had come back from the farther reaches of the wall with reports that Picts had overwhelmed it, simply circling around where it had not yet connected to the next fort up the line.
From all appearances, the Pictish clans had banded together. Sharzen didn’t know if their goal was the complete elimination of all settlements from the Westermarck, or just of Koronaka. But Koronaka alone could not stand against them indefinitely, certainly not without reinforcements from Aquilonia. A couple of scouts had arrived claiming that reinforcements had, in fact, been sent.
At this point, it appeared that they would be too late to help.
Sharzen had no intention of dying here on the frontier. To help figure a way out of this, he had summoned Gestian. The captain stood before him now, pacing, anxious. “You would rather be out there,” Sharzen observed. “On the wall.”
“I belong where my men are fighting,” Gestian answered.
“Which is precisely why I made you captain of my forces,” Sharzen said. “I admire that.”
“Yet you have called for me,” Gestian pointed out.
“Indeed,” Sharzen said. “Koronaka is doomed, Gestian.”
“How can you say that, Governor?”
“I say it because it is true,” Sharzen replied. “Perhaps not on this night. But the next, or the one after that. Our losses these last two nights have been serious, would you not agree?”
“I would,” Gestian said. “Serious, if not cataclysmic.”
“So if they return tomorrow night—which they will—they will finish us?”
“Likely they will,” Gestian admitted.
“When they breach the walls, think you that they will leave any survivors at all?”
Gestian paused before answering. He was covered in blood and soot from the night’s battles, and his eyes glowered as if from behind a black-and-red-streaked mask. “We left none in the Bear Clan village,” he noted, crossing to a window and looking out. Sharzen could see the uneven light from the flames flicker across the captain’s face and armor. “It seems safest to assume that they will leave none here.”
“This is my feeling as well,” Sharzen acknowledged. “Our chances of surviving this are slim. The reinforcements Conan has sent are still days away. I would prefer not to breathe my last away from Aquilonian soil.”
“Do you have an idea?” Gestian asked. “A plan of some kind?”
“More of a notion,” Sharzen said. “I suspect that as yesterday, when the sun rises, the Picts will pull back. They know that darkness is their friend, darkness and the forest hide them from us. I propose that we take advantage of that fact. As soon as the sun rises, those of us left alive abandon Koronaka and make for Tanasul.”
“Do you really think we’ll reach it?”
“Not without a fight,” Sharzen replied. He let his eyes drift over his office—the physical symbol of his authority here, and the height of his career. He doubted that he would have much of a career after this. There might be a way to salvage it, but he would have to wait and see once he reached Aquilonia. If not, he would, at the very least, take with him as many valuables as he could manage. “There are certainly Picts watching the fort during daylight hours. They will see us, raise the alarm, give chase. But at least we will be on the move, not penned inside our own walls waiting for them to come in and pick us off one by one.”
“You speak wisely, Governor,” Gestian said. Sharzen could tell by the faraway look in his captain’s eyes that he was considering the possibilities. “Many would still die, but at least some might live.”
“Exactly,” Sharzen said. “Can you spread the word, then? We cannot let our defenses weaken now, but at first light everyone should be ready to make a run for it.”
“I will,” Gestian promised.
“And at first light,” Sharzen added, “I will need a force around me, of course, to guarantee my safe passage to Tanasul. As provincial governor it is vital that I be among the survivors, so that I may negotiate for our interests once we arrive there.”
“Certainly,” Gestian agreed.
“First light,” Sharzen said again, for emphasis. Not that he thought Gestian would forget. But he wanted to make very sure that, when the time came, he had his best men around him as protection.
Most would probably never reach Tanasul, a settlement at least twice Koronaka’s size, with a bigger army and better defenses. Sharzen had every intention of doing so. And from there, of striking east for Aquilonia with a larger force, determined to put this place behind him once and for all.
THE RESTLESS HEART was anchored where they had expected it to be, its sails furled. No lights shone on board, but as the sun rose it gleamed off the wood of the ship’s hull, and Kral could see where to direct the dinghy.
The group had waited inside Tarawa’s home while she went out and recruited some able-bodied slaves to help sail the ship. They had left Kuthmet before the dawn and traveled as far as they could before being forced to seek shelter from the most powerful rays of the sun. Once night had fallen, they had continued. At the shore, they had found the dinghy where they’d left it, and climbed in.
The sailors on board reacted with astonishment when the small boat rowed up out of the rising sun, carrying not Gorian and his mercenaries, but Kral, Alanya, Donial, Tarawa, and eight muscular Kushites. When Kral clambered aboard, Allatin strode to meet him, his boots clopping over the deck’s boards like the hooves of a horse.
“Who are they?” Allatin demanded, gesturing toward the small boat. His tone was less than friendly.
“My new crew,” Kral answered enthusiastically.
“Your crew?” Allatin said. “For what vessel?”
Kral had expected this. “For this one. The Restless Heart.”
Elonius, the mercenary left on board, put a hand on his sword’s hilt and walked to stand at Allatin’s shoulder. A couple of the others sailors circled around. Kral stood with his hands resting lightly on his hips, far away from his weapon. He kept his legs spread for balance. If an attack came, it could be from any quarter.
“This is not your ship,” Allatin reminded him brusquely.
“Is it yours?” Kral countered. “You gave it up to Gorian easily enough.”
“He had—” Allatin began.
“A crew of armed mercenaries?” Kral finished for him. “Gorian’s dead, as are his men. But I am not.” He ticked his head toward the dinghy. “And I have them.”
“Know they aught about sailing?” Allatin queried.
“As much as those mercenaries did, I’ll wager,” Kral said. “What they don’t know, they can be ta
ught. At any rate, your choices are clear. You can’t sit here in Stygian waters waiting for Gorian, who will never come. I am sailing with or without you. So you can either come with us or not. I would rather you did, because if I have to kill you, it will take effort and energy better spent putting to sea.”
Allatin looked enraged, and his hand closed on the hilt of his cutlass. But then he moved it away without drawing the weapon. “If you’re right about Gorian . . .”
“I saw him die.”
“Probably murdered him,” one of the other sailors said.
“He was killed by Stygian sorcery,” Kral corrected. “Which will likely overtake us all if we don’t get under way.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Allatin said. “What did you get into out there?”
“You would not like the look of it either,” Kral said. “But you will see it if we do not settle this now.”
Allatin’s aggressive posture changed. He looked beaten. Kral could see why he had never captained a ship of his own. A first mate had to be good at taking orders, but a captain had to be able to give them. “Very well,” he said. “We all want to be away from here. If what you say is true, then we might as well sail with you as anyone.”
“Are we supposed to call a Pict savage ‘captain’?” one of the sailors complained. Kral couldn’t tell which had said it. He wished he could have, since ere long that sailor might resent him enough to threaten mutiny.
“Call me whatever you like,” Kral said. “As long as you obey my orders, I care not.” He went to the side and motioned the others on board. “And my first command is, let’s get this ship moving!”
13
AS SHARZEN HAD expected, when the sun broke, the Picts melted back into the trees. Gestian and his men were ready, as promised. They would form a phalanx around Sharzen, who had thrown a few of his most precious possessions, and all the gold he could carry, into leather saddlebags. Outside the walls, the sounds of the Pictish attack had died, and the usual morning sounds the birds made began to be heard.
Dawn of the Ice Bear Page 8