Bells of the Kingdom (Children of the Desert Book 3)

by Leona Wisoker

  Breek glowered. “That’s enough. I’ll settle you tonight,” he promised. “I ain’t slowing Venepe down. But once we finish for the night—you’re done, boy. You’re done.”

  They rode on in sullen silence.

  The grey mare snuffled into Tank’s hair as he checked her hooves. He took his time brushing her down and combing snarls from her tail; she stood patiently, as though she could tell his mood was as foul as the clouds brewing outside.

  “You’ve been a good horse,” he muttered, leaning against her warm side for a moment. “Hope I haven’t been too hard on you, myself.”

  She shifted her weight sideways, taking herself neatly out from underneath him. He laughed, slung his saddlebags over one shoulder and his pack over the other, and left the stall. He paused two doors down to watch Dasin grooming his bay.

  “Not bad,” he said over the open half-door, “for someone who didn’t know how to use a currycomb right way round a few days ago.”

  Dasin looked up, face streaked with dirt and weariness. “Thanks,” he said, a little sourly, then straightened. “You being nice because you’re expecting to get taken apart?”

  Tank frowned at the bay and didn’t answer that. “He’s favoring the back left,” he said. “Check for a stone.”

  Dasin bent and hauled the bay’s hoof up.

  “Damnit,” he said, “I hate dealing with this. The hoof’s all over shit.” He shot Tank a hopeful glance. “Since you’re being so nice?”

  “Not a chance,” Tank said, grinning. “Do it yourself.” Take your time, he added silently. Although he wasn’t entirely sure why, he really didn’t want Dasin seeing the fight waiting outside the stable doors.

  He turned his back on Dasin’s cursing and left the stables. As he crossed the threshold, Breek straightened from the tree he’d been leaning against, his face grim.

  “Time for your lesson, boy,” he said.

  Tank slung his saddlebags and pack to a dry spot of ground. Breek’s sword harness and dagger belt were looped over a low-hanging branch, so Tank unbuckled his weapons as well, balancing them carefully over the saddlebags.

  He took a quick glance around as he straightened: nobody around. This would stay between him and Breek, then; that was a relief. He turned to face Breek and moved forward a few steps, studying the big man’s stance with a detached, critical assessment.

  “I’m gonna give you some rules, so’s I don’t kill you and upset Venepe,” Breek began, rocking to stand with his feet splayed and his hands on his hips. “No knives, no—”

  When you have to fight, Allonin’s advice had been, don’t let the other person set the rules.

  Tank leapt in close, drove his foot in a hard, scraping kick down the larger man’s shin, and tumbled out of the way as Breek howled in pain.

  “You little ta-neka!” Breek shouted, turning to follow.

  From a braced spot on the ground, Tank kicked out again in a sweeping movement, catching the back of the man’s knees. Breek crashed down. Tank rolled away and to his feet, sank into a balanced crouch, and waited. His entire torso felt strained and pebbly grit covered his arms, hands, and back; but the move should have been impressive to a man used to fistfights. It might be enough.

  Breek, breathing hard, staggered to his feet and stared at Tank for a few moments without moving. He seemed to be favoring the shin-kicked leg and showed definite stiffness in his left shoulder, probably from landing on it badly during the fall.

  “So you know something about how to fight,” Breek said at last, grudgingly.

  “Yes.”

  Breek flicked a quick glance around. Dasin stood in the stable doorway, openmouthed. The big mercenary’s face hardened.

  Tank swore under his breath. If nobody had been watching, Breek would probably have let the fight end there. Now, with Dasin of all people as a witness, he had to prove himself better.

  “You got lucky,” the big mercenary growled, and started forward again. “Won’t happen again, boy.”

  No other choice....

  Tank set aside awareness of anything but Breek, moving, circling, drawing back for a swing—

  —turned sideways to the blow, grabbed Breek’s arm just below the elbow, and twisted, turning again—

  Breek stumbled in a half circle, yelping in a mixture of outrage and pain as his shoulder wrenched, arm hoisted high behind his back.

  “Hold still,” Tank said, “or I’ll dislocate your arm.”

  Breek let out a bellow and yanked sideways, his thickly muscled arm sliding out of Tank’s grip, and spun with astonishing speed. Tank ducked an off-hand blow; Breek could fight with either hand, then. Good to know.

  Past Breek’s shoulder, he saw Rat, arms crossed and frowning. Not far away, Frenn grinned, bouncing on his toes, clearly expecting Breek to finish the job momentarily.

  A movement brought Tank’s attention back to Breek in time to avoid being pulled into a grappling hold. He twisted aside and retreated a few steps.

  “You finish this, redling,” Breek panted. “Don’t you run away from me.”

  “Not running,” Tank said. “Giving you a chance to quit.”

  Breek snorted and charged.

  Tank stepped sideways, dropped into a braced squat, and kicked out, low and hard. Breek crashed over him and into a sideways sprawl. Bone snapped; Breek howled and rolled over to his back, clutching at his left shoulder.

  Finish it—

  Breek began to rise, his eyes red-rimmed with murderous fury now, whimpering a little. “Take you apart, redling—”

  Tank stepped in and kicked Breek’s left shoulder.

  Breek howled and collapsed, nearly frothing curses as he writhed on the ground.

  A heavy hand landed on Tank’s shoulder and spun him around. A moment later, a fist drove into his stomach. “Nasty little redling southerner,” Frenn snarled.

  Tank dropped to the ground, fighting for breath. Frenn drew a booted foot back. Tank rolled clear, not quite far enough. The kick caught the side of his shoulder hard enough to make him yelp. He scrambled to his feet and spun to face Frenn.

  “My fight was with Breek,” he panted. Agony spidered down his arm into his fingers, and his stomach felt as though it had been driven straight through his spine; he clenched and unclenched his hand, trying to shake that pain out, at least. “What are you doing in the middle of it?”

  “You need taken down a touch,” Frenn said, advancing. “You’ll be good and down by the time I’m done with you.”

  Tank backed and circled, risking a quick glance at Rat. The dark-haired mercenary stood still, arms crossed and frowning, clearly unwilling to interfere. Tank hoped that extended to not getting in line for the “lesson” Breek had begun.

  Frenn swung, with more precision than Breek had shown. Tank stepped inside the punch, pushing it aside with one hand; turned his wrist, grabbing Frenn’s, and twisted, turning sideways and heaving.

  Frenn went sprawling with a concussive thump.

  Dasin yelped surprise from somewhere far away, then: “Aw, look out—”

  Breek, rolling, grabbed Tank’s ankle and yanked. Tank hit the ground in a bruising, graceless sprawl; a moment later, Frenn was looming over him, grinning wide and mean.

  If Frenn sat on him, the fight would be over.

  Tank kicked free of Breek’s grip and frantically rolled up into a crouch as Frenn aimed another kick at his head; grabbed Frenn’s ankle and foot and twisted, shoving with everything he had. Frenn went down again, face first this time. When he rose, blood streamed from his now-misshapen nose and he wore the same murderous glare Breek had displayed.

  “You’re dead,” he said, and took a step forward.

  “Like hells,” Dasin said from behind him, and swung a heavy branch. It connected with the back of Frenn’s head with a sickening thunk, and the big mercenary went over like a felled tree. Dasin hefted the branch and glared down at Breek, who’d wobbled to his knees. “Try it,” he threatened. “Try it.”

 
; Breek stared, puffy-eyed, bleeding, and sullen; then staggered to his feet and over to Frenn.

  Breathing hard, Tank locked his knees to keep them from folding under him. He looked at Rat. The dark-haired mercenary hadn’t moved. He met Tank’s gaze levelly for a long moment, then said, “I warned you about that attitude. Hope you don’t plan on sleeping anytime soon, boy.”

  “Call ‘em off,” Tank panted. “Damnit, Rat, I didn’t start this!”

  “Your mouth did,” Rat said, unyielding. “And I got no say over them. Got any sense, you’ll sleep with your boy tonight.” He cast a scathing glare at Dasin, then shook his head and walked over to join Frenn and Breek.

  Dasin dropped the branch. “Godsdamnit, Tank,” he said. “Godsdamnit.”

  Tank took a long look at Dasin’s white face and set expression, then said, “Let’s go find a drink. Or ten.”

  Dasin exhaled noisily and nodded.

  Tank shrugged sword harness and knife belt on, scooped up pack and saddlebags, then led the way.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Ellemoa worked her way through damp, uneven streets, the rain humming in her ears. No sound but that drone and no thought but find Eredion existed. Emotion dissolved like suka taffy in the persistent rain; absently, instinctively, she shaped mist and pulled rain around her as a shield, her only conscious thoughts focused on finding the desert lord who’d stopped her from reaching her son.

  Some things do not require violence to a lesser form of life, a stern voice said across the years of memory and madness. Ellemoa shook her head, batting that aside, but an uneasiness ran along her spine all the same, a relentless sense of not rightness.

  Harm none, Kolan pleaded with her in a far darker memory. Don’t let yourself become this thing they want you to be! Ellemoa—don’t do it—

  Kolan had refused to do what Rosin wanted. No matter that Rosin punished Ellemoa for Kolan’s disobedience, no matter that Rosin would punish him if Ellemoa refused.

  She hadn’t refused, after the first few such lessons. He had never yielded. Not once. No matter how much pain it brought her....

  She snarled under her breath with remembered frustration and took a single bounding leap, high up into the embrace of a sprawling, ancient stone-pine tree. Catching at a branch, she swung herself up to a secure perch and scanned the city, stretching her vision to its utmost. She could scarcely see a full mile, and the edges of that were painful to bring into focus. It would take time to see properly once more.

  She put if out of her mind. Ha’ra’hain could recover from anything. She’d have her full sight back soon enough. Meanwhile, she could still hear, could taste, could smell—and she had other-vision to work with.

  It was easy to find Eredion, with the sight. Easier than she had expected. He stood out, apparently too arrogant to even think of hiding from ha’ra’hain vision—or perhaps, and more likely, ignorant of the need.

  Brine coated her nose. Bitter, earthy hops ran across her tongue. A rough song echoed along her inner ear, then faded before the words came clear.

  “Time to get moving,” someone said. “Nearly dark.”

  “Has it stopped pissing down rain yet?”

  “No.”

  “Damn. Graveyard’s going to be all over muck—”

  Trivial, useless conversation. She steadied herself, gasping a little. Like physical sight, this was proving harder than it should be. Gathering determination, she reached out again: met a stolid, stony blankness.

  He heard me eavesdropping. He knows I’m hunting him.

  She chewed on her knuckles reflectively. Would he scurry back to the safety of the Seventeen Gates? She thought not. He had an unflinching nature, this Sessin lord: he’d face a confrontation without running away.

  Her eyes narrowed with her wide smile. She did like the ones who didn’t run. Now, where do I find him?

  Graveyard.

  People come here to talk... Lord Eredion’s the sponsor of the group.

  Ellemoa’s grin widened. It wasn’t even all that far away. She could take her time arriving; she would let them get settled down with that insolent gravekeeper—all trapped, in one tiny building, the building with but one exit.

  She settled back to enjoy the rain for a while. She even dozed a bit, confident in her plan, in her safety, in her balance: the stone pine felt warm, and solid, and real around her. Humans went by, huddled against the weather, not looking up, not thinking of danger: arguing, loving, sulking, laughing. Insignificant beetles, each and every one of them.

  Abruptly, a vision flickered across her inner sight:

  Grey eyes, swimming with fear and rain—

  She sat up sharply, catching at a nearby branch to steady herself.

  A voice, a thought, filled with confusion and panic: What am I doing out here? I should be indoors. What was I thinking?

  She held her breath, hardly daring to hope.

  I couldn’t lift a purse in this weather if someone paid me to do it. Wait—what? I’m not a thief. Not any longer. I’m... I’m...

  My son, Ellemoa called out, wild, ecstatic. My son—here, I’m here—

  The chattering thoughts abruptly slid behind a wall of silence as opaque as Lord Eredion’s.

  Of course. He doesn’t know me. I’m just a strange voice in the darkness—oh, my poor son—She dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch, and sniffed the air hungrily. Found a skittering, ghostly pull toward a fixed point: the graveyard. Somehow, some way, she would find what she wanted at the graveyard. Her son must be headed there.

  He mustn’t fall into the grasp of the desert lords. They were dangerous. They would hurt her son. Kill him. Humans all wanted the ha’ra’hain dead or enslaved. Rosin had told the truth about that. She knew truth when she heard it, and he’d told her so many things about the secret plans of the humans.

  We should kill them all, before they can put us in cages.

  She shook her head. Focus. My son. Must find my son. Get out of here. Get away from this place.

  Laughter coiled through memory as she launched herself toward the graveyard: impatient now, angry, batting aside anything in her path.

  Close. Close now. She gathered calm, wrenched control, abruptly recalling that a forewarned desert lord was a very dangerous creature. Allowing anger to drive her risked failure, risked capture, risked losing any chance at taking her son home.

  She took another bounding leap, landing silently atop a nearby rooftop. Clay tiles and wooden ridgelines scraped, cold and wet, knobbly and sharp, against her bare feet as she ran.

  On the corner of a roof in clear sight of the graveyard, she paused, crouched; tilted her head, eyes nearly shut, and listened. Rain dribbled through her hair, slicked her clothes, curled around her inner elbow and thighs, pooled between her toes.

  Water and wind carried messages, but she’d never been good at reading them. Rosin hadn’t known the trick, and teyhataerth had only dimly grasped the language. It had been easier in Arason, with her lover’s guidance.

  I’ll be back there soon. Soon. With my son.

  The cottage held only one human life, no desert lords. Eredion and his companion either hadn’t arrived, or—

  She blinked without opening her eyes and studied the area with awakening wariness. Yes. There. Eredion and his companion—two—no, three. Four in total.

  No: five. There was a presence, so tightly closed in on itself that she’d almost missed it. The four stood around the fifth. Ellemoa opened her eyes and squinted through the rain, straining to see; the rain she had called in blurred even her vision. She reluctantly began redirecting the storm, angling wind and water aside to get a clearer view of that small group of humans.

  Hearing cleared, as always, before sight: “—Forgive me if we take the time to check on that story of yours,” someone said.

  “Do that,” that presence shot back. “And while you’re at it, be sure to ask for Deiq of Stass. He’s staying at Peysimun Mansion. I’m sure he’ll be happy to explain.” />
  “What the hells is he doing back in town?” the first voice exclaimed, distinctly unhappy: a desert lord, carefully shielded, but she could tell he didn’t like or trust this Deiq—another familiar name she couldn’t quite place at the moment.

  “He’s lying,” another voice said. “He’s just a street thief, lying to get out of trouble.”

  “I wouldn’t lie to desert lords. I know better.”

  Ellemoa lost the next few sentences as she struggled with an unexpectedly difficult current of rain, and a blast of wind that almost tumbled her from the roof. At last she had the immediately local weather under control—a moderately hazy rain, enough to keep their attention on the ground—and focused on the conversation below.

  “—is that supposed to help your case?”

  “That depends on whether you respect ha’ra’hain. Because I’m one too, you know.”

  Ellemoa screamed, batting aside the last of the mist and rain, and leapt. My son. My son!

  She reached the group in two long bounds, her attention only on her son, on his wide grey eyes and pale skin, on the shocked expression on his face as he staggered back, away from her—No, no, I won’t hurt you, I’m rescuing you, she tried to call to him: found his mind shut, reflecting back images of white, screaming, whirling motion—herself, through his eyes.

  A moment later a foulness coated her, acidic grit seeking every tender spot in eyes and mouth and nose. Her legs began to buckle from the pain and wrongness of it. She screamed again, reflex driving her back and away: barely aware of leaping to the safety of the rooftops, of calling more rain and wind to shield her retreat.

  Instinct threw her head back, water rinsing the stinging from her eyes and nose; she spat, gulped rainwater, spat again. At last vision and sense cleared, but the area was long since empty, the trail cold and washed out in the storm. Logic said they’d taken her son back within the protection of the Seventeen Gates: taken him prisoner.

  Leaving her alone and helpless, while they tortured her only son to bend to their will. That foulness had weakened her: even now, she could feel the poison working through her body, sapping her strength, slowing her movements. It’s dragging me down to being human. Being vulnerable.