Staring at flames, Pallaton saw only the face of a beautiful young woman with dusky skin and dark eyes, who could lift her pointed nose with such disdain that a man’s pulse raced. His palms had itched to hold her lush body, to smother her with burning kisses, to entice and sweeten her into submission, but fate had deemed otherwise there, too. He wondered what became of Samira Amenstar. He recalled the first night he saw her, sashaying toward him—where?
“Where?” he said aloud. “Where did I meet her?”
“Sire?” asked an advisor.
Grunting with frustration, Pallaton kicked and spun his horse to survey the entire city. He stared across the barren sand, a circle occupying the exact center of the city.
Straining his eyes, he snarled, “Where is the palace? I visited it, but I can’t see it.…”
Most of the samir’s advisors had been there too, but they also looked befuddled, staring across the great circle of sand without seeing it.
One ventured, “Perhaps it’s been spirited away, your majesty. Calim may’ve whisked it off to his bosom, or shifted it to another plane or time.”
“It must be. You couldn’t hide …”
Chewing his cheek, Samir Pallaton glared at the circle of sand. Something squirmed in his brain. A giant—lizard? Pallaton grit his teeth to drive out the foolish image, yet it got clearer. A giant, sand-colored lizard, dappled with dark spots like a thunderherder, coiled in a hidden cave somewhere, or else wrapped around the prince’s brain. A muscular tail slapped the inside of his skull, rocking him in the saddle. Distracting him—from what?
“Never mind!” he barked, then shook his head. “Let’s ride to the college. I want it eradicated—every book and scroll piled and burned, the ashes kicked to the winds, and the pillars pulled down. No one will ever read about Cursrah’s ancient wonders. Tonight glory belongs to us! Let the heralds trumpet the news in Coramshan and Zubat! Oxonsis dared to attack Calim’s Cradle, and her citizens were washed away in a river of blood!”
15
The Year of the Gauntlet
Trapped between two packs of bandits, with no place to go, Amber and Hakiim went nowhere.
Amber shoved Hakiim against the opposite wall, adding an extra nudge that meant “stay put and don’t even breathe.” She backed against her wall and tried to flatten herself as thin as paint.
They had a chance, Amber thought wildly. The bandits in the tunnels had torches, and would see them instantly if they crept that way, but the three bandits coming in had no light, so they might miss them. They had to slide down paving blocks and pick past rubble. They’d concentrate on their footing. If Hakiim and Amber melted against the walls, the bandits might pass by.
Might.
Amber tried not to squirm as pebbles clittered and sandals skittered. Reiver had disappeared, as usual. Amber didn’t worry. The thief could vanish into a hole like a mouse and pop out anywhere. She heard rough breathing, puffing from the climb, smelled wool robes, dried sweat, camel-dung smoke, and mint tea, heard gravel crunch under a sandal, then a hem swish over stone. The first bandit was past, a man by the size.
The same again, only a smaller blur, a woman spiced with some perfume like cinnamon. She too was past.
A slap and stamp sounded outside. A big rock rattled, then there was a muffled thump as someone half fell and caught himself. Breathing rasped, hot, harsh, and constricted, as if through half-closed nostrils. With a flicker of horror, Amber recalled that the third bandit had straggled well behind the humans as if shunned—the mongrelman. Amber shuddered and mashed herself still flatter against the wall.
Crawling off the wreckage, the mongrelman shambled along the tunnel but stopped instantly when it drew abreast of the hiding Menmonites. The hulk sniffed the air and turned toward Amber surely as if in broad daylight. It had an animal’s nose, Amber thought in despair, so they must fight clear. Unless this beast-man passed by—
In pitchy darkness, a hand with dog claws touched Amber’s breast and snatched a fold of her filthy tunic. The daughter of pirates exploded into action. In her right hand, the capture noose swooped a half circle to bean the mongrelman’s head. It did, just barely, whiffing through the top of its ratty headscarf. The monster was shorter than Amber had guessed. No matter. That nudge was just to gauge where the mongrelman stood and to distract it to look right.
From the left, Amber snaked her wooden billy from her sleeve, grabbed the short handle tight, and swung a vicious arc for the attacker’s temple. She didn’t swing club fashion, side on, but pointed the club like a dagger because she knew where to strike.
Strike she did, like a meteor. Teakwood punched the mongrelman’s skull like a hammer hitting an anvil. A gut-wrenched woof, rancid as a vulture’s breath, gushed in Amber’s face as the mongrelman collapsed. She jerked her knee so the creature didn’t topple against her, clopped it under its chin—or beak—and kicked it flat on its back. Dust billowed, a musty smell, for she couldn’t see much.
“What’s happening?” hissed Hakiim, nine feet away against the opposite wall.
“Get back up to the street! There’s too many—ack!”
Amber flinched as a hand hooked her neck from behind. Gulping, the daughter of pirates flopped and squatted, as she’d been taught in handling slaves. To simply go limp and let your weight drag off an assailant’s grip was a good defense, especially since the grabber expected you to stiffen and pull away, not sink. At the same time, Amber thrust her left hand up alongside her chin to force the assailant’s arm away. A calloused hand slid up her face, dislodging her headscarf.
Instinctively, Amber fought back. Slavers who didn’t cut and thrust didn’t survive. Twisting from the questing left hand, Amber rammed her sturdy capture noose backward, then snapped high. The move would either belt the attacker in the gut and double him over, or if she missed, smack him in the plums, providing he was male.
He was. A pained grunt echoed over Amber’s head. Without rising, with both hands, Amber jammed her staff’s butt for the same spot, a little higher. A satisfying thud told her she’d scored. All this in seconds.
Close up, Hakiim muttered, “I think there’s only one, Amber.”
“Well, hit him, by Bhaelros!”
Instantly she wanted to retract the command, because Hakiim carried a scimitar, and this tunnel was black, and he could easily kill her too, but a series of rapid chops told her Hakiim whacked the bandit’s head with either the back side or flat of his blade.
“I think he’s down,” Hakiim panted.
“Where’s the other one?”
“Which one?”
Only the faintest yellow glow showed far down the tunnel and around a corner.
“Wasn’t there a woman?” Wrenching her kaffiyeh into place, Amber tried to listen above her own panting, then said, “There was. Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know … perhaps she ran to warn the torchbearers,” gulped Hakiim, fearing the worst as usual.
Talking was useless and stupid, Amber decided. The male and mongrel bandits were down, but that left many still down there.
“Hak,” puffed Amber, “let’s go back to the street and wait for Reiver.”
“No, Hak, let’s go down the tunnel,” Amber bleated again.
Except Amber hadn’t spoken a second time.
“What?” Hakiim was confused. “Which way?”
“To the street,” Amber hissed. What was happening?
“No, Hak, it’s a trap. Come this way, quickly,” said Amber’s voice.
Someone’s imitating me! Amber realized. Perfectly.
A tree hit her. An arm wrapped in rags, big as a log, it seemed, belted her alongside the head. Staggered, Amber’s head kissed stone as she fell. Only her headscarf prevented her scraping her scalp to the bone. The blow made her woozy, and she sank to one knee, propped on the wall.
“Amber,” yelped Hakiim. “What—aggh!”
The rug merchant’s son was kicked or bowled over and crashed in dust. A snuffling snort br
oke the silence, and there was a clumsy scuffing on gravel. Hakiim grunted explosively as someone stamped on his stomach.
Head spinning, Amber wondered how—then remembered …
The Legends of Those Who Came from Mist told one story of how King Golden Horn’s janessars, the paladins and crusaders of the Marching Mountains, battled the hordes of the Goblin King Kurot. They were misled, and a hero died, because a mongrelman imitated a comrade’s voice perfectly. As a survival trick, the mongrel race could imitate the speech of men, animals, and birds—and Amber. The mongrelman, tougher than she thought, had shrugged off the head blow from her billy.
Struggling to rise, Amber gasped, “Hak, the mongrel talks just like—”
“I’m all right,” piped Hakiim’s voice. “Keep talking so I can find you.”
Amber had lost her capture staff and couldn’t find it, so she clutched her billy.
Crouching low, scooching on her heels, she snapped, “No, because you’re not Hakiim!”
Lashing out, she hooked her left hand and billy hard. She almost broke her wrist on the mongrelman’s thick leg—which bent backward and might have ended in a hoof—but she snagged the limb, grabbed her billy in her right hand and yanked hard. Its leg whipped from underneath it, and the mongrelman crashed hard on its back. Its head smacked a stone with a noise that was gruesome to hear. A light appeared suddenly in the tunnel, winking on like a firefly. Amber flinched and squinted, and Hakiim gasped.
Reiver crouched, a splinter of wood sparkling in his hand, his garrote chain winking in the other. He’d shielded the light until he was almost upon them.
Frightened, huffing for air, Amber snapped, “Where in the name of nine devils have you been?”
“Exploring.” Juggling the candlewood, Reiver reached down his shirt front to pull a string. His silver garrote chain slithered up his sleeve like a snake into hiding. “Let’s go,” he said. “The way is clear, for the moment.”
Frowning, Amber looked to the two bandits. The man was a simple nomad in typical black robes. The mongrelman showed little, for it was layered in rags, but one foot was clubbed and hoofed like a donkey’s, and one hand had two fingers and two dog claws. Amber shuddered, but also felt a surprising sympathy. What kind of life could a half-human monster, hideous and unique, expect? Only shunning, slavery, and an early death.
She felt a hot anger against both bandits. She had no desire to fight these people, or anyone, and would rather be left alone. Some of them had manhandled her over a fire without a qualm, and her face still cracked and peeled. The angry memory overwhelmed her, and without thinking she inverted her capture staff and walloped the two bandits on their skulls. The heavy blows left them twitching.
Panting, breast heaving, she realized her friends were watching. Hakiim looked on in horror, Reiver in calm understanding. The thief nodded toward the distant glow. Legs suddenly weak, Amber used her capture staff like a cane to push erect, and the three skulked away.
“There was a woman with them—” Amber started.
“Taken care of,” cut off Reiver.
Amber remembered the garrote chain hanging from his hand and asked, “Did you kill her?”
Without turning, the thief countered, “Did you kill those two?”
“Uh, I don’t know.”
“The same.”
Reiver would say no more.
Torches flared throughout the tunnels, islands of light marking turning points in long corridors of gloom.
The White Flame had ordered torches erected at intersections to better hunt treasure, a sign of good organization, yet moneylust had wiped away discipline. Alone or in pairs, bandits fanned throughout the tunnels to tap walls, probe cracks, and ferret out niches. Amber, Hakiim, and Reiver were free to risk their necks picking past the danger spots. They had two advantages because they’d been here before, and Amber possessed a mental picture of the tunnels being used long ago. Yet to avoid raiders, they had to double back and retrace seeming miles of passage. Reiver kept scouting ahead, disappearing more than half the time. Still, they had descended to near the lowest levels before they were spotted.
Two bandits looked their way, dismissed them as comrades in desert robes, then looked again and came trotting.
“Go,” hissed Amber.
Skipping, she drew up the rear, keeping a hand on Hakiim’s back, and pushing not a little. Tramping into light, they rounded a corner that looked familiar and suggested danger. Hakiim suddenly stalled and Amber plowed into him.
Hakiim gargled, “Gluefloor!”
By the light of a sconced torch, Amber saw the tiny bones of rats and snakes gleaming before Hakiim’s dusty toes. If they’d been any hastier …
“Hak, get across on the stepping-stones,” Amber said. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Where’s Reiver, curse his eyes?” Clutching the wall, Hakiim paced across the bricks they’d laid to one side saying, “He’s usually not away from us this long.”
“Probably picking a mummy’s pocket,” Amber said, stepping gingerly over the staggered bricks.
She intended that to be a joke, but the memory of the undead creature waiting in the depths made her shiver, even more now that she knew it was one of her friends, or an ancient counterpart. How had Gheqet or Tafir been made a mummy? Why? How did they all die? Amber’s stomach churned for worry about the three friends, though they’d been dead for centuries—or weren’t yet, in the mummy’s case. Still … no, it was too confusing, so Amber shook it from her mind.
Hopping off the last brick, Amber shoved Hakiim and said, “Get out of sight and wait.”
Thankfully he didn’t question but skipped into darkness. Just past the dark, glossy patch, Amber dropped to one knee as if she’d fallen. Capture noose under one hand, she peeked behind under her armpit.
The two bandits still pursued. Seasoned outlaws, they didn’t bumble down the corridor’s center, but slipped around the corner in single file, silent as shadows. Their scimitars were sheathed to keep two hands free, but now each pulled a crook-bladed jambiya. The man and woman split, one leaping across to hug the other wall. Seeing their quarry down and struggling to rise, they never noticed the wet-shiny floor but launched themselves before Amber could escape.
Half skipping, the woman planted a sandal, felt it snag as if in tar, put down her other foot and stuck. Losing her balance, she jerked one foot from a trapped sandal, then slapped her bare sole on the magic glue and stuck permanently.
The man fared worse. Lunging, he stubbed both toes, stuck, and crashed on elbows and knees. Mostly his clothing and dagger caught, but his left hand smacked so his palm held fast. Cursing, he yanked and tore skin. Pain froze him, then fear dawned as he realized his dilemma.
Amber jogged to catch Hakiim, but he threw out an arm to block her.
Ahead, Reiver talked to a stranger at a torchlit intersection, or rather, listened. The thief slouched with slack hands. Before him stood a squat, almost hunchbacked man with rags strung across his shoulders and hips. His skin was ruddy as a sunset, his nose a square blob, his hair grizzled. He spoke low, so the friends couldn’t hear, but familiarly, resting a grubby hand on Reiver’s shoulder.
“Who’s that?” asked Hakiim.
“I’ve no idea,” said Amber. “Some thief Reiver knows from town?”
“More like a ragpicker, and he couldn’t have walked all the way from Memnon. He’s got no waterskin … or anything else.” The three wayfarers were hung like peddlers with packs and water bags and weapons, but the stunted man had nothing.
Amber peeked behind to see if the White Flame’s cutthroats followed and asked Hakiim, “What shall we—”
Reiver spotted them and waved a hand. “Hoy,” he called, “come hither.”
Reluctantly, the two friends joined the thief. Reiver blinked owlishly, as if drunk, and grinned, “Meet my new friend.”
“New?” Amber wrinkled her pointed nose. Up close, the stranger stunk like a dog kennel, rank as the ogres. He didn’t look
friendly. Crooked teeth champed side to side, and baleful brown eyes bored into Amber’s soul.
“What’s his, uh, your friend’s name?” Hakiim hung back.
“Name?” Reiver goggled like an idiot. “Uh, he doesn’t …” Amber found herself staring, unable to pull her eyes from the stranger. The eyes grew bigger, filling her vision, big as desert suns pouring on her head, and just as hot. Those eyes drilled into her mind, making her thoughts grow fuzzy.
“Reive!” yelped Hakiim.
Amber jolted. Reiver collapsed, blacked out. Hakiim lowered the thief to the floor, calling his name. Shaking her head, Amber found her shoulder trapped, for the squat stranger clutched it with dirty nails. Up close, his eyes blurred, hypnotizing—
“Witching!” Amber bleated.
A snarl answered as the stranger batted Amber’s face and knocked her against the wall. Stunned, she slid in a heap. Her capture noose clattered on stone. The striking hand was half a paw, she noted, same as the mongrelman’s. Blunt claws had raked her ear and jaw, but they bled without pain in her half-dreaming stupor. Slumped on the cold floor, she saw the squat man hunch over, ready to drop to all fours. Red-roan hair sprouted from his shoulders, his blunt nose turned black, his ears elongated.
Like a jackal, Amber observed in a daze. It was not surprising. Cheetahs and vultures had spiraled into the valley, so why not jackals? The explorers had heard gobbling barks, yet this jackal walked upright like a man.
What was the old adage? “As with men, so with animals.” Old ghost stories around campfires recalled lycanthropic curses where men became jackals, called werejackals. There must exist jackals who assumed the shape of men … jackalweres.
“Get back, you,” Hakiim commanded.
His hands full tending Reiver, Hakiim fumbled for his scimitar. Animal-quick, the jackalwere lunged. Clawed paws stabbed for Hakiim’s face while bristling jaws snapped for his wrist. Hakiim screamed as teeth crunched flesh and bone. He fell, the monster scrabbling atop to tear out his throat.
Weeping silently, too foggy to move—was she mesmerized or concussed?—Amber flailed for her capture staff and didn’t even come close. Trying to rise, she toppled over. Through drooping eyelids she saw Hakiim kick ineffectually, but the jackalwere clung, perhaps already gulping his life’s blood from a severed throat. From the shadows sprang three more hunchbacks. Jackals always hunted in packs.
Star of Cursrah Page 27