Mala nudged him, then whispered. “Listen!”
Weeping.
They found her lying across a great stone half buried in the plain. A carving of a woman, her face broken and now missing, lay beneath the Lyric’s embrace. The Lyric sobbed, tears running down her cheeks and washing streaks across the blasted stone.
“Tianya!” she cried. “My sister and darling! That your tragic love should have brought this doom upon all your people! Was it not enough to break your heart? Did you have to break the hearts of the mothers and daughters of your ruined kingdom, too! May the woodland spirits curse a passion that should cause such pain!”
Drakis leaned toward the dwarf. “What is she talking about?”
Jugar shook his head. “Lad, I have no idea.”
The sky was dark. Rain clouds had gathered in the afternoon. Lightning flashed to the south, rolling thunder in their direction.
Drakis, his beard thickening along with the ragged hair on his head, stepped wearily toward the chimerian, who squatted on the ridge at the top of a narrow hill. They had left the Hecariat and its terrible pillar five days behind them, and yet still his gaze was drawn to it off to the southeast. He felt sometimes that it was calling him back to his death.
“How much farther do you think we have to go?” he asked.
Ethis didn’t look back, didn’t turn. “We can’t stop and rest, Drakis. We have to continue the march tonight.”
Drakis blinked. “What?”
Chimera were difficult for Drakis to read even in the best of times. Their pliable faces and shape-altering bodies and limbs made it impossible to judge their moods. Still, there was something in the way Ethis spoke—those few times he did speak—that stood the hairs up on the back of Drakis’ neck. Something was different about Ethis, and, as every warrior knew, what a fighter doesn’t understand can kill him.
“We’re within fifteen—perhaps twenty—leagues southeast of the border,” Ethis said casually. “We can pick up the River Galaran to the north and follow it all the way up to the Weeping Pool.”
“Wait,” Drakis said, cocking his head to one side. “How do you know about . . .”
“The banks of the river will be our guide in the darkness,” Ethis continued. “It’s the surest way we have of getting there, and we haven’t a moment to spare.”
“That’s not possible,” Drakis felt his anger rising. “Mala was a House slave. She’s in no way prepared or trained for the rigors of a forced march. Besides, we all need rest. We’re nearly there now, why not just . . .”
Ethis turned his head toward the human. “We are being followed, Drakis.”
“We’re . . . followed?”
“For a week now, perhaps longer,” Ethis replied.
“And you didn’t tell . . .”
“There was only one of them then. I could keep track of him. But now there are four, and we are in real danger,” Ethis continued. “Our best hope now is to run—all night and tomorrow—as far and as fast as we can toward Murialis’ realm.”
“What do I tell them?” Drakis asked. “What can I say that will get them moving again?”
“Tell them they are being hunted.”
CHAPTER 24
Hyperian Trap
THE GRASSLANDS ROSE STEADILY before them as they moved northward, making the going more difficult. A growing black belt of trees—the fringes of the Hyperian Forest—split the horizon to the northwest, a dark line growing wider with each step. Yet it was not so much the hope beckoning before them as the fear at their backs that drove Drakis and his companions on.
It was an hour past sunset when they reached the steep banks of the River Galaran that Ethis had promised would guide them. Belag bounded down the ten-foot embankment, reaching the riverbed first, his keen eyes reconnoitering both up and down the length of the dark, murmuring water before him.
“You call this a river?” Drakis said to Ethis, his voice hoarse with exertion as he hurriedly made his way down the precarious slope, struggling to steady both himself and Mala at the same time. He had seen many of the great rivers in his time—including, he suddenly recalled, the majestic Jolnar, which ran through the heart of the Empire—but this shallow bed only twenty to thirty feet in width barely qualified as a stream by those standards. “A child could cross it! What good is it for defense?”
“It isn’t a fortress, Master Drakis—it’s our road,” the Lyric replied, her nose lifted in haughty displeasure as she stepped quickly across the smooth rocks and knelt next to the stream, the long fingers of her left hand scooping up the water and letting it run through her fingers. “This is the lifeblood of our nation that you so casually dismiss. You would be wise to remember that and be grateful for our largesse.”
“How much farther,” RuuKag groaned, rolling his wide head as he rubbed his neck.
“Not far,” Ethis said, “Seven, maybe eight leagues.”
“Eight leagues!” RuuKag bellowed.
Belag hung his head, shaking his growing mane.
Jugar coughed. “May I suggest that we take a different course? We must head north at once! This western track will plunge us into dangerous lands that can only . . .”
“We follow the river,” Ethis asserted as though to a child. “That is the plan.”
“You follow the river, chimerian,” RuuKag snarled, his large, furry hand sweeping in a dismissive gesture before him. “It’s all well and good for you grand warriors! You’re no doubt used to walking your feet off crossing the length and breadth of the Empire and all its conquests, but some of us are House slaves! By the gods, look around you; you’re wearing campaign sandals of the Legions and we’ve been crossing open country in these household sandals. Have you even taken time to notice that Mala’s feet are blistered—that she’s had to repair her sandals every day for the last three days and wrap her feet in whatever cloth she can tear from the hem of her wrap? No . . . you’ve been too busy looking to the sunset to see what’s at your own feet. Well, that may be your life, warrior, but it isn’t mine, and I’m not taking another step until . . .”
Drakis turned from Mala, his short sword ringing slightly as he deftly pulled it from the scabbard at his side. In two quick steps he closed the distance between himself and RuuKag. With his left hand, he reached up and, before RuuKag could react, closed his fingers in an iron grip on the manticore’s right ear.
RuuKag howled in pain, rearing back, but Drakis, jaw set, held fast and twisted the manticore’s ear farther backward. RuuKag’s head moved involuntarily back with it, trying desperately to relieve the pressure and the pain that so suddenly overwhelmed him.
Drakis pressed forward, the sword pointing upward between the two of them, its tip centered on the exposed throat of the lion-man still in his grip. RuuKag staggered backward, falling at last against the wall of the embankment. RuuKag clawed at Drakis, but the warrior responded at once by twisting the ear harder and sliding the tip of his sword up to rest against the manticore’s throat.
RuuKag suddenly held very still.
“That may have been your life, RuuKag, but not any more!” Drakis said in as definite tones as his raw throat could muster. “Yours was a proud race who ran as such a tide across the Chaenandrian Plains that their war cries and footfalls brought fear to the thunder itself—but you, you’ve become a pet of the elves, tamed and groomed, fed and obedient so that you might be patted on your shaved head by your masters. Well, not any more, RuuKag! That may have been your life before, but you’re in my life now! No one is going to carry you, coax you, coddle you, or drag you—least of all me. So, you’ve got just two choices: die right here and now by my hand or say ‘Yes, sire,’ and move.”
“I swear, hoo-mani, one day I’ll . . .”
Drakis tensed, the sword tip cutting slightly into the soft throat before him.
“Yes . . . sire,” RuuKag said.
Drakis shot a steel-cold glance at the dwarf. “And you?”
Jugar looked down intently at the ground.
Drakis
relaxed slightly, stepping back. He extended his hand to Mala. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she took his hand and stood painfully.
“Let’s go,” Drakis said.
He kept his sword drawn.
Three robed figures stood next to the River Galaran looking on as a fourth knelt inspecting the riverbank.
“How long?” Jukung asked.
“One hour, certainly no longer,” Soen said as he stood. “So, they’re following the river. They are impatient and prone to mistakes. We must trap our prey while we can.”
“Surely they cannot escape us,” Jukung boasted. “The glory of their capture shall be ours.”
“We are far indeed from the Imperial Majesty where such glory is tallied, Assesia,” Soen observed in dry tones. “There is a border not far from here which few of our Order have trod and fewer still have returned to report. The faeries occupy that forest. Our prey has no doubt decided it is better to hope for life in a place from which no soul has ever returned than to face our justice. We must take them before they can find such dubious sanctuary.”
“Then we shall return to the Keeper, as agreed,” Jukung said with an oily arrogance that he no longer bothered to disguise. “You have much to answer for, Inquisitor.”
Phang cleared his throat.
“Indeed,” Soen replied with serenity. This boy was a fool after all, he thought. Soen knew with calm surety that he could plant this boy’s cold body just about anywhere in this wilderness and live the rest of his life in absolute confidence that Jukung would never be found. Still, there was something about the youth’s overconfidence coupled with so little prudence that he found entertaining in a sad, tragic way. Perhaps that was why he let him live; it amused him to do so. “Perhaps, I could answer for it now and save you the trouble later.”
“This is not the appropriate time or place to . . .”
“Oh, but I think it is,” Soen said through a sharp-toothed smile. He started pacing in a circle around the Assesia as he spoke. “Let me anticipate you, young Jukung. You would ask before the Council of the Iblisi Disciplines why I broke up the Quorum. Answer: It was necessary—in order to secure the Timuran household—to assign most of the Assesia of the Quorum to continue the work in the Western Provinces while the remainder of the Quorum pressed the pursuit of the bolters who caused the fall of the Aether Well. No, you assert; you meant why did I break up the Quorum at the Field of the Dead and send each of us through separate folds? Because, as I said at the time, we needed to pursue all four directions at once. But, you will counter, I did not return. Of course, I will reply; I found evidence that our bolters were fleeing our justice, could not risk losing their trail, and knew that the rest of my Quorum would follow. And I will point out that I did leave a trail of fold glyphs that brought you all to my location when the prey were cornered at last . . . saving you, my little Assesia, the trouble of having to walk for weeks across the Hyperian wilderness.”
Soen stopped his circular stroll in front of Jukung, his face barely a handbreadth away from the Assesia’s. “I can’t wait for the Tribunal. Let me know when it starts.”
“Yes, Master Inquisitor,” Jukung answered as he turned his head away.
“Qinsei and Phang,” Soen said. “You will take opposite sides of the riverbank. Stay on the high ground and get ahead of our prey. When you find a suitable site for an ambush, mark it and position yourselves on the far side. Our young Assesia—now so eager to learn—will come with me up the riverbed. We’ll drive the prey to you, and then you take them. There aren’t enough of us to do this properly, so Jukung and I will have to kill the manticores and the chimerian and dwarf outright. You capture the human male. Once he’s secure, kill the females.”
“Why keep the male alive?” Phang asked.
“I have my reasons,” Soen answered. “Do not disappoint me.”
When no further explanation was offered, Phang nodded then set out.
Qinsei and Phang, with quick and silent footfalls, outdistanced their squabbling quarry with little trouble. Qinsei followed the left bank with Phang on the right. They had worked together often down the uncounted years, and this part of their job had become a matter of routine. Their target was in sight—all that remained was to answer the questions of where and when the trap would be sprung.
Wordlessly, the two Codexia closed again on the river. Their prey was now behind them, coming in their direction. They remained on the high ground of the steep, sheer banks, following its curves and undulations farther, Qinsei thought, than she would have preferred. But it was Soen who was their Inquisitor, and Qinsei wanted to find the perfect place for them to bring this sorry business to its inevitable close.
“Ah,” Qinsei sighed with satisfaction as she stopped at the crest of the bank where the river turned sharply. “Soen will be pleased.”
It was a steep banked bowl surrounding a pool at the base of a waterfall. The river had cut a narrow passage that was the only way in or out. It would be slow climbing out of such a bowl. Qinsei saw it all in her mind: their prey walking into the bowl, Soen and Jukung closing off their only escape out of it, while she and Phang stood atop the edge of the bowl, capturing them all before their prey was even aware they were caught.
Qinsei reached over next to her. She grabbed a branch and deftly twisted it back, locking it among the other branches in an awkward bend. The sign set, she looked across the ravine to Phang and made hand signs to him as to her instructions. He responded silently with signs of his own that he would do as she suggested, circle the top of the bowl to the northern quarter and prepare to spring the trap.
Qinsei moved around the southern edge of the bowl. All that was left for them to do would be to wait until . . .
Sobbing.
Qinsei froze at once, her Matei staff readied.
She could hear quiet sobbing just through the trees to the south.
Qinsei frowned. It would not do to have someone unknown at her back. She stepped cautiously through the trees, weaving a careful path to be as silent and unseen as possible. She halted at the tree line, her breath carefully slow and her black eyes dappled by the afternoon light through the shifting leaves of the trees.
A long clearing ran up a slope between the trees on either side. The clearing itself remained in the shadow of the surrounding trees under a bright sky. Qinsei waited patiently for a moment, her eyes searching the trees and the tall grasses for a time before her gaze fixed on the small head whose back was turned toward her just past the crest of the hillside meadow.
A child—an elven child sat at the crest of the hill weeping in this lost and forsaken wilderness.
Qinsei frowned. She was more puzzled than concerned. There were no Rhonas settlements this far west—certainly none so near the Murialis Woods. It might be rebel elves out of Museria somehow come this far north. Whoever they were, her maternal instincts were not aroused; she meant to question this elf child and get answers quickly regardless of the cost.
Qinsei stepped into the tall grass and smiled. The ground was soft and spongelike beneath her feet. Her footfalls would go unheard.
She remained unaware of the long line of stones that she had stepped over as she crossed into the meadow.
Phang’s eyes searched quickly along the northern rim of the pool’s box canyon for the best point where he might lie in wait until Soen came and sprang their trap. This was his favorite part of the hunt; the prey were coming toward him, their fate irrevocably fixed and held in his hands and those of his fellow Iblisi. There was something about watching their approach—seeing their faces completely unaware of the doom that he knew was about to descend upon them. He relished their lives in that moment—that they were still dreaming of another tomorrow and making plans that would never be. Such a moment deserved a well-chosen position from which to view the show.
He soon saw the perfect spot from which to observe the last moments of his prey’s freedom. It was a collection of large boulders at the top edge of the steep nort
hern slope overlooking the waterfall and the pool. He could see and not be seen there. He smiled and was about to move up to the rim of the canyon . . .
Then he heard the piercing scream.
Qinsei, he thought at once. He raised his Matei staff and, drawing from its Aether, leaped twenty feet to the top of the river’s steep southern bank. The scream had come from the south where his Codexia companion had just gone. He saw the careful, subtle marks of her passage—marks only another Codexia could follow—as he moved with swift yet silent steps among the trees.
The trees ended at the edge of a meadow running up the hillside between the trees. He could see Qinsei kneeling at the top of the ridge, her hooded head bent over as though she were examining something in the grass before her. Phang watched for a moment but was satisfied; whatever had happened to her, Qinsei had the problem well in hand. It would be best if he returned to the northern ridge and took up his position among the boulders, he thought and was turning to do so when some movement caught his eye.
It was Qinsei. She was motioning for him to come and join her on the ridge.
Phang grasped his Matei staff in both hands and ran easily up the slope. The ground under his feet was soft and had a spring to it that he found pleasant. The grasses around him were nearly up to his knees. He would not mind staying here to rest a while once the butcher-business of their calling was finished.
“Qinsei,” Phang called as he approached. “We must be in position soon. What is so urgent that . . .”
Phang stopped at the sight of Qinsei’s face, raising his Matei staff at once.
Qinsei gazed up at him with the dull eyes that were shared by all elven dead. Thin green vines riddled her face, neck, and hands, shifting and writhing just beneath the surface of her skin.
Phang commanded the Aether of the staff to discharge at once into the hideous apparition that had been his companion, but the Matei staff did not respond at all, its powers vanished. Instead, the wood of the staff came alive, coiling like a snake around Phang’s arm as it slithered toward his head.
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