6: Broken Fortress

by Ginn Hale

  Again the captain flashed a quick cruel smile in response to Joulen’s words.

  The two of them walked back closer to where Kahlil crouched beneath the wagon. Remembering how sharp Joulen’s eyes were, Kahlil slid deeper into the shadows.

  “Do you think it was a natural creature that cut that rashan in half?” the captain asked, his voice a low hush.

  “It didn’t look like the work of bones, but who knows what other monstrosities Jath’ibaye breeds in Vundomu.” Joulen’s voice was almost a whisper. “Parfir protect us if this really does come to a war.”

  “Indeed.” The captain’s voice was a whisper as well. “There have been reports of yellow fire in the far northern skies again. Do you think he’s creating more of those bones?”

  “If he is, then we’d better pray for snow. It’s the only thing that will slow them down.” Joulen stopped a few feet from the wagon. “The Anyyd and Lisam and Naye’ro will be riding south the first time they catch a glimpse of one of those things.”

  “Leaving us to fight, no doubt,” the captain grumbled.

  “No doubt,” Joulen replied. He sounded tired.

  “Do you think it’ll come down to that? To another war?” the captain asked.

  “I don’t know,” Joulen replied. “Ask me again tomorrow night.”

  “Your uncle hasn’t said anything?” the captain asked.

  “He’s said plenty. Ourath and Gethlam have too. But it’s easy to talk when you aren’t actually facing Vundomu’s godhammers.”

  Both men were quiet for a time. Then Kahlil heard a quick scratch and hiss. The familiar scent of cigarette smoke spread through the air. Joulen gave a quiet laugh.

  “There’s a munitions wagon right behind you, Shira,” he said.

  “Shit.” Kahlil heard the captain jump away from the wagon. “All this worry about monsters and I get blown up by our own mortars. My wife would never forgive me.”

  “If there was anything left to forgive—” The rest of Joulen’s response was cut short by a distant but terrible screaming noise, like metal rending open.

  “What the hell is Ourath keeping in his camp?” Joulen growled.

  “Doesn’t sound good,” Captain Shira responded.

  It wasn’t, Kahlil knew. It was Fikiri.

  •••

  Seconds later Kahlil was moving through the Lisam camp. He raced through tents and tahldi enclosures, searching for traces of Fikiri’s passage. If he were Jath’ibaye, he could have easily picked out the heavy scars Fikiri left in his wake. Then again, if he were Jath’ibaye, he wouldn’t have been down here at all.

  Kahlil swore as a rough area of the Gray Space scraped against his forearm. He stopped, staring at the tiny distortion that had bitten into his skin. It hung in front of Kahlil like a fine scratch on a glass pane. Against the gray forms of the Lisam tents and patrolling guards, the disturbance was tiny.

  He only managed to follow it a few yards before it faded out completely. But it led him far enough to guess where Fikiri had gone. Even at a distance Kahlil recognized Ourath’s private accommodations. Huge bulls charged across the tent walls. Pale banners billowed from the steepled tent top. Rashan’im in dress uniforms stood guard all around the walls and at the entrance.

  Kahlil walked through one of the guards and into the tent. Both Ourath and Fikiri were there. Dressed in ragged, dark robes and nearly motionless, Fikiri resembled an old drop cloth that had been hurled across a finely carved chair. His eyes moved, not following Ourath’s motions but searching the empty air. Ourath stood several feet away, drinking from a goblet. A large table stretched between the two of them. Platters of roasted birds, fish, and dog crowded the table. There were several different loaves of bread and Kahlil imagined that the dark liquid steaming in a little decorative pot was some kind of mulled wine.

  Ourath was obviously not a man to deprive himself, not even on the battlefield. A servant entered, and Fikiri’s head snapped to where the cold night wind blew in at the boy’s entrance.

  Kahlil briefly considered attacking Fikiri right here and now. But appearing in the middle of the gaun’im’s camp wouldn’t be particularly wise. And if Fikiri escaped him, then Kahlil would have caused an uproar for nothing. Doubtless, Jath’ibaye would be blamed for any foreign attack within the gaun’im’s camps. He was already being blamed for the hungry bones.

  But if Kahlil could find out what Fikiri and Ourath were planning, then it might aid Jath’ibaye greatly. The only trouble was that he couldn’t hear a thing while he was in the Gray Space. Leaving the Gray Space would require making an opening and releasing one of those cold whispers. And Fikiri would definitely notice that.

  There was also the problem of finding a place to hide. Unlike the underside of the Bousim munitions wagon, Ourath’s tent was very well lit. Several perfumed lamps hung from its supports. Their light blazed as it was caught and reflected by the full-length mirrors that had been placed in the corners. Fikiri had seated himself in the darkest corner of the tent. What space remained all seemed to be illuminated to an afternoon glow.

  Ourath briefly glanced into one of the mirrors, watching the serving boy as he added fresh cutlets of dog to the meat platters. As the boy stepped back from the table and began bowing his way out of the tent, Kahlil made his choice. He rushed behind the far mirror. When the boy opened the tent flaps, Kahlil stepped out of the Gray Space.

  Fikiri straightened. His eyes darted from the corner of the tent to the flaps as they fell closed. Kahlil caught his breath as if Fikiri could sense even that small of a movement in the air. Slowly Fikiri slumped back in his chair. He continued to watch the folds and shadows of the tent walls suspiciously.

  “A little jumpy, aren’t you?” Ourath commented to Fikiri. His voice was so smooth and low that Kahlil had to strain to hear him. “Are you certain it was the same man? We hardly glimpsed him.”

  “It was Ravishan. I would know that arrogant face anywhere. He should be dead twice over now. I saw to that myself,” Fikiri replied. “Still, somehow, he returns.”

  “But you said yourself that the yasi’halaun is fatal. It devours the very soul of a man.” Ourath’s eyes lingered on the mirror and for a moment Kahlil was afraid that Ourath had caught a glimpse of him. Then Kahlil realized that Ourath was studying his own reflection. Ourath flicked a bright copper curl of his hair back from his face.

  “It does,” Fikiri replied. He frowned, deepening the heavy lines that etched his weathered face. “But it is crafted from a Rifter’s bones. Deep in its essence it is always his to command.”

  “I have no idea nor frankly do I have any wish to find out what any of that meant.” Ourath, at last, turned his attention from his reflection to Fikiri. “What do you need me to do tomorrow?”

  “You must delay any settlement,” Fikiri replied. “You need to keep the armies here until the weather breaks in the north.”

  “That could take months,” Ourath protested. “Not even Gethlam Anyyd can be played for that long.”

  “Not true.” Fikiri started as the breeze outside moved the tent wall. “Jath’ibaye can’t afford to wait that long. His people have to plant their taye soon or starve, which means that he must allow the thaw come by the end of this week. Our forces in the north should be ready for an assault within days of the thaw.”

  “And the armies here?” Ourath asked.

  “I will tell you when to commence your attack,” Fikiri replied. “We need only to capture Jath’ibaye in order to bring down the entirety of Vundomu.”

  “And to open your gateway, yes?” Ourath asked.

  “Yes.” Fikiri nodded. “The Kingdom of the Night and the Palace of the Day will be ours then.”

  Ourath smiled.

  “You should eat,” Ourath said to Fikiri. He filled a plate with slices of meat and drizzled a fragrant red sauce over it. “Have you tried the doves?”

  Fikiri took the food and ate quickly. Ourath refilled his glass with mulled wine.

  “Your p
lan still puts me in a difficult position,” Ourath said. “The gaun’im want this all settled as expeditiously as possible.”

  “What about Gaunsho Bousim?”

  “He’s angry, but he’s willing to claim an exclusive contract for Vundomu’s iron as compensation for the loss of Nanvess. After all, he was Nivoun’s son, not the gaunsho’s. And this opens the way for the gaunsho to name one of his own children as heir.”

  Fikiri scowled as he chewed his cutlet. “Too easy. They might just agree to that. There must be something else you can do.”

  “Perhaps. Nanvess wasn’t the only one killed.” Ourath paused to sip his wine. “If Gethlam Anyyd got it into his head that he had as much right to demand iron for Esh’illan’s death as the Bousim have for Nanvess’, then perhaps that would keep things delayed.”

  “Why shouldn’t he claim reparations for his brother’s death?” Fikiri demanded.

  “Esh’illan wasn’t well liked. Most of the Anyyd family are relieved that he’s dead.” Ourath glanced over the heaps of roast dog but didn’t take any. “Still, he was a gaun and that alone makes his death worth something. Yes, I think that might keep things tied up for a while.”

  Fikiri studied Ourath. “Have you any influence over Gethlam?”

  “Only a little,” Ourath admitted. “But he and Joulen Bousim have been butting heads for days now. Gethlam might make the claim just to spite Joulen at this point.”

  “If the idea occurred to him,” Fikiri said.

  “Just so,” Ourath replied.

  “Would you need anything from me?”

  “Not to stoke Gethlam’s avarice, but Jath’ibaye…I doubt that I’ll be able to enthrall him again, not after the Bell Dance. He’ll probably try to kill me the moment he lays eyes on me. That might get your war started a little too soon, don’t you think?”

  “Much too soon.” Fikiri looked as if he’d swallowed something bitter. “If Jath’ibaye destroys the gaun’im armies before our northern forces are roused, there will be no way to take him by surprise.”

  “So, am I to just throw myself into the beast’s bed again and hope he doesn’t kill me?” Ourath asked.

  The contempt that Kahlil had felt towards Ourath suddenly exploded into rage at the suggestion that he ever could throw himself into Jath’ibaye’s bed again. The urge to spring through the Gray Space and tear the lying whore apart surged through Kahlil. Only the sheer stupidity of the impulse stopped him. Fikiri was sitting only a few feet away.

  “If you must,” Fikiri replied. Kahlil noticed the faint sneer of disgust that Fikiri gave Ourath when his back was turned. Kahlil wondered if Ourath also saw it as he watched Fikiri in one of his mirrors.

  “There are poisons that dull his anger and wear him down. But I no longer have any way of feeding them to him,” Ourath said.

  “My Lady has sent you this.” Fikiri drew a thick glass vial from the pocket of his robe. The surface of the vial was scratched and dull as if it had been sandblasted. Still, Kahlil could see a faint golden glow emanating from its contents.

  Ourath took the vial and studied it.

  “Wear just a little on your skin where it won’t be seen,” Fikiri said.

  “What does it do?” Ourath asked.

  Fikiri smiled, but not kindly. “It will do what you need it to do. Though, for your own safety, don’t wear too much or go too close to the bucks while you’ve got it on.”

  Ourath observed the vial, then very carefully peeled back the stopper. A soft gold light radiated up from the mouth.

  “Wait until I’m gone to use it,” Fikiri put in quickly.

  Ourath frowned at Fikiri as if the mere thought that he would do otherwise was distasteful to him. Ourath drew in a slow breath, though he kept his nose far above the vial.

  “Niru’mohim,” Ourath said. “Nanvess used to make it. It irritates the skin and leaves welts.”

  Fikiri nodded. “Don’t wear it where it will be seen.”

  “So not in a large splash across my forehead?” Ourath asked sarcastically.

  “This is stronger than any of Nanvess’ potions could have been.” Fikiri gave Ourath a hard look as if he were chastising a child. “It will burn you and it will leave a scar.”

  “But it will affect Jath’ibaye?” Ourath asked.

  Fikiri nodded. “Assuredly. Once he senses it, he’ll probably try to keep clear of you, which will keep you safe.”

  “In the meantime, will I have to fight off every man in Vundomu?” Ourath asked.

  “They’ll notice you, but this was made with Jath’ibaye’s blood. It will affect him far more than any other man.” Fikiri’s eyes darted to a movement up in the top of the tent. A cream-colored moth flittered close to one of the lamps.

  “So then that only leaves us with the question of the yasi’halaun.” Ourath pushed the stopper back into the vial and slipped it into his coat pocket.

  “That is my concern, not yours,” Fikiri replied. He slid his empty plate onto the table.

  “But you will need it—” Ourath went quiet as the servant boy suddenly darted in.

  “Forgive me, my lord, but Commander Joulen Bousim wishes to speak with you.” The boy bowed deeply to Ourath.

  “Right now?” Ourath asked.

  “He is waiting outside, as is Commander Gethlam Anyyd, my lord.” The boy kept his head down. Ourath looked to Fikiri.

  “Perhaps it would be best if I took my leave,” Fikiri said.

  “Perhaps it would,” Ourath agreed.

  Fikiri stood.

  Ourath turned back to his servant. “You may show the commanders in.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The servant boy straightened and then retreated. Fikiri followed the boy out of the tent. It surprised Kahlil to see Fikiri just walk away. Then he realized that the noise and flames Fikiri caused when he opened the Gray Space were far too extravagant. They had already attracted Joulen’s attention. And Ourath would have particular difficulty explaining them if they occurred right inside his tent.

  Soon the servant boy reappeared, followed by Joulen Bousim who was flanked by a second commander wearing the silver lily of the Anyyd House.

  “Joulen. Gethlam.” Ourath inclined his head only a little to both men. “How is it that I can help you?”

  An oddly voracious look came into Gethlam Anyyd’s eyes. For a moment Kahlil thought that Ourath might have used a little of the potion Fikiri had given him. Then Kahlil realized that Gethlam was staring at the food on Ourath’s table.

  “Feel free to help yourselves to my table while you are here,” Ourath said.

  “Very generous of you, Gaunsho.” Gethlam took a plate and began heaping meat onto it. His thick neck and square chest gave him more than a passing resemblance to the Lisam bulls that decorated Ourath’s tent. Though his dark brown hair was shot through with gray, there was a roundness to his chin and cheeks that made his face look almost like a child’s. Kahlil remembered thinking the same thing of Esh’illan Anyyd.

  “We’ve come to discuss the discipline of our united troops.” Joulen scowled at Gethlam.

  Gethlam avoided Joulen’s gaze, chewing his meat as if it took all of his concentration.

  “Discipline?” Ourath inquired.

  “Yes,” Joulen said, but then he paused. “May I ask who that man was that just left? I don’t recall seeing him before.”

  “He was one of the residents of Mahn’illev,” Ourath replied smoothly. “Apparently he was quite concerned about our rashan’im. He told me that his shop was destroyed by riders wearing Bousim colors—”

  Gethlam suddenly grinned and rounded on Joulen.

  “Bousim colors!” Gethlam crowed. “And you have the gall to tell me how I should handle my men.”

  Joulen’s face flushed. “Every one of my men is accounted for in our camp.”

  “Yes, of course they are,” Ourath said soothingly. “It’s dark after all and it’s easy to mistake one rashan for another. Still, we must not allow our men to run wild.” Ourath
filled a plate with cutlets of meat and sauce and then handed it to Joulen just as he had offered food to Fikiri earlier.

  “Eat something, Commander,” Ourath said. “I think you’ll find it helps your mood.”

  Joulen took the food and wine that Ourath offered him. His expression was one of slight confusion, as if he wasn’t sure how the dishes had ended up in his hands.

  “Please, both of you,” Ourath said, “sit and tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “Joulen’s bothering me.” Gethlam took the chair that Fikiri had just vacated. Joulen seated himself across from Gethlam. He looked like he was about to respond to Gethlam’s words; then he frowned. He narrowed his eyes, gazing past Gethlam to the mirror in the corner of the tent. He didn’t look at the reflection but at Kahlil. He stared with an expression of uncertainty, as if not quite sure of what he was seeing. Then his gaze met Kahlil’s directly and his eyes widened.

  Instantly, Kahlil dropped back into the Gray Space. Joulen blinked and narrowed his gaze but there was no longer anything to be seen. Ourath said something and Joulen’s attention turned back to the meats piled on his plate.

  Kahlil didn’t trust in his luck enough to push it much further this evening. He already had news enough to tell Jath’ibaye. And he knew he should get back to Vundomu before he was missed. He moved quickly through the Gray Space, returning to the watchtower at Vundomu just in time to hear the eleventh bell ring out.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  At the heights of Vundomu, gusts of warm wind rose, twisting through the cool air. The warmth and moisture reminded Kahlil of a summer storm. The idea of summer was troubling. Heat was all that Fikiri was waiting for. Jath’ibaye had to be warned. Kahlil rushed from the watchtower down to Jath’ibaye’s chambers.

  As he came through the door, the lush green scent of flowers and vines washed over Kahlil. Breezes swirled and raced through the leaves and blossoms. The air churned as if a thunderstorm were trapped in the room.