by Dragon Lance
At the last moment, something equally powerful cushioned the fall so that only her back was bruised, her breath knocked out of her.
Dazed, she sat up. Clattering feet were right behind her, but it wasn’t too late to buy more time for Jelindra. She came to her feet, ready to fight.
The two guards in front drew bows, nocked arrows, and dropped to their knees.
“Gently,” Jyrbian called, striding down the hill toward her. “Gently.” He was smiling, waving the guards away as he moved forward.
“Khallayne.” When he reached her, he motioned the guards away and walked right up to her. He clasped her shoulders in his big hands. “Thank you.”
She jerked away from his grasp. “For what?”
“I understand.” His smile grew even wider. “When you ran, I tried to stop you, but the words wouldn’t come. But then the spell did, from inside, just like you said it would.”
He tilted his head back, face to the sky, and laughed. “Now there’s nothing I can’t do!”
*
Shadows moved. Stars as bright as gems burned holes in the black sky and twinkled so brightly that Bakrell thought he could hear them singing a song of fire and darkness that tinkled like chimes. The night seemed full of rustling movement.
He rode easily, humming to himself for company. Two warriors had ridden with him, but as they had neared the mountains, he had sent them back. Tenaj would be angry. If he ever saw her again, he was sure she would have a few choice phrases, but he also felt he would be safer alone.
The mountains loomed, a blot in the sky, casting a long, dark shadow out on the plains. In the next hour, he would be in the foothills.
He kicked his horse to a canter. He watched for any sign of human or Ogre encampment, listened for warnings in the hooting and calling of the nightbirds, of the rustling of animals in the grass.
He chose the most direct route he knew, a trail almost straight up into the Khalkists, riding into rain as soon as he left the rolling foothills behind. The drizzle made pleasantly pattering sounds on the leaves, dripped down the back of his neck, and plastered his clothes to his skin.
It was miserable in the higher elevations. The mountains smoked, a phenomenon Bakrell had heard about but never seen. It seemed the bluish smoke from dozens of campfires spiraled up through the lush foliage and blended into the blue-gray sky. It was quite beautiful, and he hoped to never see it again, if it meant being this cold and wet.
After days of travel, he still had seen no Ogre parties, which both relieved and puzzled him. Had the council given up their pursuit? He was sitting at the edge of the forest, staring at the city of Thorad, when he came up with an idea.
Maybe he could find an inn near the edge of the town. He was so cold and miserable that he was willing to risk it for one night of comfort, of sleeping on a surface that didn’t squish.
With no walls like those that protected most of the older cities, Thorad had been an easy target for human attacks. At the wide road that was the main entrance on the east side, barricades marked where attacks had been met. Bags filled with earth, huge timbers, even barroom tables filled the gaps. Buildings bore charred facades.
As Bakrell rode in, a few Ogres eyed him with suspicion, unease, and downright hostility. He had never seen such Ogres as these! They looked as bad off as Igraine’s people. In fact, refugees were exactly what they appeared to be, families with belongings piled in two-wheel carts, farmers with packs slung on their backs, all as wet and miserable as he.
He chose the inn where he and Kaede had stayed before. The public room was empty save for two Ogres huddled near the fire in the dining area. The innkeeper, whom Bakrell remembered, was behind the bar, polishing the shiny surface of the old wood.
It was then that Bakrell realized what made the city seem truly strange and empty. There were no slaves! He hesitated, thinking back, and could not remember seeing one human face in the streets.
“Come on in, stranger,” said the innkeeper.
The two at the fire looked up at him warily, but quickly went back to their mugs when he nodded at them.
The innkeeper placed a mug of steaming tea before him as Bakrell climbed onto a stool. “Berry and bark,” he offered as explanation when Bakrell sniffed it. “All we’ve got.”
Bakrell wrapped his fingers around the mug and took a sip. The brew was weak and bitter, but the warmth of it felt like the finest whiskey. “I’d drink plain water and be as happy as if it were wine, as long as it’s hot.”
“Been traveling?” There was suspicion in his tone, under the nonchalance.
Bakrell nodded. “It’s been miserable, with all the rain. I need a room for the night.”
“You can have your pick if you’ve got the price.”
“I have money.” Bakrell dug into his cloak and pulled out a soggy purse. Coins clinked as he counted them out on the bar.
Instead of the gleam Bakrell had expected, the innkeeper’s face showed disappointment. “Better than nothing,” he said. “Rather have food, or candles. Or wine.”
“I have —” In his mind, Bakrell went over the items he was carrying on his horse. He had no candles, and he wasn’t willing to give up his two skins of wine. “I have dried meat,” he offered finally. “And salt.”
The innkeeper’s face brightened. “Salt? You can have a room for a whole turning of the moons!”
“It’s in a pack on my horse, outside.”
“Outside! You can’t be leaving something valuable like that outside. It’ll be gone before you can blink.” The innkeeper rushed to the door behind the bar and shouted for someone to go and get Bakrell’s horse. “And bring the bags in here!”
Bakrell sat back, his fingers closed on the warm mug.
The innkeeper narrowed his eyes. “Where is it you said you’re from? Have I seen you around here before?”
“I stayed here in the fall. My sister and I. We were waiting for … someone.”
The Ogre’s eyes narrowed as he considered Bakrell. “I remember a young one with a sister sharp as a whip. He was pretty useless-looking, though, decked out in fine clothes. Not like you.”
Bakrell smiled sadly. “No, I guess I don’t look much like that.”
“Them two, they were heading out onto the plains, looking for Igraine.” The innkeeper spat on the floor as soon as he said the name. “And may they find him, too. Heretic bastard!”
Bakrell nodded, then sipped thoughtfully at his drink.
“He’s the cause of all this, him and his ideas about slavery.” He waved his arms about, indicating the empty room. “Me with no slaves to work the place. Not that it matters. Got no customers anyway. Half the population doesn’t even have homes anymore.”
“I saw all the people outside. They looked like they’re on the move.”
As the innkeeper continued to speak, he became more agitated. “City’s not safe. No walls. The humans ride in and do whatever they want and ride back out again before the guard even rouses itself.”
“Where will they all go?” Bakrell was beginning to be sorry he’d ventured into Thorad, information or not.
“Humans’ll slaughter most of them on the trails. Damn fools don’t know what it’s like out there. Think they’ll be better off running away. Others’ll starve when they get to Takar and Bloten and find they’re not wanted there either.”
“But surely they’d be welcome in Takar. The Ruling Council —”
“Ruling Council! Pahhh!” He spat again, with as much animosity as when he’d spoken of Igraine. “They’re sitting behind those walls, safe and warm. Don’t care if their own starve. Why would they want any more?”
Bakrell sighed heavily, pushing his cup toward the Ogre for a refill. “How did things get so bad, so fast?” he whispered. He felt, suddenly, a desperation to find Khallayne and Jelindra and get away from the mountains as quickly as possible.
*
Lyrralt stood on the shore, digging his bare feet into the sand. The breeze off the water was
bitterly cold. The sand was cold between his toes, and grainy.
Reaching the Courrain Ocean, the great body of water to the north of the continent, had been a joyful moment. They had been camping nearby for almost a week, and many of the Ogres still ventured down to the beach despite the cold. They had spread out in small family encampments all along the seaside, among the sandy, grassy hills.
Children played near the water’s edge, laughing and shouting, mixing their voices with the cries of the seabirds and noise of the surf. He heard all, saw nothing.
“You shouldn’t be walking around without your shoes,” Tenaj called cheerily, crunching her way across the sand toward him. Igraine was with her, just back from a trip into Schall, a human city two days to the west. Lyrralt recognized him from his scent.
“How was your trip?”
The smile on Igraine’s face vanished.
Tenaj tucked her arm through Lyrralt’s, but waited for Igraine to speak. Igraine grimaced. “Disappointing. I’m afraid the reputations of our brethren have preceded us. We were most unwelcome. I’ve brought plenty of supplies, but I think we need to move on soon.”
“Before the humans decide to attack?” Lyrralt guessed.
“Yes.”
“Is there no place where we can be safe?” Tenaj asked, her voice suddenly depressed. “I’m tired of running. I’m tired of always looking over my shoulder.”
“Perhaps there is a place.” Lyrralt turned her toward the ocean. “In Schall, were there sailing vessels?” he asked Igraine.
“Yes. I saw sails near the waterfront.”
“Large enough to carry us? All of us?”
“I don’t know.”
Tenaj was trembling. “Where?” she whispered. “Where would we go?”
Lyrralt pointed out over the water.
“How do you know this, Lyrralt?” Igraine’s voice was caught by the wind and tossed back to him so that it seemed to come from very far away.
“There’s an island somewhere to the north. It’s … It’s calling me.”
Igraine turned into the ocean breeze, feeling the salt spray on his face. He tried to quiet his thoughts, putting away the worries of caring for so many Ogres, feeding them, sheltering them, keeping them alive. Yet he heard no song, no call from across the ocean waves. As always, when he allowed the mask of day-to-day worries to fall away, he felt only grief, the overwhelming sorrow and loneliness that had permeated his soul since Everlyn’s death, a heartache almost too strong to bear.
*
Darkness, dank and dripping. Scuttling of claws on stone, somewhere in the shadows. Light from a smoky, oily torch, showing flashes of moldy walls, of grayed, chewed lengths of bone.
There were doors, recessed, so thick and heavy that they might never open. One door was open, and Khallayne backed away from it, instinctively knowing that she didn’t want to know what lay out of range of her torchlight.
She was in the dungeons beneath the castle. The guard who had come for her volunteered no information, and he responding to her questions with only, “I’m following Lord Jyrbian’s orders.”
Lord Jyrbian. Lord Jyrbian had, so far, been as good as his word. He had organized the troops. He and Kaede had drilled them until they were ready to drop, then Kaede had drilled them more. made them fight each other with pikes, with swords, with fat maces, like the humans used, on foot and on horseback. And they loved him for it. The first supply train guarded by his troops had come through unscathed, and now everybody loved him.
Khallayne and the guard passed a deep doorway, and in the flash of torchlight she saw an unidentifiable mass, disintegrating cloth that might have been a pile of rags, or might have been a body. A lump of clothes, flesh all but gone, with wispy blond hair sticking up like straw.
She gasped softly, drew back. Had this always been here, this suffocating, dark place, below the rooms where she danced, ate, made love?
“In here, Lady,” he said, stopping before a door, deep-set in granite. “Lord Jyrbian is waiting.”
She froze, suddenly sure that if she went through the door, she would never leave the cell alive. She would spend the rest of her life eating unidentifiable food passed through a slit, living in the darkness until her skin was leeched of all color, her mind of all sanity.
The door swung inward, and yellow light spilled into the corridor. The warm air that came rushing out hinted at a scent musky yet somehow familiar. After the chilly dampness, the light and warmth pouring through the door should have been welcome.
It wasn’t. Her intuition told her so.
Jyrbian was just inside the door. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear the words.
The power. The power in the room. She sensed the seething of the magic, the darkness despite its brightness. An aura greenish and ugly, stronger than any she’d ever seen, enveloped Jyrbian.
The guard pushed her hard in the small of her back. Inside the room, the din of the spell was even worse. Her own power crawled in her veins, wanting to respond, to protect, but she fought it down. She’d never felt anything like it, not even the magic that flowed about the Ruling Council. Such malevolence! Such evil!
Then she saw what – who – Jyrbian had brought her to see. Hand to her mouth to stifle a cry of anguish, she took a step forward.
Bakrell was tied to a slab of stone in the middle of the floor, its surface angled. He was naked, muscles bulging. His mouth stretched wide, teeth bared in a silent mask of anguish.
“I’m sure you remember Bakrell,” Jyrbian said smoothly. As he spoke, the aura of power around him ebbed and diminished.
Bakrell made a pitiful sound, an animal whimper. Except for the trickle of blood that oozed from the corner of his mouth, he might have been sleeping. Or dead.
Khallayne maintained her composure. She dug her toes into the soles of her boots, feeling the coldness of the floor. Fought to keep her face impassive because she sensed her safety and Bakrell’s life depended on it. She fought and lost. There was no way she could conceal her horror, her disgust, her nausea.
“I know him,” she choked out, horrified when her voice stirred him, made him open his eyes.
Jyrbian straightened, made some small gesture she noted only at the periphery of her vision, and the putrescence that was his power poured back into the room.
Bakrell’s body contorted, straining at his bonds with such ferocity that it seemed he burst. And just as suddenly, slumped pathetically.
“Jyrbian, please …” Although every inch of her skin crawled with revulsion, Khallayne held out a hand to him. “Why are you doing this?”
Jyrbian took her hand, drew her close enough that he could put a hand on her shoulder. “Because it pleases me.” He turned toward his captive and asked, “Doesn’t it please you, too?”
Bakrell’s eyes were dull, the shine of life gone from them, and she knew he was dying. She’d seen too many, fallen in battle, their lives draining away, not to recognize the signs. Gaze locked with Bakrell’s, she whispered, “Jyrbian, please don’t do this. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“My dear, you have nothing left that I want. He, however, has information that might lessen his suffering, should he choose to share it.” His fingers tightened on her shoulder, then eased off into a caress.
She couldn’t stop the shiver of repulsion that ran down her spine. “What?”
“The location of Igraine’s camp.”
The greenish light, the malevolent power, leapt again. Bakrell’s body arched up off the stone. Jyrbian grabbed Khallayne as she tried to do something, grabbing her around the waist with strength she hadn’t known he possessed.
“Bakrell, if you know, tell him!” she cried.
Bakrell didn’t respond. His body pushed up off the stone, held for long moments, then dropped. His eyes rolled up in his head.
“If you know, tell him! He’ll kill you!”
Bakrell simply shook his head. No.
Irritated, Jyrbian flicked his fingers.
&n
bsp; Bakrell’s body spasmed. His muscles bunched as if they would rip through his skin. He screamed. And screamed. The sound reverberated around the small room, echoing, stabbing her ears, her heart, like daggers driven into her skull. So loud, so tortured a sound, that it persisted in her mind even after Bakrell went silent.
Jyrbian released her. He went to Bakrell, touched him as gently as a lover. “Don’t you want the pain to be over? Don’t you want this to end? All you have to do is tell me. Just tell me where I can find Igraine. I know you know where they were going. How else were you going to take Khallayne and Jelindra back?”
Unable to speak, Bakrell rolled his head back and forth. Back and forth. No.
His dull eyes stared out through swollen lids at Khallayne. For a moment, just a moment, there was recognition in his face. Horror. Understanding. “Forgive me,” he rasped, his voice a blood-filled whisper. With effort, he rolled his head back until Jyrbian was in his vision. “You won’t hurt her?” he rasped, and when Jyrbian agreed, whispered, “Near Schall. On the shore.”
His eyes slid shut. His head rolled heavily to the side. His chest heaved, then settled, and didn’t rise again.
For a moment, the silence in the room was overwhelming. With a triumphant malevolence, Jyrbian turned to the guard in the doorway. “Take a company immediately. Start tonight. Bring Igraine back to me, dead or alive. But the humans who guard him I want alive.”
The Ogre saluted smartly, disappearing into the dark corridor.
When his footfalls had died away, Jyrbian turned to Khallayne. “Allow me to escort you back to your apartment.”
Chapter 17
DRAWING NEAR THE DUST
Sunlight pierced deep into the clear blue waters of the Courrain Ocean. As she often did in the mornings, the Xocli paused, her large, flat tail moving lazily in the current, and turned one of her three heads to watch the return of her fellow sea creatures, riding the warming beams of light down from the surface.
A stately leaffish drifted by; the rippling fins for which it was named gamboled like ornaments, waving a warm good morning.