Sunset came and went. Still the woman pushed us, guided by wet torches and a tiny drip of cloud-filtered moonlight. At least the mud was firmer here. Shrubs and fruit trees grew wild, and I picked a handful of overripe pears to nibble along the way. They gave me the energy to keep moving my legs. One in front of the other.
We were forced to make a cold, miserable camp, and what little rest we got was over all too quickly. More of our lives was lost to the mindless walk.
A sudden cry came from up ahead. I slogged to the front of the group, and my heart leapt. A stone arch stood in front of us, obviously man-made, although the northern weather had worn it down to a shadow of its former self. None of the decorations survived. Still, it was upright when everything else had long since crumbled to the ground.
Aemedd dismounted to study the thing, though he was grey-faced and bent, as if he'd aged twenty years along the way. A violent coughing fit interrupted him. Clinging to his walking staff, he sucked in a laboured breath and said, “Same workmanship. Stone from the Catsclaws. The mausoleum lies ahead.”
New energy surged through the group. Not a lot, but enough to carry our beaten-down selves into the temple complex. The rain stopped. The world grew quiet. Even insects seemed to avoid this place. The only sounds were our footsteps and Yazizi's whispered prayers.
No, on second thought, the rain hadn't simply stopped. The ground under my feet was dry.
The main structure was all but identical to the one we found in the Harari steppe. A squat, flat-topped pyramid of imported stone, greenish black in colour. Maybe a little smaller than the other. A cavernous doorway was left in the middle. No door, though, no protection against looters.
That worried me. Maybe in the steppe I could believe a place like this would be left untouched for hundreds or thousands of years, but not in country as populous as the North. We couldn't have been three leagues from the nearest town or village. They had to know this was here, and sooner or later someone would've come looking for treasure.
“Anyone who wishes to stay behind is welcome to do so,” said the woman as she threw back her hood. She climbed the steps to the doorway and, one by one, we followed her.
I heard Penn whisper, “Saints preserve us. What is this place?”
“A pagan temple,” said Faro. His voice was rough with pain, but he had a smile on his lips. “If you're lucky, we might let you be the blood sacrifice.”
I laughed. Sir Erroll, on the other hand, was not amused. He clouted the squire over the head with a stern warning about blasphemy, propriety and disrespect. We filed into the narrow passageway and stepped inside.
Unlike the other mausoleum, the passage spread out almost immediately. Torchlight flickered on wide carved walls, decorated from top to bottom with endless spirals. They gave me a headache looking at them. Fine mosaic tilework covered the floor with similar patterns, and in the centre, a huge dry fountain dominated the room. Three hexagonal tiers, stacked on top of each other and rotated a few degrees to create a spiral. Six strange, bulbous sculptures stood on the points of the bottom tier. I couldn't tell where the water was supposed to come out.
Along the walls were carved benches, interspersed with empty areas. Empty brackets and slots implied the gaps had once held bronze parts, now removed or rotted away. Probably stolen. Old chisel marks scarred the stone where those bronze parts had been.
“Fascinating,” said Aemedd. A little spring returned to his step. “This is completely different from the others. It looks more like a waiting room, or a place for entertaining guests. How little we know about this culture!” He took out a piece of parchment, sketching the room around him. “When I get back to Scholar's Hall, they'll make me headmaster, if not more...”
“If only we had time, Professor,” the woman said. She hadn't come here to play scholar. “Come. The reliquary must be further inside.”
Reluctantly, Aemedd agreed. We gave the fountain a wide berth and entered the passage at the far end of the room.
The floor plunged downward at an acute angle. The only way to navigate was by carved steps so thin they barely let me stand on tiptoes. Still, the thought of turning back or staying behind was unbearable. Nervous excitement kept us going, hearts thumping and breath shallow.
“I think I've hit bottom,” Sir Erroll called from the front. He helped everyone else down safely. Together, we filled the reliquary with torchlight.
It looked no different from the one on the steppe, and I imagined it used to be filled with bronze artwork, but nothing remained, not even scraps. Stone carvings littered the floor where some treasure-hunter had hacked them out of the wall and then not bothered to take them.
I heard Aemedd gasp in horror. He stared straight at the raised alcove, like where we had found Sir Erroll's shield. This one was empty. It had once contained a sculpture of a man's torso and arms, which lay in chunks at its base.
The woman was ashen-faced, and she quavered with a mixture of disbelief and rage. “Impossible. I accounted for all the pieces! If it were anywhere but here, I'd know about it!”
I tried to keep my wits, though I tasted the bitter disappointment as much as everyone else. “Some mountain-man may have taken it. We rarely even speak to the Catsclaw tribes. It could be decorating some chieftain's mantlepiece right now, and we'd never hear about it.”
“No, I refuse to accept that. I was‒”
Once again, everyone had forgotten about Adar. I didn't particularly want to remember him. I noticed movement from the corner of my eye, though, and went after it. He was rooting around in a pile of what I assumed was dust. I caught him by the shoulder. That same instant, he turned on me with an animal snarl, reaching to draw his sword. I clubbed that idea out of him with my other hand. The blow knocked him to the ground like a rag doll.
Faro hurried to Adar's side and kept a firm grip on the boy. Concerned for his little friend, perhaps, but also to make damn sure that sword stayed in its scabbard.
I nudged the peculiar dust pile with the tip of my boot. It made a dry clattering sound as it came apart. Decayed rags flaked away to nothing, and a tide of bones spilled out around my ankles. Human bones, old, picked clean of flesh. The femurs and forearms still bore decayed leather straps, one of which was attached to a beautifully-wrought vambrace. A plate forged from gleaming bronze, untouched by time.
What was left of the straps crumbled to dust as I picked up the artifact. “I think this is what the boy was after. Still here after all these years, with no one the wiser.”
Palpable relief rippled through the group, like we snatched victory out of the jaws of defeat. The woman studied our prize with huge eyes. So did Aemedd and Sir Erroll, with a little less wonder and a great deal more envy. Penn looked over their shoulders and kept his ears wide open.
Like the other pieces, the bracer was unmarked by any decoration. Its beauty lay in pure elegance of shape. It was curved in a way that confounded the eye, and something told me it would be a perfect fit for any human body you attached it to. I felt sorely tempted to try it on, but something told me that would provoke a fight I wasn't in any state to win.
“How did this fellow come to die here?” Penn wondered into the reverent silence.
His interruption shattered the magic of the moment, but it wasn't a bad question. Aemedd and the knight took it to heart and spread the bones out over the floor for a detailed examination. I looked too, but they were nothing but old bones to me.
“No edge marks,” said the scholar. He squinted and ran his fingertips along the rib cage. “No fractures. The body was positioned against the wall as if sitting or kneeling. There don't appear to be any signs of violence.”
Sir Erroll made a skeptical noise. “Could he have been poisoned?”
“Possible, but is it likely? As near as I can tell, this person simply laid down and died here. Also, 'he' is a woman. Was a woman.”
“Looting temples is hardly a woman's occupation. Are you sure you're not mistaken?”
“Qu
ite sure. The width and curvature of the pelvic bone alone...”
He trailed off in mid-sentence and began to cough. Great, wet, racking tremors that echoed off the stone walls. Fighting for breath, he waved the topic away as unworthy of further discussion. The knight took it as a moral victory.
When he managed to compose himself, Aemedd wheezed, “So who will take this piece?”
Sir Erroll crossed his arms, prepared to defend his position against all comers. “I'll take it. There's no reason why I couldn't carry two.”
“No, but on the other hand, Byren has the other piece of armour,” the woman pointed out, smooth and diplomatic. “After all, there is another artifact left to discover, which may be more suitable for a knight of your stature.”
“I‒ Are you certain that's wise, Milady?” His face had gone stiff. He did not like that suggestion.
“I am sure of very little at this point, Sir. Let me take some time to think and make a decision.” She gently lifted the artifact out of my hands. I regretted, even resented having to let it go. “I can keep this safe in the meantime.”
The knight kept himself in check, if only barely. He would never lose his temper with his would-be lady. Instead he inclined his head and grudgingly bowed out of the conversation. He shot me a withering glance as he turned away, sheer black hatred in his eyes.
The woman clapped her hands together. “We are tired,” she announced, smiling, magnanimous, “and we've earned a rest. Let's go upstairs. Master Byren, please see to it we have a fire. We'll march out in four hours.”
Four hours wasn't so much generous as desperately necessary. Most of us could barely walk. Only the woman showed no weakness, although I suspected that had more to do with indomitable will than physical stamina.
Back in the fountain room, we laid ourselves out on our cloaks, arranged in a semicircle around the entrance where the air was freshest. There was no point pretending to mount a guard. We collapsed, and slept.
I hadn't dreamt much lately. Nothing I could remember. Whenever I laid my head down to rest, I didn't have the energy to do anything but sleep like the dead.
This time, though... It was like dreaming and being awake at the same time. I lay staring up at the dark stone ceiling of the mausoleum. Heavy, oppressive. It felt like I couldn't breathe. I wanted to get up and run but my body refused to listen. Then the ceiling came towards me. I watched its slow, inexorable approach. Cold, so cold against my skin, pressing every last gasp of air from my chest.
Suddenly I was somewhere else. The awful ceiling was gone, but breathing was no easier. I turned my head to look around. Nothing. No walls, no floor, just inky darkness.
Something shared the nothing with me. I felt its presence, like being aware of a mountain in front of me even with my eyes closed. Something wicked, intelligent, but not quite alive. It observed me.
I screamed, clawed, kicked madly to get away. That was how I awoke, bathing in cold sweat.
“Byren,” someone yawned. “What's the matter?”
Clenching my teeth, I said, “Nothing. I'm going out for some air.”
I hadn't bothered to undress in the first place, so I just rolled off my cloak, picked it up and clasped it around my neck again. The night was too cold to go wandering for pleasure. Instead I leaned against the stone just inside the entrance and stared out. My head was still in a fog, throbbing. I drank the last of my wine to help clear it. Sweet, tingling alcohol drove out the last shreds of dream. Though frightening, it actually wasn't as nasty as my usual nightmares.
I glanced up at the moon and felt myself smile. The woman's four hours had already come and gone, and I wouldn't be the one to raise a shout. We needed this. Against trackers as good as the Dargha, more energy would do us better than a little extra lead time.
I threw the empty wineskin down with the rest of my makeshift pack and went to take a piss. Patted the horses as I passed them at the bottom of the steps. Sneezed a few times and cursed my worsening cold. Finally I relieved myself against the base of a broken pillar.
On my way back, I stopped. There was something funny about the horses. There weren't enough of them. Yazizi's palfrey on the right. Camel on the left. Empty space in between. The missing mare's load had been cut off and left on the ground, except our one and only salvaged saddle.
“No,” I whispered. “You wouldn't dare, you shit-eating son of a scorpion!”
I sprinted up the steps, vaulting them two at a time, and burst into the chamber. The little fire sputtered with just enough life to see their faces. I counted them and found one man missing.
I raised the shout. “Everyone, get up! We're in trouble!”
“What?” groaned Sir Erroll. He blinked red, puffy eyes at me. “Are we under attack?”
“We will be before long. Penn's gone. He took one of the horses.”
Sudden alarm woke him properly. He scrambled to his feet, wrestling with his sword-belt, and others followed his example. “Check your things! Is anything missing?”
The woman's expression was ugly, twisted in anger. I'd never seen her so furious. She knew damn well she'd pushed our luck a little bit too far. She said, “Our compass. Our charts.”
“The artifact?”
“No. He wouldn't have found it.” She rose and took charge again. “We have to assume Saldette will look for a Ducal search party and guide them back here. We have to leave.”
Groggy, confused, everyone gathered up their things and stumbled into the gentle moonlight. Yazizi went to make sure Zayara was alright. Sir Erroll took everything useful from the missing horse's pack and doled it out according to who was strongest. I ended up shouldering most of it. It felt like being back in the Army.
At last we got things ready. We started to set off, and not five steps out of the mausoleum, came to an abrupt halt. Everywhere around us, the silhouettes of Harari bowmen appeared out of the ruins, clad in furs and steppe armour. I counted at least a dozen, side by side with men in Ducal coats. They surrounded us, pinned us against the main structure without anywhere to run.
We drew weapons out of warrior's instinct, but in reality, we didn't stand a chance.
Two men rode forward from the pack, accompanied by a woman in boiled leather, her gleaming black hair so long that it draped down both sides of her saddle. I knew them by their voices.
“Well done, Sergeant,” said Penn Saldette. He nodded to the man next to him. “You made astonishing time. Your new friends continue to impress me.”
“Thank you. It has been a tiring ride for all of us. Lytziri here is amazed they've managed to evade us for so long.” Sergeant Arravis deigned to look at us for the first time. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, be so kind as to throw down your weapons. We can at least do this with honour.”
They left us no choice. Our weapons hit the ground one by one.
Nobody said a word until the woman came forward, brittle and ashen-faced, to offer our surrender.
We were prepared for a bitter walk, but this had to be one of the lowest moments of my life. Made to march behind the arse of some scruffy Harari's horse through endless icy drizzle. Stripped of my sword, my scabbard, my knife and my breastplate. I simmered with impotent rage. My bronze plate now dangled from Penn's saddle with the rest of our artifacts, clanking noisily at each step.
At least I was better off than Sir Erroll. He'd gone berserk when they tried to take his shield away, and it took a whole gang of them to club him to the ground. His face was a bloody mess. Defiance burned in the one eye that wasn't swollen shut.
And then there was Yazizi... She smouldered with raw, boiling hate. The Dargha
refused to go near her, and from the way she looked at them, I understood why. They'd lose a body part at least. It spoke to her self-control that she kept herself from launching at them tooth and nail.
“You like that girl?” asked the long-haired woman, Lytziri, riding next to me. I blushed but managed to find enough bottle to return her stare. Now that I could see her up close,
she turned out to be quite easy on the eyes, in that sharp-edged Harari way. Rangy and taut with muscle. She was a little bigger and broader than Yazizi, taller by an inch or two, and curved like sin.
She noticed the attention and smiled. “Maybe you like me too. Be careful. Not many Easterners can,” she searched for the right word, “handle a Harari.”
“Not many Harari can handle me,” I replied. I grabbed my crotch with bound hands and winked.
That made her grin. It was tough to tell in the dark, but I almost thought I saw a flush on her smoke-coloured cheeks. Then she kicked her horse in the sides and sped away.
The sound of crude Harari jokes and raucous laughter began to wear on my nerves after a while. They interspersed it with singing, deep guttural chants with a lot of triumphant notes. I noticed the Duke's boys didn't join in. They didn't sing their own songs, and kept their distance from the Dargha. Cooperation, but not friendship. I wondered how I could use that against them.
The thought kept me busy, but it was wasted effort. We crested a rocky hill and found a valley on the other side, just visible in the diffuse moonlight. A road ran through it, not much more than a cart track, leading to a small town. Much of it was guarded by a palisade, with only rude shacks and farmer's cottages outside the wall. At the centre of the town, an earthwork mound rose up amidst the thatch roofs, topped by a small stone keep. A few tiny flickers of firelight seeped out through its shutters.
The woman stopped beside me. As a lady, they allowed her the dignity to walk without ropes or chains. “Any idea where we are?” she whispered.
I shook my head. “There's dozens of these in the North. Simple motte and bailey. Ditches shallow and poorly dug. Too much construction close to the keep. Probably belongs to a local knight who's too old or comfortable to maintain it properly. If I had to guess, I'd say we came a league or two south-east.”
Written in Blood Page 23