“Yes, my master,” Omar said. Rage burned on his face, and Kallia saw Cragyn lose whatever ally he’d held in the khalif of Ter. “You promised I would hold the scepter.” He looked at Kallia. “It’s mine. Rightfully mine. She stole it from me.”
“And so you will. Let it not be said that I break promises.” Cragyn took the scepter from his pasha, considered it for a moment, then handed it to Omar, who grabbed it eagerly, triumph on his face.
But the dark wizard didn’t release his hold. Omar cried in pain and tried to hurl the thing away, but his grip remained fixed. Smoke rose from his hands and the smell of charred flesh. The black metal glowed like a horse shoe in the blacksmith’s forge, and still Omar couldn’t let go. He screamed and thrashed his arms, trying to free them. At last, Cragyn released his hold. Omar fell to the ground, the scepter clattering next to him where it continued to smoke.
Cragyn said, “There, now you have held the scepter in your hands. And you will rule over Balsalom, as well. By tonight, your head will sit on a pike atop the tallest tower in the city. For thirty days nobody shall pass your head without bowing to the ground and praising your name to the Brothers.”
“No,” Omar said, shaking his head. “No, you can’t do this. I gave her to you, I delivered the city like I promised. I did everything you wanted. You can’t do this to me. You promised!” he shrieked, scrambling forward on knees and bloodied hands to grovel in front of the wizard. One of Cragyn’s pashas held him away with a boot.
“I can’t have a traitor in my midst,” Cragyn explained. “Forever plotting and scheming.” He shook his head. “A king should surround himself with servants he can trust. Isn’t that so, my queen?” He waved his hands. “Kallia, dismiss your guards. We have much to discuss.”
Kallia obeyed.
Saldibar pulled himself from Cragyn’s pashas, and made his way to the throne, then removed the amulet from around his neck and put it in her hand.
Saldibar said, “Lamaran is the best of your subministers, but many others would do just as well. I trust you will accept my resignation. I can no longer serve you.”
She rubbed her thumb over the smooth opal and let the chain dangle from her palm. The pendant had been in his family for generations. She started to protest, but caught a significant glance from the grand vizier. Kallia looked back at the pendant and remembered.
Saldibar had hollowed the back of the pendant to hold a small quantity of dragon’s breath, an herb that could deaden a wound, when boiled. Before cooking, however, it could be ground into a poisonous powder. Saldibar insisted that his spies carry the means to kill themselves if captured and had taken the same obligation upon himself.
She placed the pendant around her neck. “You have served me well, Saldibar. May your days end in peace.”
Kallia doubted this. Within a few days, perhaps sooner, the grand vizier would be killed or sold into slavery as Cragyn brought his own ministers to run the city. But she wouldn’t be alive to see this happen. Tomorrow morning, after the wedding, she would retire to her rooms and inhale the dragon’s breath.
She looked down at her brother, still simpering on the ground. She felt no anger, only sorrow. Yes, her heart ached for him. He’d sold everything he held dear, and for what? His last moments would not be pleasant. Death itself would be no release. When the people learned how he’d betrayed Balsalom his very name would become a curse word.
She turned to the wizard. “Now, high khalif—may you live forever—what would you like to discuss?”
Chapter V
DARIK, WHELAN AND MARKAL HURRIED through the Tombs of the Kings, eager to reach the Tothian Way. Obelisks rose from the sand like the skeletal fingers of giants, while mastabas loomed overhead, the rising sun casting long, grasping shadows that caught the three interlopers in a chill grasp. One mastaba lay in a pile of rubble, each of its broken stones twenty feet long and taller than Whelan. The broken bones of an old wall cut a western-stretching line as far as Darik could see, past the sand and into a tangle of scrubby brush. The Tothian Way lay beyond that brush, Markal said.
Just as well. Darik had no wish to linger.
They had to reach the Way before the dark wizard secured the roads all the way to the mountains. If Cragyn captured the Way before King Daniel moved, half the war would be lost already. They didn’t know how much time they had, but Markal feared that it might already be too late to slip through undetected. The sun rose high, burning away the fog.
They had camels waiting up the road, Markal said. But what did camels mean to Darik’s pursuit of Sanctuary? He knew the rules, or thought he did: arrive under his own power with no possessions. If he rode to the Citadel, he would remain a slave in name if not in fact. Or had that been a lie like everything else the two men told him? He’d ask about Sanctuary when he thought he could trust them again.
They stopped to rest in the shade of a broken granite slab at the edge of the Tombs of the Kings. They’d passed a single obelisk a hundred yards back and Darik had assumed that was the end of the tombs until they reached this last monument that rose from a drift of sand like an upright hand, certainly man-made now that he looked at it more closely.
Darik rubbed his tongue along the roof of his mouth. It was thick with sand and dried spit. “No water anywhere, is there?”
Whelan shook his head. “None left. Another two hours. There’s food, too. Come, hurry.”
Suddenly Whelan dropped to the ground. He emerged in a crouch and looked around him. “Get down!” he said. He pulled his sword from its sheath in a single, smooth motion.
Markal grabbed Darik and pulled him to the ground. “What is it? Wights?”
“Something,” Whelan said. “Soultrup is ready to fight.” He held the two-handed sword nimbly between two hands and looked about him with the deadly grace of a cobra. “But what?”
“I don’t see anything,” Darik started to say.
But just as he did, the sword flew from Whelan’s hand, even as the man let out a gasp. Darik ducked as the sword flew directly at him. It soared over his shoulder and struck the broken slab of rock with a terrific shower of sparks. They cringed away from the light and only slowly rose to look at the sword.
Whelan whistled low. “By the Brothers. Look at that.”
The sword had thrust directly into the stone as if it were a firkin of cheese. Only the hilt stuck out. Darik ran his hand along the granite. It was solid under his hand.
Whelan grabbed the sword and pulled it out of the stone with a grunt, his muscles tensing in his shoulders and arms. It closed behind the sword, leaving no mark on the stone. “What do you think, wizard?”
“I don’t like it,” Darik said. “Let’s go. Hurry.”
“Wait just a minute,” Markal said. He looked back at the rock. Markal rubbed his hand against the stone, brushing away the sand to reveal words in the old script, eroded by time and the elements. He examined the words for a minute. “Interesting.”
“What is it?” Darik asked, still nervous, but the wizard ignored him.
Markal’s left hand no longer looked dead, but its flesh remained pink and tender, and it trembled when he unflexed it. He examined his right hand—his good hand—wistfully before lifting it and placing it against the standing stone. Now Whelan looked nervous, and opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.
“Et horgach katoth!”
The stone groaned and rocked on its foundations. They jumped back to avoid being crushed. The stone fell with a heavy thud on the ground. A small hole, just wide enough for a man to crawl through, opened where the stone had once stood.
Markal groaned, clutching his right hand, which shriveled and blackened. He looked up with watering eyes. “So much energy for such simple magic.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not the greatest of wizards.” He flexed his left hand, now his strongest, wincing. “This hand will have to do.”
Whelan drew his sword. “I’ll come with you. There might be scuttlings down there.”
Markal went head-first down the hole, sandaled-feet pausing in the sunlight for a moment before disappearing. A scraping sound came from the hole, then nothing.
Darik looked anxiously back toward the tombs, half-expecting to see mounted pursuit at their backs. “What’s he doing down there?”
Whelan shrugged. “Who knows? He’s a wizard. If you haven’t guessed yet, a wizard’s not the best traveling companion.”
Markal was gone for about ten minutes, then they heard the scraping sound again as he maneuvered his way back through the hole. He pushed out a bundle wrapped in worm-eaten leather, battered by time and its journey out of the tomb. Markal’s head and shoulders appeared a moment later. Whelan reached and dragged the wizard into the light, where he sat blinking.
“What a miserable hole.” Markal unwrapped the bundle. It was some kind of book, built of steel sheets bound by metal rings. He thumbed through a couple of the leaves. “Time enough later, I suppose. Darik, will you carry it?”
“How did you know it was down there?” Darik asked, lifting the tome with a grunt. It was heavier than it looked.
Whelan said, “I told you, he’s a wizard. Best not to ask too many questions.”
But Markal answered anyway. “I didn’t know. But the tome whispered in my mind while I was standing in the shade, saying, ‘Come find me, if you can.’” He sighed. “Alas, I ignored it. I’m somewhat deaf to such things. No, that’s not right. I can hear well enough when I’m awake, but I’m half asleep most of the time.”
“The book talked to you?” Darik said, wondering how this was possible.
Markal shrugged. “It wanted to be found, I suppose. Badly enough that it called Soultrup to wake me up. I once knew a wizard named Memnet the Great who had a glass sphere that was the focal point of his magic. But Memnet didn’t make the sphere, it simply appeared on his table one day while he studied in the library. He never figured out where it came from.”
Markal continued, “Whelan found his sword in much the same way. The sword chose him.” He caught Darik looking at the sword. “Yes, it’s a magical blade—how do you suppose we drove off the wights?”
Whelan reached a hand over his shoulder and placed it on the hilt, but didn’t offer any further details. Darik wondered if Markal had touched a sore spot in the man.
Never mind, since Markal was perfectly willing to tell the story for him. “Once, when he fought in battle, his adversary had beat him down and was about to kill Whelan, when the enemy’s sword flung itself free from his grip and landed in Whelan’s hand.” He paused. “There’s more, of course, but I guess Whelan can share those details if he wishes.”
Whelan turned his back. “Why should I, when you are perfectly willing to tell the tale?”
But Markal had apparently tired of the story. He said, “In any event, I have no idea what’s in the tome but there will be time enough for that later. Just don’t try to read it until I find out what it is. Come.”
“Yes, let’s go,” Whelan said. “Enough talk.” He looked anxious, anticipating something. And not merely fear of pursuit, Darik decided.
“What is it?” Darik asked. “What is the matter?”
“The Desolation of Toth. We’ll reach it tonight after we replenish our supplies,” Whelan said.
The Desolation of Toth marked the boundary between the Western Khalifates and the mountains. If not for the Tothian Way dividing the dead lands, the Desolation would be impassable. As it was, men passed through quickly without looking to either side. Many a trader had stepped from the road and been driven mad by what he’d seen. Darik’s father had despised the place.
Darik caught a glance between Markal and Whelan. It wasn’t just the Desolation, he decided. What new secret were they hiding?
“What?” he asked. “What is it? Tell me.”
Whelan sighed. “My own personal burden, Darik. Come, all this talk will rouse the dead. Look! I can see the Way.”
Darik didn’t press further. As he followed the two men, Darik noticed that the tome had a curious property. It was back-breakingly heavy at first, but the more he carried it, the lighter it became. He liked carrying it, could hear the book whispering in his mind. Whelan asked later if Darik wanted him to carry it for a stretch, but he said he was all right. Indeed, he didn’t want to let the book out of his hands.
They passed onto the Tothian Way. The road was wide and well-drained, with bricks so smoothly cut that they might have been laid four days ago instead of four centuries; the three companions made excellent time even on foot. They passed a number of small yeoman farms, irrigated fields of wheat waving in the wind.
Several times Markal took them into the fields as small groups of riders came and went along the Way. The riders were Veyrians, in crimson and black. Whelan found a well in one of these fields, and they took the opportunity to wash away the filth of the sewage aqueduct and rinse their clothes. In the dry heat of the day, their clothing dried quickly. They kept walking.
The Tothian Way stretched like a flat ribbon on the plain. There was no sign of the western mountains that they called the Dragon’s Spine. For now, the plain was all, dry and dusty.
They left the Way just when Darik thought his feet could walk no more. A dirt road led from the main road, cutting through a copse of cork and olive trees. Beyond the trees sat a sturdy mudstone house, corners anchored by timbers, with windows on both floors, and a flat roof. A placard with a sleeping camel hung from the door, which meant that the house served as an inn for travelers.
Whelan tensed when he saw the building. He licked his lips and glanced back at Markal.
“Go ahead,” Markal urged. “You saw him in the bazaar. Nothing happened then.”
“That was different,” Whelan said, voice straining. “We all worried that he’d been followed. We had no time for argument.”
Darik frowned and looked from one man to the other. He wanted to ask, but thought better of the idea.
Whelan walked toward the front door, then hesitated before pounding his fist against the wood. Three hard knocks. After a minute, he pounded again. Another three knocks. He repeated this a third time. At last, a slat slid open three quarters the way up the door and a pair of eyes peered out. The door opened a moment later to reveal a short, muscular man who looked familiar somehow.
“Whelan.”
“Ethan.”
The two men eyed each other, each standing stiffly. Whelan clenched and unclenched his right hand and Darik feared he would reach over his shoulder to draw his sword and cut the man in two. And then Ethan grabbed Whelan in a fierce hug. The two men burst into laughter and Markal and Darik joined them. The broken tension left Darik with an overwhelming sense of release, even though he had no idea what had just passed between the men.
“My captain,” Ethan said.
“Brother,” Whelan insisted. “There is more between us than titles.”
Ethan’s face turned grim. “I’ve felt your exile more than any, brother. But what the Free Kingdoms need now is not my brother, but leaders. So I will call you captain.”
Darik recognized Ethan at last. “You! You’re the man from the bazaar. The one who haggled with Markal.”
Ethan smiled. “The bread was as good as the wizard promised.”
Darik shook his head, remembering how Markal had feigned ignorance of the secret communication played between the two brothers. The only one played for a fool had been himself.
Whelan asked, “Is Ninny all right? And Scree?”
“Ninny’s fine. Your falcon, too. Here, I’m sorry. Come inside. There have been riders all morning. It’s not safe.”
“Not safe at all,” Markal agreed. “You’ll have to leave here and return with us to the mountains.”
“Here, let me take that.” Ethan grabbed the bundle from Darik, who held it a moment too long before realizing that he was resisting. Ethan frowned at the weight.
&nb
sp; “Ah, good,” Whelan said. Some of the tenseness of the last few hours slipped from his face. Whoever Ninny was—a favorite horse, Darik supposed—the man had obviously worried a great deal about her.
The farmhouse was larger than it looked and pleasantly cool after the heat outside. The window slats were drawn closed to ward away visitors, but tallow candles burned in niches in the walls. A tapestry hung on one wall, a man on a horse following a pack of baying hounds that chased a hart with an arrow sticking from its haunch.
“You’ll want to set out tonight, won’t you? Come upstairs and tell me what happened. But here, the boy looks ill,” Ethan said, with a glance at Darik.
“Yes, of course,” Markal said.
All at once, Darik was weak from hunger, thirst and heat exhaustion. Whelan caught his arm and helped him to a chair just inside the threshold.
Ethan told him, “Follow the hall to the dining room. The girl will give you whatever you need.”
Darik looked at Markal and Whelan, uncertain, but they nodded their approval. “We’ll be upstairs,” Whelan said. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”
The three men climbed a staircase to the upper floor. Disappointed to be left behind like a child, but relieved at the chance to eat, Darik made his way into the dining hall. It was a small room with three tables and a stack of wine kegs in the corner. Several cheeses and a pair of pheasants hung from hooks over the wine. His stomach rumbled in anticipation. Beyond the hall, the inviting smells of a kitchen; someone whistled and he could hear the distinctive sound of bread being kneaded around the corner. He debated taking a mug and helping himself to some wine, but thought better of it.
“Excuse me.”
A girl appeared around the corner, younger than he’d expected. She was about twelve, thin and waifish like so many of the serving girls in his father’s kitchens. He didn’t want to assume too much, however, she might well be Ethan’s daughter.
She eyed him curiously, and, he thought, fearfully. “Did Ethan let you in?”
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 286