by Dave Duncan
The man in the bow yawned. “Soon be morning. Wonder what time we’ll get to Tryfors?” Then he said, “Mogranth?”
Deeper, Mogranth! Sleep deeper than you ever have.
“Mogranth?” Truk repeated. “Leader’ll have your balls for knucklebones. Moggie! Wake up!”
Silence.
Grumbling, Truk rose and worked his way aft, stepping around cargo and the prostrate seer. “Moggie!” He bent to shake his friend’s shoulder and Fabia scratched the gunwale with her fingernails.
Huh? He looked to see, found two eyes in the darkness …
Sleep!
He grunted, registered a mild alarm …
Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
Truk settled like an autumn leaf alongside Mogranth. She drove them both down deep into coma and then drifted away to hide behind another boat, knowing that Dantio had been watching from the far side of the channel and must have seen what had happened, even if he could not be certain why.
“You’re sure?” That was Orlad, who did not know how well even whispers traveled over water.
“You could cut their ears off and they wouldn’t waken.”
In a moment two pairs of eyes came floating over, predatory water beasts stalking prey. The brothers waded ashore between the third and fourth boats. Fabia stood up to watch. They climbed in over the gunwale and Dantio knelt to waken the woman beside the mast. She was white-haired and seemed very small alongside the two men.
“What? Mist, Mist! This is wonderful! I was frightened you might try something like this.” She spoke softly but obviously had no worries of being overheard. “And you are a close relative, so you must be Orlando.”
“Orlad!” Orlad said. “Give me room, Anto.” He took her chain in both hands and strained.
“Where’s Benard? And your sister?”
“Benard’s looking after Ingeld, of course,” Dantio said. “Fabia is around here … somewhere.” He was probably thinking quite close.
Brother Orlad’s shoulders grew steadily larger until a bronze link snapped with a sharp crack. He chuckled and lifted Witness Tranquility in both arms as if she weighed nothing. With two quick steps he jumped over the side of the boat to land silently on the grass. “You will have to get wet, lady,” he said, wading into the river.
“You think I mind that, Hero? I am so grateful to you both!”
Dantio followed them into the water. “And New Dawn is on its way.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman said. “Can’t you see them?”
A seer had no trouble finding the way back to Free Spirit’s camp, and all Fabia had to do now was follow. The mission had been a complete success, and yet the fruits of victory left a sour aftertaste.
She had killed Master Pukar in self-defense when he tried to rape her. She had killed Perag Hrothgatson in an act of justice for his murder of Paola Apicella. Now she had doomed two men to certain death in order to rescue an abused old lady. Each time the rationale grew weaker. Where would it end? Was she fated to become another Queen of Shadows?
HETH HETHSON
was awakened by a faint tap. He had been sleeping soundly through a barrage of much louder raps, squeaks, wails, and creaks as a moorland wind howled around Nardalborg, but this was business. He was off his sleeping platform and across the room before he was truly awake. A dim predawn light showed around the window shutter. He opened the door a finger-width. Inevitably, the caller was Frath Thranson, leader of white pack, which had the guard tonight.
“My lord, perimeter patrol reports a sighting. Seven warbeasts pulling a sled, my lord. Approaching Cleft Rock.”
Heth said, “Wait.” He recrossed the room, shivering now, and by touch found the stool on which his pall lay ready folded. His wife Femund had not moved, but he knew from her breathing that she was awake. Aided by a lifetime’s practice, he wrapped himself while pushing his feet into his shoes.
He had instituted perimeter patrol very soon after being promoted to lead Nardalborg Hunt. Hostleader Therek, who disapproved of anyone else’s ideas on principle, had sneered: “Who are you afraid of?” That was back in the years when the family had stamped out the last opposition in Vigaelia and the Florengian Mutineer was still no more than an annoyance.
Heth had said, “Only holy Weru, my lord. But it keeps the men on their toes and exercises the stock. And if we ever do have concern that some enemy may try to sever our communications with your noble brother, then we shall not have to seem weak by introducing such precautions at that time.”
The satrap had walked away and never mentioned the subject again, which was his way of giving approval. Every night since then, except in truly lethal weather, a team of twelve men and three mammoths had patrolled the environs of Nardalborg.
The door pivots squealed as Heth opened it, and louder as he closed it. Frath handed him a fur cloak.
“When did this wind get up?”
“Very suddenly, my lord. Less than a pot-boiling ago.”
No sane enemy would launch an assault in such a gale, but there might have been no way to recall it once it had started. The two men strode the gloomy corridor with Frath’s lantern dragging their shadows along the stonework.
“You did say a sled?”
“Yes, my lord. Four pulling it, he said, and the others escorting.”
Heth had known his sins would come home to roost eventually. He had just not expected them this soon. It was only two days since he had bundled Flankleader Orlad’s former classmates into a makeshift flank and sent them off to Tryfors to back up the boy if the satrap tried to carry out his mad threats. That had not been the official purpose of the expedition, of course, but the brighter ones had guessed what was required of them. Strictly speaking, Heth had not been disobeying orders, but he had certainly exceeded his authority and sought to frustrate his commanding officer’s intentions. The timing was tight but possible. Counting Orlad, twelve warriors had departed. Only seven returning? The sled might hold wounded, but a Werist either died or healed himself. If he needed to be carried, he had been maimed for life. Heth would have to justify five men lost, not counting casualties on the other side. Therek would have his liver for breakfast. He might find himself leading Caravan Six over the Edge, leaving Femund and the children forever.
His shadow led him up the stairs. Frath followed with his lantern.
Whatever was making them traverse the snowbound moors at night and in battleform? Such a suicidal overexertion could only be justified by a foe breathing on one’s collar. Therek’s men in hot pursuit? The future looked seriously uninviting.
“What flank?”
“Rear, my lord.” Frath’s voice raised hollow echoes in the staircase.
That was good. Flankleader Verinkar was an excellent youngster, first choice to be promoted the next time Nardalborg Hunt needed a packleader. He would keep his head no matter who or what he had met out there.
Because another possibility was that Heth’s old pessimism might be justified at last. For the last two years, he had been picking up rumors of desertions among forces being posted to Florengia and this summer the losses had become blatant. Men had arrived grumbling about whole packs disappearing. One flank coming overland from the south claimed to be the only remnant of an entire hunt that had failed to reach Tryfors. Heth had listened, questioned, and had his tallyman tally for him. Whenever he had tried to discuss the matter with his father, Therek had refused to listen. Heth had even considered sending a letter directly to Saltaja, in Skjar. He might do so yet, as soon as the downstream winds began to blow. That would be a second act of insubordination, but this was his problem more than anyone’s. Desertion on such a scale required an overall conspiracy, a revolution brewing, and in the past rebels had often chosen to start by trying to cut Stralg’s supply line through Nardalborg.
So had a new revolution started? If it had, the rebels’ timing was bad. Not only was Nardalborg Hunt up to strength, but there were another four sixty packed into the fort, waiting to move out in Caravan
Six. Heth could put up a good fight.
The night air was waiting for him outside the door like an ocean of ice water. Shuddering, he stepped out on the wall. Eastward the solar corona was rising in a black and star-salted sky, blazing silver, breathtakingly beautiful. Red and green auroras danced silent minuets overhead, while to the west a pinkish wall of cloud with brighter towers and battlements told of doldrum weather seaward. Behind him stretched the frosted roofs of the fortress. The open ground between it and the town was washed by billows of blowing snow. Almost anything could creep in under that blanket, except it would freeze to death on the way.
A well-muffled picket saluted.
“See anything?” Heth growled. Another warbeast should be on its way from Verinkar by now.
The boy pointed. “My lord is kind. A mammoth approaching, my lord. Flankleader Hrankag ran down to report.”
What? Heth’s neck prickled. Had Verinkar gone crazy? The drill was that the patrol leader would send back a warbeast to report a sighting. If the intruders seemed peaceable, then he had authority to make contact and establish their identity before sending a second warbeast to Nardalborg. Breaking up the formation by detaching a mammoth was a flagrant breach of standing orders. Breath smoking, Heth turned to Packleader Frath. “Sound general quarters.”
Frath gaped. Then his training asserted itself and he vanished down the stairs, leaving the door wide.
“You’ll have company in a moment,” Heth told the sentry. “Meanwhile, keep your eyes skinned. We may be under attack.” He headed for the door.
“My lord is kind. Two more mammoths following, my lord. Just coming into view.”
Heth’s eyes were watering too much for him to see such detail at that distance in that light. Baffled, he stared into the night. “You sure?”
“Not certain, my lord. Think so.”
“Well done! You understand that either those are not our mammoths, or the wrong people are riding them?”
“My lord is kind. Rear flank is all dead, my lord, you mean?”
“We must assume so.” If Flankleader Verinkar was not, Heth would have to kill him.
When the sun’s edge blazed up over the horizon and the sky abruptly turned indigo, every Hero in the Nardalborg Hunt was at battle stations, meaning that most of them were lining the walls. The men of Caravan Six, under Acting Huntleader Zarpan, were on standby. Heth had ordered two more mammoths sent out, but they had not yet left the pens. Lacking time to evacuate the town, he had sent right flank of gold pack over there to misinform the civilians that the alert was merely a drill.
In fact, it was obviously a false alarm. If a horde of warbeasts were to come racing in over the snow it would have done so before now, but Heth was not about to order the recall sounded until he understood what was going on. No problem that required him to put a man to death could be dismissed as trivial.
Perversely, the wind had dropped as suddenly as it had arisen. Heth stood on the wall and watched the three mammoths approaching, one in front, two a long way behind. He could recognize Rosebud, the bull in the lead, and the Nastrarian mahout astride its neck, but mammoths’ backs sloped so steeply that the howdahs were not visible. However, the scouts he had sent out had identified Rosebud’s passengers as Rear Flankleader Verinkar and two of his men, plus an unknown man heavily wrapped in furs. Heth spoke a prayer to Weru that it be Satrap Therek, the only man with authority to override his standing orders.
And now another scout was returning, streaking across the snow with sunlight flashing on his brass collar. He skirted the bull at a safe distance and stopped directly below the great gate. He shimmered and stood up as a naked young man with his face screwed up in the agony of retroforming.
Frath, his packleader, glanced at Heth for permission and then shouted, “Come on up, Tukrin.”
Extruded talons on his hands and feet, the lad scrambled up the timber gate, sending splinters flying. He worked his way over the overhang of the lintel, and then up the stonework above it. A moment later he was on the battlements, fully human again, puffing and sweating. He would have had an easier climb if he had bypassed the gate and climbed straight up the vertical wall, but it had been a good chance to show off.
“Report, warrior.” Frath handed him back his pall, so he could wrap up.
“My lord is kind. The rest of rear flank is riding on Strident. Dungheap carries seven men I do not recognize. I saw three brass collars and assume the other four are Werists also, because none of them have any clothes on. They are sort of heaped, my lord. For warmth?”
Frath said, “My lord?”
Heth nodded. “Well done, Hero. Anything else?”
“I do think the strangers are in a bad way, unconscious.”
Hardly surprising if they had traveled far in battleform.
More diffidently, the boy added, “My lord is kind …”
“Yes?”
“I saw the civilian aboard Rosebud, my lord. She looked at me as I was coming back and I think I know her.”
Her? Heth said, “Go on,” but he had guessed the answer.
“I believe it is the lady Saltaja, my lord. I saw her some years ago when she visited Tryfors.”
She had been pointed out to Heth there too, perhaps on the same occasion. She had visited her brother in the city three or four times in the last fifteen years, but had never come on to Nardalborg. What was she fleeing now that she would run men to death to outdistance pursuit? Had she fled all the way from Skjar? From Kosord? Or just from Tryfors? Therek had not mentioned that she was coming. Where was Therek now? Was he besieged in Tryfors? Or perhaps falling back on Nardalborg?
Heth said, “Very well done. Frath, you and your men may stand down, but you remain on alert.” He beckoned his other packleaders forward and addressed Ruthur, who had first day watch. “Sound the recall.”
“My lord is—”
“We remain on high alert. Put your men and black pack on extended perimeter patrol. Concentrate on the Tryfors road, but don’t neglect other approaches. If they see anything unusual, anything at all, they are to report by warbeasts in pairs. I’ll have Caravan Six men take over battlement watch. Blue pack will evacuate the town. Move all the people into the fort, and as much livestock as you can. Irig, red pack is to stand down but remain on call. This is not a drill! Dismissed.”
The officers ran to obey. Eldritch howls announced the recall. Heth turned to stare at the mammoth lumbering up the road to the gate. He was tempted to leave it shut and send his aunt away. Hostleader Therek rarely confided in his last surviving son, but sometimes when seriously drunk he mumbled and maundered about Saltaja and his childhood. He feared her more than Weru. He muttered darkly that she was a Chosen and his mother, not his sister, although sometimes he said she was both. He thought she had murdered Hrag, his father, and the only reason he refused to acknowledge Heth was to keep him out of her clutches. So he said.
Alas, Therek was not the man he had been.
“She got Hrag, Stralg, and Nars,” he would say, naming his three dead sons. “You stay away from her!”
The two relief mammoths had left the pens at last and were striding over the snow toward Dungheap and Strident. Soon there would be a patrol out on the perimeter again, and that was a relief. Heth trotted down the stairs. He must warn Femund that she would have company to entertain. He must have meat and blankets made ready for the Queen of Shadows’ escort, those that had survived their ordeal.
The thought of dealing with Flankleader Verinkar made him feel ill. The lad was not stupid enough to think that his huntleader’s standing orders could be ignored to satisfy some whim of the satrap’s sister. He had taken an appalling risk when he broke up the string with only one Nastrarian on his patrol. So far the two cows were following their bull home out of habit, but they might easily change their stupid minds before the replacement Nastrarians reached them. Then they would make a run for freedom. Heth had seen it happen, and sooner or later the brutes would roll to get rid of their
howdahs. That also disposed of the passengers.
Verinkar was guilty of flagrant dereliction of duty. If he were crazy enough to enter the fort, he must be put under arrest, but no Werist would submit to that on a capital charge. There would have to be a bloodbath.
BENARD CELEBRE
needed only a few seconds to dress—tie one loin cloth, grab two sandals—before he could wriggle out the door of the tent to see who was dismantling it and who was doing all the shouting. The sun was just rising in a narrow streak of sky between mountains and a roof of cloud. The island camp was in chaos.
“Wait a moment!” he shouted at the two sailors pulling up the tent pegs. “My wife isn’t—”
But she was, if only just. The tent was whisked away and there was Ingeld, kneeling while wriggling into a dress, her copper head just emerging from the top of it. People were yelling and running in all directions. Benard dropped to his knees and began stuffing things in the clothes bag. Even a dumb Hand could guess that the boat was about to leave.
“Don’t pack that yet! I need it!” Ingeld snatched back her comb. However gorgeous, long hair became a notable eyesore when badly tousled.
Dantio came staggering past carrying a rolled tent. Benard leaped up and blocked his way.
“What—”
“—is happening?” His brother grinned widely. “Horold’s tribe of goons has discovered that Witness Tranquility got stolen away in the night. He is spitting blood and bones. He’s ordered the islands searched. We think it wiser not to be here when he arrives.” He tried to slip past and met the same wall of brother again.
“You mean you rescued her? You and who else?”
“Orlad kept me company, telling jokes.”
Benard growled, unamused. “Where’s this New Dawn you promised us?”
Dantio glanced eastward. “Close. Not quite close enough, unfortunately. If you want to help, brother …” He heaved his massive bundle at Benard, who foolishly caught it and was left holding it.