Dragon Lord Zhintin exited, fastening Rylin with a significant look he didn’t understand before heading for the doors. Zhintin shut them behind him.
The general met Rolk’s stern gaze, almost in defiance, for a long time, and then cleared his throat. He was doing his best not to look nervous, and failed. Rylin wondered if Rolk served as advisor or even monitor for Mazakan. “I appreciate your reminders of the god king’s policies,” the general said. “But I think Mazakan would be far more upset if we failed to send the dragons to Vedessus than if we anger a few cringing fae by killing their useless ones.”
Rylin glanced at the graybeard beside him and watched him nodding his agreement. He looked neither cowed nor frightened.
The general’s eyes then settled upon Rylin, who released his hold on the inner world, still doubtful about the amount of energy left him. A few more moments, probably. He wished he could be certain.
“What of the dragon felled by the Altenerai who fled?” the general asked him.
Rylin sought for meaning in his question. The Altenerai who fled? He stared, feeling immensely stupid as he tried to parse out a meaning.
At last it came to him. The Naor had seen him, Rylin, fighting the ko’aye on Lelanc, then witnessed Cerai departing upon Lelanc, and concluded that it had been the same person.
“Your report,” the general snapped. “What’s the dragon’s condition?”
By the gods—he’d hoped the beast he fought was destroyed. Did that question mean that it hadn’t been? He didn’t have any way of knowing how it might be healed, or what it might take to do so. Yet the general didn’t seem to appreciate bad news or challenge and he already looked irritated. The most important thing was to escape this meeting alive, and the odds of that would improve if he kept the general happy.
So he lied boldly. “Far better than expected, General. Little damage was sustained at the wings, which as you know, are especially delicate. The rib bones and supporting muscles are larger but much easier to heal because they’re simpler structures.” He hoped that sounded authoritative and vaguely technical, as he expected someone immersed in their field would sound.
It might have pleased the general. He wasn’t sure, because he didn’t smile. The man nodded once. “How long will it require?”
Damn. What would a realistic assessment be? Was the man expecting hours? Days? Weeks? He guessed. “At worst, three days.”
“Three days?” Rolk asked. He nodded to himself and there was no missing his grunt of pleasure as he addressed the general. “I expected it would be far worse.”
“A good weaver can surprise you,” the woman, Vannek, said, then glanced down the table at Rylin.
“You said worst,” the general prodded. “What’s the best estimate?”
Damn. He’d hoped this scrutiny was nearly over. He’d have to keep the lies coming. Fortunately for his oath, he was speaking to the enemy during wartime. “If I have the support, sir, I might manage that in half the time.” As he spoke, he realized how he might use the circumstance he found himself in to his advantage. “Though I will need a large number of prisoners for olech, to power the healing.”
Rolk drummed fingers on the table, frowned, then nodded. “I’m impressed, Talkus.”
The general continued. “Follow Zhintin and tell him to give you authority to acquire however much olech for your own needs. Go, now.”
“Yes, General.” Rylin rose, nearly tripping over his cape. As he turned his back, the semblance faded. It didn’t run out with a pop or anything obvious, but he felt it slide away, and looked down to see the sapphire visible upon his hand as he reached for the door latch.
4
Beyond the Wall
Rylin bowed his head, fist pressed to his mouth to cough even as he dug into the pouch at his side. Would they see him? Would they notice that beneath the cape and hat of this Talkus fellow was a broader Altenerai?
The general was already questioning another officer, but what were the others doing? Would they see him fumbling at his belt rather than carrying out the order to exit?
His hands closed upon his semblance and he sent the image of Talkus into the thing and brought it upon himself as he opened the door.
The guards outside stared at him. What did they see? Had it worked? He closed the door as if everything were normal, and the sentries came to attention.
He frowned at them and stalked past, only then glancing down at his hand to see the sapphire ring absent. The first semblance, though, was likewise very low on power.
He found Dragon Lord Zhintin waiting outside only a few feet beyond the sentries. The man motioned him forward and began walking along the lane in front of the dragons. Rylin worried only a moment that he’d been found out.
“You survived your encounter with the general, then?” Zhintin asked in a low voice. “He must have been in a forgiving mood.”
“He told me to round up prisoners for an olech.”
Zhintin stopped in his tracks. “Did you actually tell him you could repair the wyrm with blood energy?”
“He suggested it; I accepted and departed.”
Zhintin shook his head in sympathy. “That’s going to go poorly for you. How long do you have?”
“Three days.”
“Three days? Zhendek’s balls. You’d need three weeks, at least, unless we could somehow take the beast straight into the Shifting Lands with a whole team of weavers!”
This was all wonderful news to Rylin. So the dragons weren’t easy to heal, either in time or resources. No wonder the Naor had so few.
The dragon lord searched his face, looking honestly troubled for him. Rylin reminded himself that, while the Naor might think less of those who weren’t from their culture, they must be capable of both love and loyalty. “What are you going to do?” Zhintin asked.
“I’m going to get as much blood energy as I can,” Rylin said. “What else can I do? He told me to work with whatever I had, and to make it a priority.”
Zhintin sighed. “Of course he did.” He spoke on as if talking about one of his favorite subjects. “He doesn’t really understand. He’s fine with tried-and-true tactics, but none of them comprehend magic the way Chargan does.”
Rylin said nothing, but recognized the name. This was the one expected to arrive next week with forces for Darassus, apparently another grandchild of Mazakan.
Zhintin continued. “If Chargan were in charge of this he wouldn’t be letting all the tribes carve up different areas. Our takeover of this fae city would be a lot more organized. He’d also have brought a lot more spell casters to start with.”
Chargan sounded uncomfortably capable.
Just as he’d begun to wonder how to gracefully leave Zhintin, Rylin noticed a cart moving along the lane in front of the homes beside the landing field where the dragons rested. As the cart came to a stop, two men hopped down and headed into the nearest home. A moment later they dragged out a pair of bodies. Of course. This was a cleanup crew, diligently collecting more skulls for their pile. And the home where Rylin had left the body of the man he imitated was just a little farther down the block for them.
Zhintin was returning to his original point. “But none of that matters. I just don’t see how an olech can really help you. There aren’t enough Dendressi to sacrifice to fix that dragon in the time you have.” Zhintin’s thin beard waggled as he shook his head. Rylin watched as the men with the corpse cart drew closer to the home where he’d left Talkus’ body. Possibly they wouldn’t recognize it. But wouldn’t they still see it for Naor?
“You should drag out the process,” Zhintin advised. “See if you can last until Chargan arrives. If you can show a little progress repairing the dragon, he’s liable to be a moderating influence. I’ll leave you our two cleverest weavers when we fly out. They don’t have the stamina we’re going to need anyway, and they might be able to help you along with the repairs.”
The officer really did seem to have Talkus’ best interests at heart. “Tha
t’s kind of you.”
Zhintin looked at him oddly.
Rylin groaned inwardly. He’d used words too genteel and wondered how the Naor gave thanks. “I meant only to thank you.”
Zhintin grunted. “It may not be enough to save you.” He glanced back at the guard tower. “I must be on with it. I’ll have Tarften begin assembling some Dendressi for you. Fifty, do you think for a start?”
He meant to have far more than fifty. If this worked, everyone that he selected for olech would be walking free with him. “I want to start with a larger number, as the general ordered. I don’t want to arouse suspicion. I’ll only sacrifice them as need dictates.”
“That might work. Very well.” Zhintin frowned, following Rylin’s gaze to the cart, continuing along the lane. The house where he’d killed Talkus lay only three ahead of them. “What is it you keep staring at?” Zhintin asked.
Rylin hesitated only a moment. Perhaps it should have troubled him that lies came so easily to his lips. “There’s something I should probably show you. Come with me.”
Zhintin looked doubtful. “Shouldn’t we—”
“This is important.”
The officer must have trusted Talkus, because after only a brief hesitation he followed Rylin toward the house where Talkus actually lay. Rylin moved into a jog as they neared the dragons, lying now with heads down between their forward claws. They showed no reaction to the presence of either Rylin or Zhintin as they hurried past, and he tried not to marvel over their vast dark bulk.
By the time they were beyond the dragons and approaching the row of dark houses, the corpse cart was drawing to a stop in front of the home where Talkus’ body lay and a bulky Naor was already dragging the dead woman with the arrow out of the doorway.
“That’s all you need to do here,” Rylin commanded the young soldier.
The man swiveled quickly, and the light carried by his companion shone full on Rylin/Talkus and Zhintin. The fellow stiffened and came to attention, releasing his hold on the dead woman so that her hands slipped to the dirt roadway. He was a thick youth with a heavy jaw. His stare was almost comically stupid.
“Stay away from this house,” Rylin said crisply. “This one’s off limits.”
The man with the lantern didn’t seem much brighter. He spoke with a thick, guttural accent that Rylin had a hard time following. “Sir? We’re removing all bodies.”
“This home’s off limits until further notice. Move along, and don’t come back.”
“Yes, sir.” Both turned back to the cart, the larger of the two hefting the woman’s body to his shoulder before hurling it amongst dozens of other corpses. Rylin tried not to focus overmuch on the arms and legs protruding from the cart.
“They don’t breed them very smart in the marshes, do they?” Zhintin asked before turning back to Rylin. “What’s this all about, Talkus?”
“Head on in. It’s best that I show you.”
“I don’t have a light.”
“I do. Give me a moment.”
The dragon lord looked increasingly puzzled, but was still willing to follow Rylin’s request, and so stepped into the dark space beyond the open doorway. Rylin closed the door only a moment after entering the building himself.
“Where’s that light?”
Rylin willed his ring on. “Here.” And he dropped his semblance as he reached for the dragon lord. His intent was to wrap his neck with his arm and put a knife to Zhintin’s throat.
But the dragon lord wasn’t so simple an opponent. He leapt away with stunning speed. Something sparkled in his hand as he tossed it toward Rylin.
There was no way for Rylin to avoid the shards. He shielded his face with one sleeve and was shocked to feel pain. Whatever the dragon lord cast cut straight through the heretofore impenetrable Altenerai cloth. Rylin’s arm stung and, worse, something had jabbed his side.
He had neither the time nor the inclination to inspect his wounds; he advanced with knife ready, light playing across the room as the hand with ring shifted. He saw the dragon lord backstep into the central living room, with its table and chairs and the legs of dead Talkus.
Another stab of pain, this time from a spell that brushed past Rylin; protected as he was by the Altenerai ring, it didn’t leave him completely unscathed. He winced, and his opening thrust at Zhintin was blocked by a swift arm. A second, more forceful blast of pain followed, this time centered on whatever had struck his side, as though Zhintin were twisting a dagger into him.
Rylin faltered, leaving the dragon lord time to draw his own blade. Zhintin stepped back to give himself more room, and that was his undoing, for he bumped into Talkus’ legs and lost his balance.
Rylin leapt forward, swept his opponent’s blade aside with such ferocity that it was knocked from the Naor’s hand. He sent a numbing sleep command at the stumbling Naor.
The dragon lord caught himself against a low cabinet on the back wall, slumping a little. But he shook off the spell and reached once more for a side pocket.
Rylin swiped fast, striking deep into the reaching arm just above the elbow. The dragon lord’s scream of agony was cut short by Rylin’s second blow, which left the man a dying, gurgling, bloody mass on the floor beside the real Talkus.
Rylin stood panting, feeling with his inner sight toward the man’s thoughts. These, though, were scattered and useless and frightened, and Rylin, out of respect for his enemy—even a little regret—withdrew so Zhintin could die without intrusion.
It didn’t take long. Rylin set his knife on the counter and listened for a moment, fearful that the corpse cart men might return. But all he heard were distant shouts from some other part of the city where the Naor advanced and slaughtered. He then shone the ring’s light upon his side and discovered a glittering object the size of an arrowhead piercing armor and skin. Other, smaller flecks stuck in the flexible khalat.
“That’s surprising,” he said aloud. So the Naor had been busy in the years after the war. They hadn’t just developed the dragons, they’d come up with a counter to the vaunted Altenerai armor. The weapon must be rare or difficult to control, or he’d have found it used by other men he’d fought.
Rylin inspected his arm and saw he’d been struck by even more slivers. Though he couldn’t be sure, it seemed none of the wounds was grievous. But each bled steadily through the armor.
“Fabulous.” He’d been overconfident. The trick with the light had been arrogant. If he’d meant to take Zhintin prisoner, he should have managed it without dramatics. The end result had been that both the leader of dragons and his chief adjutant were dead, and that was good. But he’d botched things. Rylin hadn’t managed to get any more information out of Zhintin, he didn’t know how to arrange for the prisoner transfer, and he’d gotten himself wounded.
He discovered, upon touching one of the shards on his arm, that the cursed things were actually sharp all over. The tip of his finger bled freely until he pressed it and lifted it above his head. How the Naor had tossed them at him with such force without hurting himself surely had more to do with magic than skill. Unfortunately, Rylin didn’t have time for long analysis. Right now, if he moved fast, he had an opening to walk out with hundreds of Alantran prisoners. What he’d do then remained to be seen, but he had a few ideas. The first task was cleaning his own wounds.
He wasn’t an accomplished healer by any means. Rylin had no idea how to mend serious chest wounds. But like all Altenerai spell casters, he’d received rudimentary instruction about tending flesh injuries, and one of them was to simply lend energy to accelerate the natural process. Follow the thread, Kalandra had once told him. Just picture what the body was doing before it was interrupted by the injury, and make it whole. Sometimes that simply pushed out the bad, and while it wouldn’t drive out a spear thrust through someone’s shoulder, it might push out dirt or maybe even these metal shards, so long as they weren’t embedded particularly deep.
It took more concentration than he would have liked to focus on hi
s own body. He was too worried about losing himself in inner focus and being surprised by Naor intruders. But he felt the areas and sent little surges of energy through them. One by one the shards dropped away, and the skin scabbed, leaving a tingling afterimage of discomfort. Finally there was only the largest shard, in his side. He stared down at it, panting in exhaustion.
Removing that one proved almost too much. Already stretched a little thin, running low on magical energy, he was seeing black spots by the time he forced it free. It made a dull clatter as it dropped on the floor between the dead men. That, he thought, might be interesting to Varama, so he stuffed it into her satchel after wrapping it carefully in a piece of cloth torn from Zhintin’s cape.
If he’d had more power—say, a third of Cerai’s, or even a little of Kalandra’s—or, better yet, one of the hearthstones Cerai had stolen, he’d have had much less trouble. And he might’ve worked out a way to recharge the semblances.
But that was idle dreaming. He needed a better plan. In the darkness, if he were wearing the dead man’s clothes, he stood a fair chance of getting by, so long as he didn’t speak much. If, however, the semblance were to fade while he was still wearing the Altenerai khalat, he stood no chance at all.
Unlike Zhintin, Talkus was of his approximate height, though he was leaner. Maybe it could work. He quickly stripped the body, alarmed by the amount of thumping that took place as he maneuvered the corpse to leverage him out of pants and shirt. Every motion seemed to ram an elbow or boot or knee into the floor and cabinet.
There was the small matter of the blood all over the front of the dead man’s shirt. He discovered a bucket of water someone had carried into the home. Probably that poor dead woman been planning to do some washing up in the evening, never dreaming the Naor would breach the walls and forever end her plans, even the mundane ones.
He poured the water into a smaller tub he’d spotted in a cupboard, and set to work cleaning the shirt, aided only by the glow from his ring. In the end he’d managed to wring out the worst of the stain.
Upon the Flight of the Queen Page 7