Still, the rhythm of the nag’s clopping hooves slowed, and they faced a tide of people and carts flowing in the other direction. Most were working folk heading to their homes on lower decks. Others were delivering stale or outdated goods to secondary shops for the evening trade in Low Market. All blocked his way.
Worse, The Freightway did not go directly from the high western edge of Suloh’s hip to the nearest of his free ribs, where the Upgarden deck began. Instead, it struck out toward the god’s spine, crossing a great deal of empty space, then connected with the Dawnshine deck below Upgarden’s eastern edge. From there, it touched Upgarden almost at High Square. Kyrioc had to urge and cajole the horse every step of the way, and he wished he’d bought more carrots.
By the time he reached Cloud Square, the flow of workers had ebbed. Still, they barely arrived on time.
The courts were in the same place they’d been when he’d played there as a boy. Hammerball wasn’t typically a young person’s sport, but Kyrioc’s father said the game would make his sword arm more accurate, so Kyrioc and his friends had taken lessons.
It hadn’t worked out. The other club members didn’t like loud noble boys jeering each other’s strokes, and they were made unwelcome in subtle ways. Besides, some of the men lounging outside the courts made them uncomfortable. Kyrioc wasn’t sorry when his friends decided not to return.
It was only now, a decade later, that he understood. Those lounging men were heavies.
He led the nag down the long alley to the stables around back. When a stableboy ran out, waving him off, Kyrioc said he had business with Harl Sota List Im.
The boy stopped immediately. An older boy behind him ran into the building. Kyrioc waited.
Moments later, three men and a woman emerged. The men were of a kind—hard expressions and soft heads, old scars on their faces and new flab on their bellies. The woman was different. She had the crisp look of a court manager, with a tidy red vest and black pants.
“Harl Sota List Im is waiting for this delivery,” Kyrioc said. “The Pails sent me.” Kyrioc had heard that street name twice, but he had no idea who it referred to.
The manager recognized it. “Search him.”
Two of the thugs stepped forward and ran their hands roughly along his arms and torso. They found the knife in his belt and took it. “Cheap shit,” one of them said as he examined it. He was right, too.
Now that they’d found the weapon they expected, the search was over. “I’ll take you to one of Harl’s lieutenants.”
“It has to be Harl himself.”
“If you waste Harl’s time, he’ll cut off your arms. You know that?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged. If Harl made a mess of him, she wouldn’t have to clean it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The year 395 of the New Calendar, eight years earlier.
* * *
On the western plateau of Vu-Dolmont, where Childfall had been founded, Kyrionik expected to find an empty square in the Harkan style, with ancient paving stones and a handful of decrepit stone buildings around the rim. Instead, it was jungle. The paving stones had been uplifted by tree roots, and not one stone from those buildings rested atop another.
Fifty years had turned an abandoned village into wilderness again.
Afternoon was well upon them, and Kyrionik was increasingly frustrated by delays. Fair Season had approached Childfall at a snail’s pace, and the skiff had been a tedious way to transfer soldiers and gear to the island. Then, by the time the troops had crossed over, climbed to the top, and donned their armor, it was past time for a midday meal.
Kyrionik was tempted to urge them to hurry, but Aratill was watching him. Kyrionik took a deep, calming breath. He was the leader—that was the whole point of a First Labor, after all—and a leader had to know when to sprint and when to walk. It made no sense to skip meals when they had a long, uphill slog ahead of them.
Still, he couldn’t calm himself. He finished donning his armor—with Aratill’s help—then took his portion of sea bread and stood at the edge of the makeshift camp.
The ground sloped gently upward. Somewhere beyond all that greenery, the slope became much steeper. And somewhere up on those slopes was his prize. He hoped.
When their meal was over, the soldiers formed a defensive line of shield and spears. They’d been issued the shortest spears from the armory in the cargo hold, which was a sensible choice considering the terrain, and one Kyrionik would remember for the future. He buckled his helmet on.
Selso Rii stood off to the side and adjusted his cloth cap. Of course, he had no armor, but he had been given the stretcher cloth and twelve-foot poles to carry.
“Be silent with those,” Shulipik tuto-Beskeroth snapped as he walked by. Then Shulipik approached Kyrionik and Aratill. His glaive was in hand now, and his braids were hidden beneath his helm. If he seemed restless on the ship, here on the island he was still and watchful. “Your virtue, a brief search of the plateau has revealed nothing unusual. We thought we might find a track though the jungle and scorch marks on the plants, but there is none. There seems to be no sign of the ullroct.”
Kyrionik was pleased that the older man addressed him and only him. “Your virtue,” he said in return, showing equal respect even though Shulipik’s family were barely nobility at all, “we know little about such creatures, and with luck, we will learn nothing new today.”
For a moment, Shulipik’s expression showed something Kyrionik did not recognize. Distaste? Disappointment? Contempt? Then the older man’s expression returned to its usual stoicism and he turned away.
Kyrionik caught his arm, steel on steel. “Your virtue, did you… Did you come on this trip because you wanted to fight an ullroct?”
Aratill suddenly became still and gave them his full attention.
Shulipik stepped close to speak in a low voice. Kyrionik had always been considered tall for his age, but the warrior loomed over him. “No, your virtue. Not at all. But if chance turns that way…”
His voice trailed off and he looked over Kyrionik’s shoulder, as though seeing something of great import on the horizon.
Aratill spoke, his tone accusatory. “You hope to add to your fame.”
“Fame matters little to me now, although once it was my guiding star. I am nobly born, yes, but my father is poor. We live like beggars on a scholarly endowment from more influential families. The work of scribes and academics never suited me, so I hoped to improve my family name other ways: first renown, then an influential marriage, then enough land to become hold-Beskeroth, or even to win the defender’s title as a defe-Beskeroth.” Shulipik stared into the distance. Kyrionik knew he had more to say, but he couldn’t think of a way to draw it out.
Silence did it for him. Shulipik said, ‘Then I hurried out into the world and everything changed.”
Kyrionik’s mouth had gone dry. This was a story he wanted to hear. “You slew a ghostkind.”
For several months, Kyrionik had entertained the idea of meeting a ghostkind ranger in single combat for his First Labor. He knew they were tall, strong, and brutal, with skin like dirty ice and ears like the blades of a knife. He also knew what it would mean for a young Salashi noble to slay one of the creatures that had driven his people from their homeland. He couldn’t imagine a greater achievement.
But he’d been only twelve. Once word reached his mother about his plan, she sat him down and explained that a First Labor was about service to the Salashi people, not personal glory. He swore to her, at the breakfast table, that he would choose a different task.
Still, Kyrionik hoped to test himself against his people’s greatest enemy someday.
Shulipik nodded. “I’ve slain three.” Aratill made a disbelieving grunt but Shulipik did not seem to care. “The second and third were at the same time. I faced them together, and afterwards, I was terribly wounded. I lay bleeding on the ground beside one of my enemies. My red blood mixed with his silver, and we spoke for a while,
just two of our respective kinds, dying slowly on a grassy hillside far above the Timmer Sea. What he said changed me, and then he died, and then I was alone, and then my companions found me…”
Shulipik hesitated. Kyrionik waited for him to continue.
He did. “Your virtue, I have slain three ghostkind. I’ve slain five bloodkind, when they ambushed me in a pack. Of my slain humankind enemies, I’ve lost count. Then there are the bears, hunting jellies, and other beasts of the wild that I have turned my blade against. The glitterkind do nothing but lie insensate beneath the open sky and cannot be fought. The shadowkind are always rumored to be in places where you are not. The spellkind vanished when the godkind died, and none now remember them. The Ancient Kings of the Walking Towers have abandoned their thrones to us, lesser beings though we are, while they roam distant places in this world or some other. If we are to believe the Kings’ Tower Apostles, the Ancient Kings will return in my lifetime—”
“They’ve been saying that for centuries,” Oblifell interrupted.
“One moment, your virtue,” Aratill said. “You’re hoping the Ancient Kings will return soon so you can duel one? These are the beings that murdered the gods. That blasted the flesh from their bones.”
“That’s what the legends say. According to those same legends, their return is long overdue. I don’t ‘hope’ they return, but if they do, I am ready to face them.”
Aratill and Oblifell glanced at each other, their expressions carefully neutral. Shulipik noticed but continued talking as though it meant nothing.
“I hold no great lands, no wealth, and have found no wife of my own. What was supposed to be a path to greater things is now an end in itself. I have measured myself against the dangers of the world, and with every successful test, I feel diminished.
“So, no, I did not come here to find fame against a legendary enemy. But should the worst occur, I will be the one to face it. Alone. That’s why you brought me, and it’s why I have come. If you can understand why I must do this, please explain it to me, because I do not.” He bowed. “Your virtue.”
The hairs on the back of Kyrionik’s neck stood on end as Shulipik moved to take the point of the front rank.
Oblifell stepped forward, watching Shulipik’s retreating back. “Who is that guy kidding? Can’t find a wife of his own? Please. With that patter, he could almost have me.” Aratill gave him a look. “I said almost.”
Oblifell’s attempt to relieve the tension soured Kyrionik’s mood. He watched Shulipik form up. By the fallen gods, Kyrionik could learn something from that man. “I’m glad he’s not pitting himself against us.”
The last six to appear at the top of the stairs were not his own people but crew from Fair Season. Their prize would likely be too heavy to carry down to the ship, so before scrounging for supplies, the crew would build a boom.
Kyrionik waved Selso Rii to him. “Where does the glitterkind lie?”
They stared at the island as though they could see through the green. Rii rubbed his hands together. “From here, your virtue, I dare not guess. I saw the flash while collecting water beside a ruined mill. From that spot, I will be able to point the way.”
“Lead on.”
After a few minutes of hiking up the hillside, Kyrionik wondered if it would have been wiser to leave their armor aboard ship. Even with the ocean breeze blowing across his back, he was sweating miserably on the slope.
Steel clanked against steel. The soldiers’ tread was heavy, and no matter what Aratill said to them, he could not completely squelch their groans and complaints. Only Oblifell, moving among them, man and woman alike, could make them hold their tongues.
“What did you say to them?”
“Subtle motivation, your virtue.” Then he moved on.
The answer annoyed Kyrionik. Oblifell was one of his instructors, wasn’t he?
But then he remembered where he was. This was his First Labor. If the troops were making too much noise, it was his fault for not controlling them. If they were wearing too much armor—or just the wrong kind—that was also his fault. He could have ordered them to do otherwise.
It was time for Kyrionik to stop standing behind the shields of his instructors.
Still, even with their voices silent, the soldiers’ tramping was loud, and the wind carried the sound into the jungle.
“Hsst!” Selso Rii came back a few steps into view, waving his arms. “Here is the stream, your virtue.” The flow he pointed at was little more than a trickle. It would have taken hours to restock Fair Season from it. “It will lead us to the mill.”
He hurried toward it. The troops followed.
The ground quickly became extraordinarily steep. Soldiers slung their shields and moved among the trees, bracing their boots against the trunks and scrabbling across bare roots. It was unpleasant work, and Kyrionik began to worry about the return trip. Assuming they found a glitterkind, how would they carry it down to the plateau?
Shulipik hurried by. Even in full armor, with his glaive on his back, his movements were quick and sure. Kyrionik marveled at his athleticism. It was rare to meet someone more agile than him. Had the warrior really talked about challenging an Ancient King to a duel? The idea had a wonderful, reckless madness to it. He tried to copy Shulipik’s climbing style, but Aratill whispered to him to stay within the perimeter.
Shulipik caught up to Selso Rii and forced him to stay within the perimeter, too. Until they had found their prize, the guide was too valuable to risk.
They had not traveled far when the first soldier fell. The clatter of his armor—and in his cry of pain—resounded in the jungle. Kyrionik hurried down the slope to the spot where he came to rest. Oblifell was already there.
Kyrionik recognized him immediately—they’d sailed up the Timmer Sea together two years before—but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the man’s name. Oblifell believed it was no worse than a broken ankle, and the injured man apologized profusely. Kyrionik accepted and told him it was unnecessary, then assigned two others to escort him back to Childfall. The climb continued.
It did not take long to find the old mill. It could not be far from the village itself, obviously, and had been built at the edge of a little waterfall. The wheel was long gone, but the pond remained alongside the old foundation. One of the soldiers spotted a series of stone blocks that led back down the hill from the right-hand side of the site.
They were obviously stairs, leading down to the village, and although they were overgrown, they would have made an easier ascent than the trackless jungle slope.
Kyrionik summoned Selso Rii. “Where were you standing, and where did the flash come from?”
“Ah, yes, your virtue. I was back quite far from the pond, you see. Near where the ground slopes away again. And…” His voice trailed off as he looked around. He oriented himself to the foundation, trying to recreate the memory. Then he raised his hand. “There, your virtue.”
The direction indicated lay almost directly across the pond and high up the slope, which became steep once again on the far side of the pond. There were a few groans from the soldiers. Only Shulipik and Selso Rii seemed as eager for the climb as Kyrionik himself.
“Aratill.” Kyrionik kept his voice low, but everyone heard and awaited his word. His bodyguard followed him around the edge of the pond to the ruined foundations of the mill.
A slender tree had fallen across the decrepit stone stairs, and a thicket of bushes had grown around it. Approaching, Kyrionik could see the stone steps that led down the hill. Shulipik and the front ranks of their shield line ought to have found those stairs, but at the same time, Kyrionik should have expected them to be there. He should have tasked a squad with searching for them.
Aratill waved over two of the nearest soldiers and ordered them to clear the way. “It will make for an easier descent, your virtue.”
“Assuming it goes all the way down, but that’s not what caught my eye. Look.” He pointed through the slender thicket. There
, partially hidden by fallen leaves, were more stone steps, leading up the hill.
“Well spotted, your virtue.”
More soldiers started clearing the way. Aratill scowled up the hill. The path was steep and the stones broken in some places, missing in others, and simply crooked everywhere else. “Where does it lead, I wonder? Another mill?”
Shulipik stood at Kyrionik’s shoulder. “Not for a settlement this small. I expect the original inhabitants found the same prize we seek and went to some trouble to create easy access to it.” He smiled. “It’s a good sign. Permission to scout ahead, your virtue.”
Kyrionik felt a flush of pride at the warrior’s approval. “Granted, your virtue. But keep within sight of the soldiers at the front and, if you would, take two for support.”
“I prefer to go alone.” Shulipik set one boot on the tree trunk as it was being dragged away, then leaped onto the hillside. He scrambled upward, his hands grabbing for purchase.
Oblifell ordered soldiers to follow in pairs.
Aratill gave Kyrionik a doubtful look. The boy shrugged. “If these stairs don’t lead where we hope they do, we can backtrack and ascend another way.”
But the older man frowned and said nothing more.
When Shulipik reached the top of the long, broken stair, he stood still. There was no sign of celebration and he did not wave to call them forward. Kyrionik’s heart sank.
But when other soldiers joined him at the top of the slope, they raised their hands in the air in victory. Some even cheered, until Oblifell struck one across the back of the helm. That ringing blow silenced them all.
“Keep your distance,” Kyrionik called. Selso Rii cast aside the poles and cloth and scrambled up the hill, passing everyone in a mad rush to the top. “Good sir, keep your distance!”
Shulipik noticed Selso Rii’s approach. With one pivot, he caught the back of Rii’s neck in a steel gauntlet and pinned him against a slender tree.
The soldiers made way for Kyrionik, of course, and when he reached the top of the slope, his heart leaped.
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