“The stone of the Edge is hard. It’s granite, and even the stonecutters have trouble with it. We can’t tell how solid that stuff is. It might have no more strength than unbaked clay.”
“Nolan, have you seen anything else that looks like an entrance?”
A lot of them, but they were all lies. That was the only reason they were even considering this madness.
“And what if the winds come back while we are up there and holding on only by ropes? What if the ice storms start again?”
Tega looked at him and shook her head. “What other options?”
“There are still many structures we have not examined. Perhaps we should investigate the rest before we make a decision to climb that high with no guarantees.” Her lips pressed together and she stared harder at him as if willing him to simply – explode – agree with her. “We are here to serve you, Tega. This is your expedition and your decision to make.” He raised his hands in surrender.
She looked away from him and stared at the opening. Sixty feet was a long way to fall and the opening was at an angle that would make gaining entrance risky at best. And he still thought it looked closer to a hundred feet than sixty, but he was trying to be optimistic.
“We shall look a little further then, but let’s mark this possibility.”
He nodded his head. That was exactly what he’d hoped she would say. One thing to consider risking yourself and another when you risked the lives of the people with you. Had it been him alone, climbing the side would have been a more realistic option. With others? There were too many chances for people to die or get even more injured.
Vonders took in a deep breath. “What in the name of the gods?”
Nolan looked toward the man and then followed his eyes.
Just barely visible from where they stood, they could see a lone rider coming toward the Mounds. The figure came from the direction of the Seven Forges.
“I thought the Sa’ba Taalor were forbidden to be here?” Darus’s voice was petulant, as if someone had taken away his time to play and given him more chores. Nolan liked his friend a good deal more when he wasn’t injured and whining.
“We’ve no proof that whoever is coming this way is Sa’ba Taalor.” Nolan shrugged, but he also reached for his axe’s handle.
“This is not a good thing. I can feel it.” Darus shook his head and frowned. His good hand felt along his broken arm for a moment and then he, like Nolan, sought the comfort of his weapon.
Nolan opened his mouth and then closed it. Finally he looked to Tega. “What would you have us do here, Mistress?”
Tega looked back to him, her eyes wide. “I… We should prepare ourselves.”
“Prepare for what?” Darus said the words that Nolan was considering.
Tega looked toward the horizon and frowned. “Where did he go?”
“The rider?” Nolan looked away from her and back toward the spot where the rider had been. There was nothing. No one.
A chill that had nothing to do with the cold crept through him.
“Damn.”
Darus nodded his agreement. “Whoever that is, I won’t call it a good sign that we’ve been spotted.”
“What makes you certain we were seen?” Tega’s question was directed toward Darus. Nolan answered anyway. “We can’t be certain, but we have to guess that the rider has seen us and does not wish to be seen by us. We must expect unpleasant intent.”
Tega nodded. “Let’s get back to the wagon then. We have to take care of the others.”
Nolan bit back a response. They were soldiers. They were here to watch over and protect her, not each other.
Darus kicked at a loose stone with his good foot. “Where did Vonders go?”
Sure enough, the scavenger had vanished again. Likely off looking for something shiny.
Tega shook her head. “We don’t know how far away the rider is. We have to get back to the camp.”
Nolan nodded. “Vonders can find his own way. He’s been leading us through half the pits in this area already.”
Without another word they headed back for the wagon and the others. Nolan found himself wondering how good Tolpen was with his bow. He also found himself wishing he’d brought his crossbow with him.
Still, the weapon was waiting at the campsite and they’d be there soon enough.
Drask stared up at the Mounds and studied them. Brackka let out a low rumble and Drask patted the thick hide of his mount. “I know. I saw them.”
He sighed and let his legs grip harder to the thick body beneath him. Brackka took his cue and moved quickly, bounding across the landscape in leaps that would have terrified anyone unfamiliar with how well the beast could move. It was only a matter of minutes before they were in the rough ground leading to the Mounds proper.
There was a flutter of unease in his stomach. It could not be called fear, exactly, but it was a close relative. For his entire life the rules had been simple enough to follow: first obey the Daxar Taalor. Second, stay away from the Mounds. Currently these two rules conflicted. Ydramil had spoken directly into Drask and told him to go to the Mounds. He had obeyed, readying himself for whatever might come his way in the process, but the notion of going to the area the gods forbade went against his upbringing. Still, the very first rule was to obey the Daxar Taalor, even if that meant going against every other rule in his existence.
The Mounds made no sense. They were vast and desolate. They were dark and jagged. The wind cut around them and brought with it an odd scent unlike anything he had encountered before, and he had seen more than most of his people had.
Standing in the shadow of the Mounds, Drask closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to Ydramil. He had made his progress as the god demanded. Now that he was here, he hoped for more information. He did not expect it. He did not demand it. But he hoped for it just the same.
His only answer was silence.
When the gods do not give an answer there is as much of a reason as when they do. The process of becoming what the Daxar Taalor demanded was a lifetime in the happening.
“We go on then, my brother.” He ran one hand over Brackka’s neck and the mount let out a grunt. A moment later they moved forward and Drask let one hand rest on his throwing axes. There were likely threats, here. If those threats could be cut than he would bleed them. If they could not, then he would handle the matter differently.
There could only be one answer to the people he had spotted. They were seen at a great distance, but he suspected they were from Fellein, even without seeing them clearly. Many things lived within the Mounds, that was accepted, but Drask doubted that any of them were human.
The winds ripped across the ground and cast dust and ice into the air. The veil he wore for traveling caught the worst of the grit, but he narrowed his eyes against unwanted irritants.
Brackka moved up into the Mounds proper, breaking a sacred law as the gods demanded. The tension rose in both of them. One does not easily defy the gods’ laws if one is wise. Even when the gods themselves demand it. Perhaps especially then.
From somewhere above him came a roar from the ground, enough to shake his body and Brackka’s alike. They held their place and waited. The sound wrapped around them, crushed them in its grip, and finally released them when it had finished its course. Pra-Wren, the wailing winds. They had been a part of existence in the Blasted Lands for as long as anyone could remember. The Mounds did not rest easily. They never had.
He looked up at a towering arm of stone that reached for the heavens and pointed in the direction of the Seven Forges as if demanding that he retreat.
Drask sighed and once again they moved, climbing into the warped wasteland.
Somewhere ahead of them, the people of Fellein sought something. Perhaps he was here to stop them. Perhaps the gods had other plans. He would find out when the time was right. For now he looked around and expected the same of Brackka as they moved carefully into the forbidden.
Four days and nights of celebrat
ion were finally coming to an end, and Tataya could not have been happier about it. The Brellar had welcomed her and that was a good thing. She had been treated with near reverence and one of their chieftains – she could not quite decide how many they had – had allowed her to learn their language by touching his mind.
At first she’d thought perhaps she was expected. The way the people reacted would have made it easy to believe, certainly, but after they’d learned to share languages, Tataya was informed that she was welcomed because of her hair. Apparently women with red hair were highly prized and even rarer than blond-haired women among the locals. Near as she could tell no one from the Brellar had any hair color but black. They made up for the lack of variety in a number of ways that seemed like lunacy to her. Still, Desh had explained more than once that cultures found their own ways to speak and words were only one example of communication.
She’d known about the ritual scarring, but knowing and seeing are different matters. The symbols they used to write their stories on their skin were complex, and in many cases the scars covered their entire bodies. Most of the marks were tiny, smaller than her shortest finger nail, but others were deep and thick on the skin, as if to indicate they had a far greater significance. She doubted there was any part of her history she wanted carved into her flesh and left to bleed for days on end, especially in the heat of the area, where infection was likely a serious threat.
But the Brellar managed and she saw very few of them who suffered drastically as a result of the markings, even though several of the people she saw were covered with fresh cuts.
The celebrations came to an end when she explained that she was not looking for a mate, but rather sought sailors for a possible war.
After that, the men she dealt with were strictly business.
Tomms and Laruth were the two men she was negotiating with, and both of them seemed amiable enough, though Tomms was still not pleased with her refusal to marry him. She lied and claimed that she was already married, but that didn’t seem to matter in the least to him. He had three wives, and collectively those three wives had five husbands. While the notion was fascinating, she opted to hold off on studying the nature of their culture in quite such detail until after negotiations were settled.
Laruth was younger and possibly more ambitious. He was certainly more willing to negotiate. The men and two others of the same rank had gathered with Tataya and Callan to discuss prices. Captain Callan spoke their language with a bit of difficulty, but he did speak it and Tataya used that to her advantage, letting him handle many of the discussions while hiding exactly how well she spoke it herself. Not because she was hiding anything from Laruth, who’d allowed her to learn his language, but because she wanted to know if she could trust Callan.
Surprisingly, he seemed to be telling the truth and negotiating fairly. She was pleasantly surprised.
“So, then.” Callan looked to her. “We have a deal? It’s a fortune we’re talking about here.”
“A fortune, yes, but not paid in full until the deed is done.” She leaned back and studied the four chiefs. They studied her right back, with varying degrees of interest. She had dressed herself to add to their distraction and it was working just fine.
“How do you wish to handle this?”
She smiled at the captain. “I have a chest of gold with me, do I not? For just such contingencies.”
Callan looked heartbroken by that idea. He had grown fond of that chest of gold. She’d caught him looking longingly at her cabin door on several occasions during the trip, and oftentimes she was surprised that he didn’t merely break the door down. It wouldn’t have done him the least good, of course, but that was something that he did not have to know.
“I suppose you do.”
“Oh, calm yourself, Captain. You’ll be paid first.”
He looked at her with a wounded expression that held remarkably little conviction. “You cut me.”
“So you’ve done all of this for love of Empire and will require no compensation?” She deliberately used an expression of hopeful ignorance that she knew would make the man crazy. He seemed to prefer his women on the naïve side. A little pout and widened eyes and the man was nearly ready to kill anyone who so much as looked at her the wrong way.
“Hardly.” His response was dry and let her know he was on to her simple tricks. That was good. It was hardly fun playing with a new toy if it did not play back.
In perfect Brellar she replied to the waiting chieftains, “The terms are acceptable and I thank you for your honest and fair negotiations.”
Tomms looked at her longingly. “You are certain your husband would not accept an offer of shared marriage?”
“He is not as generous with his wives, I fear.”
The man sighed and waved a dismissive hand. “That is a pity.”
She repressed a shudder and rose from her seat. It wasn't that Tomms was unattractive, exactly, merely that he seemed so desperate to add a red haired woman to his stable of wives. She was flattered and repulsed in equal measure.
Captain Callan stared at her with a dropped jaw and narrowed eyes, fully aware for the first time that she had understood every word he said, including quite a few that would have been deemed inappropriate. If Desh Krohan truly were her husband a few of the discussions would have ended with Callan dead instead of merely worried about his possible demise.
Desh did not defend the honor of the Sisters. They were expected to handle their own conflicts and call on him only as a last resort.
So far none of them had ever had to call on him for that purpose.
After formal goodbyes were said and arrangements made for Laruth’s people to collect their advance, Tataya headed for the ship with Callan on her heels.
“You spoke the language the entire time?”
“No. Only for part of it.”
“Which part?”
“You may rest comfortably with the knowledge that I heard your comments about what should be done with a woman who has a body like mine.”
“Oh.”
“I also heard your statements regarding the purchasing of slave-girls for the taverns in your home town.”
“Yes, well…”
“Slavery has been outlawed in most parts of the Empire.”
“But not all.”
“True. Even so, speaking of women in that way will not endear you to most of them.”
Callan smiled. “There are exceptions, you know.”
“No doubt. I have known a few men who would be exceptions as well, but I have never respected any of them enough to want to be with them.”
“You speak of relationships. I speak of rutting.”
“We speak of the same thing, Captain Callan. I merely have higher standards.”
He opened his mouth to retort and then apparently thought better of it. “So you’re not upset then?”
“Not at all. I believe that everyone should speak their minds and have their beliefs. Especially when doing so reveals more about them than I would otherwise know.”
“Is that why you left most of the negotiations to me?”
“No. Not entirely. At least two of the chieftains would have considered anything I said beneath serious consideration.” She allowed a small smile. “Not all men are as enlightened as you, Captain.”
They reached the ship in short order – most of the discussions had happened onboard one of the larger vessels and it was merely a matter of walking from one pier to another to get back to where they needed to be. By the time they’d arrived, the men Laruth had charged with taking payment were already waiting.
Tataya went to see about their payment and Captain Callan called out to his crew to ready for departure. None of the crew seemed the least bit upset by the notion. The ships around theirs were large, and even when they were silent, the knowledge that substantial crews of men who might or might not see them as enemies were stationed around them on all sides was not conducive to easy rest.
The men coll
ecting the gold were familiar enough faces by now. They had been with the chieftain through most of his negotiations.
Within twenty minutes the payments had been made and the chest of gold first offered to Pathra Krous by the Sa’ba Taalor had been nearly emptied of coins. She rather liked the notion of paying for defense against the Sa’ba Taalor with their own offerings.
Another hour and they were ready to set sail. There were no challenges despite the worry that Callan held onto. The Brellar were indeed a strange people, but they wanted what everyone wanted. They wanted more than they already had.
They were well out to sea before the sun set. Captain Callan kept members of his crew on the lookout through the night, likely waiting to see if they would be followed.
After a while, day and night became irrelevant. The distance to the top of Durhallem was deceptive, and though he’d thought to reach the entrance to the mountain within hours, it seemed much longer.
Andover walked in heat that was blistering, and carried on through cold that left his teeth chattering and his toes numb, and still he walked. He did not stop to rest, because he had been told that his time for resting was done.
And so he walked. He moved up the side of the mountain, always angling higher, occasionally crawling on his hands and knees when the incline was too steep, and sometimes scaling sheer walls of stone. More than once he was grateful for fingers made of iron that were capable of gripping so much harder than mere flesh.
He walked until the snow started – a layer of white that hid the dark rock of the mountain. He continued higher still, feeling the ice beneath him and the biting cold of the air he breathed.
And in time, he could never say exactly how long with any accuracy, Andover Lashk reached the entrance to his destination. And seeing the entrance to Durhallem’s Heart, Andover Lashk forced down his dread and walked into the simple cave. The floor was level enough, a rough black cut into the mountain’s surface. The walls around him were obsidian – rich, black glass – and seemed to reflect his face back at him from a million or more uneven facets. He walked forward cautiously, barely able to see into the darkness, and he walked for a long time indeed.
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