The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  He downed copious amounts of strong chay, a local concoction of water boiled with dark red leaves and mint, then decided to climb to the tomb overlooking the city. He wasn’t likely to be missed for several hours; Balfou would be occupied most of the morning with Kurash, the hazar of the Basileus’s army, who’d been sent to accompany the Gralian party to Tell-Uyuk.

  So Borne set off with Magnus, and together they scaled the steeply ascending stairs to the mausoleum. He sweated off the worst of the rough alcohol on the climb, and by the time he reached the top, he was feeling almost human again. A pleasant breeze cooled his heated skin as he wandered through the lush gardens. He found a burbling fountain, from which he drank deeply before scooping cool water onto his face. Magnus lapped at the pool and found a shady spot to lie, his tongue lolling from his mouth.

  From this high vantage point, Borne could see that the layout of Rizo was more orderly than it appeared from the harbor. The roads all spiraled into the great bazaar at its heart. On the outskirts of the city were the straits, edged with broad, green swaths, which were irrigated by the seasonal flooding. Beyond these, the land was sere and brown. To the northwest, the long line of a caravan snaked toward the city along the Great Khajalan Road.

  Borne felt his heart leap, knowing there was so much to learn and explore in this land.

  After the close quarters on the boat, it felt good to be on his own. As he breathed in the scent of aromatic herbs, the stone that had sat on his heart since receiving the news about Maura shifted ever so slightly.

  He’d accepted this mission in part because it took him far from Drinnglennin and the pain of his past. In Gral, he’d managed to rise from a common mercenary to a knighted commander of his own corps. He’d learned over the past year that he was well suited to soldiering, and he’d proven that he could lead men; otherwise, Latour would not have recommended him for this position. Borne was determined to do his best to repay the marechal’s faith in him, and this posting was a golden opportunity to put his old life behind him forever.

  Olquaria was a fresh beginning, and perhaps here he would find a place to call home.

  He made his way into the cooling shadows of the mausoleum, a monument of shimmering columns and colonnades. Much of its beauty came from the simplicity of its design. The columns supporting the wide roof of the vault seemed to tilt slightly inward, drawing the eye to the magnificent statue of Zaena, the ancient Olquarian empress, at its heart. The legend went that, upon Zaena’s death, people from all over the realm gathered here to wail and weep, and the evidence of this stood before his eyes. A glittering wall constructed of thousands of tiny glass jars, capped with silver, gold, and precious gems crescented the Basilea’s statue. Each vial was said to hold the tears of those who had mourned this beloved ruler.

  Confronted with this physical embodiment of sorrow, Borne felt a dampening of his newly lifted spirits. These days, he tended to avoid anything that evoked strong emotions; he read no poetry and eschewed music. His work and training as a soldier took up the lion’s share of his attention and energy, and that was the way he wanted it.

  The past was the past. Maura was to marry—indeed in the time it had taken for this news to reach Olquaria, she might already have wed. Knowing this made Borne strengthen his resolve to relegate her, along with Cole and Sir Heptorious, to the depths of his memory. If he was to go forward, none of them could be allowed to reside in his heart.

  * * *

  When Borne arrived back at the inn, he found the comte eagerly awaiting him with a much-decorated Olquarian officer. The stranger’s face bore a jagged scar from his temple to his chin, and the off-kilter set of his axe-blade nose suggested it had known violence on a number of occasions. But it was the menace in the man’s hooded eyes that put Borne immediately on his guard.

  The comte’s tone was deferential as he made introductions.

  “Hazar Kurash, I have the pleasure of presenting Sir Borne Baxter, herald to his Royal Majesty, King Crenel. Sir Borne, this is Kurash Al-Ghir, hazar of the Khardeshe.”

  Borne had envisioned the supreme leader of the Basileus’s famous armed forces as someone considerably less thuggish in appearance. To cover his surprise, he offered a low, respectful bow.

  “I am honored, sayien hazar,” he murmured, using the formal “esteemed” in his address.

  Kurash frowned. “I was told you do not speak our language,” he said, neglecting to return the same civility.

  Borne inwardly cursed himself for this misstep. “Comte Balfou has been kind enough to instruct me in a few courtesies.”

  Kurash grunted, then turned back to the comte, reverting to his native tongue. “We will require you to be ready to depart at daybreak tomorrow. We shall be escorting the Tarazian caravan that has just arrived from the far east along with your party.”

  “We shall be ready at your call, hazar.” Balfou’s cooler tone indicated his displeasure with the hazar’s pointed rudeness to Gral’s new herald.

  If Kurash registered it, he gave no sign. He turned and stalked away.

  Balfou’s color was high. “I apologize, sir, for the hazar. I shall speak with the Basileus personally regarding this slight to you, and by reflection, to the sovereign we both serve.”

  “Please don’t,” Borne said. “I imagine the hazar is merely preoccupied with this newly arrived caravan.”

  In truth, he thought the man’s snub had been deliberate, but earning the hazar a reprimand from his lord wouldn’t enhance future relations between Kurash and himself. Mutual cooperation was imperative for the success of his mission.

  He was relieved when Balfou, after making some further protest about respecting His Majesty’s herald, agreed to make no mention of the incident to the Basileus. The two then went their separate ways—Borne to inform his men of their impending departure, and Balfou to pay visits to a few eminent Rizo nobles.

  Borne followed the sound of D’Avencote’s raised voice out to the paddocks behind the inn. He found his aide-de-camp gesticulating wildly as he argued with a droma drover in a mix of mangled Olquarish and Gralian. Two dozen of the humped beasts surrounded them, placidly chewing their cuds.

  Upon seeing his superior, D’Avencote’s relief was unmistakeable. “Thank the gods you’ve come, sir! This man says he’s been sent by the hazar. He insists we’re to travel on these ungainly creatures tomorrow. I’m trying to tell him that we need horses, not… whatever these are.”

  It was the young Gralian’s first time to the East, and Borne had observed on the journey out that novelty made him nervous.

  “Dromas,” Borne said, “are the best-suited mounts for traveling in this heat.” He reached up to scratch the small hairy ear of the beast nearest him. “This one’s particularly fine, with that deep chest and those long legs. I imagine she runs like the wind.”

  The drover was still scowling at D’Avencote. “Son of a sow!” the Olquarian muttered. “Any one of my dromas is worth ten horses.”

  It was fortunate that D’Avencote’s Olquarish was limited.

  Pretending not to understand the insult either, Borne smiled broadly. “Jemilar.” She’s beautiful.

  Upon hearing this compliment, the drover’s scowl relaxed slightly.

  Encouraged, Borne pointed to himself and said his name. Then he pointed to the droma with a questioning expression.

  The drover stroked the droma’s long nose. “Kisa,” he murmured.

  It meant windsong. “Ask him if it would be possible for me to take Kisa for a little run,” Borne instructed his aide.

  Poorly veiling his disapproval, D’Avencote passed on his commander’s query in broken Olquarish.

  The drover’s eyes held a speculative gleam as he prodded the droma to a kneeling position. Borne suspected he was looking forward to watching the foreigner make a fool of himself. He didn’t care; he welcomed the opportunity to test his seat. It wouldn
’t do for him to disgrace himself in front of the hazar’s party the following morning by pitching headlong off his mount.

  Following the drover’s signed instructions, he wrapped one of his legs around the saddle post and managed to remain in the saddle as the droma rocked to her feet.

  The drover led them around the yard, Magnus padding alongside, while Borne adjusted to the swaying rhythm of the animal’s gait. Then, grunting his satisfaction, the Olquarian released Kisa to Borne’s control. At once, the droma broke into a trot and headed out of the yard toward the open country beyond. Magnus leapt after them, but at Borne’s command, dropped back with reproach in his eyes.

  Borne allowed Kisa to set the pace, and she lengthened her strange alternating stride until she was at a full gallop. She was fast—as fast as any horse he’d ever ridden—and once he’d succeeded in ignoring the feeling that he might fly out of the saddle at any moment, the speed was exhilarating.

  By the time they returned to the courtyard, he felt confident he had Kisa’s measure. The drover appeared to agree; his previously sullen face was split by a wide grin.

  “Jago,” he said. Master. The Olquarian touched his hand to his heart and bowed.

  Dropping from the droma, Borne return the salute. He patted Kisa affectionately, then turned to his aide-de-camp. “Now you, D’Avencote.”

  The Gralian blanched. “Me, sir?”

  Borne waggled the reins at him. “Up you go, man.”

  D’Avencote opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again and swung up onto Kisa’s back.

  Borne pretended not to notice him pitching forward onto the droma’s neck as she levered herself to a standing position. But he would have to be deaf not to hear D’Avencote’s terrified whoops as they raced over the plains.

  To save the man from indignity, Borne excused himself and headed back to the inn.

  * * *

  The following day, both Borne and D’Avencote mounted their dromas in front of the company without incident. The men gamely clambered onto their own mounts, exchanging good-natured banter and curses as they came to grips with the procedure. Borne and Balfou, who was an old hand at droma riding, left them to it and rode out to join their escort, Magnus trotting at Borne’s side. Borne hoped his hound would be able to keep the pace in the heat. If not, he’d have to find him a place on one of the wagons.

  Kurash and his Olquarians waited for them at the head of the caravan. Upon seeing them approach, the hazar signaled the advance.

  Borne felt his pulse quicken as the caravan began to move. The air was ripe with the pungent stench of hundreds of dromas and rang with the jangle of their harness bells. The beasts were laden with clay vessels of oil, bales of silk, wool, and cotton, panniers bearing salt and precious spices, casks of raki, sacks of flour, and their own fodder. Many were hitched to wagons with undisclosed cargo concealed under heavy tarps.

  “Any idea what’s in those carts?” Borne asked Balfou.

  “Cannonballs and powder, bows and bowstrings, arrows, crossbows.” Balfou kept his voice low as he reeled off the list. “It appears the Basileus is stockpiling all the latest armaments.”

  “Well, that should come as no surprise. Why else would he request the services of an elite corps from Gral, unless he’s preparing for some sort of military action?”

  The crease in Balfou’s brow deepened. “The Jagars have been unusually active along the border in recent months. Previously they were content to prey on solitary travelers who strayed into their tribal lands, but now the bastards have organized under a single banner and they’ve grown bold, running forays far into Olquaria’s western territory.” He glanced over at Borne. “Be forewarned: they’re a cruel people, the Jagars. They have no interest in ransom and show no mercy, regardless of rank, to those who fall into their hands.”

  “Noted,” Borne replied, “though I don’t propose to get myself captured by anyone.”

  The caravan followed the shallow Paçay River south from Rizo. The hot breath of the land provoked a thirst, and Borne reached often for his flask of chay. The heavily sweetened drink made his teeth ache, but it was all that was on offer, except for raki, of which he’d had his fill.

  He passed the time comparing his own men, adjusting to their unfamiliar mounts, to the practiced riders who made up the hazar’s famous Kardeshe, also known as “the Companions.” This elite army’s number—seven thousand—had been determined centuries ago so that each of Tell-Uyuk’s seven hills had a thousand men to defend it. Siap setan—“ready to serve”—was the Kardeshe motto, and they had been the Basileus’s steadfast protectors since the early days of the Before.

  One of the companions caught Borne’s eye and then kept turning in his saddle to stare directly at him, so that Borne was not surprised when the man eventually drifted back to ride beside him. Close up, Borne saw that while the Olquarian had the same tawny skin as his comrades-in-arms, his eyes were as green as a spring leaf and lacked the almond shape of his countrymen’s.

  “May I introduce myself?” the man inquired. “I am Mir Al-Zlatan.”

  Kisa’s hoarse grunt brought Borne’s attention to the fact he’d pulled back sharply on her reins. “Where in the world—?”

  “Did I learn Drinn?” Mir flashed his strong white teeth. “My mother was a slave in the zenana of Zlatan Basileus.”

  “Your mother is from Drinnglennin?”

  “She is,” Mir affirmed, with another dazzling smile, “and no longer a slave. Once I was made a companion, I was able to buy her freedom.”

  Borne wasn’t sure what to make of this sudden confidence. “Does your mother wish to return home?”

  Mir blinked in surprise. “You mean to Drinnglennin?” He laughed, wagging his head from side to side, and Borne found himself smiling as well. “She was a child when she was taken by the Helgrins and traded in Olquaria. She barely remembers a life outside of the zenana, and still returns to the palace every day to gossip with her sister-slaves.” He sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if she wouldn’t have preferred I leave her there. But it would have done us both dishonor if I had.”

  Borne and Mir rode together for the rest of the day. The Olquarian proved to be an entertaining, loquacious fellow, and he shared a plethora of random information about himself. He had over a hundred half-sisters and half-brothers sired by Zlatan Basileus, intensely disliked kumquats, and was a master of the sling. He also desperately wanted to learn how to swim.

  What was most interesting to Borne was that before Mir joined the Companions, he had been an eniyara, one of the premier athletes of Tell-Uyuk.

  “Of course, it was hard to give up the thrill of yaraket,” Mir confessed, “but when my skill at it brought me to the attention of my illustrious father, I could not refuse the advancement he offered me.”

  By the time they reached their stopping place for the night, Mir had appointed himself Borne’s official translator and language instructor. The Olquarian had also made fast friends with Magnus by sharing tidbits of dried droma meat with the hound from the seemingly bottomless sack hanging from his saddle.

  D’Avencote, who had remained within earshot of the two throughout the day, wasted no time in sharing his opinion of the man as he laid out a change of clothes for Borne in the lean-to they would share for the night. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the fellow was instructed to befriend you by the hazar himself, sir,” the aide sniffed. “He could well be a spy.”

  Borne pulled his soiled tunic over his head. “I suspect it’s possible. But if so, he didn’t invest much time in learning anything about me.” He grinned reassuringly at D’Avencote. “I find him amusing, and it’ll be useful to have another translator on hand.”

  D’Avencote looked stung. “I’m sure I can manage that role, sir.”

  “As am I, but I shall depend on you to perform more important services.”

  The Gralian brightened.
“As you wish, sir.”

  They dined with the Olquarians beside a large pool of water, the lifeblood of these precious green enclaves in the desert. Platters of roasted goat, spiced rice, and flatbread stuffed with dates circulated among them, which they ate from common plates in the local style. Borne found the food delicious, but several of his men choked on the fiery peppers that accompanied it.

  When D’Avencote suffered a bout of coughing, Mir thrust a flagon in the aide-de-camp’s hands. “Drink this—it will help.”

  The Gralian managed to swallow a few gulps. Once he’d gotten his breath back, he asked, “What is this drink?”

  Mir beamed. “Delicious, isn’t it? Droma milk, mixed with their blood.”

  D’Avencote clapped his hand over his mouth and lurched away.

  Mir attempted to follow him, but Borne gently laid a restraining hand on his arm. “I expect D’Avencote just remembered a duty he needs to perform.” He lifted his chin toward a circular space beside the pool, which the slaves had been busy sweeping with bound twigs. “What’s going on there?”

  “A wrestling match, for our guests’ amusement. Come!”

  They joined the other spectators as two of Kurash’s soldiers, garbed in baggy loincloths, stepped into the ring and faced off. One competitor stood a full head taller than Borne. His head was shaved, but he had a full black beard, and his bulging biceps glistened with oil. His opponent was a strikingly handsome man with deep-set dark eyes and long, flowing hair. He was easily a dozen years younger than the big man and half his weight, but from the way he danced on the balls of his feet, Borne suspected he would bring something of value to the contest.

  “That’s Halid Al-Zlatan, my half-brother,” Mir said proudly, nodding toward the smaller man. “He’s the current champion.”

  The match began without the usual pushing and grappling around head and shoulders that Borne associated with wrestling. Instead, the two men advanced immediately into a tight embrace and remained locked. Then they grasped the backs of each other’s loincloths and began a slow circling.