Sentinelspire c-4

by Mark Sehestedt

  Sentinelspire

  ( Citadels - 4 )

  Mark Sehestedt

  Mark Sehestedt

  Sentinelspire

  The wise men know all evil things

  Under the twisted trees, Where the perverse in pleasure pine And men are weary of green wine

  And sick of crimson seas.

  — G.K. Chesterton, "The Ballad of the White Horse"

  Prologue

  2 Mirtul, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR) The Yuirwood

  They had come not long after midnight. With the moon and stars drowned in a sea of cloud, the darkness beneath the trees had become absolute. How such a large force had penetrated the depths of the Yuirwood, no one yet knew. It was unheard of. Unprecedented. But to strike so near one of the Circle's holiest sites, to murder the Masters of the Yuirwood and bring fire to the trees, that was sacrilege. Such a crime demanded blood.

  Chereth followed the ranger through the wood. Aeryll was the man's name. Man? No, Aeryll was the youngest member of their band, scarcely more than a boy, not even a year out of his Jalesh Rudra. Aeryll held aloft a thin chain, a starstone dangling from it. The stone's soft silver glow gave the ranger enough light to guide them to a small clearing, a place where massive slabs of stone broke out of the earth. Little grew here-tufts of tall, sharp grass from the fissures of rock, and mosses in the recesses of stone that saw little sunlight. Chereth and the ranger emerged from the forest just as the clouds let loose a soft rain.

  The Masters of the Yuirwood-Triem and the seven of his band who had survived-stood in the lee of a tall boulder.

  Someone had bound two starstone necklaces to the long tufts of summer grass that sprouted from crevices in the rock. Just enough light for the humans to see. Another figure, his dark clothes torn and streaked with blood, huddled at their feet, his elbows bound behind his back, his knees and ankles tied before him.

  Triem, his hood pulled down on his shoulders, turned at Chereth and Aeryll's approach. "Master Chereth," he said, and bowed.

  "This is the only one captured?" asked Chereth.

  "Mandel's band is pursuing the others eastward. We've heard nothing so far."

  "It took nine of you to apprehend this one?"

  A moment's silence before Triem answered, but there was no apology in his tone. "You saw him, Master. What he did. Yes, it took nine of us."

  Chereth looked down on the man huddled in the grass. He walked around Triem, and two of the other rangers stepped back to allow him to approach the captive.

  "You are Kheil," said Chereth.

  The man looked up, his eyes bright in a face masked by blood. A slight gash near his scalp had bled freely, soaking his visage.

  "How did you find us?" said Chereth. "How did you come undetected so deep into our sacred wood?"

  The man said nothing. His glare did not falter.

  "Why did you come? Why bring murder to our Circle?"

  The man's back stiffened, pride and arrogance entering his countenance. "No one thwarts the Old Man of the Mountain and lives to tell about it."

  Chereth leaned upon his staff and looked Kheil in the eye. "We have much the same rule." He straightened and turned to Triem. "Kill him."

  Triem and his rangers dragged Kheil through the woods. The soft rain turned to a torrent as the warm winds off the Sea of Fallen Stars met the cooler air coming down from the Tannath Mountains, creating a thunderstorm that rattled the early summer leaves and shook the hills. Lightning flashed, making the wood a mass of flickering light and shadow. Triem wore his hood down so as not to impede his ears and eyes, and when the band left the woods to cross clearings or crest a hill, the rain hit him like nails, stinging his skin.

  They reached the hilltop. There, shuddering in the fury of the storm, stood the Tree of Dhaerow. The tree had died many years before, but its leafless corpse still stood, gray and hard like some withered old sentinel on the hill. It had a foul air about it that made Triem want to walk away and not4ook back. Perhaps it was the lingering of ghosts or the scent of death upon the grass. Here, the Masters of the Yuirwood hanged the most vile criminals-murderers, rapists, and worshipers of the dark gods. But Triem had long feared that the tree had a presence of its own. Dead it might be, but the old oak had an awareness about it that he had never liked.

  "You're going to hang me, then?" said Kheil. He looked up at the Tree of Dhaerow. The hard rain had opened his head wound again, and blood and water soaked him from his scalp down to his boots. "I'm disappointed. I'd heard you Yuir rangers had more imagination."

  Aeryll stepped forward, his smile cold in the lightning flashes. "You'll-"

  "Enough," said Triem. "Aeryll, say nothing."

  "That's right," said Kheil. "Just-"

  Dorren, a ranger so big that his brothers in the Circle often taunted him about being half giant, hit Kheil so hard that blood and water sprayed the rangers standing ten feet away.

  "Quickly," said Triem. "Before he comes to his senses. Let's not make this any more of a struggle than we have to."

  The rangers unbound Kheil, then tied his wrists in front of him. They secured a rope of braided leather over the new bindings, then threw the remaining length over the lowest, thickest branch of the old oak. Dorren hauled on the rope until the tips of Kheil's boots barely scraped the mud. The sudden pressure on his arms and the wind and rain in his face woke him.

  Kheil swallowed and said, "Whuh… what-?"

  Dorren drew his dagger, cut away Kheil's clothes, and tossed them into the mud while Aeryll pulled off the assassin's boots.

  "What are you doing?" Kheil asked, his speech slurred. In the light from a distant flash of lightning, Triem saw something in Kheil's eyes. Fear.

  "Relieving you of your disappointment," said Triem. "The Masters of the Yuirwood may lack many things. Imagination is not one of them."

  The other rangers drew their knives. Cold steel flickered in the storm light.

  The storm ravaged all of Aglarond that night. The Masters of the Yuirwood hunted the surviving assassins through their sacred wood, but none were ever found, save the dead.

  As the storm passed, breaking itself against the Tannath Mountains and turning its spent fury over the Umber Marshes to the east, Triem's band left the Tree of Dhaerow and the flayed corpse that hung from it. When the thunder had diminished to no more than a low rumble in the distance, and the stars and sinking moon began to peek through the clouds, a lone figure climbed the hill to the Tree of Dhaerow. No one saw the figure cut down the corpse of Kheil. No one watched as he bore Kheil's corpse far away.

  He heard singing. A voice, deep and rich, like cedar smoke, chanting in a tongue he could not understand. But the deeper meaning tugged at him, reaching through the pain to that part of him that still remembered a world where pain did not define him. Hope and life broke him like vibrant color breaking shadow. And that color was green…

  He gasped, his body taking in a great breath that burned his lungs.

  Sounds filled his ears-water dripping from summer leaves, frogs and toads croaking like wet branches rubbing in the breeze, a cacophony of crickets. Beneath these sounds, like the accompanying harp to a bard's song, was the gurgle of water running sweet and clear. He found himself filled with a thirst such as he had never known.

  "Easy," said a voice.

  He opened his eyes and saw a figure kneeling to one side of him. Sunlight broke through the ceiling of leaves, and a few beams played over the figure. Streaks of gray flecked his long brown hair, but the sunlight brought out a deep green, like moss peeking out from tree bark. His coppery skin was smooth, but his eyes gazed with the wisdom of years, and the ears protruding from his hair swooped up into a sharp tip. Too thick for an elf, yet not thick enough for most humans, this
one had to be a half-elf, and with that knowledge, a name floated to the surface of his mind.

  "Chereth?" he asked. "How…?"

  "How what?"

  "How did I…?" He searched his memory and found only broken bits and pieces. Chereth, a druid, one of the Masters of the Yuirwood, that ancient forest so far from… where? The mountain. A lone mountain rising to great height above miles of rolling grassland. Sentinelspire. That was the mountain's name. "How did I come here?"

  "You would not say," said the half-elf.

  He sat up and looked down on his body. The pain-the memory of which made him flinch-was only a dull ache in his flesh, but the scars remained, crisscrossing his torso, his arms, his legs. Looking at them, he remembered-rain and wind, a gnarled tree, and through it all, cold knives glinting in the light of a storm.

  "You do remember then," said the half-elf. "I was not sure."

  "They… they killed me. Th-the knives, they-" "Yes."

  "You told them to kill me." "Yes."

  "Then why… this? Why call me back?"

  The old half-elf raised his hand, and Kheil saw something dangling from it-a leather cord tied to a knot work of twisted vines, all braided round three small stones. As Chereth raised it into one of the sunbeams, the light caught in the stones, and Kheil saw that they were jewels of some sort.

  "All your life you have dealt death. Now the god of life calls you. Time to answer."

  Part One

  Assassins

  Chapter One

  14 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) The Northern Shalhoond

  Lewan crouched in the cover of the thick brush-near the stream. The long tree-shadows and tall grasses made for good cover, but a large predator would detect any movement. Lewan kept absolutely still, save for his eyes, which flitted about, searching for anything on the move. The sound of the stream would hide all but the loudest sounds should he need to move-but it would do the same for anything approaching. Still, he could have sworn that his ears had caught something a moment ago.

  The sound came again, off to his right-wheet-wheet! — the call of the spotted crake, one of the many small birds that made its home in the tall grasses where the trees of the Shalhoond thinned before fading into the Great Amber Steppes. Lewan answered with a crane's call.

  A rustling in the grass came closer, stopped, then moved closer still. A moment later a small green and brown head, scaled and with a tiny horn above the nose, poked out from between tufts of new spring grass. The little lizard's eyes locked on Lewan, the small black tongue flicked out, tasting the air, then the creature was gone, a hiss in the grass.

  Berun came in quietly, scarcely more than a whisper himself, crouching low so he didn't breach the surface of the grass. His silence belied his size. Standing straight, he would have looked down upon most natives of the steppes, though he was lean and his features were hard, shaped by years of wind and sun. He held his bow-far larger than the one on Lewan's back-in one hand, though it was unstrung. A treeclaw lizard rode his shoulder, its long tail dangling beside the man's braid.

  "You found something?" asked the man.

  "Yes, Master," said Lewan. "Down by the water."

  They kept to the cover of the trees and brush as much as they could, but nearer the stream it was all grass. Between two tall tussocks was a bare patch of soil that had been moistened by the rain of two nights ago. It had dried since, preserving the four prints quite nicely. Looking at them, Berun's brows knit together. They kept their voices low.

  "What kind of animal is it, Lewan?"

  "A large cat," he replied. "Steppe tiger, I think."

  Berun gave him a slight smile, though he didn't look up. "What else?"

  "A female. The rear paws come down slightly to the outside of those of the front. Wider hips means a female-even in cats. Yes?

  Berun's grin widened. "Yes, Lewan. Even in cats. And how big is she?"

  Lewan looked at the prints. They were large, as big as his outstretched palm. The soil would have been softer after the rain, and the prints were deep.

  "She's big," said Lewan. "I'd guess at least eight hundred pounds. Maybe more."

  "A good guess," said Berun. "Well done, Lewan."

  "What now, Master? It seems she's headed back into the forest. She isn't spraying any markers, doesn't seem to be establishing any territory, and she hasn't hit any farms in eleven days. She abandoned that last deer half-eaten. She's wandering all over the place. I don't understand."

  Berun's smile disappeared and he became grim again. "Nor do I." He looked up at the sun. "We'll keep tracking her while the light is strong. If she keeps heading deeper into the wood, we'll find a good place to bed down. I don't want to hunt a steppe tiger in the dark."

  They tracked the tiger throughout the rest of the morning and into midday. They did not hurry, keeping to cover and taking care to move quietly. Although the tiger had taken the deer three days ago and probably wouldn't be hunting again, it didn't hurt to be cautious. Tigers were ambush hunters, and this tiger was already a puzzle, hitting three farms in the last month, slaughtering mostly sheep, but at the last one she'd forsaken the sheep and taken the shepherd. She'd kept to no set range, so she wasn't a newcomer seeking territory. At least not yet.

  Just past midday they came upon another stream, one of the many that crawled out of the Khopet-Dag to the west. They were farther from the wood now, and the few trees rising out of the steppe hugged the water where they starved out the thicker grasses. Lewan found fresh tracks near the water and called to his master.

  "Look, Master," he said, keeping his voice low. "These are less than half a day old."

  The men crossed the stream where the tracks did, moving swiftly so as not to be in open sight for long. The water never rose above their knees, but it was cold; it had probably been snow on some distant peak only a few days ago. As they were about to set foot on the opposite shore, Berun came to an abrupt halt and motioned for Lewan to do the same. He approached the wet soil on the opposite bank with utmost care, crouching low and choosing his ground so as not to step on any tracks. Lewan noted that the fluid grace had left his movements. His master was stiff and hesitant. Something had startled him.

  "What is it, Master?" he whispered.

  When Berun didn't reply, Lewan stepped forward, keeping low, his hands on his knees to preserve his balance. He followed his master's gaze.

  A mass of tracks, many of them trampling others. Among the few clear ones were more tiger tracks. Judging by the size, it was the same beast covering the same ground a few times, but in one smooth patch of soil was a boot print, distinct and undisturbed. It was big and deep. Whoever had made it was at least as tall as Berun;-and much heavier.

  Scratched into the boot print-probably with a twig or a thick stalk of grass-were letters. Lewan was by no means a master of letters. In his sixteen years, his master had taught him only the basics, but he knew enough to recognize these. Written in the Thorass letters, they spelled out a word: KHEIL.

  "Master, what does this mean?"

  Berun swallowed and said nothing. He had gone pale, and Lewan noticed that Berun's fist gripping his bow was tense and white.

  "Master? What-?"

  "Lewan," said Berun, his voice hoarse. "Go back to the village. Keep to cover. Go slowly. Let no one see you. If you don't make it by dark, bed down secure and light no fire. No fire. Do you hear me? You must not be seen out in the open. Get to the village and stay there. Tell them that no one leaves the wall, save in numbers, and everyone goes armed, even behind the walls. Keep the fires lit at night-burning low, but the guards will need to see. And tell them to double their guards. Not just the gate. After dark, every turn of the wall must be watched."

  "I… I don't understand, Master. We've hunted worse than tigers before. Why send me back?"

  "Later, Lewan. You will obey me in this. I shouldn't be more than a few days."

  "But I can help you." "Not this time."

  "What do those letters
mean, Master? What is a 'Kheil?' "

  "Not a what, Lewan. Kheil was a man. Now head back to the village." Berun looked at him. His eyes were equal parts fury and fear. "You will obey in this, Lewan. Go. Now."

  Lewan looked away. "As you say, Master."

  "And Lewan?"

  "Yes?"

  "String your bow. Travel with an arrow in hand."

  Chapter Two

  Berun watched Lewan disappear into the tall grass. He'd hurt the boy. Lewan was confused and afraid, but that couldn't be helped. This job had seemed so simple. Something had been killing sheep around some of the villages that Hubadai, the self-proclaimed ruler of the Hordelands, had established along the Great Amber Steppes. Not all that unusual so near the Shalhoond, but eleven days ago two shepherds had been attacked, one killed, and one saved only by the quick ministrations of the village healer. The villages had banded together and sent out a hunting party. They hadn't been seen since, so the villages had hired Berun to track down the beast. Simple enough. Berun had done many such jobs over the past few years since wandering into this part of the world. The little gold it put in his hand helped to buy what supplies he and Lewan could not take from the wild. But this simple job had just turned into something much, much worse.

  Berun's mind swirled. Rising fear told him to go after Lewan, to collect the boy and head south into the deep wood where they could lose themselves. Maybe hide among the yaqubi. Let Hubadai's new villages fend for themselves or call upon their new khahan for aid. If Berun's guess was right, then this was no rogue tiger he was following. And those hunters sent out by the village would likely never be seen again.

  But another voice whispered round the edges of his fear.

  An old half-elf's voice. Chereth, his teacher. Berun had spent many seasons with Chereth beneath the boughs of the Yuirwood, far to the north and west, learning from him the sacred ways of the wild, the paths of life and death, the hearts of growing things. As a Master of the Yuirwood, Chereth had long been devoted to his own woodland home, but as a servant of Silvanus, he was also sworn to protect all the wild places of the world, and that service sometimes took him and his disciple far from home. Over the years, his devotion sometimes turned to obsession, and he walked hundreds of miles, searching for old lore and relics.