by Erin Evans
“I’m not pretending that it will be simple, but …”
Start with the truth, Enlil’s voice echoed. We have common ground. Dumuzi tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth, assuring himself Mehen wasn’t angry. “He … He feels you understand. He feels you might be open to the idea.”
Mehen stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Why the karshoji Hells would he think that?”
Not only blood makes a clan, Enlil said. The strong shall not oppress the weak, and the land shall be enlightened.
Dumuzi felt the god’s presence press upon his mind. “I think … He’s a father—he sees himself as a father. A parent and a soldier. And so are you. Maybe you understand then. Maybe you can believe him when he says he’s come here to help us, to watch over us, to guide us and not yoke us.”
Mehen looked unconvinced. “I’ve seen a lot of sorts of fathers in my day. Doesn’t mean much. Same for soldiers. Is he the sort that whips a subordinate for having muddy boots? Who drapes himself in purple silk and brocade and doesn’t much care if his army is starving or badly trained? This Enlil, is he the kind of commander that makes an example? Beats a body out of ten just to scare the other nine?”
“No!” Dumuzi said indignantly—but then he caught himself. He didn’t really know. He felt sure—but then appearances could be deceptive. He thought of Arjhani, of the way he could charm everyone and then fail Dumuzi so utterly.
“Enlil saved us,” Dumuzi made himself point out.
Mehen folded his arms. “What’s he think about the fact you’re not his truest convert?”
Dumuzi sighed. “He’s not happy about it, but he understands.”
“Well that’s a start.”
“And it’s a problem,” Dumuzi said. “You’re right—I’m not his truest convert. I hear myself and I can’t believe this is my voice saying these things, trying to convince people to worship a god. But at the same time, I know I have to. Has Anala told you what they know? About the army heading for Djerad Kethendi?”
“It’s come up,” Mehen said. “We’ve beaten armies before.”
“Of gods and demons?” Dumuzi demanded. “We need this ally, and … and I’m asking everyone to stop being Vayemniri by accepting him.”
Mehen started to say something, then cursed and rubbed his hands over his face. “How practical is he?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how heartfelt does this worship need to be?” Mehen said. “We’re a practical people—can he be a practical god? Can he be an ally, not a master?”
Enlil seemed to press into reality, as if curious. “Maybe,” Dumuzi allowed.
“Lay it out that way,” Mehen said, sounding reluctant. “Lay it out like it’s a treaty or a qallim agreement or a mercenary contract. What do they have to give up to get this Enlil’s help? How many prayers buys a lightning wall? What happens if we refuse to prance around in pothach robes and hats? Things like that.” He scratched his jade piercings. “Put a time limit to it and I’ll wager you get some more interest.”
In Dumuzi’s thoughts, the god’s presence seemed to thicken, as if he wanted badly for Dumuzi to sleep again, to be able to hear his words clearest. Enlil didn’t like this idea—gods did not make contracts—and yet he did—he had been a god of law, of order, and what was a contract but order imposed upon the fleeting realities of life?
A frantic scrabbling sound came from the other side of the door. Two Verthisathurgiesh hatchlings, a white-scaled girl and a bronze-scaled boy, burst through, shoving past each other. “Matriarch Anala!” the girl shouted.
“She’s out,” Mehen said. The girl froze, fearful, and the boy scrambled to a stop beside her—Mehen resembled so closely his brutal father, the previous patriarch, that Dumuzi didn’t wonder if his voice sent the two of them spiraling back into the past. “What do you need?” Mehen said, when neither spoke. The boy gestured to the girl.
“There’s … there’s an army,” the girl panted.
“We’re aware,” Mehen said. “Has it reached Djerad Kethendi then?”
The girl shook her head. “No … another army. Not humans … giants. Giants … marching on Djerad Kethendi.”
Panic swelled through Dumuzi, but the presence of Enlil was only puzzled. “Ash giants?” Dumuzi asked. Ash giants had attacked Djerad Thymar in Dumuzi’s childhood.
“No. From the north. They’re something else. Something … The rider said they had marks all over. And they’re bigger than the ash giants.”
Mehen stood. “Just what we need. And you,” he said to the boy. “You have the same message?”
“No,” the lad said. “There’s a visitor to see you. Says it’s urgent. Says he fled the first army and he wants to see Farideh.” He tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Says she has his snake?”
• • •
ZOONIE DREAMS.
Hot sun. Wide plains. Grass is crunching—nice dry smell, like fire-to-be. Man in black smells like shadows, hiding in the grass, but not for long. Zoonie scents him. Tracks him. Fast-fast-fast.
Man pops up. Run, man, run. Doesn’t matter—Zoonie is faster. Zoonie is fastest. Run forever, Zoonie will catch.
“Zoonie!” Voice shouts. “Tarto!”
Zoonie stops. Zoonie listens. Where is Havilar? Where is best-favorite-love-master? She smells the Havilar-smell—oil and leather and sweat and Havilar. Sights her. In the grass. Forget the man. The man will wait. Havilar is here!
Zoonie runs-runs-runs. Smell is stronger—realer. True Havilar not Strange Havilar. Zoonie runs too far, knocks Havilar to the ground. So happy! So glad! Havilar is happy too! Pets and laughs and shouting! Zoonie shouts—big deep shouts!
Off!—Zoonie hears the words now. Zoonie scurries back—best-favorite-love-master says off, so off. Havilar scratches in Zoonie’s fur, smooths her ears back. Love, love, love! Obey. Obey, obey. Where has Havilar been, leaving her body behind smelling so wrong? Almost knocks her down again, so happy! More what-to-do? More orders?
“Good girl,” Havilar says. More pets, more scratches. Zoonie is happiest. She has obeyed and best-favorite-love-master is happy. More orders? But no, Havilar just wants pets and scratches. Easy done.
“Is she taking care of you?” Havilar says. Zoonie has no answers—Zoonie is, Zoonie obeys, Zoonie waits-waits-waits. Listens-smells-watches for better answer.
“You’re bored,” Havilar says. “I can tell.”
Yes—bored. Zoonie shoves her head under Havilar’s arm. More chasing. More orders. More things-to-hunt.
“At least I know I can do this now,” she says, scratching ears. “Hopefully Farideh’s as happy to see me as you are.”
Shadow-smell—Zoonie turns toward it. Shadow-smell, so man in black is near. No, there, crunching grasses, running fast. None is fast as Zoonie, though. See the army in black? If they get in our way, you can eat any of them you like—orders, definitely orders. Happiest to obey. She takes off with all her feet. Fast-fast-fast, run-run-run. She hears Havilar shouting something, but there is nothing in her head but the man in black and the running fast and the way shadows taste when they burn.
• • •
THE CITY OF Gems lay in ruins, far older than the Spellplague. From a distance, it might have been anything—the remains of a landslide, the tailings of a quarry, the abandoned beginnings of a dragonborn fortress. But Dahl marched close enough to the Son of Victory’s sedan chair to see and hear the man’s growing excitement.
“Here is where we begin again,” he bellowed. “Here is the seat of our ancestors, the seed of our glory.”
Dahl eyed the slipping piles of sandstone and crumbled clay. Here is a nest for ankhegs, he thought.
He’d cast the ritual on himself that morning, but without the touch of a would-be god, there was no making it permanent like the ritual cast on the sikatis. He’d learned enough to make the use of components worth it: once they established a base at Unthalass, the priests and sikatis said, they would march on one of the cities. Djerad Kethend
i—the white-walled pyramid on the other shore of the bay—or Djerad Thymar—the prize, the jewel, the heart of the monsters’ kingdom—no one could say for sure. Perhaps both together—after all, they had a god to lead them. Their scouts had the slightest of information, and though they’d seen the riders on giant bats passing overhead, no one knew whose they were. They were too far off to tell what manner of creature rode astride them.
It doesn’t matter, the murmurs said. All will bow before the Son of Victory as we reclaim our kingdom.
The heart of their kingdom—a hundred massive piles of rubble, pocked with sinkholes to the collapsed city below—now lay before them. For all Gilgeam’s flowery speeches, a current of doubt ran through the whispers.
“What are they saying?” the dragonborn woman beside him whispered. Shestandeliath Mazarka, violet-scaled and pierced with the silver chain, had sought Dahl out the night before. The dragonborn captured had been from a pair of villages to the northwest, both ripped apart in the sudden planar storm. Half the buildings Mazarka’s clan held had just disappeared, along with everyone in them. Their apple orchards had vanished too, replaced with a dry riverbed that ended a mile on. They’d met up with the other clan—Clethtinthtiallor—heading to Djerad Kethendi in hopes it still stood and they’d be safe there.
Dahl shook his head—no one needed to know he understood Untheric for the moment. The doubts grew louder as the shadows between the rubble piles flashed and flickered. A high-pitched keening echoed through the stones.
One of the sinuous demons lashed out, snatching a creature that seemed half-human, half-beast from the dark patches of shade. The creature screeched and howled and slashed at the demon with powerful claws and a snout full of teeth. For all the demon bled, it still managed to kill the jackalwere, tearing its belly out with its teeth. Other jackalweres howled a warning through the ruins.
“Holy stlarning Torm and Tyr,” Bodhar hissed beside Dahl.
“Call your master!” Gilgeam shouted. “Or we will hunt you, each by each.”
A chorus of yelps and barks echoed through the ruins, no language Dahl could ever pinpoint. A moment later, a woman scaled the heap of stone, the shift of her tanned shoulders as she came into view subtly but hideously wrong. Her face might have been human—handsome even—but there was something about her that made Dahl’s skin crawl. Her pale eyes surveyed the army with the sort of callousness with which Dahl might have considered a stack of parchment or a field of rye. We don’t matter, he thought. Why would we think we did? Even so, as she scanned the army, still marching toward the ruins, she seemed to calculate, consider the numbers. Consider the bull-headed demons, the sedan chair that held Gilgeam. The jackalweres snarled, holding their position.
“You’ll find their master is already well prepared for you.” The woman crested the pile of rubble, revealing the source of her odd movements—where she should have had legs, instead a body like a lion’s flowed out of her torso. A lamia, Dahl thought. “That said, everything we’ve seen and considered suggests that perhaps Zillah’s kingdom is not the place for you to stop, human.”
“I am no human!” Gilgeam snarled. Then calmer, colder, “I have come allied with your master, the Dark Lord Graz’zt. My army is his army—you may mark his favored among my troops—and you are trespassing in my sacred city.”
Zillah didn’t flinch at that pronouncement, but it seemed to give her pause. As though she were considering what use Gilgeam might be, as opposed to what threat. Then all at once the creature sketched a sort of bow, her demeanor changed. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said, her voice thick with such falseness that she would put a Cormyrean courtier to shame. “If you had been made known to me—”
“My plans have changed,” Gilgeam said. “I have brought my people to their true home rather than claim a borrowed one.”
“Of course,” the lamia said. “I have held this city for years, but I have always known its makers were elsewhere.”
“And they have returned,” Gilgeam said as if he were finishing Zillah’s sentence. He turned to the sikatis, the priests marching near him. “Make camp once more. On the morrow, we’ll begin remaking the city.”
“How fortunate,” Zillah said.
Dahl knew a brewing catastrophe when he saw it—the lamia watched the god-king with a calculating sort of coldness, a certainty that she would cut his legs out the first chance she got; meanwhile the god-king ignored Zillah as though she were no more than another demon granted him by Graz’zt.
That was another detail Dahl wasn’t sure what to do with—if Graz’zt had granted Gilgeam this army, it had to have been before the demon lord had been pulled down into the Underdark. Which meant the demon lord could reach Abeir, or maybe that Gilgeam was capable of reaching out to the Abyss.
It also meant the source of Gilgeam’s reinforcements wasn’t anywhere accessible, he realized. Assuming Graz’zt remained trapped in the Underdark. He cast his eyes over at the goristro lurking over the filigreed tent already rising beside the slope of rubble. Only one way to find out.
Mira stepped from the sedan chair, scanning the crowd until she spotted Dahl.
All right? He signaled.
Safe, she signed back. Then, Trouble.
“What’s she saying?” Thost whispered. Dahl bit back a curse.
“The three of you!” Namshita stood over them. “We need water. Pick up those buckets.”
Finally they had their chance to break for the River Alamber, and the sikati who listened too closely would be accompanying them. He shouldered clay pots, hanging on a yoke, beside Thost and Bodhar, waited as Namshita untied their shackles from the post. Four archers came with them, and a half-dozen soldiers who shouldered pots of their own.
Maybe, he thought, considering the numbers. If Bodhar and Thost could move fast. If he could get Namshita down.
If he could live with abandoning Mira.
Namshita fell into step beside him.
“I have trained with the sword since I could stand,” she murmured. “I have two abnu on you and a handspan. My word is iron among these people, and if you so much as cry out, I will make certain you die before a sound leaves your throat. Are you and I clear?”
Dahl kept his eyes on Thost’s back, calculating how honest Namshita’s threats were. Pretty damned honest, he thought, considering the shadow of her, the movement of the archers at their lead. “Perfectly clear,” he said.
“You are a soldier,” she said, and he didn’t correct her. “What are your resources in this world?”
“Exactly as I told the Son of Victory.”
“No,” Namshita said. “You lied, and it was good you lied.” She hesitated a moment, then dropped her voice. “He is mad and he is dangerous. In the other world, we listened because we believed the opposite choice meant being the chattel of the genasi. But then his lunacy began to uncover itself.”
Dahl risked a glance toward her. “I assume around the time he made a deal for Abyssal shock troops?”
The look of disgust on Namshita’s face would have quelled any ordinary person. “Before the storm came, two thousand of us intended to flee into the wilds and escape over the mountains. What are your resources?”
“You’re still planning on running?”
“Is the Son of Victory still mad?” Namshita asked. “The city on the harbor—my scouts say it’s heavily defended. That we might assail it, but it would be years before it broke. And yet he colludes with that creature as if they’re discussing a march to the next supply depot.”
Dahl couldn’t say how long Djerad Kethendi could hold out against the Untheran army—the city was among the newest in Faerûn, untested by war. But the Fortress of Gems had been built by the same hands in the same way as Djerad Thymar—and no matter how isolated and peculiar the dragonborn were, Dahl doubted you could find a military mind on Toril who’d say the pyramid city was an easy prize to take.
“I have contacts in the western city, Djerad Thymar,” he said quietly. �
��They might shelter you.”
“ ‘Might’ is a heavy risk to take.”
Dahl bit his lip and wished Mira were there. Cultures weren’t his specialty. He wasn’t the person to ask about dragonborn—
He thought back to Farideh, sitting in the alley behind the tavern called the Sweet Nymph, and him prodding her into telling him dragonborn ancestor stories while waiting for her disguise spell to wear off so that it didn’t surprise the Sharrans they were hunting.
“Are you related to all of these people?” he had asked. “I mean, not by blood, obviously, but … you know.”
She shrugged. “It’s … I don’t think it’s the same thing as when you say related. Clans aren’t just about bloodlines, it’s also about who was willing to fight beside you, share the risk, share the damage.”
He squinted at her through the drizzle of rain. “So you and I could be in the same clan by those requirements.”
Farideh had snorted. “If you want to be adopted by dragonborn.”
Walking beside Namshita, Dahl considered this, and the half-score other stories he’d coaxed out of Farideh. “You could tilt those odds,” he said. “They say they’re a welcoming people, but they’re just as martial as you lot. You show up, an army at their gates, they won’t be fools. If you surrender and give up your weapons, perhaps some intelligence about Gilgeam, they’ll see you’re sincere. And if you’re sincere, they’ll be welcoming, I wager.”
Namshita made a soft snort, as if this was asking more than could be born. “They’ll see we’re meant for their chains.”
“Well there I have no ‘mights’ or ‘maybes’: They don’t take slaves,” Dahl said. “They don’t take kindly to those who do.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Can you give that up?”
“Only Gilgeam has taken it up,” Namshita said as they reached the mouth of the river. “Two thousand of us, at least, know better.”
The tide had pulled the water from the river’s mouth, the rising sea levels dragging water out that had once been farther upriver. Great boulders made cataracts as the tide receded, a fall of spraying water that surely couldn’t last long.
