“But Devêr was an ambitious Earl. He took the king’s daughter for his bride, and on their wedding night, while drunk, King Lobrôd asked how it was he defeated his enemies, as if he knew their tactics beforehand. And Devêr, stumbling drunk, told the king, ‘It is because I can be in five places at once, spread across the battlefield, even behind my enemy or in the enemy’s camp. Watching, listening, their every step is mine.’
“The King laughed and declared him a drunken fool, but Devêr was not to be mocked. And he said, ‘I will prove here and now that you are the fool, not I.’ The king seethed at such an insult, but Devêr pushed further. ‘There are five of me and only one of you, if true your crown is mine, if a lie you may have my head.’ Mind you, the king was bury-your-head drunk, and angry atop that. He lifted his axe from his throne and stomped to stand in front of the Earl. He hefted the axe and said, ‘Agreed! You’ve ten grains of sand before I split your skull.’ Devêr pointed behind the king, and when Lobrôd looked… The Earl sat on his throne, and this Earl pointed to a balcony, where stood a third Earl, and this one, to another. Four Earls, and the King said, ‘That is not Five.’ He bellowed and swung, but a grip from behind latched his wrist, and the axe hit the floor. Earl number five smiled, and plucked the crown from the king’s brow, placed it on the First Earl’s head.
“Lobrôd the Fourth was no longer king, and King Devêr, first of his name, banished the old man from his kingdom.”
Solineus chuckled as he scooted further down the trail. “Hells of a tale for children.”
“It is a fine fable for children, but many claim it true. It is carved in the Cliffs of Wisdom. The Earl ruled as king for five decades. Ten years in, they buried an Earl, but there was another. When they buried the second, there was a third, then a fourth, until they buried the Fifth Earl and there were no more.”
“You’re shittin’ me, you believe this?”
“They say no one ever saw the Five Earls together again, but he’d appear in towns and mines around the Kingdom while he was known to be elsewhere.” Morik grinned. “Most say Devêr was five brothers who looked the same, of course, but others claim magic.”
Solineus laughed. “I met a Tek Duke once…” But his mind spun to a man who would be King: Lord Priest Ulrikt. A man tucked in a casket and thought dead only to return. Could he have had a double? He scoffed at himself. Don’t matter none. Those worries were long past. He hoped.
Either way, the story distracted from the harrowing shimmy down the cliffs, but the tale should’ve been longer with such a distance to climb. The sun headed toward the western peaks by the time they set foot to the road, and his stomach growled with a ferocity, but Tanzarêu declared there was no time to eat before their quarry arrived.
Kingdomers crossed the road to scatter among trees, bushes, ravines, and rocks, and he followed Tanzarêu and Morik into a well-shaded cut in the stone hollowed by centuries of water. “How long?”
Tanzarêu held the coin, eyes closed. “Difficult to tell. I’ve learned much, but how precise my senses I do not yet know.”
Solineus cast his eyes the way they came, struck first by how they’d made it down such a treacherous climb, but was forced to reconsider. The path they’d taken was crazy, perhaps, but less crazy than others. Kingdomer runes carved into the cliff’s face were tall as a man, and in areas there were paths zigging and zagging which had no track to the top nor the bottom of the cliffs. Far as he could tell, the route they’d taken was the only one which spanned top to bottom.
“Folks who carved those histories… they dangled over the cliffs by rope?”
Morik nodded. “By chain, so it wouldn’t fray. Lore speaks to them lowering platforms to base their work from. The workers sometimes slept on these platforms, living there weeks at a time. Dozens of them scurrying like spiders to hurry their job done while foremen below directed their chisels.”
“Astounding what men may do when pressed to it.”
“Pressed! They were honored to work these cliffs.”
Solineus caught the glares of several men and raised his hands. “Not what I meant… I mean, I’m always impressed by what men may achieve when working together.”
“This is so.” Morik nodded, and all eyes seemed to forgive Solineus’ slight.
Figuring it best to keep his mouth shut, Solineus reached into his bag for a hunk of jerky. Besides, no reason for his grumbling gut to give their position away. He chewed, waited, chewed some more, and wondered if maybe the woman’s senses weren’t as awry as her hair. Clopping hooves echoed off the cliff wall, arriving long before a vision of the oncoming riders. The sound grew and grew, and he realized it wasn’t simply because they came closer; far more than six sets of hooves, dozens more.
The voices of two men carried over the racket, and as they rounded the bend, there were six horses riding across, the riders in black robes with their faces hooded and dipped against the bright of the afternoon sun. Six more, and six more, and six more… they just kept coming, all robed in black.
He pressed his body to the rocks, praying gravity pulled him so tight that none of these bastards would see him. Casual words passed between the hooded people, as if they were out for a morning ride before brunch, eighteen rows of six in all, and not a one showed their face. The only thing to wholly prove they weren’t some mirroring mirage was that some sat bigger or taller in the saddle, that and the variety of weapons over their shoulders, hanging from their hips, or dangling at the saddle. He assumed they were a holy sect, the question was, were they Dark Waters? From what he’d gathered, he didn’t think they’d ride in the open as such, at least not in Helmveline mountains.
One hundred and eight riders, and no way for him to know if Seblêsu was anywhere in the field of black wool. The question mattered, but how to ask it? He glanced to Tanzarêu, scrunched his face and raised a hand, and got a nod… but he didn’t know if she answered the question he wanted to ask, so he slumped back into the rocks and eyeballed the tail of the group until they passed over a rise and disappeared. So much for an ambush and quick return to Molikîn.
“Shits.”
Tanzarêu stared at him. “There are plenty of rocks and bushes if you need to squat.”
Solineus stared back; it took a flicker. “No, it’s something we Silone say when were angry. A curse of sorts.”
“Oh!” She nodded. “In that case, shits for sure. You boys told me she rode with five.”
“That’s what the pigeon said. Was Seblêsu in this group?”
The Huntress shrugged. “No way to know, but the Waystone rode between the fourth and tenth row, I think.” The other Helmveliners crowded around them, to a man eager to hear their words.
Morik said, “Even with surprise we’re no match for that. The Viper’s Tongue would be pressed to offer a strategy. And our horses are days away. So, what the hells do we do?”
Tanzarêu cast her eyes in the direction of the Waystone. “We follow; by we, I mean I follow them, and you follow me. When they spot me, it’ll be nothing unusual. A Wayfinder in the wilderness by her lonesome. You boys stay well behind me. Eh?”
She took a step, but Solineus grabbed her shoulder. “The coin.”
The woman reached into her mess of camouflaged cloak and handed him the tracking-stone, then clucked her tongue twice with a smile and set off at a trot. As she disappeared over the rise, Solineus said, “What if she’s one of them?”
Morik squinted. “I guess you just got us all killed by demanding Hîmr’s Coin, that the case.” He tugged his beard and shifted his weight. “You don’t think?”
Solineus tapped the buckle holding the Twins to his shoulders and put his hands to their hilts after they dropped to his waist. Soft, wordless murmurs. If the Twins knew anything, they weren’t saying. “I don’t think so. Come on, she told us to follow.”
When they topped the rise the Huntress was nowhere to be seen, and his heart pounded until he caught a glimpse of movement. He hadn’t stopped to consider the challe
nge of following someone who disappeared into the trees like a bark-spotted sparrow.
They followed Jakôbin Road’s rises, falls, and turns for a couple horizons, the cliffs on their left-hand half covered in Kingdomer histories he couldn’t read. But no matter, as most times his eyes were peeled ahead trying to stick to Tanzareu’s back. As they neared a turn, he spotted her all right, running back to them.
His hands flew to the Twins and his eyes sought cover or high ground for a fight, but as archers scrambled and others planted their feet, no one came for her in pursuit. She stopped, held her hands up, lowered them, then turned and disappeared back around the corner.
Solineus straightened his back, fingers relaxing on the Ikoruv grips of the Twins, as he glanced to Morik. “What the hells was that?”
The Kingdomer squinted into an orange sunset, the final bright of the day cutting down the valley between two snow-covered peaks. “I think they’ve stopped.” He turned to his men. “Take positions here, in case, crossbows bolted and swords light in their sheath. This man and I will see what the Huntress found.”
They pressed tight to the corner of the cliffs and peeped around its bend but saw nothing more than another turn. Morik glanced up at the histories carved above their heads. “I might know where we are.”
But he didn’t elaborate, leading them to the next bend in the road. From here the hundred and eight were clear to see, but more to his curiosity, a woman stood in her saddle with hood thrown back, red hair blowing in the mountain breeze as she stared at the words high above.
“Seblêsu.”
Morik nodded. “They didn’t take this route to get somewhere else, she’s reading the Lie of the Raging Eye , if I know my place in these cliffs.”
“What’s that?”
“A famous story during the Age Between Ages. A warlord convinced his people that he spoke for the Storm Eye, and convinced them that the tranquility, the calm of the eye of the storm, instead rages. This warlord led four Kingdoms on a crusade against the Tek to reclaim a holy monument, the Stone of Emf’hul.”
“A war for a rock?”
“No one remembers what the Stone of Emf’hul is or was or if it’s a real thing, but because of this cliff we know Warlord Remshour led tens of thousands to their doom near the Orstân Rift. They say their bones may still be found there.”
“What the hells would this have to do with the Dark Waters?”
“I don’t…” He pointed, and Solineus’ eyes took flickers to pin what he pointed at.
“What the hells is Tanzarêu doing?”
The woman skulked through brush and trees north of the group, closer than Solineus felt comfortable. She dropped and lay flat. Gone. And a flicker later he realized why. A man in black robes strode between rocks and around bushes, hiked his robes and pissed. If he spotted the woman, they all might be dead in a flare.
“How doesn’t he see her?” The stream couldn’t be more than a foot from her toes.
“I’ve stepped on hunters wearing their gear before seeing them. That’ll give you a start, I promise.”
The robed man finished and turned back to the party, and flickers later a piece of brush raised its head. “She’s good.”
“Indeed. And I wager, she’s on our side.”
Tanzarêu stood and slunk back to the road, but instead of coming their way, she turned toward Seblêsu and the cliff she read. Tanzarêu stood straight and tall as she walked, no longer hiding.
“You sure of that?”
“I’m sure. As she said, no reason they’d suspect her of anything.”
The Huntress hailed the group, raising her arms in greeting, and they welcomed her. Solineus’ heart raced. “Guess we’ll know in a wick or two.”
A conversation ensued between Tanzarêu and a broad-shouldered man, the only one to dismount and lower his hood on the Huntress’ arrival. She pointed Northeast, and he heard her cackle, then she pointed southwest and straight west. They clasped forearms, and the man bowed when they let go.
A flicker later Tanzarêu wandered from the road, into the brambles and stones, disappearing.
“We’re still alive.”
They crouched, waited, and watched. Seblêsu pointed at the cliffs, and he almost made out her words on the wind, but they were a tease. Then her hand circled above her head and any who’d dismounted put foot to stirrup and lifted into their saddles. Hoods pulled over the few uncovered heads, and in a flicker the train moved out, slipping into neat rows of six as they rode.
Morik led him back to the rest of the Helmveliners and they gathered in a loose group of nervous eyes and shuffling feet awaiting Tanzareu’s return. The Huntress appeared on the road, a crooked tree making her way from a backdrop of crooked trees until she stood in front of them, a grin on her face.
Morik asked, “What next?”
The woman grunted. “We wait for our horses, then we follow them to Shînvedorn.”
“They told you where they’re headed?”
“No. They didn’t need to.”
Solineus fought back an impatient snarl. “What the Earls are you saying?”
“They asked the quickest route to Elimmor, but the Lie of the Raging Eye is what they stopped to read.”
Morik stomped a foot. “The Raging Eye doesn’t speak of either place.”
“Indeed, no, but it does say: ‘Warlord Remshour knelt before the Sundial of Teremhôst in prayer, and at high-sun did the shadow point to the Stone of Emf’hul, marking the time and place for holy war.’ So the story tells.”
“And they marched to the Orstân Rift to die. What’s your point, woman?”
Solineus rubbed his forehead with a chuckle. “And recall I’m foreign to all of this.”
“Not so foreign as you might think if I’m right.” Tanzarêu grinned. “And besides, we’ve got time to study and learn… days before the horses arrive. Morik, Mountain Lord, for what was Remshour’s Crusade fought?”
“The Stone of Emf-hul.”
“This is what our historians teach. For what was it fought?”
“You’re making me feel a fool, woman. Speak plain.”
“I’m thinking this through with you—”
“The gods.” Solineus’ lips flapped before he’d thought it through, but everything he’d experienced since awaking on a beach pointed to this one thing. “And power.”
“This foreigner knows, but knows not enough. Some things are always left unsaid for the wise to puzzle, are we wise? What would be worth four Kingdoms going to war in a foreign land? The power of the gods… a god, trapped in the mortal world.”
Morik’s head cocked. “You’re saying Remshour founded the Dark Waters in the Age Between Ages?”
“Mayhap, mayhap! And what do they need to find Hîmr, the Stone of Emf-hul.”
She pointed at Solineus and he said, “A tracking-stone.”
“And its Waystone mate. Our barbarian friend recovered the Stone of Emf-hul, little did he or most anyone else know.”
Morik glanced back and forth between them. “Five Earls, it makes sense. Except the war they fought was in the Great Canyon, the Orstân Rift.”
“Pîlôstar the Skywind found the stone in our Remembered Time and put it atop Hîmr’s Shrine.”
Solineus snorted. “Back to the now… Assuming all this true, what the hells this got to do with them being headed to Shînvedorn?”
Tanzarêu cackled. “First, they asked for directions to Elimmor, as opposite in direction to Shînvedorn as you might get. Two, the Sundial of Teremhôst is near Shînvedorn.”
“Why the Sundial?”
“It pointed a direction once.” She shrugged. “And it was mentioned several times as I watched.”
Morik said, “They wouldn’t need to stop here just to reference some Sundial.”
She breathed deep, exhaled with an exasperated smile. “Indeed. And we have three days of staring at the cliffs to figure it out.”
In the forty-fourth year of this Age, Warlord Remshour def
eated the Kemindûl at the battle of Trênswân, and so claimed the Black Fingered Pool known as the Sundial of Teremhôst. Here he claimed his own greatness, beneath the lightning skies of thunderheads, and claimed the greatness and anger of the Storm’s Eye, that there was no longer an eye, but all storm. The priests of Mônvêur came and pronounced his words. The priests of Gîhon came and pronounced his words. On the twelfth day of the twelfth month the high sun came and the Black Finger pointed its shadow crooked into the lands of the barbarian kings.
And the priests prayed, and the Oracle of Menzên declared the Stone of Emf-hul found in the Temple of the Great Rift, and her visions would lead their way. Four armies came, and four armies remained, four kings unconvinced.
Remshour rode at the head of his army with holy lightning and lava-forged hammer in hand, and smote the barbarian horde of Mitêz. He smote the barbarian king Remîsh by his own hand and threw down their fortress city. He smote the gates of the city of Kîimor with lava-forged hammer and his army put every barbarian to the blade. He reached the Great Rift and met the armies of Hulumbor, and was smitten by the beauty of this king’s daughter, and her knife through his chin to exit his eye.
And Remshour’s armies were slaughtered, fled, or captured and enslaved. Remshour lived, one-eyed and chained above the gates of Hulumîsis, on his knees and pecked by birds until he died a prisoner and slave to the woman who became Queen of Hulumîsis. Decades of humiliation and agony later, he died. His flesh rotted. His bones remained. A warning above the gates to any who might try the power of the Hulumbor.
9
Crooked Finger Black
The city will rise so long as the walls never fall,
the tide a forever rise to swell beneath moon full,
a life immortal waiting for the sweet nail to impale,
Solineus Page 9
