“I am.”
Solineus reached into his cloak and pulled forth a scroll, handing it to the man. “Your king will want this. Deliver it, there might be some small reward.”
The man glanced, then slipped it into his pack. “A rub of Hîmr’s Coin?”
Solineus grinned. “You knew?”
“There are barbarians in the Foundations, sure, but not many with Ikoruv hilts over their shoulders.”
“I wasn’t aware the rumors were so specific.”
Junûk shrugged. “I will make sure His Highness Tehemdor receives it.”
“My thanks. Do you know a city of red domes, somewhere west of here?“
The man cast him a sideways glance. “Red domes. Mulshuhar, or at least it could be. It is said their temples are domed in red-gold.”
“Thank you, may the Storm-Eye bring you peace.” Solineus nodded and reined his horse to the stables, handing the gelding and emêsu’s silver dâgut to a stable girl before strolling to the silver-gilt door.
The scent of cedar was heavy in the room, the red-streaked golden wood lining the walls and ceilings, while the floor was flagstones. There were candles until nightfall but still he yawned as he rented a room, and vowed to get to sleep early and awake at first light to ride west, but after he sunk into the comfort of the feather-ticked bed he realized the former would be easy enough, but the latter might be damned near impossible. Dragging himself from this bed might only be accomplished with hunger.
He awoke without a clue of what time it was; all he knew was there wasn’t a sun. He cursed himself for going to bed too early, clinched his eyes shut, and squirmed into the pillowing cushion of the tick. This was good, real good. He lay there, ignoring the urge to move, and dozed.
Click .
His head raised and his left eye cracked open just enough to gaze at the door. The only light came from the moon and stars through a single window until the door swung open a crack to let in the warm yellow light of a lantern in the hall.
The crack gaped and the door hit the wall as a man stumbled and fell to a knee with a laugh. He reeked of pipe smoke and whiskey, and Solineus didn’t recognize him as being from their caravan. A woman laughed and stumbled around the door’s frame.
She laughed. “You’re too drunk you still pay.”
He stood, wobbling, slapping his hips with both hands. “I never get so drunk, woman.”
Solineus sat up, cleared his throat. “You’ve got the wrong room, friend.”
The man jumped and belched, and the woman cackled. “You sod! I’m not taking a poke from the both of you.”
But the drunkard turned on Solineus. “Get your ass out of my room, barbarian.”
Solineus dove for the Twins before the man realized his mistake, but the bastard was quick. Knives flashed and slashed. Solineus caught an arm and spun the man as the other knife caught his ribs, and he kicked the man in the head, before spinning him to slam him into the bed. Slamming him into a pile of cushy pile of feathers wasn’t going to do the trick.
He put his weight into an elbow to the back of the man’s head before he felt the knife in his side; he whirled and caught the woman’s cheek with a backfist before lunging for the Twins. They screamed into his mind as they flicked from their sheaths, and the charging man dropped, split from shoulder to pelvis with a reek.
The woman bolted out the door, and Solineus damned near followed. No, there was no telling if these two had friends. He closed the door and rammed a chair beneath its handle. The hole in his side was small, some sort of push-dagger he guessed, and he stuffed the wound and wrapped a strip of sheet around his midsection (covering both the light gash and puncture) before throwing on his breastplate, mail, and helm.
He wore everything he owned as he left the room, prepared to fight or run, with his shield in one hand and the Sister in the other. The lantern’s soft glow revealed no one in the hall, so he stepped back into his room and barred the door again. He stepped to the window and pushed, slipped through, and dropped to the street in a crouch.
Moon and stars were his only guide in a city he didn’t know from an ant hill’s maze. A blur whizzed past his head and thunked the wall, and he ran without a clue where the missile had come from. Footsteps behind him.
He slid around a corner and ducked behind a rain barrel. Two men sprinting didn’t see him. The first lost both of his legs, the other his head, and the Sister shrieked her glee between his ears. The no-legged man managed a single scream before the Latcu pierced his throat.
He stood panting over their carcasses, but within flickers there were shouts and a whistle blowing, the voices coming his way. He couldn’t make out what they said, but he didn’t doubt who they were: city guard. He was a barbarian who’d just killed three men, and for all he knew the king himself had ordered his death.
“Shits.” He ran. He didn’t know where he was or where to go, but running was the only thing which made sense. He turned and turned and turned, then slowed, spotting a small wagon sitting outside a shop not far away. He moseyed its way and glanced at the wagon’s bed: nothing but a few scraps of hay.
Wide open to the sky and stars, whether assassins or guards walked past, he was plain to see. He grunted, then cocked his head. Hay. He spotted the stable and stuck his nose through an open window, a horse snuffling his head. A man stood watch over the main doors, but he was a long walk down the stone aisle.
He eyeballed the horse. “Hush now.” And he climbed, pushing sideways through gap, before slinking to the straw covered floor. He crept to an interior corner of the stall and sat with his back to the stable’s aisle.
He’d traded a comfy bed for the smell of piss, shit, and hay; the sun couldn’t rise soon enough.
Maybe he dozed, but he never felt as if he slept; either way morning came with a gray light and the patter of rain. He stood in the stall, the burn in his side enough to make him forget the cramps in his legs from squatting in the corner for candles.
He glanced through the bars of the stall, and seeing no one, reached his arm through to unlatch and open the door, then slipped into the aisle. On closing, the door squealed, and his gaze turned to the end of the hall where a guard had stood last night. No one, for a flicker, then a shadow drawn by the noise appeared.
“You there. What’s your business?”
Solineus straightened, hilts at his waist and hidden by the folds of his cloak. “I rode in yester-eve, just checking on the beast to make sure he’s still sound.”
The guard’s hand was on his sword, a small-sword suitable to fighting in tight spaces, but his stride and grip didn’t betray a man looking for a fight.
“We’ve a horse-doctor at the stables for a price, if he needs tending.”
Solineus nodded and smiled as the man drew close. “I thank you… We went through some nasty terrain, got a cut on his hock. You don’t have something handy, a salve for the wound? Save me a few dâguts to pay you instead of them?”
The guard’s hand lifted from his sword with a chuckle. “It would at that. Come with me, I think we got some mêeru paste down here.”
The man asked four dâguts for the yellow goop, and Solineus paid him five, before going back to pretend to treat the animal. Instead, he removed his makeshift bandages and applied the vile-smelling paste to himself.
He locked the stall, thanked the man for his help, and wandered into the street wondering how many guardsmen hunted a murderous foreigner this morning. Maybe none, if they recognized it as an attempt to kill him. Maybe a thousand, if they had things all wrong. Maybe it would only be Dark Waters giving him chase. Maybe he just needed to get the hells out of this city before the only thing that mattered was his being dead.
He wandered for a candle, as the only thing he knew was that the gates they’d entered were to the east; he figured walking any direction would get him to the outer walls, and from there a gate. However, straight lines in this city were harder to plot than he figured.
He found the southern gate
first, but there was no one there but guards, and it remained closed. He meandered for a few wicks to see if it’d open for other folks but decided to head west rather than ask the gates open.
He pulled the hood of his cloak and kept the Twins hidden as he walked westerly, doing his best to keep an eye on the wall to keep his bearings. To his joy the gate stood open, and though guarded, the armed men glanced at passing folks but didn’t ask questions nor demand hoods drawn from faces in the rain.
He spotted wagons and horsemen heading for the gate, put on a smile, and strolled west along the broad road. Horsemen clattered past him first, then he passed through the gate about the same time the wagon caught him.
Within flickers he was alone on the road, and when he passed over the crown of the first hill, he pulled a map from his haver. He traveled the Ilipsôu Road from Klondihîk, and it continued west, this was the good news. The bad news was that the road’s winding trail faded and disappeared within a hundred horizons, leading into blank vellum on the map. Tanzarêu had traveled the Foundations all her life, but she’d never gone where Solineus’ road took him.
15
Fire Dancers
Who are you to whisper words to the Uncaring Wind,
purveyor of the age-old sin,
partake and take and slake the kin.
The Slaker the Baker,
progenitors of the age-old sin,
wings of the Forlorn Wren, the hole in the den,
the awkward silent amid the deafening din.
Who is the Uncaring Wind to whisper of your end?
—Tomes of the Touched
Solineus stood alone atop the edge of a world changing color. Behind him rose mountains turning whiter with the coming of fall and winter, before him stood a plain still filled with greens, browns, and reds. Eighteen months in the Foundations living amongst a people who were a variety of peoples, months in hiding at the Sun Forge, and the final months to reach a new world where no one would speak a language he understood. Just how the Twelve Hells did the Lady expect him to succeed without a common tongue?
He wandered three more days, eating what he could find, whether snake, hare, or flower, and drinking water washing cold from the mountains. The land was wide-open, but its flat was a deception with ravines and ruts cutting across the landscape in a pattern born of nature’s chaos. They slowed his travel, and could hide people or animals, allowing them pass day or night a hundred paces away, without his ever realizing they’d been there.
He stared at the stars while wrapped in his bedroll, a cool breeze rustling his hair, until his lids drooped and slipped toward slumber. Easy breaths and calm, until the tingle came. A zing at the base of his neck that brought his eyes open to scattered clouds. He dreamed, or someone watched him. He sat straight, one hand on the grip of the singing shield, the other finding the Sister’s hilt by his side.
The remnants of his fire were an ember’s glow, and the moon hid under a heavy cloud to leave him lost in a dark night. He looked around, squinting, but if anything was out there, he sure the hells couldn’t see it. Sister clicked as he tugged the hilt, and her whispers rushed into his mind, but it was the creak of a bow’s string which drew his attention. A fight with an invisible enemy wasn’t going to end well. He shoved the sword back into its sheath and raised his hand.
The Dark Waters believed him dead, and they’d carry crossbows. He spoke in Kingdomer, hoping for a common tongue. “Peace.”
A glint in the dark caught his eye as the cloud covering the moon passed; an arrowhead. And the man behind it was big, too big to be human. The voice was a deep rumble: “Îyombarê Purêlô.”
“I don’t understand.”
He drew closer, until Solineus’ eyes made out a furry beast with a mane, big eyes that reminded him of the mountain lions of the Foundations. An Ilu-Silvstro.
“Têumharâ?
“Shits.” And the bowstring creaked again, the arrow at rest long enough to put through two men. What the hells was that word Ivin said? “ Gostelium finshol ?”
“ Gostelium finshol? Humotru ?” A voice came from behind, and Solineus jerked in start. These folks were quiet as the godsdamned Edan.
“Just… Gostelium finshol. ” He raised both hands in what he hoped they’d recognize as a gesture of frustrated peace and spoke in every language he knew. “Kingdomer, Silone, Edan.”
“You speak Ilu-Shiludân?”
He turned to the woman’s voice. He’d never heard the words before… yet he understood them. How the hells? Understand them or not, the words were difficult for his tongue to form. “I do. It seems.”
The tension of the bowstrings eased, and he breathed easier. The woman sat beside his fire pit, and it flared to life; green eyes glowed in the light, observing him with a cat’s dispassionate gaze. “Who are you to be on the Plains of the Ilu?”
“I am Solineus Mikjehemlut, of the Clan Emudar, of the Silone people.”
“We know nothing of these names. Why are you here?”
“I’ve crossed the Foundations all the way from Helmveline to the east, seeking friends and now the city of Mulshuhar.”
“Clanemudar—”she ran the words together”—Hundred Nations?”
His eyes flew open. “No! No. An island further north.”
“If you hale from a land so far away, how is it you know Ilu-Shiludân?”
Oh hells. He exhaled, scratched his forehead. “I picked it up in the Kingdom of Barkûsh, from traders there.”
“No.”
Bows creaked, at least four of them. “You’re right. But you won’t believe me.” She stared, and he knew then he wouldn’t want to play cards with this woman. “I don’t have the slightest idea. I can speak Edan. How? I don’t know.” He shrugged.
“Yes.” A toothy smile and the strings eased again. “This is peculiar, but you do not lie. Clanemudar? Who are your allies and enemies?”
“Enemies… the Hundred nations, every damned one far as I know. Allies, the Trelelunin, Helmveline, the Silone clans, all allies: The Ravinrin, Choerkin—”
“Choerkin?” Her furry head cocked, her glowing eyes blinking as they looked to her friends around camp. “Choerkin? Ivin Choerkin?”
Son of a bitch. He threw his hands in the air with a big smile. “Ivin Choerkin! One of my best allies. He’s marrying my daughter.”
The woman grabbed him so quick he’d have been gutted before he could flinch if she wanted; instead, she hugged him, butted her forehead to his, then licked his cheek with a tongue so rough it damned near hurt. She didn’t let go, and the others took turns walking by to lay their hands on his shoulders.
“Ivin Choerkin, a good man.”
“Yes, he saved… The Ilu-Silvstro he befriended made it home?” Stupid question once spoken aloud, but he was too happy to care.
“Yes. His name has spread through all the families. I am called Yumûlu, you may name me friend. Come!” She jumped to her feet, dragging him with her with such strength his toes left the ground several fingers. “The Pride of Mêolu welcomes you to our hunting grounds and our war! Run with us and feast.”
“War? What do you mean war?” He picked up the Twins and his shield, slinging them over his shoulders.
Her fanged smile unnerved him with its joy. “You said the Hundred Nations are your enemy?”
Me and my mouth. “ I did…”
“Then you’re at war! Run with us.”
He knelt and rolled his bed, stood with it and his pack. He scoffed and muttered in Silone. “War. Forges take me.”
When he stood, she arched her shoulders and screamed, a sound blending cougar’s call with a Kingdomer song. Haunting. And at least a dozen more voices screamed from the dark, a sound which put a shiver through his core.
A godsdamned war party. Guess I should be grateful they’re not at war with the Choerkin. “ We run.”
He didn’t expect she meant literally, but by the Twelve Hells was he wrong. He sprinted to catch up with their loping, springy gait.
“Woah, woah, woah! You want me to go to war you best slow down.” Still he needed to trot to keep pace, and he prayed their camp wasn’t more than a couple horizons distant, or his heart might burst before finding a battle.
Blazing fires licking poles high burned on a midnight horizon with flailing shadows milling around. Solineus’ first thought went straight to battle, but it didn’t feel right… then that the bodies of the fallen were burning. Wrong on both accounts.
The fires burned on a red-rock hill swept bare by winds and rain, and Ilu-Silvstro paraded around the fires dancing and singing. Some thrust bows or arrows into the air, other swords with blades long as spears. More disturbing were those who whirled ropes strung with what he guessed were human skulls.
His grasp of the language was tenuous, and he hadn’t a clue what these people sang.
Yulûmu and her people jumped straight into the mix of dancers, but Solineus stood with shifting feet before backing away. The puncture in his side throbbed after the run to get here, and on top of that, the notion of getting knocked around in a dance where everyone had claws and outweighed him by twenty bricks didn’t appeal to his preservation instinct.
Yulûmu peeled from the mix of dancers and leaped to stand in front of him with a fanged smile. “You do not dance?”
He coughed. “No. I don’t. And I have a wound.”
“A wound? You should’ve told me. Where?” He pointed to his side and she lifted his arm and armor with a yank, spun him to look at his back. “The cut healing, but we should clean this other and treat it.”
Her grip kept his arm and he didn’t have a choice but to follow where she led. They passed five bonfires before arriving at a yurt fashioned from wooden poles and some thick hide. Six cots sat out front, four of them with Ilu stretched across them.
She pointed to an empty cot. “Remove your cloak and armor. Lay on your stomach, I’ll be back in a flicker.”
He wandered to the fur-covered cot, high enough it came close to his waist, and crawled atop after stripping his armor. The other Ilu sprawled on these things were huge men, he guessed seven feet tall and were double his weight if not more; he felt a bit like a child atop the fur-covered contraption, but it wasn’t uncomfortable after a couple hours of running.
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