“How do you mean?” Markal asked.
“There are a few things we can agree on. First, the sultan must not touch Sofiana. And for practical reasons, having her out of Marrabat will facilitate Mufashe’s marriage to Princess Marialla instead. That would be advantageous for Balsalom and the war.”
“I will agree to that,” Markal said, warily.
“Why are we talking to him?” Darik burst out. “You know we can’t trust him. He killed his own wizards.”
“Be quiet when your betters are speaking,” Chantmer said.
“Don’t tell me what to say, Betrayer.”
Again, he could barely refrain from casting one of his spells to silence the insolent fool. Fighting the temptation, he turned back to Markal. “And would you agree that removing the girl from Marrabat is more important than our personal conflict?”
“So send her away,” Markal said. “Tell Daniel if you have to, but get her out.”
“Ah, if only it were that easy.”
Two male slaves came trudging into the square. They were thin, with lean, rope-like muscles, and faces, hands, and robes streaked with black. The stench of camel dung radiated from them. These men worked in the cellars beneath the kitchens, shoveling dried dung into furnaces to heat the ovens. Those ovens cooked the bread and meals for over two thousand ministers, servants, harem girls, eunuchs, slaves, palace guards, and other residents of the vast palace complex, and they had an almost insatiable appetite for fuel. With wood so scarce in the southern deserts, most of that fuel consisted of animal dung.
The words of a spell came to Chantmer’s lips, but Markal beat him to it. The slaves, who had lifted their tired faces to stare, frowning at the three unexpected people in the overgrown gardens, now found other things more interesting to look at. In a moment they had opened the door to one of the humble chambers lining the square and disappeared.
Chantmer turned his back on Markal and Darik and paced toward the dry fountain. He didn’t like any of this business, from how he was forced to work with Markal and his young, callow apprentice to the scheme that was coming together in his mind for using a child to achieve his objectives in the palace. Those objectives were of critical importance, or he would have chosen something more dignified. And no doubt Markal would behave in his typical sanctimonious way if he knew the truth.
“The problem is one of the sultan’s eunuchs,” he said when he returned to where the other two waited. “He is a cunning, wicked man.”
“And you know all about those things,” Darik muttered.
Chantmer ignored him. “He does the sultan’s bidding and has gathered most of the harem himself. The eunuch has no carnal desires himself, but seems to recognize Mufashe’s strange tastes, and buys or coerces women and girls from all across the sultanates. This eunuch has been shadowing Sofiana, and when I’ve tried to get the girl alone, it has only made him more wary.”
This was all true, if perhaps disingenuous. It had been a relief when Faalam turned his attentions to the girl, as it gave Chantmer the freedom to travel through the palace with minimal scrutiny. But it had also thwarted Chantmer’s attempts to eliminate Faalam from the palace entirely. He seemed to have some sort of magical ability himself and eluded any snares that Chantmer set.
“I won’t be able to remove the eunuch,” Chantmer continued, “but I believe I have the means to distract him long enough for others to slip the girl out of the city. Those others can’t be anyone from Princess Marialla’s retinue. They are known and would fall under immediate suspicion. But the two of you could do it and take her back to Balsalom where she’ll be safe.”
“I see,” Markal said.
“Surely, we’re not going to be so gullible as that,” Darik told Markal.
“You need proof that Mufashe intends to add the girl to his harem?” Chantmer asked. “Would you like a personal confession from the sultan himself?”
“I don’t know if he does or doesn’t,” the boy said, “but this is an obvious ploy to remove us from Marrabat.”
“If I wanted to remove you from Marrabat, I would simply alert the palace to your presence. Maybe I told my bird to do that already, did you think of that? Maybe even now, thirty guards with spears and scimitars are rushing up here.”
The boy started, but Markal still looked thoughtful. “So we take the girl away. What then?”
“When you return from Balsalom, we’ll talk,” Chantmer said. “We both want to defeat the dark wizard, and you’re a fool if you think King Whelan will overthrow him with force of arms alone. At best, his army will bottle up Toth in Veyre until spring, and then those of us with true power in this land will be called upon to finish matters.”
“Wizards, you mean?” Darik asked.
“So we travel the entire length of the Spice Road and back again,” Markal said. “That will take weeks. Meanwhile, you remain in Marrabat, gaining strength.”
Chantmer hardened his voice. “That will happen whether you want it to or not. I am stronger than you, Markal, and always will be.” He rolled up his sleeves to show the other wizard the tattoos of snakes and fire salamanders, words in the old tongue and ancient runes, that entwined his arms. “I already carry more strength than you can imagine.”
“And what about the Order of the Wounded Hand?” Markal asked. “Have you forsaken that path?”
“You drove me out!” Chantmer turned away. He stared at the vines that crawled up the far wall, working their roots into the mortar to crumble it away, and waited until he’d regained control before he turned back around. “Anyway, I can call on the strength of the wounded hand as I like, and I can draw up the power of these mages, as well.”
“A man who serves two masters gives his devotion to neither,” Markal said.
“Maybe so, but my faith has always been stronger than yours. If you don’t believe me, take out that orb you stole and test me.”
Some of this was bluster, but it had the desired effect. Markal stared at him for a long moment, seemingly undecided. Darik, for his part, stood with the sheath in one hand and his other hand on his sword hilt, as if itching to draw the weapon and take a swing at Chantmer’s head. The instant he did so, Chantmer swore that the boy would die.
He’s no longer a boy. Don’t underestimate him.
Markal was nothing if not practical, and at last he sighed and held up a hand to urge his young companion to calm down.
“Very well, Chantmer the Betrayer, we’ll help you remove Sofiana from Marrabat. And then we will have our reckoning, you and I.”
“Chantmer the Tall. That is what they call me. I don’t much care for your other title, and if you insist on using it, we will have trouble.”
“You are a proud and arrogant man.”
“And you have no dignity. You are a petty, simple-minded fool.”
Markal glanced at Darik, and the two of them shared a look of disgust. Then Markal turned back to the other wizard. “Very well, Chantmer the Tall. What is your plan?”
“It must happen tonight. If we wait until tomorrow, the sultan will have taken the girl to his bed.”
Chapter Three
Roderick woke to a nasty shout and a lash across his back. Dogs barked and snarled, and their odor was everywhere, together with other smells that overwhelmed his senses: horses, steel, sour sweat, blood.
He stumbled to his feet, blinking in confusion. The sun stood overhead, but it looked as though a gray curtain lay in front of his eyes. Roderick felt his head, remembering nothing for the moment but the arc of a war hammer toward his skull and a blinding flash of light. A groove ran along his skull beneath the hair, but otherwise his head was whole.
I am dead, he thought. My skull was caved in like a crushed egg.
“Hah!” a man’s voice said. “He wakes.”
Roderick blinked and looked back toward the voice. Four men stood above him. Everything came back to him. He had died when the deathless enemy attacked his Knights Temperate on the Old Road. His men had fought valiant
ly; he remembered Darik fighting desperately toward him, Hob shouting for him to pull back. Then, what? He’d been slain by a crushing blow to the head.
And after that he’d suffered a terrible nightmare. Some of it, he now realized, had not been a dream. A man had whispered an incantation to keep his soul bound to his body, and then another man had branded him with a hot iron, some ancient cartouche of power. He’d risen, struggling against his captors, and they’d fastened a skull mask to his face. And then he’d fought his own men, the Knights Temperate he’d sworn to lead and defend. He would have slaughtered them to a man, dragged them into his same nightmare, if not for the attacking griffins, led by the young flockheart, Daria.
Now, he stood in the midst of camp on the dry foothills below a looming range of mountains behind them.
The men laughed and cracked braided whips in their hands. Behind them, another man struggled with a rope that held back a dozen collared mastiffs. The dogs snarled and barked and fought against the rope and each other. Their eyes bugged out and slather dripped from their muzzles. Roderick wondered what madness or magic possessed the beasts.
They stood on a dirt trail that led down from a forest of scrubby oak and thorny brambles. Bits of dripping, melting snow clung to the branches of the trees, and frost coated the rocks on the ground. The woods and underbrush stood high enough to prevent Roderick from viewing their extent. He was barefoot, but the cold had not yet begun to penetrate his feet. Only rags covered the rest of his body, which otherwise felt whole and strong.
“Welcome to our company, my captain,” the first man said. Irony dripped off his voice.
He was a tall man, built much like Roderick, with a two-handed sword over his shoulder, and he wore a helm with the stag of the House of Crestwell on the brow. Roderick had seen this man before, on the road to King’s Crossing before the Battle of Arvada. His skin was gray, and there was something hollow and dead in his gaze.
Roderick could not yet take this in, because he was still shaking off the cobwebs of his waking nightmare. He had killed two of his own men. His hand went to his face to feel for the skull mask. He felt nothing but his own skin.
“The mask was an expediency,” the first man said. “It gave us temporary control so you wouldn’t do something foolish. Now, your true training begins.”
Roderick was stronger now, more alert. Anger stirred deep in his breast. “The Harvester take you all.”
Two men lashed out with whips, driving Roderick to his knees. The young man hissed. “You will not say that name again. Not now, not ever.”
Roderick looked around at the group. They were all gray faced, their stares hollow. It was a mixed band of dark-skinned warriors from the south, the more olive complexions of the khalifates, and pale-skinned knights from Eriscoba. Several others lay bound and bloody on the ground, their eyes closed. Roderick recognized them as men from his own company. Two of them were the men he’d killed himself. But if they were dead, why were they bound as if they might escape?
“Who are you?” Roderick asked the man who’d spoken to him.
“You don’t remember me?” A smile. “You will now. My name is Pradmort. I am the leader of these men, and your captain. We exist only to serve our lord and master. We are Toth’s ravagers.”
Ravagers. The word meant nothing to Roderick, but it sent a chill into his bones anyway. He started casting around for a weapon to seize so he could fight his way clear.
Pradmort let out an unpleasant grin. “You may still harbor illusions that you control your own soul, but that will change soon enough, I promise.” He glanced at the dead men lying bound on the ground, then turned to the other ravagers. “Roderick is the strongest and will be a captain in our king’s army. We will break him first.”
“You’ll never break me.”
Pradmort stared at him through narrowed eyes. “Think of this training as something like the Ordeals of the Brotherhood and you will not be far wrong.” He twisted the whip between his hands. “Remember this. You will be captain some day—thus has our lord decreed—but for now I am your master, and you will answer to me.”
Roderick clenched his teeth and held the other man’s gaze.
Without warning, the four men lashed out with their whips. The ropes caught Roderick around the ankles and throat and hurled him to the ground. The whips lashed again, but no blood rose to the surface. That didn’t stop the pain though, as they laid into him.
Roderick lay motionless, refusing to beg for mercy. Behind him, the dogs snarled, barking and straining, going mad on the end of their tethers.
“Enough!” roared the captain at last. “Rise to your feet, slave.”
Roderick thought to remain on the ground, did not even think he could stand if he wanted after such a beating, but his limbs jerked to obey. He climbed to his feet and stared through bleary eyes at his tormentors. The haze remained over his vision, but behind their faces he saw flickers of light. Their souls were still bound to these dead bodies.
“And now,” the captain said. “Let the hunt begin. Run, slave. Run as fast as you can.”
A sudden terror wracked Roderick’s body. All senses fled at the man’s command and he turned to flee. Behind, he heard the dogs, released from their leashes. Sharp stones cut his feet and branches lashed him raw, but he paid them no heed, just ran. He raced down the hill through the scrub, and as he came into a clearing he saw that they were on the mountainside above a wide, blasted plain. The mountains to their rear must be the east side of the Dragon’s Spine, with the Desolation of Toth stretching ahead of them.
His body had changed. His muscles bulged in his arms and legs, and he hurtled across the ground as nimble and fleet as a deer. He tired slowly even though pain wracked his body with every step. Great, bloodless gashes opened on his flesh as he tore through the underbrush, but they healed themselves whenever he entered another clearing. As he ran, he fought off the panic and forced calm upon himself, remembering the breathing lessons he’d learned in the Brotherhood.
I am a knight of Eriscoba. I do not fear the enemy, I do not fear death. I follow the Crooked Path. No evil will control me.
But in spite of the words, he could not control his body, could not so much as change directions to flee this way or that. It was like the battle, when he’d dreamed of killing his own men, except that now he was fully awake.
He’d expected the mastiffs to hunt him down within a few feet. He felt their hot breath on his legs and heard their teeth snapping. Instead, he outran them. Slowly, their barks receded. Once he’d put some distance between himself and the enemy, his muscles began to loosen. Soon enough he was controlling his own flight. For a single, triumphant moment, Roderick thought he had outwitted the enemy and could simply run to safety. He burst into a clearing and leaped across a shallow creek that smelled of sulfur.
“Hah!” a voice shouted.
One of the ravagers had circled around and brought his horse toward the creek. He charged at Roderick and lashed out with his whip. Roderick caught it in his hands and tried to wrench the man from his saddle. But the man kicked out with a boot and landed a solid blow to the jaw. Pain shot through Roderick’s face and he staggered backwards. His jaw felt broken. But even as he put a hand to his face, he could feel the bones shifting, knitting themselves together again. Roderick turned around and ran.
Fear came at him again, washing over him like a wave, and he knew instinctively that it hadn’t come from within him, but from his tormentors. He cried out and stumbled before rising to his feet again. The mastiffs roared into the clearing behind him. Roderick screamed in terror. He danced out of reach of their snapping jaws, somehow managing to stay a pace or two ahead. For a moment, he thought he might outrun them again, and his mind worked over a plan to turn in a new direction to avoid another surprise like the ravager who had driven him this way. Something crashed in the brush to his left, and he caught a glimpse of a massive black destrier, steam billowing from its nostrils. Pradmort sat in its saddle, a
humorless grin stretched across his face.
Roderick’s heart—still pounding, but bloodless—began to beat the ragged, frightened flutter of a captured bird. Roderick stumbled once, regained his feet, and pounded on again. The dogs grew closer, howling, snarling, and biting at his heels. He burst into another clearing, only to see another ravager. One of the dogs caught him by the heel and dragged him down.
Roderick sprawled out, hands outstretched, and hit the ground. In an instant, the lead mastiff snapped at his throat. Without warning, his fear turned to anger. He wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck and wrestled it to the ground with an incoherent scream. Even in his exhaustion he was impossibly strong. He shoved his knee between the mastiff’s shoulder blades and pulled back with his arms. The dog’s neck gave an audible snap and its legs twitched in a sudden spasm. Blood slicked his hands.
Roderick turned toward Pradmort, who had followed him on his horse, and bellowed in rage. Another ravager entered the clearing and watched silently as Roderick rushed toward the captain, a white heat of fury blanking all thoughts from his mind.
The other mastiffs entered the clearing. The first dog sank his teeth into the fleshy part of Roderick’s hand and dragged him toward the ground, where it worried at the hand with violent jerks of its powerful jaws. Other dogs bit at Roderick’s calves and heels. He rolled onto his back with his hands up to protect his face. A dog bit into his side while two dogs grasped for his throat. The rage vanished, replaced by fresh fear. Roderick opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out through his windpipe, torn open by the dogs.
Yet he would not die, could not lose consciousness to escape the pain.
Pradmort turned to one of the other ravagers as the dogs continued to savage Roderick’s body. “The first lesson is complete. Ready the branding irons.”
Chapter Four
The first thing Chantmer did was put the eunuch to sleep. Faalam had surrounded himself with an almost impenetrable collection of wards and protective runes, layered so deeply and stealthily that to penetrate them would have cost Chantmer the last of his strength and left him vulnerable to the inevitable counterattack from those mages loyal to the sultan. But Faalam had left himself open to more subtle spells, delivered with a lighter hand.
The Warrior King (Book 4) Page 2
