The Warrior King (Book 4)

by Michael Wallace

  A cobbled alley led both up and down the hill, and for a moment she was tempted to follow it down toward the outer wall of the palace and try to slip past the guards by herself, but she knew the palace gates would be crawling with guards, all looking for her.

  Instead, she took the covered passageway higher and deeper into the palace. She spotted two more guards at one of the covered archways leading from one courtyard into another and backed up to scale a tree so she could climb over another wall. She was reaching for the wall to swing herself over when she caught a gray shape sitting atop it, staring down at her. It was a cat.

  “Is that you?” she whispered. “Narud?”

  Of course it didn’t speak, but when she made to swing herself up, it hissed and swiped at her hand with its paw.

  “Ow.” She yanked back her hand. “What’s wrong with you? I need to get up there.”

  The cat stared hard at the opposite wall of the courtyard. Then it sprang down from the wall and disappeared into the darkness with a meow. What? Did it want her to follow?

  She remembered the weasel-like creature and decided that this was only another animal, but she figured it wouldn’t hurt to check it out just in case. Vines climbed the wall on the opposite side, and she scaled them only to find the cat sitting up top of this side too. But instead of stopping her when she reached over the wall, it looked down into the darkness on the other side and meowed.

  “It had better be you, Narud,” she said. “If you’re lying to me, I swear I’ll take you to the sultan’s kennels and feed you to his hunting hounds.”

  Sofiana didn’t know if Mufashe had hunting hounds. Now that she thought of it, she couldn’t remember seeing a single dog since she entered Marrabat. But the threat made her feel better. When the cat jumped down, she followed.

  She followed the cat straight up the hillside through one empty courtyard after another. At one point, she heard voices on the other side of a wall but didn’t see anyone. A few minutes later, she found herself near the highest point of the palace, in a shabby, overgrown garden with a dry fountain and split cobblestones and toppled marble columns.

  A figure stood at the fountain, strapping on his sword. He turned when she entered, and she saw it was Darik.

  “Were you followed?” he asked.

  She ignored the question. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m taking you out of the city.”

  “No, you’re not. Narud is going to help me, and then I—”

  She glanced at the cat, only to see the wizard standing there, hands clasped in front of him. There was something about the way he looked at her that still seemed animal-like, almost feline.

  “You won’t be crossing hundreds of miles of desert alone,” Narud said.

  She thrust out her chin. “Why not? I can take care of myself. Anyway, why does it have to be him?”

  “Because I must stay to keep an eye on the Betrayer, and Markal flew away with the griffin rider. There’s no one else.”

  “It isn’t my idea,” Darik said. “But it must be done, so let’s get a start.”

  “Why didn’t you fly off with the girl? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  It was dark, and so she couldn’t see the anger on his face before he looked away, but she knew it must be there. In fact, he must be fuming. A few months ago, he’d have snapped some childish thing at her, and right now she’d welcome it so she’d have a chance in turn to rail against the injustice of the situation. It was deflating that he refused to engage her.

  Sofiana knew what her father would say. Probably Markal too. Whelan and Markal would say that Darik was maturing and that she could learn something from his silence.

  “We’re going to travel together up the Spice Highway,” Darik said. “After we reach Balsalom, I’m going to rejoin the war.”

  “So am I. If you think I’m going to stay cooped up in the khalifa’s palace—”

  “I won’t decide that. But will you stay with me until then without running off?”

  Sofiana stomped her foot. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Sofiana,” Narud said in a voice that was equal parts exasperation and warning.

  “Darik can stay with me, if he’d like, but if either of you think I need protection, you’re wrong. I have a dagger, I have money for food and a donkey, and I know how to take care of myself.”

  “Fine, I can travel with you, if that’s what you want to call it,” Darik said. “So long as you promise not to try to lose me.”

  “If I wanted to, I’d do more than try.” She turned to Narud. “Now what? We’re way up here and the palace gates are way down there. And then there’s the city itself to escape. Meanwhile,” she added, hooking her thumb at Darik. “You’ve saddled me with this clumsy oaf. I’ll bet he can’t even climb a tree.”

  “He can if he’s a cat,” Narud said.

  “Wait!” she said, her heart thrilling. “Can I be a cat too?”

  “I’d turn you into a bird,” Narud said, “but you’d forget who you were. Next thing you know, you’d be changing back into a human, but you’d be a hundred feet in the air. That never ends well.”

  “I don’t care about that. Just change me into a cat. Oh, please!”

  Narud began to rub his hands together as if to restore circulation. They were both pink and tender looking, as if he’d recently caused himself pain to enact some powerful magic or other.

  “A quick warning,” he said. “If you get hungry, I would advise not eating the rats in the sultan’s sewers. You will feel ill when you change back. That’s a lesson I learned from personal experience. Now stand still both of you and try to think furry thoughts.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Markal and Daria flew all night. The golden griffin was a massive, powerful beast that would have had no trouble carrying them if not for its exhaustion from the heat. Even high above the desert floor, a relentless warm breeze drove in from the southeast. Markal was discouraged to see by the gray light of pre-dawn that they were still crossing the endless sandy wasteland. He’d hoped they would be above the rocky plains south of the khalifates by now.

  And then daybreak arrived, and with it the flaming sun that rose above the desert plain. Perspiration began to run down Markal’s face, and thirst took hold of him. The poor girl was quickly drenched with sweat, and he let her drain the waterskins one after another.

  Talon drooped lower and lower as they fought their way north. He let out a feeble cry that sounded to Markal’s ears like a plea for help. Daria whispered encouragement, but she looked discouraged and worried.

  “We must find a place to stop,” Markal said.

  She turned, her damp hair sticking to her skin, which was turning red. “There’s nowhere to stop,” she said. “We looked before. We have to fight through it.”

  He knew she was right. Even the holes in the ground would be infested with giant centipedes and lizards big enough to attack a camel. And the whiff of something that smelled like charred wood caught his nose. He thought about the dragon Daria had driven out of the mountains and imagined it was lurking around here somewhere, recovering from its wounds. If it spotted them, they were in no shape to fight it or even to flee.

  If Markal could smell the dragon, then no doubt Daria, with her sensitive nose, had done so as well.

  On and on they flew, crawling sluggishly across the burning sky, until at last the air began to cool with the coming of afternoon and their gradual arrival in northern lands. The sands ended in a final sea of dunes and then turned to shrubs and savanna. After passing a seemingly endless number of dry ravines and gulches, they finally came upon a stream flowing out of the mountains. Here they rested briefly to bathe and refill their waterskins.

  By nightfall they were in the grasslands south of Balsalom, still some twenty miles from the city. They stopped in the highest hills Daria could find. There, they found a dry cave, the interior cooler than the surrounding, scrub-covered hillside.

  Daria took a sniff a
nd grew wary, claiming that the cave smelled of a lion or some other large cat, but it didn’t seem to bother Talon. A lion would have to be both very hungry and very foolish to tackle a thousand pounds of beak, claw, and talon. Maybe one of the great saber-toothed cats of the north would try it, but even then Markal had his doubts.

  The comet that Markal had spotted the previous night had grown until it was almost as bright as the waning crescent moon, and its tail stretched the width of his hand across the sky. He went outside for several minutes to puzzle over what it portended before returning to bed down with the griffin and its rider.

  Autumn had come to the khalifates, and while the days were hot, the night was chilly enough that Markal almost wished he were brave enough to tuck himself under one of the griffin’s wings as Daria did. In the morning, both the girl and her mount were fresh and bursting with energy.

  “Do you need to rest in Balsalom?” Markal asked as they took to the air again.

  They could barely spare the time, but he found himself wondering if he could stop at Kallia’s palace to bathe and then have her servants rub the knots out of his muscles before he set out for yet another grueling journey, this one across the battlefield that had become the khalifates.

  “By the Mountain Brother, no,” she said, sounding shocked. “I don’t want to go to Balsalom. All those people . . . no, I don’t need any rest. I’m feeling better than I have in days. Let’s keep flying.”

  So they continued throughout the day, griffin and rider growing stronger as they flew north, keeping several miles to the west of Balsalom, which remained a golden ring of walls and towers in the distance. From there, they entered the lands of Cercia. They stopped only once, and this was for Talon to tear into a flock of goats. He devoured one entire animal himself, and Daria shared another, eating what seemed an entire haunch raw. Markal declined his share.

  As they continued east, they caught signs of the war. The villages of eastern Cercia lay in ruins, their fields burned, their irrigation dams torn down, and the productive farmland downstream flooded. Clusters of refugees streamed either east or west on the road, and here and there they saw armies on the march. From their height atop the griffin, it was difficult to tell friend from foe, but King Whelan’s forces seemed to control the Tothian Way itself, while the countryside and cities of the central and eastern khalifates remained in the control of the dark wizard. The combined armies of Eriscoba and the western khalifates had bypassed them to cut straight toward the gates of Veyre itself, hoping to destroy the dark wizard before he could recover from his failed invasion of the Free Kingdoms.

  But to Markal’s worried eye, it seemed that Whelan’s long supply chains were in danger of getting cut off by the enemy. The dark wizard may have lost much of his strength, but he still possessed several competent, ruthless generals such as Pasha Ismail, who had managed to control revolt in their lands and were sending armies to relieve Veyre.

  Markal, Daria, and the griffin passed another night, this one atop a ruined tower in Chalfea near the town of Yoth. The wizard was exhausted, but he kept watch so they wouldn’t be caught unaware by brigands or enemy soldiers. In the middle of the night he was staring at the comet and fighting to stay awake when Daria stirred nearby.

  “My watch,” she said. “Get some rest, friend.”

  “You need your strength. You can’t fly all day without a good night of sleep.”

  “And I’ve had one. I don’t need any more.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, dubious.

  “I feel better now, Talebearer. I could travel day and night if I had to. I’m half inclined to leave you with King Whelan and fly back to Marrabat to look for Darik.”

  “Don’t do that. You’re too important to the war.”

  She laughed, a high, happy sound that warmed his old heart, and patted his hand. “Don’t sound so worried. I can’t cross that desert again only because my heart wants to. I know what must be done—I’ll fly to the mountains to prepare our people for another struggle. Darik can look for me there.”

  “I’m sure he will come find you as soon as he can.”

  “I know he will. He loves me.”

  The boy had natural magic flowing in his body, and Markal was reluctant to give him up as an apprentice. But it grew increasingly clear that Darik would never be a true wizard. He didn’t have the desire, and without the desire, the discipline would forever be left wanting. But neither would he become a Knight Temperate, as Whelan hoped. It seemed that Darik was choosing a different path than either of his former companions desired.

  “That’s a deep sigh,” Daria said.

  “Did I do that out loud?” He considered. “You mother would say that Darik can never be a true griffin rider. His blood is too thin, he doesn’t have your balance and fearlessness in the air. He will smell wrong to the griffins.”

  “She has said all of those things, and more,” Daria admitted. “But I don’t believe them, and neither do you.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You don’t fool me, my friend. Darik thinks you’ve tried to keep us apart, but I know you really brought us together. Narud’s head is filled with the nonsense of whatever animal form he most recently assumed, but you knew full well what would happen when you had me bathe in front of Darik, and then left us alone. You knew that I would suggest that Darik marry me and he would do it too.”

  Markal shrugged, embarrassed. “I’m a sentimental old fool.”

  “I was so excited—once I felt better, I mean.” A hint of worry entered her voice. “I hope I didn’t pressure him.”

  “Darik wanted it, believe me.” Markal hesitated. “So the two of you . . . you got married after the manner of your people?”

  This time it was Daria who let out a long, weary sigh. “No, we never did. We tried! But that girl interrupted us. The king’s daughter. I don’t think she understood or maybe she would have waited until we were done.”

  “I’m sure she would have interrupted anyway. Sofiana’s mind is turned to whatever Sofiana wants at that moment. And she’s jealous of Darik.”

  “Jealous?” Daria shook her head. “I don’t understand this word very well. Sofiana is so young, I didn’t think . . . do you mean she wants Darik for herself?”

  “No, nothing like,” he said quickly. “It’s akin to the jealousy one sibling has for another when they are fighting for their father’s attention.”

  “Oh yes, I understand. Like two chicks competing to swallow the same regurgitated rabbit.”

  “Um, yes. A little bit like that. Sofiana grew up with two fathers, and no father at all.”

  This only confused Daria more, and since Markal didn’t see the harm in sharing what had happened, he explained. Whelan had fallen in love with his brother Daniel’s wife, and then consummated an illicit relationship with her. Sofiana was Whelan’s child, but had been raised as much by Daniel. The brothers had suffered a falling out over the incident that had lasted for several years, but it had never altered their shared affection for the girl.

  After Markal finished, Daria fell silent, and he listened carefully to her breathing, thinking that she’d fallen back asleep. But then she cleared her throat. “I may die in this war, Markal, but I pray the Mountain Brother grant me my desire before I fall.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re strong—you have as good a chance to survive as anyone.”

  “But if I do fall,” she insisted, “I must marry Darik first. I won’t die without taking him as my mate. That would be too cruel.”

  #

  Daria’s superior eyesight spotted King Whelan’s encampment from several miles away, and she brought Talon diving down from above before Markal knew what had drawn her attention. He was holding on for dear life, the wind whipping at his face, and couldn’t get the young woman’s attention as he tried to warn her not to get too close to the encampment. Skittish archers might launch a hail of arrows before they realized she was no enemy.

  But he needn’t have worr
ied, as Daria seemed to have recognized this very threat. She swooped back and forth over the camp, just beyond arrow range. A handful of shafts launched in their direction, but none came close to reaching them. While they flew, Markal took the opportunity to inspect the king’s forces.

  Whelan had seized a castle atop a hill overlooking the Tothian Way, but the bulk of the encampment stretched beyond the castle walls. The entire hillside was a sea of tents, men sparring, horses, wagons. From there, the army stretched east and west along the Way itself, and a second hill roughly a mile distant was the sight of construction, where hundreds of men were laboring to build a second fortification, this one of wood towers and trenches.

  Daria kept circling as if to allow word to pass through the encampment before she brought them down, but after several minutes Markal began to wonder if she were not simply afraid of the sheer number of people below. She had battled ferociously at Sleptstock and Arvada earlier in the summer, but in the sky against dragons, dragon wasps, and their riders. Never down among the massed armies on the ground.

  Markal pointed at the castle and told her to land atop the walls. The banner of Arvada, a gold tower against a white background, snapped from the highest tower, and armored figures on the wall-walk at the battlements shielded their eyes to study the griffin and its riders as they approached. Men went scrambling for cover as Talon screamed in for a landing, but no arrows came in their direction.

  Daria dropped effortlessly from the back of the golden griffin, which gripped the stone with his talons, eying the men in the bailey and screaming. Markal struggled to dismount without being pitched off or knocked over the edge by the batting wings. Daria shoved her fingers into Talon’s feathers and ordered him to calm down.

  When Markal was down, he stretched and groaned, and brushed away the hair and feathers. Two men came striding into the bailey below, one tall and muscular, the other barrel-chested with a thick, bushy beard and arms the size of Daria’s slender thighs. The tall man was King Whelan and the heavier man Hoffan, the former lord of Montcrag. The two men scaled the exterior staircase to the castle walls, then made their way around the battlements toward the newcomers.