But as calm descended, Markal and Whelan inspected the battlefield to discover a complete victory. The ravagers had been destroyed seemingly to a man, the caravan of supplies was unscathed. Hundreds of Veyrians and Chalfeans had been taken prisoner, and perhaps four thousand more had fallen on the battlefield, together with six giants and eleven mammoths. Against that number, Whelan had lost perhaps a thousand dead and another thousand wounded. The most grievous injury was the damage done to Hoffan’s reserve cavalry that had borne the brunt of the ravager attack, but the losses were few compared to what the enemy had suffered. And the enemy was already outnumbered by the powerful combined armies. It would struggle to recover from this blow.
“It’s time,” Whelan told Markal and Hoffan when the three of them returned to the castle, where men were hard at work by torchlight clearing the broken stones and other debris so people could get in and out of the castle without climbing over all the rubble. A bonfire in front of the walls was burning the bodies of those dead ravagers who had been recovered from the ruins.
“If we’re lucky,” the king continued, “we’ll overtake Ismail before he reaches Veyre, but either way, Toth is in no position to halt our attack. In a week, we’ll have the city surrounded.”
“You’re sure it’s not a trap?” Hoffan said.
The big mountain lord sounded uncharacteristically cautious, but Markal thought that might be the aftermath of the battle itself. His shoulder was bandaged from a sword gash, and he had taken a fall from his horse and apparently been knocked temporarily senseless.
“The dark wizard smashed an army trying to get to our supplies and wrecked his ravagers trying to kill me and seize the sword.”
That was true, but there was no evidence that Toth didn’t have more ravagers at his disposal, plus the ability to raise more undead champions. That would take time, Markal hoped. Months, perhaps.
“If that is your wish, my lord,” Hoffan said, “then I propose we move out tonight. There is no reason for delay. We’ll continue east, securing the road as we go. Lord Nyle’s men are fresh, and the pasha from Ter—Jasboah—didn’t reach the battlefield until the fighting was done. They have two thousand men apiece. They can march to the Pletus River and take the fords.”
“Excellent plan,” Whelan said with a nod. “Make it happen.”
Hoffan snapped his fingers to call a messenger so he could send a dispatch. While Hoffan gave instructions, Markal and Whelan looked down at a pair of riders that came riding up toward the castle by torchlight, part of a neverending stream of messengers and returning scouts that would no doubt keep the king awake all night.
Whelan put a hand on Markal’s shoulder. “That will be Lord Denys. Can you advise him until I return?”
“Where are you going?” Markal asked, surprised.
The light from the comet reflected off Whelan’s grim expression, making him look like one of the statues of dead kings in the great hall in the Citadel in Arvada. “I’m going back to the stone circle. I want to talk to my brother.”
“Now?”
“He might have information—about the ravagers, enemy troop movements, the dark wizard himself.” Whelan dropped his eyes to his hands, then lifted them up again to meet Markal’s gaze. “But apart from that, I need to thank Roderick and tell him I’m sorry for all he suffered.”
Chapter Twenty-six
All night long, the monster roared and bellowed in the desert outside Darik and Sofiana’s hiding place. Their camel struggled and fought against its rope until it had rubbed its flesh raw around the nose and it collapsed in heaving, shuddering exhaustion. Darik thought about cutting it loose, but whenever he ventured close, the terrified beast snapped and spit at him.
Meanwhile, the two humans huddled most of the night in fear as the fire died to embers and then ash. The sound of cracking stone and what sounded like crunching bone reached their ears at one point, followed by a horrible, metallic stench like the vapors of the earth coming out to suffocate them. At last, the sound died down, but they didn’t dare venture out.
When the gray of early dawn stained the desert horizon, they rose stiff and exhausted. The camel was spent from its struggles, and they wouldn’t be riding it anywhere, but maybe it would recover its strength if they led it out and away from this awful place.
Sofiana’s courage seemed to have failed, so Darik emerged first from their campsite against the rocks. Something had torn up the ground on the hillside below: smooth-barked gum tree and thorny bushes ripped up by the roots, boulders smashed to pieces, and gouges dug into the ground. As they followed the path of destruction, they came upon the body of a lion. Or rather, the blood-soaked half-body of a lion; it seemed to have been bitten in two. The lower half had been eaten or carried elsewhere. Vultures filled the sky overhead, soaring on spread wings, but none of them came down to pluck at the carcass.
“What could do that?” Sofiana asked, her voice a frightened whisper. She looked more than ever like a child and not the confident, almost arrogant daughter of a warrior king that she had been playing at since he met her.
Darik had an idea but didn’t want to speculate aloud until he was sure. They continued cautiously up the hillside to where they could get a better view of their surroundings, and midway up they came upon a dark and steaming hole that burrowed straight into the ground. The soil around it was freshly disturbed and charred, as if something had been slumbering in the ground and had come clawing its way out. The air carried the distinct odor of charcoal, like a blacksmith’s fire, but beyond that he also smelled something cloying and sweet, like a woman’s perfume. That was curious.
They crested the hill, and Darik caught sight of the red spire a few hundred feet away. It was a column of stone—more orange, really, than red—that rose from the desert floor to form a pinnacle some hundred feet off the ground. A spring flowed into a brackish pond and formed a small but lush oasis, ringed by palm trees.
And here they found their Kratian friends, or what remained of them: severed limbs, scattered innards buzzing with flies, and bloody robes. Dead and half-eaten camels lay everywhere, together with scattered gear and trade goods. The shifting breeze brought the heavy scent of frankincense. That was the perfumed smell he’d detected earlier; the valuable cargo of the Kratians scattered with their dead bodies. So much death, yet the vultures never came down from the sky to feast.
That was because in the middle of all the carnage lay an immense, sleeping dragon. Black, shimmering scales covered its immense length from the wicked curved horn on its nose to the tip of its tail, which had to be a hundred feet away. Its belly was distended from having devoured the Kratians and much of their camel herd. As it shifted in its sleep, he caught a glint of something shiny and metallic where its wing met its shoulder. It was the hilt of a sword buried into its flesh. Darik caught his breath.
This was the dragon Daria had battled in the skies over the mountains. She had thrown herself onto its back and plunged her sword into its flesh where the black, scaly armor was weakest. He’d heard the story from Daria’s own mouth, had been stunned by her bravery at the time, but now that he was staring at the monster itself, the story was doubly heroic.
The dragon must have come down to the desert to heal from its wounds. There it had dug a lair in the dry hillside and buried itself. Perhaps it had been emerging already, or maybe the Kratian caravan had roused it, but either way it had clawed itself free, frightened away the lions, and then mauled Abudallah and his companions. After a long night of gorging itself on its victims, Darik hoped it would be too lethargic to give chase, but he didn’t intend to wake it and find out.
He turned to see Sofiana staring with her eyes wide and her mouth ajar. He gestured with his head, and the two of them returned swiftly and quietly to their hideout. They untied the exhausted camel and led it in the opposite direction from the oasis and the dragon.
It was an hour before either of them dared speak. After Darik asked Sofiana if she was all right, the girl no
dded and cleared her throat.
“Was that the dragon your bird girl fought?”
“Yes. The same one.”
“In that case, I’m sorry for the bad things I said about her. I can see why you would love her. She must be fearless and powerful.”
“Thank you for that,” Darik said, thinking that perhaps Sofiana was maturing after all. “Daria is both of those things.”
“The thing I don’t understand is what she could possibly find interesting about you.”
#
Chantmer and Roghan sat on pillows in the middle of the throne room, with Daniel and Marialla opposite them. Nobody sat on the sultan’s throne. There were no other people in the room, not even guards. Chantmer had a few in the palace, but hadn’t yet consolidated his power and needed to keep the ones he trusted at the gates. If the dead sultan’s sons wanted to send someone to murder him, Chantmer thought, now would be the perfect moment. The usurpers of Marrabat were all in this room.
And the wizard hoped they would make an attempt. Let assassins come by the dozens; Chantmer would crush them all and eliminate future threats. Burning a few enemies alive would show that he had regained his power.
“Be clear in your offer, wizard,” Daniel said, his tone hard. “Is it to rule this city, or is it to be a puppet on the throne?”
Like Chantmer, the former high king of Eriscoba had regained much of his strength. Gone was the sickly, dying king tormented by the wight of his dead wife, Serena. He now looked and acted like his brothers: Whelan, Ethan, Roderick. Tall and strong, with a piercing gaze and a commanding voice. A king people would follow. Yet in Marrabat, he would be a barbarian king, which none of these people in the south would care for. That was why Chantmer also needed Princess Marialla.
“You will not be ruler of Marrabat in name,” Chantmer said. “That will be Princess Marialla—excuse me, Sultana Marialla. But as her consort, you will take command of the armies of the city and its lands. Mufashe commanded thirty thousand men. A massive force lurked down here prepared to invade the khalifates, perhaps to join the dark wizard. Who knows what the sultan intended? But now they will be held in your hand, to send to Veyre in support of your brother. With thirty thousand more men, King Whelan will surely win the war.”
“So Marialla and I would marry?” Daniel cast a sympathetic glance at the princess, who had taken all this in through narrowed eyes.
“Yes,” Chantmer said.
“A political expediency,” Roghan said. The mage rubbed at a recent tattoo on his forearm. “Your mages can put down dissent, but you will greatly help us if you rule with a light touch. And if the princess uses her charm and cunning to rule the palace while you rule the city and its lands.”
“A light touch won’t be a problem—I was never an oppressive monarch like my father,” Daniel said. “But is this fair to the princess? To be maneuvered about like a piece on an al-shatranj board?”
“Do you think I wanted to marry that ugly toad?” Marialla said. “To be his fifth wife or his twentieth concubine? If I would do that for my sister, for Balsalom, then why wouldn’t I marry you? Because you’re a barbarian?” She let out a little laugh. “As if that matters to me. By the Brothers, surely you’ll be better than Mufashe, won’t you?” She nodded. “Of course I’ll accept the wizard’s offer if it will put me on the throne of Marrabat.”
“You wouldn’t have to marry me,” Daniel said. “I would still lead your armies as your general.”
“You know little about the sultanates, my friend,” she said. “They are proud people, with many traditions. These wizards can never lead the city—that would never be allowed—and a foreign pasha will never be allowed to lead their armies. Fortunately, the word foreigner is rather loosely defined in these parts. And the husband of the sultana would be considered a Marrabatti.”
Chantmer smiled at her cunning assessment of the political situation, which was completely accurate. He would need to keep an eye on this one—she was nobody’s figurehead.
“Well,” Daniel said, his brow furrowing. He was no fool, either, but the restrictive rules of the brotherhood would be weighing heavily on his mind. All that nonsense about right behavior. “I would be warring in the east, and I wouldn’t try to force myself into your bed. I would be your husband in name only.”
Marialla laughed again, a high, charming sound. She rested a hand on Daniel’s wrist, her russet skin contrasting with his paler color. “What chivalrous nonsense. Of course you will come to my bed. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Unless . . . ” Her expression darkened. “You don’t share Mufashe’s obscene tastes, do you?”
“Of course not.” Daniel sounded horrified.
“Good. My sister seems to be fond of her barbarian husband. I don’t see why I shouldn’t enjoy my own. You are more than sufficiently handsome, and I’m the most beautiful woman in Marrabat, or so they say.” She said this with enough irony in her tone that it came across as playful and not boasting. “So long as you do not seek to oppress or dominate me, then we will come to an understanding. Both inside the marriage chamber and without.”
Daniel blushed, but at the same time, his eyebrow raised. “Perhaps some additional courting is in order before we take that step, but I am open to the possibility.”
“Court away, but do not be too long at it. I suspect you’ll be on the road with your armies soon, a warrior king like your brother, and I intend to see you off as is befitting a wife to her husband.”
“Fine, fine,” Chantmer said, impatient with their sexual banter. What animal lusts these people suffered, that they could think of such things at a time like this, when so many great and epic wheels had been set in motion. “Then it is settled. Roghan, when can it be done?”
The mage chewed at his lower lip. “We’ll need a day or two to seek out and cleanse the palace of enemies. Another day or two to spread the word in Marrabat, then we’ll marry them quickly and publicly. After that, there will be a good deal of maneuvering to bring our forces to bear.”
There was a slight emphasis in how he said maneuvering. Chantmer thought back to their conversation upon his arrival in Marrabat. Roghan had proposed that wizards take power, as they were the true masters of Mithyl, with the ability to see across centuries. They would be the rulers and the stewards of the world, and would take their rightful place at its head. For now, they would need these sultans, kings, and khalifs, but the time would come to sweep away all pretense.
“For now, the two of you should retreat to your chambers,” Chantmer told Marialla and Daniel. “Set an armed guard and let nobody enter unless it is either myself or one of Roghan’s mages. I cannot protect you personally—I have too much to do.”
“It would be safer still for us to share a single chamber,” the princess said. “The mages can concentrate their protective spells on a smaller space.”
“We’re not married yet,” Daniel said. “People will talk.”
“I surely hope so.” Marialla rose and tugged on his hand. “Come, let’s do some of this courting you proposed. I know several techniques I’d be happy to teach you.”
Daniel, so strong-willed and powerful, seemed helpless to resist Marialla Saffa as she led him from the room. Two of Roghan’s mages met them at the doors and escorted them back toward the Balsalomian apartments.
Roghan watched them go with an amused expression. When he turned back around, Chantmer met his gaze with a scowl.
“It’s harmless,” Roghan said. “And to those of us for whom such pleasures are denied, it warms the heart to witness others take their enjoyment from life.”
Chantmer grunted at this, not gaining any such enjoyment himself. “Well,” he said at last, rising to his feet. “Best they purge it from their systems while we prepare the way for Marialla’s ascension to the throne. After the wedding, there will be no time for it.”
“Will they survive the war, do you think?” Roghan asked.
Chantmer gave an indifferent shrug. “I wouldn’t place a wag
er either way.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
King Toth ordered fifty prisoners dragged to the heights of the Dark Citadel. They were a collection of bruised and battered refugees from a ship that had set out from the harbor of Veyre, trying to escape the combined armies of Balsalom and the Free Kingdoms before they tightened their siege. Traitors and defeatists. Their captain had confessed under torture that he had taken two hundred dinarii a head to transport them to the Nisour Isles where they intended to wait out the war.
Toth had already tortured some of them to feed his growing power, but the survivors—men, women, children—now clung to each other as a chill, briny mist blew off the bay. A heavy squall was coming ashore, and the wind drove towering waves that rolled in from the sea to slam against the seawall. The wind tossed Toth’s ships in the harbor as if they were a child’s playthings. Some of the sea’s nervous, restless energy had come from the dark wizard’s own rage.
Last night, when he’d sat upon the throne, sending his magic west to aid his ravagers, he had sensed complete victory. Roderick and his men had gained the castle walls. His ravagers only needed to put down Whelan, steal Soultrup, and then battle back toward Pasha Ismail’s force. With the loss of their king, the enemy forces would fall back in confusion and disarray, allowing Ismail’s army to escape.
Instead, Markal, that cunning worm, had crushed the ravagers beneath the rubble of the collapsing gate towers. Toth had not known his enemy was with the king, having received word from the wights that Markal was passing through the Desolation on his way to Marrabat. Otherwise, he would have ordered the ravagers to kill him too.
Toth paced up and down the stone walkway that encircled the uppermost platform of the Dark Citadel. As he walked, he stared back at the prisoners through smoldering eyes. They cringed and wailed whenever he fixed them with his gaze, and he drew strength from their terror. He had almost enough to finish the business he’d begun far to the west, but not quite, not yet. And time was growing short. With Whelan marching on Veyre, he could no longer afford patience.
The Warrior King (Book 4) Page 21
