As kind as Rek had always been to Pakka, he frightened her still. He was big and battle scarred, having fought in Tyr’s arena for many years until his master sold him to Vordon. She and the warrior joined Vordon’s house on the same day, almost ten years earlier. They did not see each other often. She heard things, though. She heard he was quiet and reserved. He never mingled with other guards and preferred to keep his own company. Others thought him arrogant, and his refined speech and good manners reinforced those beliefs. He, however, had an education. He could read, a skill unthinkable for a slave. He spoke several languages, including the tongue of dwarves. He was courteous when they met and made certain to ask after her and ensure she was well. Pakka felt a twinge of guilt, but she always questioned his motives.
Anyone might have killed those guards. Could it have been Rek? Pakka doubted it. The entire caravan owed their lives to the man. Rek was a warrior, though, and no good graces could cover up the menace radiating through his cool demeanor. Pakka saw him fight the hejkin, and, while grateful for his prowess, he was like a wild animal, his axes ripping through the twisted bodies as if they were claws. Although many more dead would have been left behind from the attack had it not been for Rek, Pakka had seen enough violence in her fifty years to fear its masters.
Seeing the guard captain’s white tent drew her from her thoughts. A faint breeze stirred the flaps of the linen over a wooden frame, offering access to the interior.
“Captain?” she said, just outside the tent.
“Come,” his gruff voice answered.
It was cool inside. A battered rug covered the clay ground. A thin wooden pole supported the frame overhead, where a hole in the center let in light. A tight mesh covered the hole to keep sand from falling in and helped fight the sun’s bright light.
Rek sat on a stool before a folding table on which laid a curled map.
“How is Lady Vordon?” he asked. He did not face her. He did not offer water, as was the custom—not that a slave was worthy of water or attention.
“She rests, Captain.” Pakka kept her hands to her sides, eyes on the rug.
“She rests? That tells me nothing.” Rek turned around.
Pakka risked a glimpse.
He was no less fearsome. He wore a simple brown tunic and breeches cinched at the waist with a giant-hair rope. A short, stabbing sword hung in a leather sheath at his side. His long hair hung down his back in braids, and his murky eyes were inscrutable, almost alien.
He, too, was a slave, so she lifted her head and looked him in the eyes. “She woke today.”
“Good news, then. I thank you for bringing it.” He returned to the maps on his desk.
Pakka ignored the dismissal and held her position.
He sighed and turned back to her. “Was there something else?”
“She is not well. Her minor cuts and scrapes are healing. The worst cuts still worry me.”
“What of your magic?” he asked. “Where are your spirits?”
“They are not my spirits, and they answer my calls when they choose to. She needs rest. What help the spirits have given have almost all but been undone by the mad pace you have set for us.”
He arched his brow. “Apologies, mother. These troubles tax us all.” He stood. “You are thirsty. Allow me.”
He left his maps for a side table on which stood a ewer and cups. He poured one and brought it Pakka.
“You do me great honor,” she said. “More than I deserve.” She took the cup but sipped. His calling her “mother” chilled her. He meant it as a sign of respect for her age, but she was a mother to some, though she never knew them. The templars had used her to breed muls for their armies and laborers. And as soon as the babes were born, they were taken from her.
The dark memories melted away when Rek said, “You fear me.”
Pakka averted her eyes.
“Have I not brought you this far? Have I ever given you cause to doubt me?”
“No, Captain. You have done much for House Vordon,” she answered, her voice quiet.
His face was blank.
“I … I’m just worried for Lady Vordon.”
“You are right to, of course. I thought I explained my reason for haste. Mother, we have lost too many warriors to protect the caravan, and there are dangers to all sides. Urik’s armies are on the move, and the scouts have reported other threats besides.”
Pakka didn’t want to know what other dangers there could be, so she nodded.
“I’ve stopped us for now. She should use this time to rest,” he said.
“She won’t,” said Pakka. “She wants me to fetch Alaeda.”
“That is not a good idea,” he said.
“Lady Vordon wishes to reward Alaeda for her service,” Pakka explained.
“For her service? You did as much. No. You did more. Where is your reward?” he said.
“My reward is my service,” she said.
“She would free you. She freed me when word came from Tyr about Tithian’s decree,” he said. “I know she tried to free you.”
“More than once,” whispered Pakka.
“You don’t have to be a slave anymore.”
“I have taken an oath.”
Rek laughed. “Oaths. Yes, of course you would see it that way. Oaths can bind only when freely given. But I’m wise enough not to argue with a dwarf on the matter of vows.” His even voice suggested no slight. “Your promises won’t matter when we pass through Caravan Gate. You will be a slave no longer. There are no slaves in Tyr.”
He didn’t say anything else. They locked eyes. He turned away first and rubbed his scalp. “You will do what you want. If your ‘oath’ is more sacred than freedom, so be it.”
“Will you stay with Vordon? After we reach Tyr?” she asked.
“Yes. I am a soldier. It seems Vordon pays well. And I have few other talents aside from killing.”
Pakka straightened her tunic. The sun was already descending. It would soon be time to move on. She nodded.
“You are dutiful and I share your concerns for our lady. We’ll take it slower, at least until Talara recovers. I just hope we lost those creatures. Now go. Find Alaeda so Lady Vordon can rest.”
The soldiers were still breaking camp by the time Pakka returned to the howdah with Alaeda in tow. The soldiers, many in bandages, tore down tents and packed them onto the kanks, while others checked the mekillot and the few other surviving animals. Guards and servants scurried around while the sun slid across the sky toward the distant mountains in the west.
Pakka scrambled up the rope ladder, Alaeda at her heels, and when she reached the top, she clambered inside. Alaeda entered a moment later. Pakka noted Alaeda appeared stiff. The dwarf had not even considered Alaeda might have been injured. She had said nothing after the battle.
“Where have you been?” said Talara.
Pakka turned, startled. Talara was awake and sitting up. Dark circles ringed her eyes.
“Ah, with Captain Rek.” She watched her, feeling ashamed. “And I have brought Alaeda, as you commanded.”
“Commanded?” Talara said and fixed her attention on Alaeda.
Alaeda looked haggard but determined.
“Thank you for coming, Alaeda.”
The woman nodded and sat on the stool Pakka offered.
“I invited you here because I owe you a debt. You put your life at risk to save my own.”
Alaeda shrugged.
“I want to reward you. First, a token.” She reached over and picked up something heavy wrapped in oilcloth. She handed it to Alaeda, who pulled aside the cloth. Inside was a slim, steel dagger in a tooled leather sheath. It was an incredible gift. Iron was rare but steel was rarer. Few knew the old arts of metallurgy.
Although Alaeda already wore a steel blade on her hip, her gratitude showed. “I am honored,” she said in a quiet voice.
Pakka could see the blade had the Vordon’s diamond stamped into the pommel. It was Talara’s personal weapon.
“Second,” Talara continued, “whatever you did or did not do at Silver Spring, for whatever reason you have entered my service, for good or ill, I no longer care. From this moment forward, you have my trust. Forgive me … for doubting you.”
It was as if it cost Talara a great deal to speak the words. She sagged into her cushions. Pakka moved to her side at once, so she could not see Alaeda’s reaction. When she had made sure Talara was comfortable, Alaeda was already standing. She bowed and said, “It has been my honor to serve you, ma’am. I hope I can prove myself worthy of your trust.”
Talara nodded.
“Very well,” said Pakka. “I am sure there is something you should be doing before we set out.”
Alaeda looked at her and seemed about to say something. She caught Pakka’s warning glance. “Speedy recovery, ma’am,” was all she said, and she left the howdah, disappearing from view.
A half hour later, the howdah lurched as the mekillot struggled to its feet.
Pakka spit a curse. Her mistress must be thirsty, and Pakka was fretting over the meeting. She plucked a water skin hanging from a hook and brought it to her mistress’s side.
Talara waved it away. “How far to Tyr?”
“Rek said a few days, maybe more,” Pakka said.
Talara sighed and winced as her hand rose to her breast where the claw had torn the flesh. Talara’s hand stopped and dropped to her side. She crawled over to the window and pulled aside the curtains to take in the desert. She was sweating.
“We must hurry,” she whispered.
Pakka shook her head. “You must rest, mistress. Your wounds are severe.”
Talara let the curtain fall, and she slid back down to the cushions. Pakka felt her eyes upon her as she tidied up the area, rinsing out soiled bandages in already filthy spirits.
“Pakka.” Talara paused. “Thank you again.”
“It was my duty, lady, to protect you,” whispered Pakka.
“Few slaves would die for the masters. But I suppose I should not be surprised. You have always stood by my side, lending your wisdom whenever I need it. For this, thanks,” added Talara.
Pakka was grateful for the comment, but Talara could never understand what her vow meant and what was at stake should she fail. Talara had abandoned her melancholy.
“I don’t fear death. Know this, Pakka,” she said, her voice fierce.
“Of course, mistress, you are brave and strong. You will recover, I’m certain,” she replied, adding, “You must,” in a whisper.
“No, dearest Pakka, this would be a killing wound had you not acted. It may still be but not before I get to Tyr.”
Pakka changed the subject. “So if it was not Alaeda and her mul companion who killed the guards, who did?”
“Maybe Chief Toramund was right. Maybe it was a fight. Maybe the murderer is in our own ranks. Maybe it was someone trying to kill me? Maybe it was someone from Urik,” she laughed. “They want our iron. Tyr’s iron.”
“I have never been to Urik, mistress. Have you?” Pakka asked. She cleared away the cushions around her until she made a circle. She sat.
“Once. It is a strange place, filled with fearful people and prideful templars. One such as you would have died in Urik’s obsidian mines long ago, if you were lucky. But, no. It couldn’t be Urik. They gain nothing for killing two guards. It also violates too many laws to count.”
Pakka pulled stones from a pouch around her neck, laying each one in a circle around her. “Then who, mistress?”
“That, Pakka, is the question. Who indeed.”
“Well, it is time,” Pakka said.
Talara looked up and saw the stones around the dwarf handmaiden. Her eyes narrowed.
“You have nothing to fear. Indeed, lady, these spirits have saved your life, if you recall.”
“I recall it was Alaeda, but yes, your … spirits have helped.” Resigned, Talara lay back, eyes closed.
Pakka chanted, each syllable hard as stone and filled with secrets of dark places, of cool earth and hidden grottos. As she spoke, her voice deepened until it became a rumble. If Talara’s eyes were open, she would have seen Pakka’s flesh lose its pallor, assuming a chalky appearance, fissured with dark cracks. She would have noticed the dust leaking from her joints as she evoked the primal spirits of earth, sand, and stone, drawing them into that quiet place to lend their healing powers. As Pakka’s chanting became one low rumble, the stones arranged around her moved, an inch at first then in a jumble, tumbling across the floor in a clatter as they gathered into a swaying manikin.
The slight transformation faded when Pakka opened her eyes. The stone servant wavered before her. “Child of stone, I beg you, lend aid to my injured mistress and let the earth’s strength sustain her.”
Two cracks appeared on the small rock serving as its head to form into dark eyes, windows into an ancient world. The elemental spirit waddled over to Talara and touched her feverish skin. Through the connection, the world’s magic flowed, and after a moment, it was done and the manikin collapsed into a pile of stones once more. Pakka left them where they were as she inspected her mistress. Her pallor was improved, and the stubborn cuts and scrapes seemed to have faded a little more. But there was a long road yet to travel if Talara Vordon would be hale once more.
Temmnya Shom returned as she always did. She silenced his complaints with her mouth. By morning, Loren found himself drained, as if the fears and anger had been bled dry from their lovemaking.
After the last disappearance, she had managed to stay with the expedition for several days. Their small force drifted across the Tablelands at a crawl.
At dawn, Temmnya had new orders. Loren, Aeris, and a team of soldiers would attack a caravan coming down the road. They would fight.
After hours of planning and preparation, Loren sat on his erdlu steed, a mount similar to the crodlu but bred for war. From atop a granite slab, he looked out across the blasted terrain. His mount rumbled in complaint and flapped its vestigial wings. It shifted from leg to leg and shook its crested head. Loren held the reins firm with one hand and carried an obsidian sword in the other.
Boulders and rocks littered the landscape for as far as Loren could see. The hot wind scoured his face and arms with sand. Shielding his eyes, Loren could make out the dust left by a long wagon train about a mile up the road. As it drew nearer, Loren spotted inix-drawn wagons armored in bone and carapaces with guards marching on all sides, about twenty in all.
There were a few boulders and rocks but not enough to cover Loren’s small force as they closed in on their quarry. The guards would spot them and pick them off with arrows before they even got close. It was impossible. Clicking his tongue, he urged the erdlu from the slab toward the sixty warriors who waited for his command. The warriors all wore Shom colors—white and black with dragonflies displayed on their uniforms. Loren made every tenth man a squad leader, and the lucky bastards got to wear banners on their backs so the soldiers under their command could stay somewhat organized. Each banner had a couple of dragonflies but done up in a different color to distinguish one squad from the other.
At the bottom, Loren hopped down from the saddle and handed the reins to a waiting soldier. The warriors had impressed Loren so far. They had discipline and could handle themselves in a fight. A few looked up at his approach. The rest stared at the ground or focused on sharpening their weapons. Loren had no illusions about what they thought about him. Most warriors in front of him were better suited to command, having actual military experience. Loren could fight, but he was no leader. He guessed they accepted his commands because Temmnya wished it, because Loren was her personal guard and lover. And they were right. He knew the next hour or so would determine whether the soldiers would accept him out of fear of invoking Temmnya’s wrath or because Loren had earned their respect. Of course, Loren wanted the latter. He hated being seen as a pet.
The squad leaders were a varied lot. Pyer, a stout, muscular man with a bristly beard, cracked his knuckle
s. Tyba and Cressi, brown-skinned Draji, stood by, arms crossed. Rab, a blocky dwarf dressed in hard carapace armor, glared at Kutok, a brawny ex-gladiator who had gained some notoriety in the Black Pits of Urik. The two hated each other. Cormal, a ranger who claimed to know the terrain better than anyone, was the last squad leader. They would fight and they would fight well. Each knew what was coming. Every man and woman was ready to face death and poke it in the eye. House Shom may have bought their loyalty with coin, but Loren expected them to do well on the battlefield. To do otherwise was to die.
“Well?” said Pyer, impatient.
Loren nodded. “They’re out there, just as Temmnya said they would be.”
“How far?” said Rab.
“I put them at a mile,” Loren answered.
“So what’s the plan, Captain?” asked Pyer.
Loren grunted at the title. A week before, the warriors wouldn’t have spared him a glance. Loren suspected his “promotion” came in response to his questions into her disappearance. She might have meant the position as an apology, though Loren was almost certain she did it to get him out of her hair.
“We hit them in the face. As hard as we can.”
Rab grunted, “You’d have to have a long arm to hit an enemy a mile away.”
“That’s it? We go out and attack. What kind of plan is that?” asked Pyer, incredulous. “Surely they’ll see us. When they see us, they’ll have all the time they need to circle those wagons of theirs and pepper us with bolts. This is suicide.”
“As you say,” Loren said, his voice low, “it would be suicide, but we have Aeris.”
The lanky half-elf looked up at his name. “What?” He sat on a rock, frowning. He had been studying a vellum scroll since before dawn.
“I was just explaining how we’re going to attack the caravan. You want to add something?” Loren asked.
“No. I don’t, Loren. I’ve barely had a chance to study this ritual. If we’re lucky, and I mean if, the enemy won’t see you coming until you’re right on them.”
Death Mark Page 13
