She smiled. “Well, Grith, my name is Tema. You’ve already met my husband, the High Lord?”
“I have,” Grith replied. “My lady,” he added a moment later. “It was kind of him to take us in on such short notice.”
“Truly,” she said, absentmindedly. “It must be a coup for Irrin. To have a third Delver and another Enforcer of all things.” Grith opened his mouth to reply, but Tema continued on as if she hadn’t noticed. “My husband doesn’t trust Delvers. He has a few Curators and a single Adept, mind you, but none who could do him any physical harm. He prefers more conventional bodyguards.” She must have been referring to Kret
Grith thought about the number of times he had fantasized about killing Irrin early in his captivity. It would have been so easy. Uche seemed like a trusting man, for all Grith had seen of him, but in this, perhaps, he was wiser than his more cautious friend.
You couldn’t trust a Delver.
“I have heard my husband wants to go on an expedition onto the savanna,” Tema said. Right to the point then, Grith thought.
He wasn’t sure what to say. Was it Grith’s place to divulge Uche’s secrets? What if Uche found out? Would it jeopardize Irrin’s position here?
“I see,” she said after a moment. Grith realized too late that she had been staring into his eyes. Whatever she had seen there, it must have confirmed her suspicions. “Of course I would be the last person on the continent to learn of my husband’s plans.”
“My lady, I am sure that…”
“Don’t apologize for him,” Tema said. “He is who he is.” She gave him a slanted grin.
“My lady,” Kret interjected. He still stood behind and slightly to the left of Grith, at a position where it would be most difficult for Grith to turn and attack him, if he was so inclined. “High Lord Uche will be expecting you for dinner in half-an-hour.”
“You must forgive me,” Tema said, getting to her feet in a single sinuous motion. “We will see each other again later?”
Grith cleared his throat. “Uh… I would imagine so, my lady.” Spirits! He sounded like a blithering fool talking to this woman. Were gray eyes and a little makeup really enough to disarm him?
She gave him a wide smile as she passed by, stepping through the garden and up onto the arcade. Grith waited until he heard the door to the adjoining garden close behind her. “How do you know Tain?” Grith asked, wheeling on Kret. He had meant for the question to be more casual, but it came out forced, defensive.
Kret sighed and passed him. With his charge gone, he moved more casually, sitting himself on the bench on which Tema had lay only a moment before and pulling a piece of hard candy from his pocket, popping the sweat in his mouth. “We were both students at the El’kabal Temple.”
El’kabal? Grith had heard the name on the tongues of more than a few Akivian merchants. They’d always opined the fact that they couldn’t afford the price of the Temple’s warriors. Legend had it they were the best private soldiers in the world, equal, perhaps even surpassing, the Emperor’s Highlanders.
“I had been training at the monastery for nearly ten years by the time your master arrived. He couldn’t have been much older than eleven or twelve, just coming into his abilities as a Delver. He was the son of some knight, put out by his family for one reason or another. Maybe he was a bastard.” He shook his head. “But the reason doesn’t matter.”
Grith tried to imagine Tain at twelve, walking through the doors of the El’kabal Temple, dust covered and dehydrated from weeks spent in the deserts of northern Toashan, sitting down to pray to some pagan star god. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the image to fit with the man he now knew.
“He trained for three years,” Kret continued. “And then one day, he was gone, fled into the deep desert.” He shrugged. It was the only wasted motion Grith had seen the man display in their conversation. “I guess he couldn’t take the training, the constant punishment of the body and mind. Not many can.”
Grith shook his head. Just as he couldn’t imagine Tain traveling into the deserts at the edge of the Empire, he couldn’t imagine him running away either. It just wasn’t his style. He was the kind of man to see a task to its end, no matter the risk, no matter the hardship. There was more to this story than Kret was letting on.
“We assumed he would die of thirst, or that one of the desert tribes would get him, but perhaps we underestimated him.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Grith demanded. Was Kret trying to undermine his trust in Tain? What reason would he have to do so? They were on the same side, fighting for Irrin and Uche, weren’t they?
“To warn you. As a member of the El’kabal Temple, it is my duty to extract a punishment on those who have taken our training and squandered it. You do not flee from our teachings. If you do, we find and correct our mistake.”
It took everything in Grith’s power to stop him leveling his spear. So the man had been talking about killing Tain. “And you expect me to just let this happen?”
Kret shrugged matter-of-factly. “No. I expect you to try and stop me. I also expect that I will die in the attempt. Just as I have no doubt of my own ability, I have no doubt of Tain’s either.” He fixed Grith with a dark-eyed stare. “I have seen you Delvers fight.”
“You don’t have to do this.” Grith told the warrior as he considered his options. He could run the man through, here and now. If he entered the Deepening, he might be able to get the drop on Kret before the he could draw his sword—end the fight before it even began. He would also sour the relationship between Irrin and Uche. Perhaps irreparably so. His only other option was to inform Tain. Together, they might be able to come up with a way to stop this madman.
“My honor and my order demand it.” He saw Grith’s expression. “But don’t worry yourself. I won’t move until the time is right. And at the moment, my master has use of you.”
He rose from his seat and grabbed Grith on the shoulder as he passed. He tried to shy away from the seemingly familiar gesture, but Kret’s grip was like iron, drawing Grith close. “If you two are as strong as I expect, you should have no problem defeating me. Consider that, when our blades finally cross.”
He released Grith’s shoulder and walked from the garden, leaving Grith alone in the darkness. He took a seat on the bench where Kret had sat only moments before, and stared up at the Sky Father, watching the patterns of clouds as they crossed the surface of the sphere. He should run, tell Tain of what he had heard. But what good would it do? Kret had claimed he would stay his hand until Tain had lived out his usefulness. Grith knew he shouldn’t believe the mercenary, but there was something about the way he had spoken that made Grith willing to trust him.
Eighteen:
Kareen
“Are you mute?” Kareen asked the man. It was her third hour following him, and he still hadn’t spoken a word in reply. “Are you even alive?”
He remained silent, as he had a dozen times, and kept up his steady pace. She had followed him for no other reason than he was there and he was human. More human than the Cutarans, at least. He was also heading in the right direction, north and slightly west, presumably towards the Front.
She glanced around, trying for the hundredth time to find any sign of habitation on the plains. Nothing. No columns of smoke in the distance, no remains of a camp. Not even horse patrols. And strangest of all, no animals. Only this man, and the questions that surrounded him like the clouds of flies that were a common annoyance on the plains.
She knew he was a Delver. That much was obvious by what he had done to the lion. Delvers were a secretive lot. Her father had never been rich or powerful enough to hire one of the magic users, so she had never had much exposure to their strange abilities, but still, she knew enough.
The glowing sword, the way he had thrown the weapon—this man was an Ignean, and an exceptionally powerful one at that. The Emperor had more than a hundre
d Delvers at his command, and many of the most powerful High Lords might have a dozen. But there were rumors of a secret cabal within the Emperor’s inner circle, Delvers so powerful that no one could challenge them. Delvers whose very presence helped hold the Corrossan Empire together. She had always found the idea a fanciful one, the kind of thing noblemen’s sons discussed when they were particularly deep into their cups.
But maybe she had been wrong. It was said that the men and women of this order covered their faces when in public. She had always assumed that meant a mask or even a large hood, but could the stories be referring to the cover this man wore over his head?
It made as much sense as anything on this Tirrak forsaken continent. Not for the first time, she cursed the Emperor for coming here. But even still, it was only be the Emperor’s will it seemed, that she was alive. Another reason to thank the man, another reason to bow at his feet.
Kareen decided on a question then. “Do you work for Emperor Hadan?” she asked, more because she wanted to something to say than any desire for a real answer.
The Delver turned his head slightly, but remained silent. She couldn’t be sure, but he seemed to quicken his pace. A touchy subject? she wondered as she struggled to match his speed.
* * *
A day passed in silence, the Delver keeping a steady pace through the brush and the forests and the streams, never relenting. Kareen struggled to match his long-legged gait. Every time she had to stop to relieve herself or get a drink of water, she would have to run to catch up. Her body was heavy and sluggish, the trauma of the past few days, both physical and mental, weighing on her. The sky was already growing dark and she would need to sleep soon.
She wanted so desperately to fall into the tall grass and let it be her bed. But she knew the Delver would leave her then, and when she woke she would be just as lost as before their paths had crossed. She sighed and tried to think of something other than her aching feet, her soiled clothes, and the biting hunger of a day and a half without food.
Her thoughts quickly turned to Livran as they had a hundred times since his death. Those pleading eyes, Tirrak, how they had bored into her. I left him to die alone. Left him there without someone to share in his suffering. Could she ever forgive herself for that?
You’re alive, she reminded herself. That’s all that matters. You’re alive. Livran gave his life so you could have this chance. A chance at survival. It was a lie, but there was enough truth at its rotten center to keep her going, keep her on her feet.
Kareen raised her head from where she had been staring at the ground and blinked. The Delver had turned suddenly, heading sharply west, his pace increasing yet again. She followed his path off into the grass and was surprised to see a light ahead. It was miles distant, but illuminated the horizon like the rising sun. A Corrossan camp, she thought. It was the only thing that could produce so much light. Livran had told her there were as many as thirty such camps along the Front, administered to and garrisoned by various lords. But somehow she knew this was Hadan’s. Where else would a member of his legendary cabal of Delvers return to?
Her suspicions were confirmed as they were spotted by the first patrol. The soldiers were dressed in the solid black of the Emperor, but without the slashes of white that would have marked them as men of the Akivian Corps. Their patches were different as well, displaying a green feather on a field of white. In the light of the lanterns they bore, she could see their faces clearly enough. Whitestoners, every one, the men of the valleys and highlands of northern Hadalkir.
“Halt!” one of the men ordered, his accent a heavy unruly thing. Unlike the rest of the Empire—with the notable exception of Herana—many in Whitestone had yet to adopt Sasken as their native tongue. As the soldier came closer, she could see his heavily weathered face poking out from under a raised sallet helm, pink from too much time under the sun. His hand was on the hilt of his sword and he looked from the Delver to Kareen with a steady expression.
The Ignean kept up his pace, passing in between the watchmen as if they were no more an obstacle than the evening wind, and headed into camp. They glanced over their shoulders as he passed, but didn’t move to stop him. Kareen on the other hand, received the full force of their scrutiny.
“And who the hell are you?” the weathered solider asked, stepping close enough that she could smell the mix of tobacco and old sweat on his uniform.
“I came with him,” she said, pointing at the Delver heading towards the firelight and barely visible silhouettes of tents.
“From out on the plains?” the soldier responded, motioning to the darkness behind her. He sounded incredulous.
“I was a prisoner.” she nearly shouted. Blessed Tirrak, she was tired of this. All she wanted right now was food and a place to throw herself down and pass out.
“What? Of the Cutarans?” asked a young man with bright blue eyes. “I don’t believe it. The bronze-skins kill every man they capture. I’ve seen the bodies.” The soldiers around him nodded their agreement.
“Well, they didn’t with me. I was the prisoner of a chieftain named Xisa.” The name seemed to peak their interest, sparking a murmur of conversation.
“And why were you out on the plains alone?” the weathered soldier asked.
“Emperor Hadan had taxes that need paying.” She continued on, ignoring their confused expressions. “Sir Livran Kirov was to escort me to the Front, but we were ambushed and captured.”
The soldiers shifted uneasily, sharing looks. It was clear that none of them wanted to take responsibility for this dirty, mysterious black-haired girl who had come off the plains in the middle of the night. She couldn’t blame them, all things considered.
“General’ll want to hear about this,” one of the men said. Kareen couldn’t get a good look at him, but he sounded nervous.
“Then you can be the one to tell him!” the blue eyed boy snapped.
“We’re all taking her back!” roared the weathered man. “Or would you rather the general found out through someone else? Who knows, if her story is true, we might even get a reward for our efforts.”
The other soldiers perked up at this. “Come with us,” the man said, trying to sound welcoming despite his growling voice, and turned to head back towards the camp. Kareen followed. They must have known she was weary because they kept their pace slow. Surprisingly courteous, for soldiers.
The Corrossan camp bordered a large stream, giving the thousands of men inside a ready source of water. The ground it covered was massive, not as large as the Cutaran camp, but tighter packed and better organized. The Whitestoners seemed to have been here for some time. They had dug in, setting up timber watchtowers and palisades, as tall as eight feet in places.
Kareen had expected cursory defenses, trenches and sharpened stakes, but not this. This wasn’t an army camp, it was a fortress in the making. Livran said the war had slowed to a standstill, she thought watching a young soldier lounge in one of the watchtowers. This must be what he meant.
The only entrance on this side of the camp was heavily defended. Earthworks were built flanking the dirt path, covered by crossbowmen. From inside their fortifications, it looked like they could resist an assault by an entire army.
Beyond the defenses, they entered into the camp proper. Row after row of tents stretched into the distance. Between them, soldiers sat around communal fires eating their evening meal. She could hear them laugh and shout, unaware of the army that might be coming down on them in a matter of weeks, if not days.
Beyond the dwellings of the common soldiers were larger tents, set apart from the others. These men, heavy cavalry from the look of them, were tended to by servants who ran back and forth, looking after the needs of man and horse alike. Beyond even these lay the center of the camp. Here the tents were larger still, set around a smaller version of the outer fortifications. Instead of regulars, the towers here were manned by men and
women in black and gold tartan cloaks. Highlanders, Kareen realized with a start.
They were decked in full parade dress, with peaked helmets topped with the feathers of exotic birds, and carried their distinctive ceremonial axes in addition to their other weapons. The entire presentation gave them the look of storybook warriors, the kind who had fought in the petty conflicts that had wracked Hadalkir before the Unification. They were a piece of history, and it seemed that Hadan wanted to keep them that way.
She thought the squad might turn towards the defended compound, but instead the soldiers took her left, towards a large tent surrounded by heavily armed Whitestone troops. The flap bore a green feather emblazoned on its front. The same unrecognizable device as on the patches the soldiers wore. Whitestone was a mystery to her, far removed from the rest of the Empire, even if it and Kilri shared a border. And after the debacle that had been the Autumn Rebellion, the two provinces had maintained, at best, a chilly relationship.
“Wait here,” the lead soldier said, heading towards the tent. He was intercepted by one of the guards, who held up a gauntleted hand to stop him. They argued in their own language for several long minutes, every exchange faster and more heated than the last. Eventually, an agreement seemed to be reached and the guard nodded his armored head and stepped inside the tent. He reemerged a moment later and motioned for her to come forward.
“General Oranhur has granted you an audience,” he said in an even thicker accent than the other soldiers. “But be quick about it! The general’s time is valuable, and I will not see you waste it on my watch.”
“I will do no such thing,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “I assure you.” After days and weeks spent as the captive of the Cutarans, she thought she would feel safe amongst her own species. So why then did fear feel like it was carving a pit in her stomach?
The guard pulled open the tent flap and motioned for to enter. The interior was spacious, large enough for a table and chairs, bed, dresser, and wash basin with room to spare. The riches of the north were on full display in the flickering light of a dozen candles—furs, thick rugs, and tapestries, giving the room the feeling of the war tent of some ancient pre-imperial chieftain.
The Argument of Empires Page 26
