Rhune Shadow

by Vaughn Heppner

  Elissa shivered. The great inner gate was open, was even now opening wider. A white horse cantered through, its rider wearing a billowing white mantle and a hood and holding an impossibly long javelin. Behind the horseman followed two others. They bore small, elephant-hide shields and slender spears.

  “Nasamons,” Elissa whispered.

  As the gate continued to open, more nomads galloped onto the cobbled plaza. Then Elissa heard a horn blare from a different tower, confirming her suspicion. The nomads had found a traitor to open a way into Karchedon.

  Likely Himilco Nara and his Gepids had been to the Donkey Gate. The priest must have won over Lord Jubal.

  Elissa slithered back to her half-completed skay. She hoped Karchedonian officers could rally the other mercenaries and throw out the nomads before too many entered the city. She assembled her skay in the middle of the roof, believing this the last place Himilco would look for her. If Himilco had left for the nomad camp, it made sense why the hunt for her had slackened. If Himilco was over there, he couldn’t use his sorcery here to track the Gauntlet of Ice.

  Elissa had already aligned long bamboo poles and lashed them together into a huge triangular skeleton. To that, she’d sewn many parchment sheets. She had used silk line for thread. There was a bottom bamboo structure to hold her. Paragons from faraway Sivishe had invented skays. Through many leagues of ocean, on camelback and then by donkey, the blueprint for skays had traveled from Sivishe to Lokhar. A savant of Lokhar had traveled to Karchedon many years ago. Elissa had found his papers in one of her father’s storehouses. Afterward, she had used her allowance to purchase the needed items for constructing a skay. The Rhune troubadour had sneered at her purchases.

  “Use shadows and cunning,” the troubadour had told her. “Leave aerial exploits to the wind-scarred madmen of Sivishe.”

  “An assassin could swoop down like an eagle,” she had replied. “She could gain admittance into high fortresses previously invulnerable to her skills.”

  “Does the squirrel seek to teach the mongoose how to kill snakes?” the troubadour had asked. “Neither should a half-caste girl quarrel with her mentor. A Rhune trusts his own skills, not the fickle wind. Listen to me well. Never trust the tide, the wind or a prince’s promises. Trust your poisons, the aim of your dagger and your garroting wire.”

  On the temple roof, Elissa repressed those memories and concentrated on her task. She pushed a needle through a yellowed parchment sheet and yanked the thread through. She was only half-Rhune—that was true—but she had her dagger and poisons. She would succeed no matter the odds. First, she must slay the Tyrant. Then, she could plot the death of Himilco Nara, arch-traitor of Karchedon.

  -5-

  Himilco and his Gepids had indeed been in the cavernous Donkey Fortress. With his own ears, Himilco had heard the giant wheel clack. With his own eyes, he’d seen the mighty doors swing open to admit the first rush of galloping nomads.

  The Nasamons were gaunt men, browned by the desert sun, with white mantles and brass-dotted leather hoods. Ornate copper sheathes clattered at their belts, holding their deadly curved knives—the fabled kindjal. Each knife was a work of art, the handle carved from bone.

  The nomads were notorious knife-fighters. Many spent hours sitting cross-legged outside their tent, the razor-sharp steel rhythmically hissing across a whetstone as the nomad’s eyes glazed over with visions of cutting down a hated enemy. Among the Nasamons, only slaves fought with their fists. To hit a nomad or to wrestle with him was a mortal insult. Knives would flash, and the offender would be left to bleed to death, curled around his neatly sliced wound.

  How the nomads had hooted as they’d spied the open gate. Warriors had pumped their javelins, their polished bone rings gleaming dully.

  Afterward, Himilco clattered to the Nasamon camp in a chariot. Hundreds of mounted nomads raced past him toward the gate, choking Himilco with their dust as he drove. He sneezed, using Lady Sidi’s linen veil to wipe his nose.

  The Nasamons loved their nimble horses. Like the nomads, the horses were small and surefooted. White horses were the most common, although there were many dappled and red horses as well. A black horse was considered a gift from the Lord of Dragons and it was set free once it no longer needed its mother’s milk. Every mount jangled with small silver bells. The bells were twined into the braided manes. Almost every warrior kept his favorite mount in his tent as one of the family, often feeding it by hand.

  Once the horsemen had galloped past, Himilco jumped down from his chariot before the Prophetess’ huge black tent.

  In moments, he was standing in her presence. Two Almodad slaves gripped his arms. Each had bronze-colored skin and knotty muscles. Himilco resented their height and the way they breathed down his neck. He’d just delivered her Karchedon. Surely, the Prophetess should trust him more than this.

  The Prophetess sat upon a throne of cunningly interwoven bones. A grim circle of human skulls surrounded her. It was a morbid piece of work, as if dead worshippers adored her every deed. Each polished skull watched her with gemmed eyes: rubies, garnets, pearls and emeralds. The skull-eyes glittered eerily in the flickering torchlight, making them seem alive in some macabre fashion.

  The Prophetess sat motionless like an idol. She was wearing a heavy robe of spotted hyena-skin and held a baton topped with the skull of an ancient dwarf dragon. Her features were difficult to determine, for she wore the skull of a sizeable extinct creature. A necklace of human teeth hung from her neck.

  “I feel the nullity of death emanating from your hands,” she said. “You have killed recently.”

  “In order to give you the city,” Himilco said.

  “Bel Ruk gave me Karchedon. You merely proved his handiest tool.”

  Himilco forced himself to nod. He knew that the Prophetess believed that Karchedon had sullied the god’s name with mercantile greed and corruption. She meant to bring the purity of the god’s true nature to the city.

  “I know you,” the Prophetess was saying. “You are a jackal who has dared to run with the hyenas, with my deadly Nasamons. You lick your chops with desire and hope to snatch a prize from Karchedon’s corpse.”

  Himilco frowned. He’d just delivered her the city. A little gratitude would be nice.

  The Prophetess leaned forward so the bones of her chair creaked and shifted. “Do you know why I have come to Karchedon?”

  “To bring the light of Bel Ruk to the world,” Himilco said.

  “I will torch Karchedon with so many pyres as to darken the sun by the smoke of the dead. Bel Ruk will wax fat on the rivers of blood. He will gorge himself, and I will feed him more, always more. Bel Ruk will become the glutton god, gobbling souls while enraptured with the heady stench of gore. The dwellers of Karchedon will feed him with their flesh. And when the wind howls through the empty city and dust blows upon the deserted lanes, then Bel Ruk will desire more. Yet, the larder will be empty. His belly will growl. He will demand his customary fare. That is when the god will unleash his power and the desert tribes will conqueror the world.”

  A sick feeling knotted Himilco’s gut. Had he miscalculated? Was the Prophetess insane? That would mean all his careful plotting, his years of waiting for the right moment—wasted! No, no, he must think. The Prophetess watched him. She respected strength. Therefore, he simply smiled and shook his head.

  “Do you disapprove of my vision?” she purred.

  “Not at the direction of your aim,” Himilco said. “But…” He let his voice trail off.

  “I doubt modesty stays your words.”

  “I know little about modesty,” he said. “What gives me pause is fear.”

  “And thus you show yourself unworthy of Bel Ruk,” she said. “You have an avidly grasping longing for life. It reeks from you. I am ashamed to have used your guile to gain entrance into the city. Even so, I will grant you a boon. You will be the last man of Karchedon to climb the stone steps of the mighty altar I will erect in the city. There, I will t
ear your heart from your traitorous flesh.”

  She began to motion to the slaves holding his arms.

  Anger tightened Himilco’s throat like a noose. What was wrong with kings, queens and messiahs being lifted up to lead a people? While one might distrust a traitor—and he rejected the notion that he was a traitor—one should visibly reward them. The obvious reason for this was so that you could unlock other stubborn doors in the future. It was such an obvious truism that it grated against his sense of logic that she should use him so shabbily. He suspected this wasn’t a matter of insanity, but arrogance. She had likely won all her battles too easily and thus believed herself invincible. Maybe that was what was wrong with those lifted into leadership; just this sort of arrogance.

  “Allow me to object, Prophetess. My fear is not physical. It is rather that my brilliance will outshine your own.”

  The downward motion of her skull-topped baton stopped. “The jackal grows bold,” she said in a menacing tone.

  Himilco stared into the dark eyes peering out of the skullcap. She thought in desert terms.

  He cleared his throat. “What is the essence of the jackal? It slinks in the shadows, in the tall grass, looking to snatch its pitiful slice of meat. It must dart under the lion’s claws and avoid the hyena’s crushing jaws. Even vultures attack it, at times raking the poor beast with their talons. Yet through it all, the jackal develops keen wits. It lives by them.”

  “Your cleverness is well known, priest.”

  “My cleverness, rather than any supposed fear, is the reason I threw in my lot with you.”

  “Poor little jackal,” she said. “No one loves a traitor. And worse for you, no one trusts a traitor, least of all me.”

  Himilco laughed.

  “You dare to mock me?” she asked.

  “Never,” Himilco said. “I laugh at my stupidity. It is the worst fault for a jackal to possess. I believed I’d taken your measure when we met several weeks ago. Your vision impressed me. Nay, it inspired me. Your daring was breathtaking. I gloried in your revelations concerning the god I had thought I’d served. Because of that, I bent all my energy to the fulfillment of this dream. Now, I see that in one respect, you’re like all the others, afraid of my brilliance.”

  The Prophetess pointed her baton at an empty place in her circle of skulls. “I think I shall place you there. What is your favorite gem, priest? I think jade would suit your narrow skull.”

  “I applaud your idea to engorge the Lord of Dragons with souls in order to increase his appetite to gargantuan proportions. That is an excellent plan. What amazes me is your carelessness in throwing away the tool that can quickly bring you untold thousands, nay, tens of thousands more bodies to lie upon your bloodstained altars.”

  “Your cunning is overrated,” the Prophetess said. “The reason for these arguments is obvious.”

  “Is it obvious?” Himilco asked in an ironic tone.

  “Strike him twice,” she said coldly, “each of you.”

  Himilco silently endured the two Almodad slaves twisting him around. With a callused, massively huge open hand, each slapped him twice, once on each cheek. Afterward, with hand marks imprinted on his flesh, Himilco subtly used his tongue to test a loose tooth. He had a horror of losing any of them. That the Prophetess had ordered two slaves to strike him when it was a Nasamon insult to hit with your hands—Himilco strove to contain his rage.

  By quick degrees, he became aware of the two slaves gripping his arms again and turning him toward the Prophetess.

  “None dares to question me,” she told him.

  Himilco’s eyes shined wetly. His tongue roved over his loosened tooth. He had to outwit this witch, and he had to start now…or he was as good as dead.

  “I have served Bel Ruk for many years,” he said in a low voice.

  “Blasphemy will be met with death,” she hissed. “You Karchedonians have desecrated his name.”

  Outthink her. Don’t match her arrogance for arrogance.

  “Yes…” he said, nodding. “Blasphemy is obviously wrong.”

  “I tire of your word games.”

  “Then I will be blunt,” he said. “I realized that you knew better than we Karchedonians did concerning Bel Ruk’s true nature.”

  “I always speak truth.”

  Himilco grimaced inwardly thinking about the lies she’d told him several weeks ago about the rewards she would lavish on him if he gave her the city.

  “Your truth has shined through the lies I’ve been taught about Bel Ruk,” he said. “For that alone I will always be grateful to you. My key point, Prophetess, is that however poorly and ill-conceived my service has been, I have faithfully followed the god for years.”

  “How can you say faithfully when you have served a false conception of Bel Ruk?”

  “Ah, but once I learned the error of my ways, I changed. No other priest in Karchedon did likewise.”

  “That is a point in your favor,” she admitted.

  If she could admit that…there was hope. He must play on that.

  “Prophetess,” he said, bowing as he spoke. “I would beg that you allow this ‘jackal’ to point out to you that this…that your revelation bloomed in my heart like a precious flower. I know some around you call me a traitor. For the Lord of Dragons’ sake, I have endured that vile name. I have long acted like a jackal. I suppose that is true. Yet, the priests of Karchedon have long duped me with their blasphemous words. Can a hyena change its spots?”

  “Why would a hyena ever do such a thing?”

  Himilco took a deep breath. He sensed a change in her heart. He had to say this correctly.

  “I am a jackal and you call me a traitor. I have not quibbled with you about that. Yet one thing I must say. One thing I must tell even the holy Prophetess of Bel Ruk.”

  “Now you seek to teach me?” she asked in a dangerous tone.

  “I seek Bel Ruk’s greatness,” he said. “Therefore, I risk your wrath to tell you that you are missing the obvious. You hate me—”

  “You are not big enough to hate,” she said with a laugh, interrupting him. “Instead, I suspect your every motive. I hear your words and realize that that they are interwoven with deceit. When you speak the truth, you tangle it in a lying web. But hate, no… You are too little and pitiful to hate. I realize that you are a worm trying to wriggle out from under my crushing heel.”

  Her words shocked him. They were like twenty, like thirty, maybe even like a hundred slaps across the face. They sobered him. She had lied about the rewards. She had played him for a fool. He had risked everything—

  Himilco choked down his bitterness as red rage almost caused him to rush her. She had played him for a fool—him, Himilco Nara the Cunning. If it took twenty years, he would plot for the moment in time when he would watch her beg for mercy. On that day, oh, on that glorious day, he would crush her like a gnat.

  She leaned sharply forward as her dark eyes seemed to glitter with sinister intelligence.

  “You emanate hate,” she said softly. “Yes. I feel the wrath blazing in you. How interesting. Are you thinking murderous thoughts toward me, little priest?”

  Her awareness of his inner intentions startled Himilco. Could she read his thoughts? No, it must be part of her prophetic gift. That was so different from sorcery, from spells and incantations. To have awareness descend upon you as a god’s gift—he felt a stab of jealousy. Everything he had ever obtained had come through grueling effort and cunning.

  “Great One,” Himilco said, letting weariness enter his voice. “However poorly, however ill-conceivably I have served the god these many years. I have some familiarity with his ways. More importantly, I know many of the patterns of his mind.”

  “Better than I know them?” the Prophetess asked, her voice brittle.

  Himilco paused, wondering how to answer that.

  “I know that there are rare occurrences in history when a great one like you comes along,” he said. “You stand on a great moral height
and are so sensitive of soul that you can peer into spiritual vistas that we lowly mortals are too earthbound and crass to see. You see above mountains and across distant valleys to a better world. In this case, you see what the Lord of Dragons will become. You rightly judge the correct method in reaching that distant paradise. Yet sometimes, a small obstruction lies near at hand, unnoticed by the farseeing oracle. The earthbound mortal, unencumbered by the distant visions, only knows what stares him in the face. Your glory—”

  Imperiously, she raised her baton.

  Himilco fell silent.

  She gazed to her left, and it seemed she peered at one of the skulls, at its orbs encrusted with diamonds.

  After a time, the Prophetess spoke in a low tone. “You seek to drown me with praise. Yet, like a jackal speaking to a lion, I know that your only desire is to snatch a morsel from under my claws. It is therefore all the more painful to realize that you see clearer who and what I am than even my most faithful sheik. What perverse twist of fate brought you to me, little priest?”

  “It can only be the Lord of Dragons,” Himilco said.

  “Surprising as it seems,” the Prophetess said with a small nod, “Bel Ruk must have sent you.”

  Himilco bowed his head. “Is it not said that gods work in mysterious ways?”

  Instead of looking at him, the Prophetess continued to stare at the diamond-eyed skull.

  Himilco wondered who the person had been in life. That would tell him much. He knew so little about the Prophetess. She was obviously clever, headstrong and much too arrogant. She was also in love with death. Her twisted plan would bring Hell upon Dar Sai.

  Himilco cleared his throat.

  The Prophetess stood abruptly, interrupting his coming speech.

  Himilco steeled himself for the worst.

  The Prophetess stepped over the circle of skulls to stand before him. Unlike other Nasamons, she stood head and shoulders taller than he did, even with his special boots on.

  “How can a traitorous liar, a treacherous jackal like you see so clearly?” she asked down into his face. “You understand my greatness, which many see. But they only think of it as flashes of inspiration. Few understand that I can gaze into the future and see over mountains, as you so aptly stated. I indeed peer across valleys of Time. The visions have expanded my thinking and strengthened my mind. You are a puzzle to me. In truth, my instincts tell me to crush you like a scorpion under my heel. Yet, your words, however twisted in their tangle of lies are refreshing like a rare east wind.”