Rhune Shadow

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Did the Rhune see him?” Dabar asked.

  The wagon lurched and swayed, causing many of the coffins to creak. Himilco stared into the emerald. Gold encircled it. Impressed in the gold were powerful mystic symbols. The Oracle owned the dragonhead staff, and none had ever found the Gauntlet of Ice, at least as far as Himilco knew. What Himilco did possess was the wonderful Emerald of Vision. On his instructions a year ago, the Gray Wolf and his warriors had looted the abode of a sorcerer of Lixus to obtain it.

  Himilco stared into the emerald’s depths. In it sailed a flying craft. Attached to the craft was the daughter of Zarius Magonid, a half-Rhune of the royal line.

  “She saw him,” Himilco intoned. The Emerald of Vision had a three-league radius of sight. He had easily found the little spy watching them.

  “You’re certain of this?” Dabar asked. “She can recognize an individual from the great height?”

  The device she had used had intrigued Himilco. He wouldn’t bother explaining it to this desert scum.

  “Tell your master she saw the Gray Wolf,” Himilco said firmly.

  Dabar scowled. “Your days are numbered, priest. Yours are numbered as well,” he told the Gray Wolf. “You should have skewered me when you had the chance in Karchedon. I never forget my enemies.”

  “That was years ago,” Himilco said, realizing he had spoken a moment ago with too much malice. It was wiser to lull one’s enemies. “I have already forgotten our little misunderstanding.”

  Dabar gave a sharp bark of laughter. “That is the black lotus speaking. Believe me when I say, I forget…nothing. Time will deliver you into my hands. This I predict with ease.” Leering, the Nasamon drew a small packet from the pouch at his side. “This must last you three days.”

  Himilco held out a hand. Dabar dropped the packet. Himilco’s fingers tightened around the precious lotus. “Why does Ophion want them to know I’m coming?”

  “Go ask him if you’re so curious,” Dabar said.

  Without the black lotus in his system, Himilco would have shuddered. Speaking face-to-face with Ophion horrified him. Inside Ophion’s wagon, it was much too alien. He hated every encounter with the winged monster, the dark dragon.

  Dabar watched him too closely. The filthy Nasamon reported to Ophion. He was the dragon’s eyes and ears.

  Knowing what the Nasamon wanted and therefore what Ophion desired, Himilco opened the packet. He poured grains of powder onto a mirror.

  With a frown, the Gray Wolf brushed past Dabar and jumped outside.

  Steadying himself, Himilco snorted the drug. His eyelids fluttered and drool spilled out of the corner of his mouth.

  “You are a weak man, priest,” Dabar said. “It puzzles me why our god uses a drugged creature like you. Soon, your uses will vanish in a lotus-haze. I will be waiting then and you shall be mine.” So saying, Dabar strode to the exit and jumped past the heavy curtain. A moment later, hooves drummed on the sand.

  Himilco’s frozen smile grew. He had been a sorcerer before he was a priest. Any sorcerer worth his spells was also a magician. It was the easiest thing in the world to practice a little sleight-of-hand. He’d snorted nothing but illusions. Dabar thought him stupefied, and soon, so would Ophion. The dragon wished him black-powdered until he needed a tame sorcerer to practice spells.

  Himilco rubbed his hands. Lately, he had been using less black lotus than anyone realized, only enough to affect his eyes under scrutiny. It was his secret, and it was one he planned to use to the full. He wanted to know what was so important about Mogador that the dragon would journey here. He was certain it involved hidden magic. Ophion must have ulterior motives. Everyone did. More than anything, Himilco wanted sorcerous power in order to end his subservience to Bel Ruk.

  -3-

  Elissa spiraled downward from the clouds. To the south lay her destination: Mogador. She wouldn’t land there, choosing a spot outside the city instead. Then she would ride in on a donkey. Few in the town knew about her skay, and she wanted to keep it that way.

  Mogador rested between five low hills that bloomed with carefully watered palm trees and juniper grass. Between the hills, an old mud-brick wall protected the town. The guards could be found in the shade, complacently slumbering or idling away the hours playing dice. Behind the wall rose flat mud-brick homes, larger storehouses and corrals for camels, mules and a few precious horses. The caravan depot descended in terraces toward a spring-fed lagoon in the center of town. Near the lagoon were vegetable plots for the richest citizens. Long ago, an enterprising merchant had seeded the lagoon with carp. Those now fed the priests whose strange, onion-domed temple stood beside the lagoon’s single dock.

  The priests were a mysterious and closed society of old men and young acolytes. They were dusky-skinned and fervent, wearing black cassocks and hoods. They seldom ventured outside the temple and received few from Mogador inside their walls. Pilgrims from Tanjore trickled across the Great Sand Belt to present the priests with gifts. Some of those gifts were specialized tools: tiny picks, pliers and minuscule chisels. It was said a giant wheel moved inside the temple. Steam powered the wheel and caused rods to move back and forth.

  The priests served Ankey, an old Carazian god whom they believed permitted Mogador’s existence. Ankey, it was said, had given the Carazians the knowledge to build the pyramids and canals that watered the garden plots along the Nerv River. In Elissa’s opinion, Ankey seemed like a strange desert god. He was a patron of blacksmiths, bricklayers and artisans of intricate devices. There were odd legends concerning Ankey, stories about the god forging metal men and witch-fire axes.

  To the south of the five low hills lay the Great Sand Belt. In this region bordering the Zhaarken, nomadic Zant eked out an existence. Sometimes, they acted as caravan guards. At other times, the Zant created the very need for guards because of their swift camel raids.

  Wealth determined status in Mogador and determined whether one lived on the lower terraces near the water or the upper ones where the poor and the beggars dwelled. A community of Karchedonian refugees thrived on the second terrace. They’d erected a wall around their small community and thereby created resentment. The hard-eyed soldiers who guarded the wall kept the resentment to a grumble or at most to a fist-pounding tirade in a dimly-lit tavern.

  Most of Mogador’s citizens were a mongrel mixture of Zant, Nasamon and the hard-luck addition of Karchedonian and other coastal merchants. The citizens of Mogador were wise in the ways of the desert, crafty traders nearly as money-cunning as the greatest Karchedonians, and prone to taking bribes.

  Elissa grounded her skay two miles outside of town, alighting on a bleak hill. She disassembled the glider and hid the parts in a hole. Then she donned a billowing robe, untethered a donkey and traveled to the town’s western gate. She appeared as a down-at-the-heels mercenary, using a dented scabbard to hold a rattling sword. A dirty veil concealed her face, and her boots were rattier than many of the beggars’.

  She reached the Karchedonian compound without trouble. Soon enough she stood in the magistrate’s house, in his bedroom that seemed more like a shrine. A hundred candles flickered. Among them stood idols of Issek of Nehwon, a god of healing that resembled a gaunt barbarian. In the quiet of the candle-lit bedroom and amid a faint odor of decay, Elissa relayed her information.

  The former magistrate of Karchedon, the white-bearded noble who had befriended her on the quay, lay in bed. The past two years had devoured his health, first turning him into a stooped old man and then a dried husk of what he had once been. Heavy blankets imprisoned him, retaining what little warmth his body generated. His wrinkled head lay almost hidden in a fluffy Lokharian pillow.

  On the other side of the bed sat his son, a middle-aged man with a sour expression. The son was included in the council for two reasons. He was the magistrate’s heir, and he had befriended a priest of Ankey who had aided them in the past. An old soldier the same age as the magistrate sat beside the son. The soldier was wearing a robe an
d also lacked his former strength. But in the Karchedonian community, he commanded respect. Two years ago, the soldier had fought past the remnants of the Tyrant’s quinqueremes. Everyone who had been aboard the scratch-fleet owed his or her existence to the soldier’s tactical brilliance.

  As Elissa finished her tale, the magistrate managed a sickly grin. Instead of giving him the illusion of life, it showed his nearness to death.

  “You failed to spot the traitor,” the son said.

  Elissa said nothing to that. She knew the son hated her and desperately feared Bel Ruk’s hunters. If given a chance, she was certain he would bargain with Himilco.

  “How many soldiers did you see?” the magistrate whispered.

  “I counted thirty Nasamons.”

  “One horse per rider?” the son asked.

  “Three horses per rider,” Elissa said. “They’re nomads.”

  “What do you mean by that?” the son asked with a scowl.

  “When one horse grows tired,” the old soldier said, “the nomad switches to another. With such customs, they can cover ground fast.”

  “I suspect duplicity,” the son said. “Meaning, there could have been more Nasamons in hiding. The extra mounts are for them.”

  “I doubt any hid in the wagons,” Elissa said.

  “I would ride in the wagons,” the son said.

  “You’re not a Nasamon,” Elissa said. “Only the infirm and the very old ride in wagons. A warrior rides a horse.”

  “They are clever tacticians. They might have hidden to fool you.”

  “Not even Nasamons have eagle sight,” Elissa said. “No one saw me.”

  “You saw them.”

  “I had a spyglass and knew where to look.”

  “Why couldn’t they have similar glasses?”

  “Peace,” the magistrate whispered. “We can rest assured they failed to spot our Rhune. We’ve seen the heights she can reach, where she seems just like a soaring dot of a vulture.”

  The son hesitated.

  “You do have a point, though,” Elissa told the son. “I saw the Gray Wolf. That means there are likely more Gepids. The northern barbarians are notoriously fair-skinned and sunburn easily. It is conceivable some hid in the wagons.”

  “Can you guess as to their number?” the magistrate asked.

  Elissa tried to estimate. It would have been a long journey from Settra. With so many horses to water and feed along the way, there couldn’t be that many Gepids crammed among the needed supplies.

  “Twenty more Gepids,” she said, “maybe twenty-five more.”

  “Counting the Nasamons’ thirty, that’s fifty-five fighters altogether,” the magistrate whispered.

  “Hardened killers all,” the son said, “barbaric butchers backed by Bel Ruk’s top sorcerer. That’s more than the merchants of Mogador will want to face. We have to flee.”

  “No,” the magistrate whispered. “We have surprise on our side. Surprise is a precious military commodity.” His eyes flickered to the old soldier. “We must ambush the caravan.”

  “There are one hundred of us left who can still push a spear,” the old soldier said. “If we added the Mogador guards on the wall—”

  “They’ll never help us,” the magistrate said. “Our story has leaked out. At this point, many of the merchants would sell us out to Bel Ruk’s hunters. No. We have to do this alone. That means we must ambush the caravan alone.”

  Elissa nodded in agreement.

  “The Rhune said they have Gepids,” the son complained. “One northern barbarian is worth three civilized fighters.”

  “We’ll ambush them in the upper town,” the old soldier said. “We’ll hit them at the stables as they relax. That will nullify the Nasamons’ asset as horsemen.”

  “That’s madness,” the son said. “Fighting a battle in town will ruin our welcome here.”

  “The loot,” the old soldier said. “We’ll split the loot with the merchants of Mogador. That will purchase their pleasure with our actions.”

  “That will gain us Bel Ruk’s wrath,” the son countered. “They’ll send more next time, and they’ll capture us. We shall die tortured to death in—”

  “Don’t you understand the opportunity?” the magistrate asked, straining to raise his head off the pillow. “Himilco Nara is the traitor who stole your birthright. He gave our city to those—” The strain proved too much. The magistrate head sank into the pillow as he began to cough and wheeze.

  “Your words are killing my father,” the son accused Elissa.

  “No,” Elissa said. “Your cowardice is doing it.”

  As his father wheezed, the son shot to his feet. The massed candlelight emphasized his anger. “You can’t insult me in my own house.”

  “It would be impolite to do that,” Elissa agreed. “But it is still your father’s house, not yours.”

  The son glanced at the old soldier and then glared at her. “When he’s gone…”

  “Enough,” the magistrate whispered. He managed to snake a skeletal hand out from under the blanket and wipe his lips. “I’m still here.”

  The others watched him.

  He visibly gathered strength. Perhaps the god of healing blessed him with some final shred of health. “We must bribe the guards at the gate to gain their help in a fight,” the magistrate said. “My son is right. We cannot start a war in town. That will create too much resentment. We have to do the fighting outside.”

  “You’re saying that we should attack outside the city?” the old soldier asked.

  “With the wall behind you, it will help nullify the Nasamon horses,” the magistrate said.

  The old soldier peered into space, no doubt envisioning the situation. “They’ll have the wagons.”

  “Those will be strung out,” the magistrate said, “and coming down the hill. A swift charge should catch them napping.”

  “Yes,” the old soldier said. “It could work. And as you say, they’ll be coming down a hill while facing a wall. Not much of a wall, but it is still something. That will squeeze the range of the horsemen.”

  “Will your priest help us?” the magistrate asked his son.

  The priest of Ankey was something of a sorcerer. At least, he had deployed a strange tube before that had discharged a malignant force with a thunderous clap of sound. It had slain a man, tearing a ragged hole in his chest. If the priest could use the sorcerous tube on Himilco…

  “It might take gold,” the son said slowly. “I doubt he’s eager to face the traitorous sorcerer. If Himilco is actually there,” the son told Elissa.

  “Can you think of a better ambush site?” the magistrate asked the old soldier.

  “Not with their cavalry,” the soldier said. “Bribe the guards and have our men charge out of the gate. It could work.”

  “It has to work,” the magistrate said, his red eyes staring.

  “It will surprise them,” the soldier said. “That much is certain. Surprise can seldom be underestimated in a fight.” He turned to Elissa. “How long before they’re here?”

  “Some time toward dusk,” she said.

  “Hmm,” the old soldier said, as he tapped his chin. “That’s even better. Men panic faster as twilight settles. Yes. A gate ambush. I’m for it.”

  -4-

  Elissa crouched behind a palm tree at the top of the hill. To the east, on the plains, a half-tamed ostrich made its strange, hissing croak. To the west, the bloated sun sank into the horizon. It got dark fast at the edge of the desert. Once the sun departed, it also cooled quickly. But it wasn’t dark yet. Long shadows stretched eastward from rocks, palm trees and the stalled caravan out on the flats before the five hills.

  What are they doing?

  Elissa wore dark garments, with sheathed knives, razors and various poisons hidden on her person. What she lacked was the spyglass. Now she wished she had brought it. She hadn’t felt the need earlier. In the midst of battle, she didn’t want the delicate instrument smashed or crumpled.


  Not that she would pick up a spear. Rhunes seldom fought in massed ranks. It was the thought of catching Himilco unawares that had brought her out here. To slip a garrote around his neck, to twist it until he died, ah, the thought heightened her desire. She was the most forward scout for the Karchedonians.

  Elissa kept behind her palm tree in relation to the killers out there. What were they doing? The drivers had massed six wagons in front, six in the middle and six behind. It seemed like a military formation. They had unloaded the front wagons, but with those in the way, she couldn’t tell what they had done to the middle and back wagons. She saw no evidence of cargo. The massed wagons hid everything.

  A wagon moved and then they all started up again. It was too far to hear whips snap, but the drivers lashed hard enough. Maybe twenty Nasamons galloped ahead. The nomads carried javelins and elephant-hide shields.

  Elissa made ready to ease away from the palm tree and sprint down the hill. She would head for the wall in the oasis between the five hills. Before she left, however, the Nasamons wheeled away, split into two groups and galloped back for the caravan. They kicked up a lot of dust, more than seemed natural. One of the riders blew a ram’s horn. The horsemen wheeled again and galloped ahead. The ostrich, who had been watching them, now sprinted for a safer clime.

  It’s almost as if they’re trying to stir up dust.

  Elissa froze. Dust rose, too much dust. Could a sorcerer be summoning a dust devil amidst the galloping horsemen so it would seem natural?

  A cold feeling bit her. They’re trying to hide something. If that was true, logic dictated that they knew about the ambush and were taking countermeasures. Yet, how could they know? Elissa had watched the town all afternoon. No one had left Mogador to gallop for the approaching caravan to sell out the exiles. Could someone have used messenger pigeons? It seemed doubtful. What about sorcery?

  The dust thickened until it was hard to spot the wagons or the horsemen.

  An inner warning caused Elissa to spin on her heel and sprint downhill toward the low mud wall. The wall was six feet high, enough to halt Zant raiders on their camels. It was not meant to stop a siege.