by J. C. Staudt
“I will not fail you, my master,” Diarmid said.
“I know you will not,” said Lethari. “Now, let us speak of warfare another day. Tonight we have a celebration to prepare for. See that our plans for the feast are under way. This is a time of plenty for our people, and we must celebrate it. We are on the cusp of a new age. One in which we are destined to repay the misdeeds of the lathcui who invaded our ancestors’ homeland so long ago. If ever the time was ripe for us to take back these lands, that time is now.”
“As you say, my master.” Diarmid bowed and went to the door, hand poised above the knob.
“One more thing, Diarmid. If anyone else from my feiach comes to you with a request, whether for Cean Eldreni or otherwise, remind them who their master is.”
“I will, Lethari.”
“Go well with the fates.”
Diarmid closed the door behind him, and his footsteps faded down the catwalk. Lethari fondled the smelted scorpion seal while he looked out over the bustling factory floor, where a mixture of routine activities and feast preparations were taking place. With his other hand he ran his fingers over the flaw Amhaziel Bilmadi had given him. A creature, both beast and man, he thought. Who is this creature, and when will he come to me? When you come to the place where the orange light shines bolder still than the afternoon sky. The man-beast will rise from the dust and return to it so that you may collect its offerings. But do not be discouraged, for the children are coming. And they will become the children of the last generation…
That was what Amhaziel had foreseen. But where was that place? Who were these children, and what part did they stand to play in all this? Sometimes Lethari wished he could skip every moment between now and the day things became the way he had dreamed, just so he could see whether his dreams came to pass.
All his waiting and wanting, his sweat and blood, his every step of progress; it all felt so small in comparison to the greater end. He wanted so many things, but time was fleeting. Praise from his king and master, favor from his people, adoration and respect from his family; these were the things any man wanted. But to Lethari, whose blood was the blood of the sands, and whose ancestors were kings in their own right, and whose sons and daughters would carry with them his honor or his disgrace—whichever the fates saw fit to bestow upon him—they were everything.
At the feast that night, Lethari sat in the great seat of high honor at the head of the long table, before a roaring pit fire and the servants tasked with keeping it from burning low or snuffing out. Although the mood was joyous and members of both camp and feiach came to pay him tribute all through the evening, their accolades felt hollow. His thoughts kept turning to the young healer, to Raithur Entradi and the problem of yarun merouil. He thought of Frayla and the child she would bear him; of how she would react if Tycho Montari sent him away again so he could not be there for the birth.
Across the outdoor dining area, where warriors shared low wooden bench tables with trappers, spice merchants, goatherds, and gatherers, Lethari noticed a group of bare-chested fighters surrounding a put-upon Diarmid Kailendi. The novice warleader’s expression was jovial, but Lethari read the worry behind it. They were mostly Cean Eldreni’s men, Lethari noted. There were members of Sig’s company there as well. They are pressuring him about something. No matter; Diarmid will remind them to come to me with their request.
Time passed, however, and the men did not leave Diarmid’s side.
Lethari pushed himself to his feet. He’d emptied several tankards of thick brown ale already, and the sudden act of standing gave him a heady rush. Or perhaps it was the smoke from the pit fire that made him grip the armrest to steady himself. The brewmasters have produced a stronger batch than I bargained for, he thought as he lurched toward the back tables.
Lethari called out Diarmid’s name as he came near.
“My Lord Lethari,” Diarmid said, bowing.
The others echoed him.
“Do not presume to pay me false respect,” Lethari told them. “I know what you are doing here.”
“Lethari, it is not—”
“Let me speak, Diarmid. This must be dealt with now. You poacairi will not get what you want by going beneath me. I lead here, and the camp remains under my authority until I restore Diarmid to that place. If you would air a request or complaint, I will hear it. There will be no more of this deception.”
“Lethari, there is no deception here. They were only mocking me in a friendly manner.”
“About what?” Lethari swayed on his feet and stepped back to balance himself. His calves struck a bench, and he abruptly sat down.
No one laughed, though he suspected some were holding back.
“They are trying to make me speak with Laeghley. They think she would choose me.” Diarmid gestured toward the beautiful young woman seated amidst a brood of others across the fire.
The women giggled and nudged one another when the men looked over. Lethari felt a fool. He could see the looks of offense on the men’s faces. Now they would think ill of him, and whisper of how he had shamed them unjustly. “Do you not think she would choose you?” Lethari asked.
“I do not know,” said Diarmid. “I hear she is a woman who takes her time. It would not surprise me if, after thinking it over, she chose another.”
Lethari laughed. “This is not like you, Diarmid. You are a warleader of the master-king. You are not one to let your fear cripple you so. Perhaps you should see Amhaziel. Ask him to bestow a new flaw upon you. There is no better remedy for a man who must conquer his hesitations.”
“A man can be fearless in battle, yet fear for a woman’s love. Can he not?”
Lethari knew that feeling all too well. Before Frayla chose him so many long years ago, he had wanted her more than anything. But she was the daughter of a merchant; he, the son of a warleader, and so their stations were unbalanced. It had taken every ounce of Lethari’s courage to propose the match—first to Frayla, then to her parents. In the end, the arrangement had proven equitable enough for both sets of parents to agree.
Lethari did not think Diarmid would fare quite as well, since Laeghley was only a potter’s daughter. He almost told Diarmid as much, but the ale had not softened him to quite that degree. “Life is a series of fears we must face,” he said instead. “Yet a man does himself an insult when he gives into them. All fear comes from the same place. Conquer that place within yourself, and a multitude of fears becomes only one.”
Diarmid’s chest rose and fell. He straightened, looked at the young woman sitting across the fire, and gave Lethari a nod. “All fears are one,” he said, as if to reassure himself.
Lethari put a hand on his shoulder. “You told me earlier you wanted to stay because you have no wife or children to look after. If that should change before I return, do not fear for your position. As long as I serve as the master-king’s warleader, you will always have a place here.”
“May we both serve our king for many long years, my master.”
Lethari nudged him. “Go to her. She would have waited a long time for you, but I think you have made her wait long enough already.”
Diarmid smiled before heading off toward the group of women.
Lethari felt awkward and misplaced among the other warriors, who he was sure must now resent him for his misguided rebuke. That would come back to haunt him, he had no doubt. Sigrede’s men were already wary of him, given the rumors going around. It was a good thing he was leaving them behind with Diarmid when he left for home.
As for Cean Eldreni’s warriors, Lethari was certain they were against him. Freeing Cean would ease their contempt, but he would wait until the day of his departure to do so. Let them gripe and grumble; Lethari needed to reassert his dominance over both the feiach and the camp at large. Until the master-king had judged him, the charge remained his.
The next few days passed in an uneasy blur. The gray ghosts stopped by for a brief visit, so Lethari took the opportunity to glean what information he could abo
ut the young healer. It seemed the healer had indeed parted ways with the ghosts, and Lethari was pleased to hear they had chosen not to support his bid for the city north. There were those among the tathagliathe who did wish to support him, but Peymer, their captain, assured Lethari these men would not be permitted to abandon their duties for such a pursuit.
Stirrings of discontent spread among Lethari’s own men, erupting in a series of violent incidents between them and the warriors of the other captains. Lethari knew his men were only defending his name, yet he doled out punishment without favoritism, intent on regaining the respect of the feiach.
In the absence of a mountain, the shamans buried Sigrede as close to the sky as possible—which in this case meant the roof of the nearest unoccupied skyscraper. After the birds had finished with him, Sig’s bones were wrapped and added to the existing pile of deceased to be delivered home to their families.
When the time came to set out, Lethari assembled a retinue of his men and brought them to the cage in which Cean Eldreni was imprisoned. The captain smiled when he saw Lethari coming, brown eyes gleaming from a face dark with dirt and stubble. “My master has finally realized the error of his ways.”
“I have made no error, Cean.”
“You have come to release me, have you not?”
“I have.”
“I will ride for Sai Calgoar the moment I am free.”
“I have warned you against this, Cean.”
“Then you must keep me bound, my lord,” Cean said. “Carry me home in chains. Let the people of our great city behold what the king’s warleader has done to cover up a lie. Let them see how he honors his captains, murdering one and detaining another; show them the lengths to which he will go to preserve his household against his own treachery.”
Cean’s tone was so brazen it made Lethari want to call him out of his cage and issue him a challenge. That was no fit behavior for a warleader, so he stayed his hand and said, “Believe what you like, Cean. Your disobedience is the reason for your imprisonment, and that alone. If a return in chains is what you desire, I will not deny it you. Share a water bowl with the lathcui. Embrace your loved ones from behind those bars. We will soon see who Tycho Montari finds at fault for what happened here.”
Cean laughed, too loud, as if forcing himself to make a show of it. “You would never leave me in here like this. I am your captain. My warriors are famed and favored among your feiach. We have fought for you, and won you a great many battles.”
“It was never me you fought for,” Lethari said. “You fought for your king. In disobeying me, you have disobeyed him as well. Your fate is sealed, Cean Eldreni. You are relieved of your post, to be no longer one of my captains. Learn to appreciate this cage, for it is your home now. Your men will ride under Dyovan Angeides, who has ever remained the king’s faithful servant, and mine.”
Cean’s face flushed with anger. Or perhaps it was embarrassment. “Surely you jest,” he stammered.
“This is no jest, Cean.” Lethari turned to walk away. I will live to regret this, he thought. But he would regret it more if he set Cean Eldreni free.
“You have made a mistake, my lord,” Cean said.
My only mistake was not quelling your insolence sooner.
In fact, Lethari Prokin had made many mistakes. This would not be his last.
CHAPTER 36
The Marauder’s Sister
Long before the saltrock stronghold came into sight, Lizneth could hear the Marauders and their new conscripts preparing for war. The rime caves rang with brusque voices and the clangor of metal. Ryn wandered down the path ahead of her, cutting zigzags across the rock as he stopped to sniff at every new scent that caught his fancy. Each time Lizneth called him to heel, the jackal pup came loping over on his wounded leg to keep pace with her until some new scent drew him away. She was already beginning to feel like Ryn belonged to her, more companion than wild animal.
Outside the stronghold, villagers from every border town under the Marauders’ control huddled in small clusters, surrounded by the evidence of their camp beneath the walls. The cave air was thick with haick, growing thicker still with anxious voices as Lizneth approached. Is there no room for them inside the walls? she wondered. Or was Sniverlik treating them as second-class citizens despite the sacrifices they’d made in coming to his aid?
To Lizneth’s surprise, the stronghold gates were open. Inside she could see Marauders donning thick metal armor like ancient noble warriors. Smiths worked over whetstones to hone every tip and edge in a shower of sparks until it was keen as a razor. Flail-bearers carried smoldering thuribles of rotten stench to deter the calaihn. Lizneth thought the smell would do more to disgust the hu-mans than anything else.
When she arrived at the entrance, two black-cloaked Marauders barred her way.
“Fye vilckzhehn,” said the skinny blazed roan on the left.
“Why not?” she asked. “Zhehn are here to fight for Sniverlik, and they’re not even allowed in?”
“Se invehr gha.”
“No, I will not. This isn’t right. Let me talk to Sniverlik.” Lizneth was proud of herself for standing up to the guards. She was afraid, but she was also angry, and there was more to be angry about than afraid of. Her village was gone, her fields were ravaged, and her family was in Molehind, displaced from their home.
“Sniverlik fyer ghi,” said the roan.
Yeah, right. “Where is he, then? I’ll bet you’ve been telling these poor zhehn the same thing.”
“He speaks the truth, Lizneth,” said a voice behind her.
She turned to find a group of villagers leaning on pitchforks and shovels and pickaxes. Their eyes were heavy with sleep; their saltrock-encrusted clothing hung over thin haunches. Lizneth studied them, scenting the air to pick out which of them might’ve known her by name. It was old Kroy, Tanley’s miller, whose watermill had burned with the rest of the village. Lizneth began to scent many bucks from Tanley; zhehn with no homes to fight for and nowhere else to go.
“Sniverlik is gone,” Kroy said. “He fled to Bolck-Azock after the battle in Tanley and has not been scented or seen since. It is believed he’s gone into hiding, and is gathering new troops and a bevy of supplies with which to equip and feed his armies. When he returns, we’ll march out from here to reclaim our territories and drive out the calaihn.”
Lizneth found the statement strange, coming from a buck who had once regarded Sniverlik and his Marauders with such fear and hatred. Something didn’t sit right with her about the way he’d said it, either. His tone spoke of desperation and uncertainty.
“I saw him get hit with flaming arrows before he fled,” Lizneth said. “If no one’s scented or seen him, how do we know he’s okay? How do we know he’s gathering new forces?”
“Because that’s what Sniverlik would do. He’d raise an army and come save his territory from the invaders.”
“What if he’s dead? What if he’s… afraid?”
They laughed, villagers and Marauders together, as though this was the most ridiculous notion they’d ever heard. “Sniverlik is not dead,” said the roan. “He knows no fear. He will act with vigilance, bravery, and justice.”
You’ve forgotten cruelty, greed, and laziness, Lizneth wanted to say. Sniverlik may have been the most ruthless tyrant the ikzhehn had known in a generation, but to the calaihn he was just another rat-man, with a neck and two ankles which fit their chains like anyone else’s. “So everyone is just waiting here until he comes back? You’re letting the calaihn run rampant through our villages while you eat through the last of your supplies and do nothing?”
“You are a fool if that is what you think,” said the roan. “Do you not scent the makings of war? Can you not see we are preparing?”
“I do, and I can. You’ll march without Sniverlik, then?”
“No,” said the roan. “The calaihn are coming.”
“Here?”
The roan nodded.
“How did they find you?”
“They didn’t. The calaihn are too stupid and blind in the dark to find us. We told them. A Marauder named Hurok gave himself over to be captured. He endured their torture for a time before revealing the stronghold’s location, in order that they not suspect a trap. Better they come here than continue attacking our villages. They suspect we are unprepared. That couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“Oh,” was all Lizneth could say.
“See, scearib? You are not the only one here who is smart. We have done much in Sniverlik’s absence. If he does not return before the calaihn are destroyed, Rotabak will lead us to victory in his place.”
Lizneth glanced over her shoulder, where the road resembling the snake’s spine curved away into crystalline blue darkness. She imagined calai torches dousing the cave walls in orange light; the padding of footsteps and the raw, clinging stench of sweat. Suddenly she wanted to be anywhere but here. She should’ve returned to Molehind with Stevrin and Barlyza and Krinica. The stronghold was crumbling; it wouldn’t last an hour against the calaihn and their fire-shooting contraptions. Neither would the ikzhe volunteers, if the Marauders left them outside the walls to be engulfed like logs in a hearth.
“I have to get inside,” she said. “Rotabak took my brother and sister, Raial and Thrin. Do you know them? I must take them away from here before the calaihn come.” She stepped forward, but the guards shoved her back again.
Kroy grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “There isn’t time, Lizneth. You can’t go back now. Even if you find your siblings, the calaihn will catch you. They’re already on their way.”
She wrenched free of him. “I’ll carry them through the ice-water trenches if I have to,” she said. “We’ll hide in the chasm for days. The calaihn won’t find us; they can’t even scent.”
“Bah. Let the lequinzhe go and take her chances in the caves,” said the roan.
