“They were ancient ruins?” she asked. “With traps?”
“Ancient, perhaps. Not ruins.”
Rias’s shoulders hunched in an uncharacteristic slouch, his gaze toward the snapping ice. Tikaya thought of the man she followed through the Nurian ship, head up, alert, leading the way with confidence that should not have been there against such lopsided odds, and she regretted drawing him back to what was obviously a dark place for him. Still, she had to know.
“What happened inside?”
“The tunnels were in good condition. Too good. No dust, cobwebs, no signs of age other than damage from tectonic shifts. The men with me declared the place possessed by some powerful ancient magic. I thought…not. The ‘traps’ we kept stumbling into—I got the feeling they weren’t traps at all but simply the workings of a place we were too ignorant to understand. We were like clueless rats drowned in the city waterworks when the level rises.”
“But there was writing? These symbols?”
For the first time a spark of interest entered his eyes. “Not a lot, but things were labeled. If you could translate, perhaps that could keep us safe.”
Tikaya feared the smile she offered was bleak. The rubbings were gone, and she had made zero progress with the language.
“Well, not safe.” Rias’s shoulders slumped again, independent of her thoughts. “There were strange and deadly creatures roaming those tunnels too. Nothing we recognized, nothing the archaeologists with us knew from the fossil record.”
“You had archaeologists with you before?”
“A team of scientists, yes, and a linguist.”
“Did any of them make it out?” The bleakness infused her tone now.
“No, and they weren’t particularly helpful while they were alive.”
Great grandmother’s gray locks, what was she supposed to accomplish that a team of archaeologists had failed to do?
A worried expression creased Rias’s forehead. He seemed to realize he had blundered. “But you’re better than them.”
She snorted. “That’d be more reassuring if you’d ever actually seen me do anything and could qualify that statement.”
He bumped her shoulder and smiled. “I’ve seen enough.”
Tikaya blushed.
“You two relax.” Sergeant Ottotark glared at Tikaya and Rias as he stalked past carrying a massive bag labeled ‘tent: medium.’ “Enjoy the view. Have some rum. Those of us who aren’t prisoners will handle all the unloading and loading.”
“I hope he’s not coming with us,” Tikaya muttered after he moved out of earshot. Somehow, she did not think she would be that lucky.
“Despite his bite, I’m told he’s intensely loyal to the emperor and the captain,” Rias said.
“If he kept his bite out of my cabin, I wouldn’t care one way or another.”
Rias looked at her sharply. “What?”
“Nothing.” Tikaya lifted a hand, realizing she had insinuated more than Ottotark was guilty of at that point. “He’s just an ass. He hasn’t done anything yet.”
Rias’s gaze did not waver. “Yet?”
What did he expect her to say? “I’m trying to stay out of his path.”
“You shouldn’t have to. Not on a Turgonian warship.” Rias offered a jerky wave, hampered by the shackles. “I have to go.” He stalked away, his guards hustling to catch up.
“Rias?” she called after him.
He paused, looking back over his shoulder.
“Did you pass the test?”
His lips twisted into a sour expression. “They gave me a medal.”
He resumed his determined walk. Before she could consider his words or abrupt departure further, Agarik strode toward her, a full rucksack in his arms. He plunked it on the deck at her feet. He already wore a rucksack of his own with a rifle strapped to the back. His utility belt was loaded with a knife and pistol, ammo pouches, and powder tins.
“Are you ready to go, ma’am?”
“Go?” Tikaya glanced over the railing. The ship had ground to a halt against ice too thick to break, but marines still hustled about, piling gear next to a hoist. A gangly grinning private surged through a hatch leading—being led by—eight thickly furred gray and white dogs. “Now?”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re part of the scouting party. We’re expecting trouble, so you’re going in first with me and a dozen others under Lieutenant Commander Okars’s lead.”
“You’re expecting trouble?” Why would they include her if that was the case? Weren’t they supposed to be keeping her from being killed?
Agarik pointed at the distant buildings. “No smoke. Fire is crucial for warmth up here. No smoke means the town’s been deserted. Or worse. Might be the Nurians again, and if any are around, we’ll need a translator to interrogate them.”
Dread curled in the pit of her stomach. Not only did she not want to see any more Nurians, but she surely did not want to help with a brutal Turgonian interrogation.
“You’ve got to come at some point anyway, so the captain says now.” Agarik gave her an apologetic shrug. “We’ll protect you. We scouts are well trained.”
“No doubt. You found me and dragged me off my parents’ plantation without trouble.”
He winced.
“Sorry,” she said. Agarik was the closest thing she had to an ally amongst the marines, and if he had not found her, another would have, so she could hardly blame him.
He pointed to the rucksack. “Want to check that? I grabbed your clothes and some pencils and blank journals. Then there’s standard issue gear for this climate: medical kit, snow goggles, crampons, canteens, blanket, and a hygiene and shaving kit.”
“Shaving kit? As cold as it is up here, I’m not sure I want to remove any of the little body hair I have.”
He did not smile at the joke. Instead he watched her with curious intensity, as if willing her to understand something. Then she got it. Shaving kit. Razor.
Agarik’s gaze shifted toward Ottotark, who stood by the hoist, directing the lowering of a dog sled.
“I see,” Tikaya breathed. “You won’t get in trouble, will you?”
Agarik hesitated a second, then said, “Standard issue gear,” which she took to mean he probably would get in trouble for doing something as stupid as arming a prisoner, but it would likely be seen as negligence rather than treason. A lesser crime with a lesser punishment, she hoped.
“Thank you, Corporal.”
He saluted her, fist to chest. “Ma’am.”
“I think you can call me Tikaya at this point.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
• • • • •
Powdery snow skidded sideways as wind scoured the ice field. The icy crystals needled Tikaya’s neck as she crunched along behind the squad of marines. For the seventy-third time, she adjusted her wool scarf and cap, wondering why the secret to the gear’s effectiveness eluded her. A wan sun burned in the sky, but its arc remained low on the southern horizon, and it provided no warmth. At least the bulky goggles smashing her spectacles against the bridge of her nose warmed her cheeks somewhat, though the main purpose of the darkened lenses was to protect from the sunlight glinting off ice and snow.
Despite her discomfort, determination kept her feet moving as quickly as those of the scouts. Even before Rias’s story, she had daydreamed of translating the language and bringing awareness of it to the greater archaeological community. Now, she had a more compelling reason to learn as much about the runes as she could. Quickly. Since the Nurians had deprived her of the original clues, she would have to find new ones inland. It struck her as odd that she resented the assassins more for stealing the rubbings than for trying to kill her.
Tikaya peered over her shoulder. She still did not know if the Nurians had returned to their ships or had holed up on the Emperor’s Fist somewhere.
Agarik, bringing up the rear, asked, “Problem, ma’am?”
“Just wondering how far back Rias and the others will be.”
&
nbsp; The ironclad, its black hull a dour blot against the stark white world, rose a couple miles behind, and she could no longer pick out the men and dog sled teams assembling in its shadow.
“An hour back or so for the main party. As for Five…” Agarik might know who Rias was now, but he was careful to use the number instead of a name. “I heard him and the captain arguing just before we left, and, uhm, Bocrest told him he could shove—er, he had to carry the blasting sticks, so he’ll be in the rear.”
Tikaya groaned, knowing that argument had been her fault. She should not have complained about Ottotark. “Blasting sticks? Are those practitioner-made or the unstable alchemical kind?”
“We don’t use anything magical.”
She groaned again. One thoughtless comment, and now Rias had to traverse the slick ice while carrying a heavy box of volatile explosives. While wearing shackles.
The image distracted her, and she crashed into the marine in front of her. An unstrung bow strapped to his rucksack clipped her jaw.
He glared over his shoulder but said nothing. At some signal or command she had missed, the queue of marines had halted. Two dogs the scouts had brought sniffed and romped, unconcerned by whatever caused the leaders to stop.
“Bones!” someone called.
Tikaya glanced at Agarik. Was that a name? Or a discovery?
Agarik said nothing. Every man in the squad stood still, apparently drilled to do so until a command came. Well, she was not a marine. She sidled out of line. Ten meters in front of the formation, two men stood around something pale half-covered in snow.
Would she get yelled at if she went up to investigate? Did she care?
Tikaya shrugged and walked to the front of the line. Men glanced at her as she passed, but no one stopped her.
She slowed as she approached, regretting her decision to leave the squad as soon as she identified the object on the ground.
It was a naked man. A dead naked man.
Snow mounded against one side of the body, and ice crystals gathered on limbs blackened by frostbite. He had died face down, an arm stretched out, fingers splayed.
“Nothing to translate here, woman.” Lieutenant Commander Okars, a stocky man with eyebrows thicker than the fur trimming his parka hood, leaned against his rifle. He removed a plug of tobacco from a pocket and gnawed off a corner with stained teeth before handing it to the other man. “What d’you think?”
The second marine looked so similar to the commander that Tikaya thought them twins for a moment. The name tabs on both their parkas read Okars, but this fellow wore lieutenant’s pins and had fewer lines on his face. He spat a brown stream into the snow by the body. “Looks like he was running from something.”
“I called you up here for a more professional assessment than that, Sawbones.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want me to inquire about his health and see what ails him? Perhaps if he’ll give me a list of his symptoms, hm.”
At that point, Tikaya realized ‘sawbones’ was slang for doctor. The connotations in that name disturbed her—she had never visited a healer who did not work as much with the power of his mind as with his hands—and she hoped she did not require this man’s services any time soon, especially if he kept serrated metal tools in his kit.
“Bones,” the commander snapped. Strange that he used the term instead of his brother’s name. Maybe the staid Turgonians had regulations against familial familiarity.
“What?” Bones asked. “He froze to death. What do you want me to do?”
“Figure out what drove him to run out here naked and suicidal.”
Bones levered the barrel of his rifle under the corpse and leaned onto the stock. Ice snapped, and the rigid body rolled over. Tikaya jumped, surprised at the irreverent treatment of the dead. That did not keep her from staring. The front half was no more illuminating than the back, but the face, eternally contorted in terror, made her shiver. The man had died afraid, very afraid.
Bones shook his head at the commander. “Nope, no clues.”
Okars ground his jaw. “Curse the Headquarters desk-rider who thought it’d be amusing to put my little brother on the same ship as me.”
“Exquisite torture, isn’t it?” Bones grinned.
Tikaya stared at the brothers. They were joking. A corpse lay before them, a corpse probably belonging to one of their own citizens, and they were joking. Uncharacteristically intense irritation stirred within her.
“Animals,” she blurted before she could still her tongue. “Where’s your respect for the dead?”
The commander’s bushy brows lowered, and a cold, almost predatory expression darkened his face.
Bones placed a hand on Okars’s sleeve. “You’d best get back to your place, ma’am. Stay out of the way and let us do our jobs.”
She nodded and backed away.
“Mouth shut, Tikaya,” she muttered. “Keep your mouth shut around these warmongering fools.”
Strange, she thought she had learned that lesson already.
CHAPTER 8
When Tikaya and the marines reached the shoreline, it differed little from the ice they had been marching across. The ground rose subtly, and she supposed a beach lay somewhere under all the snow. Two docks, embraced by ice, stretched away from a couple of wooden warehouses with drifts piled to the eaves along their northern walls. One of the dogs lifted a leg and yellowed a sign post promising the availability of alcohol at the Rat Wrangler.
The town itself, with a single snowy road running parallel to the waterfront, seemed more outpost than community. Unpainted wood dwellings hunkered against the elements. Three long rectangular buildings overlooked the town from the crown of a hill. No life stirred anywhere. A stiff northeasterly wind rattled shutters, and somewhere a door banged against a wall.
“Welcome to Wolfhump, ma’am,” Agarik said, speaking for the first time since the discovery of the body.
“That’s the name of the town?” Tikaya asked.
“It’s a trade outpost for the miners working the mountains. I don’t think there’s a lot to do up here except drink and watch the wildlife, uhm, frolic.”
At the head of the formation, Commander Okars made a few hand gestures, dividing men into parties for scouting. Marines checked rifles and a couple strung bows. Tikaya wondered if she might talk the commander into letting her borrow one. She thought of letting an arrow fly into Sergeant Ottotark’s chest and his scream of pain as he pitched backward, sprawling on the ice. Tikaya jerked with surprise, startled her mind had conjured the grizzly image. Too much time spent with these Turgonians.
“As far as you know Wolfhump should be occupied?” Tikaya asked.
“Of course, it should be occupied,” Agarik snapped. He twitched, seemingly as surprised by his tone as her. “Sorry, ma’am.”
A growl rumbled up ahead. One dog dove at the other dog’s neck. Fangs sank into flesh and the victim squealed, a heart-wrenching cry that halted conversations.
Tikaya gawked at the brutal attack. Marines jumped into the fray, grabbing the dogs by the ruffs of their necks and trying to pull them apart, but the attacking canine had gone berserk. Muscles surged, fangs flashed, and soon blood spattered the white snow.
“Get those dogs under control, private!”
“Trying, sir!”
“Idiots,” Agarik muttered and strode forward to help.
Tikaya stayed back. The exchange had a bizarreness to it that left her uneasy. She glanced toward the icy sea again, wishing Rias was there to consult. Her gut lurched. The ship was gone.
Nothing to worry about, she told herself. It had probably just retreated to open waters to keep from being ensconced when the ice reformed. But that meant the group had nowhere to retreat to if they ran into trouble they could not handle. She squinted, trying to spot the main party, but the sun shone brilliantly on the ice. Even through her goggles, she could not make them out yet.
“Don’t touch—”
“Get off me!”
&n
bsp; She turned back in time to see two marines crash to the snow. They wrestled and thrashed, and men previously trying to keep the dogs apart now turned their attention to separating the human combatants.
“Satters, Choyka, stand down!” Okars raced toward them, his voice strained and angry. Where was the calm confidence one expected from a senior officer?
Tikaya pulled her goggles up as if a clearer view might enlighten, but the scene only stunned. The smaller dog lay still, its neck torn open, blood drenching the snow beneath it. The other raced across the ice field, yowling like a wolf. Three marines grappled on the ground, clawing and punching at each other. The commander tried to drag one of them away and took a fist to the jaw. He slipped and went down.
The sawbones stood back, a bewildered expression on his face. At least he was not brawling with anyone.
Tikaya jogged over to his side. “What’s going on? Have you ever seen anything like this?”
He worked over the wad of tobacco in his mouth. “Nope.”
“Could it be the Nurians again? Trying to keep us from resolving whatever is going on in those tunnels?”
He froze, mid-chew. “How do you know—how much do you know?”
“I know they tried to kill me so I couldn’t help your people translate that unknown language.”
“I suppose it’s possible the Nurians have done…something. I can’t think of anything natural that would explain this sudden aggressiveness.”
The scuffles were dying down. Men’s ragged breaths frosted the air. A couple marines still struggled against those restraining them, while others seemed embarrassed. Blood flowed from broken noses and split lips.
“Bones, come patch people up.” Commander Okars did not appear wounded, but his eyes had a wild cast to them. “And tell me what’s going on.”
“No idea.”
“No idea? Grandmother Hakstor was a better sawbones than you. For spit’s sake, get your ass over here and figure this mess out.”
Forgotten Ages (The Complete Series) Page 10
