“He hired you on behalf of another,” Kral reminded them. “Or so he said.”
“He did,” the one named Shulev admitted. “And we could take the crown back to Tarantia, and probably get paid for our troubles. Probably. But Gorian was the one we knew—I know not if we could even find the one he served when we got there.”
“If you got there,” Kral said. “As I have every intention of taking the crown home with me.”
Alanya was shocked that Kral would remind the mercenaries of that, at this moment. She fully expected them to charge him with swords drawn, determined to settle the issue before another moment passed.
But they didn’t. Kral had read them better than she did, apparently. Instead of attacking, they looked almost subdued, beaten before they even tried. “If I knew there would be gold at the end of it, Pict, we would find out right now who the better man is,” the first one said. The others seemed to look to this one for guidance, now that Sullas and Gorian were gone. A couple looked close to blubbering. They were hardened fighting men, but she supposed that Stygian sorcery was a different sort of foe than they had faced before—one not easily bested with mere steel. “But there are no guarantees, and our chances are looking worse, not better. If I walk away with my life, I’ll have more opportunities to seek treasure elsewhere.”
“Aye,” Hakon grumbled. “Right you are. Anyway, who knows what trap may be sprung on us next? If the very walls are against us, there’s no winning.”
“I’m with you,” Shelko said, jutting his chin toward Gorian’s corpse. “I’ve no interest in meeting my end like that. Let’s take our leave while we can still walk.”
Tarawa shushed them. Alanya didn’t miss the fear in the slave girl’s voice as she did. She, of them all, knew best what dangers might await them here under the earth.
There was more subdued mumbling from the men, but they had reached their conclusion. Even as they turned and headed back the way they had come, they seemed to relax, as if emboldened by their decision to give in to their horror. Alanya watched them go with mixed feelings. It would make things easier when they got the crown, if they didn’t have to battle their own allies. But if getting the crown involved a fight, they might need all the swords they could get.
“Let them go,” Kral said, disgust tinging his voice. “Cowards like those will be no help to us.”
“But they could still alert the Stygian somehow,” Mikelo pointed out.
“Why would they?” Donial asked. “What would they gain by it? More likely they would sacrifice their lives.”
“Donial’s right,” Kral said. “Come, let’s continue on our way and never think of those dogs again.”
As the men disappeared up the dark slope, Alanya couldn’t help wishing that it was the other way around—she and her friends giving up, and those battle-tested soldiers descending farther into al Nasir’s den.
But she was here with Kral, and he was not the kind to retreat. Instead, he started down the ramp, and Tarawa had to hurry to pass him so she could lead the way.
10
USAM SAT ON a downed log in the depths of the forest, catching his breath. Through the trees he could see the glow of the flames that scorched the high walls of Koronaka. He had been at the wall a short while before, in the thick of the action. He had been there when one of the big gates had opened and soldiers had charged the Pictish force. He was glad they had tried it—shooting arrows into the fort only provided minimal pleasure. Usam liked to see his enemies die. When possible, he liked to separate their heads from their bodies. He had not enjoyed enough of that so far, but when the settlers came headlong into the Pictish ranks, he found plenty of amusement.
But he knew he was also needed away from the fort, guiding the others, providing direction and inspiration. As he had planned, the unified Pictish force had agreed to operate under his command, and he couldn’t plan strategy and strike off the heads of the settlers at the same time. He was accustomed to leading a clan’s worth of warriors, not an army numbering in the thousands. It made his head hurt to think of all the things that had to be considered, so he sat on the tree trunk away from the battle and tried to scheme.
The main force had surrounded the fort, coming out of the trees just after sunset with volley after volley of arrows. After softening up the defenses that way, they had added some flaming arrows into the mix. The settlers had tried to respond with arrows of their own, but the Picts had an entire forest to shield them, and the trees took more shafts than their warriors did. Which left the settlers no way to respond, once their walls started to burn, but to engage the Picts on their own ground.
Which was the next thing to suicide. In the trees, with vastly superior numbers, the Picts were unbeatable. They were painted to blend in with the night, they were fierce and determined, and once battle was joined the bloodlust took them over.
The settlers had since realized their mistake. A handful of Picts got in through the gate before it was closed again, and those Aquilonians unfortunate enough to be outside the wall were sacrificed. As, Usam was sure, were the Picts who made it into the fort. The question before him was, now what? Wait until the walls burned to cinders, then attack? But what if the settlers got the fires extinguished? Then the whole raid might have been for naught. They’d have taken some lives, but that in itself was not good enough. They needed to get inside the walls, to find the Teeth of the Ice Bear, if the sacred relic was still within.
While he pondered the question, Usam heard a crash in the underbrush. Someone headed his way. And not a Pict, else he would have heard nothing. He had a spear with him, and a war axe. But the spear was lying across his lap, so he got to his feet, raised his spear. A few seconds later, by the uneven glow of the distant flames, he saw a soldier from the fort. The man wore a helmet, carried a shield, and underneath his leather cuirass was a mail shirt. No wonder he made so much noise in the woods, Usam thought. In the soldier’s eyes he saw a look of disorientation, almost panic. The man had probably come out in the wave of soldiers, avoided instant massacre, and become lost in the dense trees.
Usam waited another moment while the soldier looked about helplessly. Then he charged, spear out, war cry tearing from his lips. The soldier reacted instantly, lifting his shield and using it to deflect Usam’s initial thrust. At the same time, he uttered a surprised grunt and swung his short sword. It whistled harmlessly past Usam. The Pictish chief jabbed with the spear again, but the soldier brought his sword back around in time to block it. Almost as if in a frenzy, he started flailing toward Usam with the sword. Usam blocked the blows with his spear. The blade bit chunks from the shaft of Usam’s weapon, and the Pict found himself driven back, back by the man’s unceasing advance.
Branches scraped against Usam’s back, tangled in his long hair. It was not possible that this Aquilonian could beat him, not in the forest. But his weapon was being whittled down to nothing and he could not manage to gut the civilized pig. He stabbed with the spear fruitlessly, then brought the shaft up to block another overhand swing, and the soldier’s sword cleaved right through what was left of the spear.
Usam hurled the pieces at the soldier’s head and raced into the forest. He clutched at his knife as he ran, drawing it from its scabbard. He did not want to fight the soldier with only that, although he would if necessary. But he’d left his war axe back beside the fallen tree. That was what he sought now. His mistake had been leaving it behind in the first place. This persistent Aquilonian was just begging to have his head lopped off. The battle had taken him away from the tree, but he was a Pict, and in the forest he could not get lost.
A minute later, less maybe, and he was there. The axe waited where he had left it. The soldier was right behind, crashing through the trees like a deranged bear. Usam didn’t even slow his pace, just hurdled the log and snatched up his axe with one hand. Once he had his grip, he stopped, whirled around, swinging it neck high. The soldier had just blundered into the little clearing. All his momentum was propelling hi
m forward, and when he saw the axe he couldn’t stop.
The axe bit through his neck. His head sailed across the clearing, bouncing off a tree at its edge. Usam, panting, smiled as he watched the twitching body tumble, blood from its open neck staining the fallen leaves.
He should have taken the axe in the first place. Should have waited another few seconds, until he determined the nature of the threat, before rushing into action. He realized the same could apply to the greater question of Koronaka. They needed to get the Teeth back to the guardian’s cave, but that did not necessarily have to happen tonight. The Teeth had been gone for weeks, now. Longer. Sooner would be better than later, but if the fort did not fall tonight, then it would the night after, or the one after that.
There was urgency, but not panic. Not yet. None knew how long they had before the Ice Bear returned. But it had been so long already—chances were, a few more days would not hurt. Meanwhile, the settlers were imprisoned within their own walls. They had no way out, and unless reinforcements came from Aquilonia, the Picts would soon overwhelm them.
DALTHUS LED THE way back out of the temple. It was impossible for them to get lost, as the crossing where Gorian had breathed his last was the only one they had encountered thus far. Even so, without a torch he was anxious. The darkness seemed to squeeze his throat like the murderous hands of a strangler. He struggled to find his breath.
Behind him, one of the men cleared his throat, then did so again. “Silence,” Dalthus urged. “We are not in the clear yet.”
But the man kept at it, making hoarse, ragged sounds. Finally, Dalthus stopped in his tracks, turned around. It was almost pitch-black, and he couldn’t see the men at all, could only make out the faintest impression of their silhouettes. He could locate the one making all the racket, however, by the sound. He pushed past a couple of the others and reached for where the man’s shoulder should have been. But the man—he was certain by now that it was Shelko, the oldest of the surviving mercenaries, pitched forward as Dalthus was reaching, and fell into him. Dalthus wrapped his arms around his fellow to hold him upright. As he did, he felt a writhing movement near the man’s neck. With a repulsed shriek he shoved Shelko away, slamming the man into a wall. A hissing sound confirmed his fear—a snake had somehow wrapped itself around Shelko’s neck, and now that the man was unconscious, or worse, it tried to strike out toward another victim.
Dalthus batted it away with the back of his arm. “Snake!” he warned the others.
“Where?” one shouted.
“Shelko!” Dalthus started to reply. But as he opened his mouth to do so, something filled it with a rush.
The snake, he knew. Or another one. Even as the horrible realization set in, he could feel the thing twitching about in his open mouth, fangs snapping at the lining of his cheeks. He tried to yank the creature away, or to bite down on it and kill it that way. But he was unable to accomplish either.
In seconds, the inside of his mouth felt as if it were on fire. He tried to scream, but with the snake there could only get out a muffled groan. He felt the strength ebbing from his muscles. If it hadn’t already been dark, he suspected it would have become so.
Just before he died, he heard the other men with him screaming in pain and fear. Snakes, one of them said.
Here, it was always snakes.
KRAL DIDN’T WANT to admit it to the others, but he felt an increasing sense of dread as they went lower and lower into the temple. The place was thick with dark magics, and he didn’t like it at all.
He kept his concerns to himself. He didn’t mind so much that the mercenaries had left, but he didn’t want to alarm his friends any more than necessary. They would have trouble enough on their hands once they found the Teeth.
Tarawa seemed oddly casual about leading them to her master’s secret lair. Kral wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Was she drawing them into a trap? Or did she really just hate al Nasir so much that she would take advantage of any opportunity to cause him displeasure? He hoped it was the latter.
But he kept his hand on the hilt of his knife and Tarawa’s back in front of him, just in case . . .
11
IN THIS CHAMBER, Shehkmi al Nasir allowed himself physical comfort. A fireplace warded off winter’s chill. In the rare event that it grew warm, so far below the surface, there were fans that could be operated by slaves tugging on cords. There were soft, padded couches on which he could nap or, if he preferred, be entertained by one of his more attractive servants. He kept casks of fine wine down here. It was his retreat from the demands the rest of his life placed on him—the constant quest for more and deeper wisdom, the struggle to increase his power and influence throughout the shadowy reaches of the hierarchy of Set.
So he waited, lounging in a pillowed corner with a cloud of incense overhanging the room, for the delivery of the Pictish crown. The power inherent in that artifact would, he believed, give him the means to overturn the balance that existed. Presently he heard the rasp of slippered feet in the corridor. His acolytes, bringing him the prize, which he had wrested right out from under the nose of his Aquilonian “friend” Kanilla Rey. Suppressing a smile, he sat up straight until they entered the chamber, then rose to meet them.
“Do you have it?” he asked. He already knew the answer. But tradition dictated certain rules be followed.
“We have it,” the three acolytes intoned together. They wore matching hooded robes. Their heads were all shorn under their hoods. They had dark eyes and dusky skin. They might have been three slightly different versions of the same man. Which was the point—by eliminating individual characteristics, they were able to focus on their servitude to Set.
And, of course, to Shehkmi al Nasir.
He held both hands out toward a small wooden table. The two acolytes in front stepped to the sides, allowing the one behind, carrying an inlaid box, to come forward. He put the box down on the table and removed the lid.
The crown inside was even less impressive than al Nasir had expected.
It was undeniably ancient. A collection of small bones, most of which looked human but might also have included the bones of a bear’s paw. Some of them had been joined with strips of flesh originally, but at some point in the past bits of copper wire had reinforced it. Set into the circle of bones, jutting up from the crown, were enormous teeth that looked like a bear’s. Surely no bear that size had ever walked the Earth, at least not within the memory of man. The ugly thing might have sat in some shop for decades, gathering dust. But the sorcerer knew that it had not.
When he picked it up from the box, he knew why.
His hands tingled, then his arms. Finally, his entire body felt charged, energized. The little crown radiated power. Now he allowed himself a smile. He had made the right decision, taking this powerful object away from Kanilla Rey and having it brought here. The Aquilonian wasn’t a good enough magician to know how to use the crown properly, and al Nasir was certain that even if he could have figured it out, his goals would have been petty.
He held the crown for a few moments, then put it back into the box. It was only then, looking down on it, that he noticed what was wrong.
“It’s missing teeth!” he shouted angrily. “Where are they?”
The acolytes were too frightened to answer in unison. The one who had borne the box said, “This is as we found it.”
“I sent you for the whole crown,” Shehkmi al Nasir raged. “Not part of it. Yes, it is a powerful artifact. But like this . . . its power is minimized, reduced. It is not whole. It is not what I commanded you to bring me.”
“We . . . we had no way to know,” the acolyte protested. “We had never seen it before, knew only that we were to bring you the crown that we discovered where you told us to look.”
Al Nasir knew the man spoke truth. But as powerful as the thing was now, whole it would have been far more so. He had not counted on pieces of it having been removed, leaving obvious, gaping holes where they had rested for eons unknown.
> Fury built inside him, and it needed release. He performed a quick spell, so familiar to him that he had only to think it. In his right hand, a tiny ball of energy grew to the size of a fist. He held his hand up toward the acolyte who had spoken, and uttered a single word. The acolyte’s face registered shock as his chest bulged, then fabric and flesh rent themselves. His heart burst from its enclosure and flew to al Nasir’s outstretched hand, where it was quickly consumed by the pulsating energy there. When al Nasir closed his hand, heart and energy ball had both vanished.
“Such is the price of failure,” he said. The two remaining acolytes looked at the floor, rather than at the fallen corpse of their comrade or at their master. “Now go. Leave me. I would find those missing teeth, and I need privacy for that task.”
The acolytes backed out of the chamber as fast as they could, and within moments al Nasir could hear them hurtling headlong up the corridor away from him. They would have second thoughts about their service, perhaps. But if they stayed on, they would be careful never to fail their master again.
“MISSING TEETH?” KRAL whispered. They stood behind a screened-off door through which they could just barely see what was happening in the chamber beyond. Alanya had been afraid that he could see them, but Tarawa had assured them that the screen was positioned in such a way as to keep the door invisible to anyone in the room, since al Nasir didn’t want his acolytes or other visitors to know about the special entrance.
“Silence,” Tarawa replied, raising a warning hand. “Just wait . . .”
Moments later, Alanya saw what they were waiting for. With a last, furious glance at the crown, Shehkmi al Nasir stormed out of the chamber through an intricately carved door. The body of the slain acolyte lay where it had fallen.
Dawn of the Ice Bear Page 7
