What was happening? First she’d thought of the fire as a random emergency, but the Voice’s death and the way flame spread ruled out such a convenient explanation. Had no one else noticed strangers skulking?
They were under attack, but who was the enemy? Kelun Clan was at peace with its neighbors. Or had Toril antagonized someone at his meeting? He could only have arrived a few hours ago...
A further import of the men with ropes and the death of the Voice leapt into focus in Malena’s mind. Out in the town, people were worried about fire. But that must be a distraction; the men behind this attack had already cut off their best means of communication and were now intent on breaching the central stronghold.
Gathering her courage, she flew back to the stairs, half expecting a piercing missile in her back.
None came.
She took the steps three at a time, grateful now that she’d changed into loose-fitting pantaloons. It made the running easier.
This time she went down two flights, to the same level as the courtyard. A knot of men had formed around Hasha, who gestured to convey assignments. The men were soldiers, but most carried buckets instead of swords.
Noemi was a relatively small town, situated in a saddle between two mountains. The site, centuries old, had been chosen for convenient access to mines, and to the pastures that goatherds required, not for sophisticated defense. It had no moat or death traps.
Nonetheless, Toril’s ancestors had given thought to fortifications. A stone wall enclosed the core of the town, and its center and high point was the stronghold where Malena now stood. Besides the tower and the stables, it contained a well, a gatehouse, a carefully stocked cellar, and an armory—tools to withstand a siege, as long as the enemy remained outside its walls.
“They shot the Voice!” Malena gasped, shoving her way through Hasha’s troops. “They’re coming over the wall from the paoro.”
Hasha paused in mid gesture, took in her trajectory and bloody hands at a single glance, and paled. “Drop the gate!” he shouted. “Drop it now!”
The portcullis began to rumble as horseshoes clattered on cobblestone. Wooden buckets dropped; steel rang as swords left their scabbards. In the distance, Malena heard an abrupt shift in the tenor of voices from the town. There were shrieks now, not just calls of alarm.
“Take a squad up to the terrace,” Hasha said to one of his lieutenants. He pointed to another man. “Go see why we had no warning from the bastion. That wall is supposed to be watched always. Are they already inside? Report back at all costs.”
Before the man had saluted, Hasha was already rounding on another group. “Half of you to the gate. The rest, see about the back wall. If they’re trying to climb in one place, they can try in another.”
As men scrambled to their stations, Hasha turned back to Malena and grabbed her shoulders. “Go to the tower. Find the other women. You’ll be safe there.”
Thunder rocked the gate, followed by a screeching of metal, battle cries, and terrified whinnies from several horses. Hasha looked up in shock, and then, realizing that Malena had not moved, shook her shoulders again. “Go!”
Time seemed to slow.
Malena stumbled backward, regained her balance, and turned to run.
An arrow skipped across flagstones and nicked her ankle.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Hasha lift an axe and lunge forward to meet a hulking shadow that ambled through billowing chips of mortar and brick with a club over its shoulder. She had never been in the presence of a rakshasa before, but the scaly hide, neckless shoulders bulging with muscle, and long yellow tusks matched the descriptions that had kept her awake and sweating as a child.
Yet it wasn’t the monster, or the tattooed bandits with filed teeth swarming into the courtyard in its wake, that brought Malena’s flight to a halt as quickly as it began. It was a horse.
One of the horde was mounted on a pinto—a slender mare with a splash of white on her nose, a ribboned tail, and a large crescent splotch on her left shoulder.
It was Tupa’s horse—the same animal her sister had ridden when she left for home with Malena’s parents after the morning meal. Malena had groomed that mare dozens of times, even taken her for a ride on occasion; there was no question about its identity.
“Tupa!” she screamed, tears springing to her eyes. She darted back toward the stairs, needing to see the streets, the victims the attackers had left in their wake, the rest of the horses they rode.
But even as she ran, she saw commotion spilling downward from the terrace. Two of Hasha’s soldiers stood back to back, their swords flashing against a tightening cordon of enemies who carried spears and bows.
She turned to the fortified tower, but its doors were already swinging shut as several thugs approached it at full tilt, ululating wildly.
The rakshasa now had a pair of men on his back, and was swinging its club in an attempt to dislodge them. A horse crumpled under a random blow. Hasha went down on the backswing.
Where could she hide? They’d go through the living quarters with a fine-toothed comb, empty the armory, plunder the cellar...
Hoping desperately that battle was occupying the attention of everyone in the courtyard, Malena dashed around the corner of the stable. If there was any mercy in the heavens, and someone saw her, maybe they’d assume she was headed for the kitchens in the corner of the living quarters.
Instead, as soon as she was out of sight from most of the fighters, she doubled back and climbed into a low-lying stable window. She scraped her shins and elbow on the rock, but she scarcely noticed in her urgency to be hidden.
After she’d flopped into an empty stall, she crouched for a moment, listening. Ponies and horses whinnied, but the sounds of battle were blunted. Her own ragged breathing was the only human noise nearby.
Now what? The stalls held no useful concealment, other than a thin layer of straw. Pitchforks would soon probe that. She could try to hide behind a horse, but they provided poor cover, especially if they were spooked.
She peeked around the corner, wishing she’d paid more attention to the layout of the building when she’d spoken with Toril last night. At one end, double doors hung across a shaft of sunlight. If men entered the stable, they’d come from that direction.
At the other extreme, the building was dark, and Malena smelled grain. She scuttled out of the stall and into shadows, fighting paralysis when a shout sounded just beyond one of the stable windows.
She crept behind a barrel of apples, in among sacks of barley, and pulled them around her like a cocoon. Once surrounded, she began to shudder, as terror and grief overpowered adrenaline.
The shudders turned to muted sobs—convulsions of shock and horror that were all the more jarring for their silence.
Where was her sister? What had happened to her parents? She replayed the Voice’s collapse in her mind, the crunch of Hasha’s body against the club of the rakshasa, the savagery on the features of the man astride the horse she knew so well.
Time passed—how long, Malena wasn’t sure. Motes of dust floating in the lone ray of sun just beyond her sacks of barley faded. Shadows lengthened. A rhythmic pounding from the direction of the tower gave way to the crack of splintering timbers and a chorus of triumphal jeers.
Malena’s trance of panic turned to grim, rational dread. She forced herself to think about the men who’d attacked. They had bandit’s faces—dirt, scars, whorls of greenish ink on both cheeks, shards of bone in their ear lobes. Bandits were ruthless thieves who preyed on weak travelers.
Malena knew they had an organized brotherhood of sorts, but she’d never heard of them attacking a healthy town. Certainly not one guarded by disciplined troops, and in broad daylight. Not this far from the pass. Not in such a large group.
What did it mean? And how had they enlisted the cooperation of a rakshasa? Such beasts did not speak; it took a powerful wielder of magic just to communicate with them, let alone bend them to a consistent purpose.
&n
bsp; Wails and screams from townsfolk continued to reach her ears, though they were much sparser now, and Malena recalled the little serving girl she’d met the night before. Kinora. Had she found her own hiding place?
What do I do now? Malena wondered. The prospect of sneaking out of the stable petrified her, but if the marauders had overpowered the entire stronghold, this was only temporary refuge.
As if her fears had attracted fate’s attention, a voice spoke beyond the far gates of the stable.
“Did you find anyone else?”
“Just a couple of servant brats who’d wet themselves. The tower?”
“A few old women and a handful of guards. After we hacked them up, we fed them to the beast.”
“I’ll be happier when it’s back in its cave instead of here with us. Gives me the willies, the way it watches when I walk by.”
“Relax,” said the first voice. “The spell wears off at midnight, and by then its belly will be too full for much except sleep. We’ll be long gone.”
The sound of spitting was followed by a curse and a grunt. The gate creaked.
“I think they already looked through the stable. Someone said there are eighteen horses, but you can count them again if you’re worried about getting your fair share of the loot.”
Malena froze. She hadn’t heard anybody searching; perhaps someone had come and gone while she was in a stupor.
The first voice chuckled. “Actually, there’s a particular filly I’m after. I saw her head this way when we first came in, and I’ve been meaning to circle back to see if she’s still here.”
9
smoke ~ Toril
A thud interrupted Toril’s pacing. The light leaking into his room from around the door frame dimmed. He raised his staff and stepped deeper into the shadows.
“Stonecaster?” a voice whispered.
“Oji?” asked Toril, incredulous.
“Quiet.” Bolts slid. The door opened. A short silhouette beckoned.
“What are you doing here?” Toril said, stepping forward. “I thought you’d be laid up somewhere recuperating.” The osipi warrior had shared the page’s horse as far as the outskirts of Bakar, claiming he wanted to find a healer and an inn with plenty of food and kalu to take the sting out of his injuries. Toril had insisted that he take some silver coins for clothes and lodging.
“Healing is fast with the osipi, like our eating and sleeping,” Oji said.
Toril nodded thoughtfully. The rags Oji had worn at their first meeting had been replaced by sturdy, well-fitted outdoor gear. A shortsword was belted horizontally behind his waist. The man looked like a competent, confident warrior—not the waif he’d rescued. The transformation was impressive.
“Come. I may have convinced your friends to take a little nap, but others could be along at any time.” Oji gestured to the two guards who were slumped in the hallway, helmets ajar.
Toril looked from his small friend, whose forearm was still splinted, to the burly, heavily weaponed men on their backs. He raised his assessment of the man’s capabilities another notch.
“I believe I can get you out of the building if we leave by the east door. It’s almost full dark outside now, and the sentries are worried about arrivals, not departures.”
“How did you know I was locked up?” Toril murmured, as he crept behind his catfooted guide.
Toril had debated as he paced about his decision not to support the war. His heart burned with resentment at Gorumim’s duplicity and inflexibility, but he knew defiance was a dangerous game, and that he had yielded to pride at the worst possible moment. Regardless of the rightness of his decision, the way he’d announced it had made enemies. Was he doing the right thing to escape, now, instead of waiting to confront his captors when they fetched him?
“I found you with good old-fashioned eavesdropping.” Oji said. “After my belly was full and I’d slept, I decided to sneak up here to see if I could understand Luim’s scheming better. I came over the wall and across the roof of the hall where your people are meeting. They must have just kicked you out; some of the clan chiefs were giving the shaved one a hard time about it. I gather they didn’t like your attitude, but they didn’t appreciate Gorumim locking up one of their own, either.”
“Wish they would have said as much before the guards marched me out. I can’t believe...”
Abruptly Oji held up a hand and flattened himself against the wall.
Toril clamped his jaw and followed suit, ears straining. At first, he heard nothing—but after several guarded breaths, he caught a scuffing of booted feet. He remembered how acute his own senses had been, in the fleeting moments when he’d tasted osipi experience in the river.
Eventually the noise receded, and both men relaxed.
“When we get to the east door, go out and to your left, where the horses are stabled. Take a fresh mount; yours will be too tired. As soon as I hear hooves, I will shout and run out in the opposite direction. They’ll think I’m one of the patrol they captured, and they’ll follow for sure.”
Steal a horse? Men were flogged for that kind of thievery. How had he gone from clan chief to prisoner, to escapee, in such a short time? Should he just go back and confront his peers?
“There were at least a dozen soldiers around the building when I rode in,” Toril said aloud. “You’re going to let them all chase you?”
“Does a hare fret about a dozen tortoises?” Oji snorted, as he began padding forward again. “Or a hundred? I’ll move slowly enough to let them get close, but there’s no chance they’ll catch me when I’ve got a head start and it’s dark.”
“Let’s meet up again at the inn near the fork of the river,” Toril said. “I’d like to hear what you learned while you were on the roof, before I contact Tónume to talk him out of Gorumim’s crazy plan.”
Oji stopped walking again and turned around to face Toril. His expression was a queer mixture of trepidation and pity.
“It took me quite a while to find you. I thought they would have told you by now,” he said.
“Told me what?”
“Like I said, the shimsal and the clan were arguing about your imprisonment. Things got pretty heated, when all of a sudden the shimsal called a recess. Gorumim had news. When he rejoined the discussion, it was to announce that Noemi had been attacked and overrun.”
“What!” Toril exclaimed, nearly forgetting the need for silence. “Attacked?”
Oji nodded, hesitated, and then added in a rush, “He claimed it was by a patrol of osipi, but he is lying. There is no...”
Toril cut him off. The only who that he cared about was his bride, tender and alone, and his father, frail and grim, at the epicenter of a battle. “No way could a single patrol of osipi waltz in and capture the durga. No way would they want to. But what kind of attack? When did it happen? Did he mention casualties or who is still alive?”
Oji shook his head. “I left to find you as soon as I heard. If they didn’t bring you the news, I think the only way you’ll learn more is to go there yourself.”
It was noon again when Toril crested the ridge overlooking his home. His back ached, his thighs were raw from the saddle, he had a fierce headache, and he could barely keep his eyes open.
But the sensations didn’t register.
Although Oji’s diversion had enabled an escape, it had also split the two men up, leaving Toril alone to wrestle his imagination all night as he rode. Would he find his father wounded, and Malena nursing townfolk who’d been caught outside the walls of the durga?
Or would he find something far worse?
He touched the heartstone that he carried in a leather pouch beneath his shirt. He’d mined the lump of turquoise himself, soon after his naming ceremony. He remembered swallowing his claustrophobia and descending alone into the cold and dark with hammer in hand. A man’s first proof, his mam had called it.
Later, he’d spent weeks with a craftsman, practicing, before he dared alter the shape of the nugget he’d selected. So
me skipped the tedious work of shaping and polishing a heartstone, preferring to purchase a gem ready-made. But Hasha valued the slower, more private, more personal crafting of a gift for the woman who would someday be his daughter-in-law; he’d given Toril grinding tools and admonished his son to take his time and do the job right.
And Toril had. Gradually he’d ground out the gritty, discolored yellow corner, the extrusions along one edge, the lopsided bulge. He remembered the nagging dimple he’d struggled with during his fosterage, when he met Malena for the first time; that particular flaw had taken weeks to erase while preserving the balance he was after.
Over the years the stone had become a glossy, symmetrical oval, narrower but about as long as a hen’s egg. Toril was proud of what it symbolized. When friends swapped bawdy stories, Toril had fingered the stone in the pouch around his neck and kept his silence. While peers visited brothels, Toril polished. He’d bored the hole for the binding cord from the wedding ceremony only weeks ago.
Giving Malena this final gift to consummate their marriage... mattered. Had he lost his chance?
A thread of smoke curled from a cottage near the footbridge, and for an instant Toril’s heart leapt with hope. The sight looked so comforting, so utterly normal, that he almost convinced himself the announcement from the shimsal had been nothing more than a savage lie.
The horse snorted.
What was that inert bundle casting shadows across the ruts up ahead? He nudged his mount forward, and the shape became human—a shepherd boy who’d once traded pointers with Toril on proper technique with the sling.
Three arrows sprouted from his chest. His eyes were open, staring at them in sightless surprise. Blood had pooled around his shoulders and back and in the dirt. His arms and legs were splayed, his face waxy.
The wind shifted, bringing with it the bitterness of soot and char. Toril spurred his horse into a weary canter, realizing now that the smoke he’d seen was not rising from a chimney. In fact, what he’d first thought was mist was a layer of fumes, blanketing the town. For the first time, he noticed a column of condors lazing overhead.
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