by Alexey Pehov
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I would like to thank Trident Media Group and especially Robert and Olga Gottlieb, whose efforts made this book possible. My wife, Elena Bychkova, who worked on this book as I did. This book is dedicated to you, the reader. Welcome to the new world.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Map of the Southern Empire and the adjacent countries
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Glossary
Tor Books by Alexey Pehov
About the Author
Copyright
He who chases the wind will find the storm.
Prologue
Luk had been unlucky last night. He’d had to take over someone else’s shift, and as a result he hadn’t had nearly enough sleep. Huddled against the early morning chill, the guard jiggled his legs and chafed his cold fingers in his mittens. Every other second his thoughts turned to the grand party that had been organized for the fifth barracks in honor of the Feast of the Name. Most of the garrison was planning to start celebrating early this morning, but here he was occupied with this nonsense.
“Screw a toad,” muttered the soldier.
If the commander was so afraid of absent enemies, then why didn’t he order the gates to be closed? These past few years, the vast forty-yard-high wings had stood wide open even during the night and not a single rat had dared to sneak through. What was the point of strengthening the watch if it would be far simpler to just lower the portcullis?
Damn that stupid commander! Damn the sergeant! Muttering curses under his breath, Luk moved along the wall from the Tower of Ice to the Tower of Fire. Along the way he gave a nod to his friends, who were drunk on hot shaf (a weak, spiced alcoholic beverage, infused with hops, thyme, chamomile, goatweed, and linden), giving half an ear to the usual little jokes and remarks addressed to him, lazily straggling and then moving on somewhat quicker when they reminded him of his debts. Luk had no love for returning money.
The Gates of Six Towers was the greatest fortress in the world, constructed by the Sculptor himself, and it guarded the only passage through the western region of the Boxwood Mountains. The famed citadel had withstood many an onslaught over its thousand-year history, but had never been taken. The army of Nabator had broken its teeth against the gray stones and lost many warriors in the process. Causing the fortress to surrender would require something more forceful than steel and bravery.
While the Gates exist, the soft underbelly of the Empire remains safeguarded.
Luk watched as two women exited the Tower of Rain onto the wall. A Walker and an Ember. The mages were conversing about something, and the guard paused, reluctant to interrupt their conversation. He turned away toward an arrow loop, scrutinizing the scene before him.
He had been born in a small prairie village, and even now, six years after he first saw the snow-covered peaks, he never tired of marveling at the beauty of the mountain heights. The Gates, situated between two ridges, bridged the entrance to the lowlands, where the route into the heart of the country began.
In former times, multitudes of caravans had made the journey to the south. Weapons, silks, carpets, spices, horses, and hundreds of other wares passed through the Gates to distant countries beyond. But that golden age had long since passed, and the route had dried up. Only the local herdsmen, as well as the scouts that the commander kept sending into the nearby ravines, ever dared to venture along the old route and ascend into the inhospitable mountains.
But something strange had been going on with the scouts recently. The second squad of northerners was already late, even though it was long past the deadline when they should have returned. The commander was taking his frustration out on the captains, and they, consequently, were taking it out on the sergeants and the common soldiers.
The guard, unlike the officers, secretly rejoiced that the squad, in which the red-haired Ga-Nor served, was still wandering around the neighboring environs. Luk owed the northerner money. But he didn’t have very much money at the moment. He’d blown too much of it on the dice last time. Almost all of his wages had disappeared into his debts, into other people’s purses, screw a toad! All there was in his purse right now was one sol (a small silver coin), and that was not nearly enough money for Ga-Nor, but he had to find a way to pay him back; the northerners were a straightforward people, and if everything wasn’t just so, he’d get it right in the choppers.
The soldier leaned out of the arrow loop and spat with relish. He followed the spittle with his eyes, hoping it would land on some heedless idiot, but to Luk’s intense disappointment, there was no one standing under the wall. For the hundredth time since that morning he swore an oath and then resumed his contemplation of the landscape.
A small town was spread out in front of the Gates. The humble dwellings were constructed of round stones and clay, which had been taken from the banks of a nearby mountain river. The families of shepherds, wool merchants, and silver miners lived in the settlement. The villagers were not frightened to be living on the very edge of the Empire. The fortress was impregnable; the soldiers experienced. None of the mountain tribes would bother them here. They had already taken it on the nose more than once, and they knew that they couldn’t seize the Gates. It would be quicker to gnaw a passage under the mountains than to tear down the mighty walls of the impregnable fortress.
Despite the fact that it was early summer, the air smelled slightly of frost. Rays of sunlight painted the snowy heights of the mountains with rose, and the peaks were shrouded in clouds. The sun was slowly climbing up from behind the eastern range. Another minute passed, and the sun began to shine so brightly on the summits that Luk screwed his eyes shut and once again called on his toad.
When the guard opened his eyes, he saw that two skinny mules hauling an old caravan had appeared on the empty morning road. From such a height the caravan was no bigger than the palm of his hand, but Luk could clearly make out a woman sitting on the driver’s seat.
She was dressed almost entirely in rags. She looked just like a stuffed scarecrow. The soldier frowned in confusion. Had one of the villagers taken it into her head to set off for El’nichi Ford? It was fifteen leagues away. It would be stupid to haul wool to the fair, which had been arranged in honor of the Feast of the Name. To have any chance of trading goods, she should have set out six days earlier. Now she was just wasting the labor of her animals for nothing. Even if she hurried, she’d get there far after the trading had ended.
A strange caravan. He didn’t recognize it. And that o
ld woman. More like a beggar than anything else.
Luk frowned, trying to recall if there was anyone in town who had two such emaciated mules, not to mention a caravan with a blue top. A quick rundown of all his acquaintances’ names and nicknames gave him nothing. If the guard could trust his memory, he’d never seen such a piece of junk. And after all the time he’d served here, standing by the Wing, the soldier knew everyone who did business at El’nichi Ford quite well.
One of two things was going on. First, she could be someone who traveled to the town while it wasn’t his shift. Secondly, the unfamiliar wagon could have come out of the pass, and therefore, from Nabator itself.
The strange wagon still had about two hundred yards left until it reached the Gates when he called out to a friend of his who was chatting with two other guards.
“Hey, Rek!”
“What?” he responded petulantly.
“Take a look.”
Rek grumbled discontentedly, but all the same he turned in the direction indicated. For several seconds he watched the road apathetically and then he turned his gaze on Luk.
“What of it?”
“Do you know her?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. You think she came from the pass?”
Overhearing something about the pass, the seated soldiers leaned toward the arrow loop.
“The captain should be informed,” Rek said uncertainly.
“You go inform him yourself,” muttered Luk. But then he replied, “Shout down below, get them to check who it is and what she’s doing here.”
Rek turned away from the arrow loop, brought his hands to his mouth, and bellowed to the guards standing in the exterior courtyard of the fortress. At that very instant, a captain emerged from the barracks with the twenty unfortunate wretches who were doomed to work on the holiday.
Meanwhile, two guards stepped away from the wall and slowly made their way toward the caravan. Another dozen, mostly just curious, stood by the Wing. The woman tugged at the reins and said something in reply to the soldier’s question. Luk would have paid a lot of money to hear exactly what was said. But a moment later he saw eight men emerge from the caravan. Six of them were dressed in chain mail and armed to the teeth. But it was the sight of the other two that froze the blood in Luk’s veins and sent shooting pains throughout his stomach. They were wearing white robes!
Necromancers from Sdis!
The guard wanted to call out, to catch the attention of the Walkers, but fear made his voice seize in his throat. Unable to rip his gaze away, he watched as the warriors, dressed in the colors of the kingdom of Nabator, killed the surprised soldiers and started running toward the fortress.
A battle broke out below.
Something snapped, howled, hissed, and the captain and his men were swept through the courtyard of the citadel in bloody scraps. The staff of one of the Sdisian sorcerers was emitting a gray light.
Once again there was a rumbling, though not as loud as before, and all that remained of the necromancer and the Nabatorian standing closest to him was a wet spot. The Walker was invoking her Gift, and the Ember was standing next to her, pressing her palm into the Lady’s back.
“The Gates! Close the Gates, screw a damn toad!” cried out Luk, who had finally come to his senses.
From the direction of the village he could see a few hundred cavalry galloping at full tilt toward the Gates. Alongside the Nabatorians, keeping pace with the horses, ran bony creatures that resembled skeletons.
Morts!
Rek ran to an enormous horn, breathed deeply, gathering the air in his lungs, and then blew it. A low booming sound spread over the Towers, sounding the alarm and raising the entire garrison to its feet. Men ran in from every quarter with no idea of what was happening. Many of them were without weapons.
The Wings of the Gates finally shivered and slowly began to close.
Too slowly.
Beneath the walls the battle raged on. The six Nabatorian warriors, under the auspices of the remaining necromancer, were holding out until the arrival of the main force. A lowering portcullis rumbled, and then another. Then there was a roar, and a warning cry rang through the fortress courtyard: “The sorcerer blew up the portcullis!”
Things were looking bleak if the Walker didn’t do something soon.
As if in response to Luk’s entreaty, the air shimmered and thickened over the Lady and the Ember, transforming into a massive many-faceted spear of ice. It deployed, aimed for the Sdisian.… Then the woman who was sitting on the caravan seat thrust up one of her hands as if annoyed at the distraction from her contemplation of the combat.
Crash!
For a moment it seemed to Luk that he had died and found himself in the drum of the northerners’ god, Ug. There was a ringing in his ears, and all around him hung a thick cloud of dust. Bewildered at first, the guard realized that he had fallen.
He shook his head dazedly and then got up onto his hands and knees. There was a roaring in his ears, and blood was pouring down his face. Spitting out grit, he staggered to his feet and rushed toward where the Walker had been standing.
Enormous stones, which had been set into the walls by the Sculptor, had been plucked out and scattered for hundreds of yards. One of the boulders had fallen on the barracks of the second company, reducing it to rubble. Another, launched as if from a catapult, had crashed through the facade of the Tower of Rain. A third had smashed down onto the road, crushing three heedless Morts and five Nabatorians along with their horses.
The section of the wall on which the magic blow had fallen was severely damaged. It was as if a giant hammer had struck it. But the Walker was alive. Forgetting about his usual shyness around those who possessed the Gift, Luk rushed over to the woman. And then he shuddered. He had never seen such wounds during his time as a guard, and he strived to look only at the woman’s face. Only now did he appreciate the fact that she was no more than nineteen years old, and that she had sky blue eyes.
She smiled and, very quietly but astonishingly clearly, said, “Tell my sisters that Rubeola has returned.”
A Damned!
“Are you sure, my lady?” babbled Luk, who was suffocating from terror.
The Walker did not answer. Her eyes faded, and for some reason the guard had the strongest urge to cry.
A succession of magical blows battered against the Gates. They remained intact but stopped closing. The forward detachment of Nabatorians had held out long enough to ensure that the cavalry and Morts swept into the courtyard.
A massacre ensued. Over and over the Sdisian’s staff flared dully.
The Damned just sat on the caravan seat and watched in a bored manner as an endless blue-black ribbon of soldiers flowed into the fallen citadel.
1
The day had started out warm, and now the cows, lazily chewing their cud, were sheltering from the midday heat in the shadow of a large oak. A yearling calf, tormented by gadflies, dragged himself to the river and slipped in, thereby ridding himself of the feisty insects. His dappled mother was trying to warn her son away from the water with a plaintive moo, but he was far too occupied with the water and ignored her summons.
Pork sighed disappointedly and set aside his homemade reed pipe. What kind of music could he make when there was such a racket? The damned cow just wouldn’t quiet down. He should drag the calf out of the river, but he was feeling lazy. There was no point. He’d just wander back in again.
The day seemed infinitely long. His jug of milk was half empty, but his bread remained untouched. He had no desire to eat. Or work, for that matter. While the village boys fished for trout and played at being knights, why did he have to keep an eye on the cattle? But the children had no desire to include the overgrown village idiot in their games. Pork didn’t know why, and as a result he was horribly offended, not understanding the reason everyone always laughed at him and twirled their fingers around their foreheads.
Yawning, he was about to nap for another hour, sinc
e the shade of the bushes he was stretched out under wouldn’t go away for a while yet, when he noticed four riders appear on the road in the distance. They crossed the river unhurriedly, making their way along the sturdy wooden bridge constructed by the villagers, and, passing by the standing stone (standing stones are set at all crossroads. According to legend, they keep evil from finding its way into people’s homes), headed off toward the village.
Pushing out his lower lip so that saliva dripped down onto his shirt, Pork watched the strangers avidly.
People wishing to visit Dog Green were always few and far between. The village was located in the foothills of the Boxwood Mountains in the middle of the densely thicketed Forest Region. People rarely came here.
The riders did not resemble the Viceroy’s tax collectors in the slightest. The tax collectors wore gorgeous black-and-white uniforms, which Pork really wished he could try on, but these men were wearing simple leather jackets and linen shirts.
“And there’s no herald with a trumpet,” muttered the half-wit under his breath. “Nope, nope, nope—the Viceroy’s soldiers dress far better.” True, these men had swords as well. Sharp ones. Much sharper than his father’s knife, which Pork had cut himself on. Oh, that had hurt so much! And one of them even had a crossbow. Probably a real one, too. That would leave quite a hole. If Pork had such a crossbow, no one would laugh at him. Nope. The girls would love him. Yes, they would. And the horses these fellows had were much better than the villagers’. Horses like that could trample you right down, and not even a smudge would be left behind. They were knights’ horses. When Pork left the village, he too would become a knight. He’d rescue virgins. But these fellows weren’t knights. Where were the multicolored coats of arms, the plumes and the chain mail? Every knight should have them, but they didn’t. If they were knights, they were doing it wrong. Yes, they were. But maybe they were bandits? No, they didn’t look like that either. Even the dimmest five-year-old whose parents wouldn’t let him go off into the forest hunting for mushrooms knew that bandits didn’t travel the road so boldly—otherwise the soldiers of the Viceroy would hang them from the nearest aspen tree. And of course, bandits wouldn’t have such splendid horses. Plus, all bandits were wicked, cowardly, filthy men with rusty knives in their teeth. These fellows were not like that. Anyway, what would bandits have to do with the village? The locals around here grew nothing valuable. Except perhaps old Roza’s turnips, which the daring little people, as his father called them, try to steal.
