The City Under the Mountain (The Seven Signs Book 4)

by D. W. Hawkins

  And here you are facing off with a girl who just lost her father. Eindor’s blighted eye, what’s happening to you?

  D’Jenn reached out and put a hand on Bethany’s shoulder. She started at the movement, but after a few moments, her gaze went to the ground and her fists stilled. The dancing pebbles around her settled to the ground, and she released her hold on her Kai.

  “Dormael wouldn’t blame you for this,” D’Jenn said. “Let’s not do it on his behalf.”

  Bethany sniffled, her shoulders quivering with emotion. “But it was my fault. I know that.”

  “Fault’s a tricky thing.” D’Jenn sighed and crouched to her level. “You should have been more careful—that’s true. You’re not the only one who made a bad decision, though. When something like this happens, it’s hard to point to a single reason. Maybe we shouldn’t have attempted to cross the forest where we did. Maybe we should have studied more about the Garthorin before we came to these gods-forsaken mountains in the first place.” D’Jenn paused and pulled her chin up to look into her eyes. “And maybe you’re right, too. Maybe we should have taken your training more seriously.”

  Bethany’s brow furrowed with her sobs, but she nodded.

  “You keep your head, little one. If he’s still out there, we’re going to find him.”

  “We are?”

  “Aye, you and me,” D’Jenn said. “We’re all we’ve got out here, and we need to focus. Understand?”

  Bethany took a deep breath and wiped her tears. It took her a moment to get her sobbing under control, but by the time she wiped her face clean, her shoulders had stopped shaking. Bethany looked up at D’Jenn and nodded.

  “There’s another Warlock out here,” D’Jenn said. “I’m sure of it. All the magic we tossed around last night will draw them right to the river.”

  “You think they heard it?”

  D’Jenn nodded. “I’m hoping they have as much trouble moving around out here as we do. That might buy us some time to put distance between ourselves and the river. If we’re going to evade them, though, I need you to be attentive, alright? I’ll train you, girl—that I promise you—but you’re not to do anything unless I allow it. Can you stick to that?”

  Bethany looked at the ground and nodded her head.

  “Good. Now open your Kai again. We’ve got to ward the camp, and I haven’t the strength to do it on my own. Everything in the valley probably heard that stone crack when you summoned your magic.”

  D’Jenn rose to his feet and turned to find Shawna and Allen watching from a short distance away. Shawna came forward, glaring at D’Jenn, and wrapped Bethany in a fierce hug. They stayed that way for a few moments while Allen walked over. His own expression was pained, but not accusatory the way Shawna’s had been. Allen put a hand on Bethany’s shoulder and offered her a weak smile.

  D’Jenn rested his back against the boulder behind him and closed his eyes. He was exhausted after the night’s events. His body complained with every movement, and his head pounded against his skull like his brain was trying to escape. A burbling growl issued from his stomach, but he was too tired to eat.

  “We’ll find him, little pig,” Allen said to Bethany. “We’ll find him. Right, D’Jenn?”

  “I can only hope.”

  Hope—the fool’s emotion. The chances that Dormael had survived were slim. Still, a part of D’Jenn rebelled against the notion that his cousin was dead.

  Foolish or not, he held to that hope.

  ***

  The Mala’kii prisoner was dragged to Nalia’s tent in chains.

  Nalia studied him as he was pushed through the door. He was a fearsome figure, even without the benefit of weapons or armor. His muscles were visible, carving lines in his sun-browned skin, making him look lean and dangerous. Tattoos decorated his arms in dark, swirling lines, and he had a series of tiny symbols inked along the sides of his face.

  Nalia noted the quality of the leather pants he wore—not rough, uncured skin, but well-made trousers that could have been purchased in any Alderakan city. His shirt was little more than a dirty rag, but the weave was tight and professional.

  He’s traded for his clothing. Where did he find the wealth to buy such luxuries?

  If this lowly warrior—if lowly he was—could afford to have such things, the Mala’kii must produce something worth more than tribal charms and healing poultices. Raiding could never generate such wealth unless it was done on the scale of cities. Nalia had heard nothing of Mala’kii bands sacking the towns of Moravia.

  They’re not as backwards as I would have thought. I shall have to remember that.

  Two Sworn Men led the prisoner into the tent and kicked him to his knees before Nalia’s chair. He went down with a grunt, but smiled as his hands pressed into the wooden floor of Nalia’s pavilion. His hair was long and braided, though ratty from his time in chains. The prisoner sat up from the floor but did not attempt to rise. He looked around the pavilion, an appreciative expression on his face, before settling his gaze on Nalia.

  Nalia sat at the head of the tent with Yurian and one of his lieutenants standing behind her. Verith had procured a monstrous chair from somewhere in the follower’s camp—one with a high back and imposing frame. Nalia sat with her back straight and regarded the prisoner with a cool expression. Nalia’s dress was impeccable, and Serena had woven silver chains through Nalia’s hair.

  The sword she held in her lap was a fitting addition to her outfit.

  It was a long weapon, probably meant to be wielded from horseback. The steel was darker than the swords carried by Sworn Men, and the blade had a slight backward curve. Nalia ran her fingers over its bone-covered hilt with an idle motion, tracing the designs carved into its surface. The Mala’kii warrior’s eyes tracked the blade, though he tried to feign disinterest.

  The sight of the sword has put him off balance. It’s working.

  Nalia met the prisoner’s eyes and held his gaze. “Do you speak our language?”

  “Some.” The Mala’kii ducked his head in respect. “You are Sadiri?”

  Nalia narrowed her eyes at the unfamiliar word. She had debated on having a translator present—perhaps a local who knew the Mala’kii—but had declined in the end. Anyone she invited to witness her negotiations, no matter their role, would become a loose end. In the game she was playing, secrecy was paramount, and loose ends were too dangerous to leave breathing. Nalia had no wish to condemn an innocent to such an end.

  Wade in blood and it will stain your shoes. The more violence needed to see a plan to its end, the riskier it became. Nalia knew the value of caution, and her mother had taught her the need for precision in all things.

  “Bring our guest some water.” Nalia motioned Serena forward. An element of disgust passed over the prisoner’s expression as he glanced in Serena’s direction. Nalia had hoped to use Serena as a foil—any man trapped so long in chains should have been distracted by her.

  It’s the sword that interests him—he keeps glancing at it.

  “Drink.” Nalia held a stern expression on her face. “One cannot speak with a dry throat.”

  The Mala’kii warrior regarded her with a considering look and placed the censer on the floor before him. He balled his fist over his chest and bowed his head, muttering something in his native tongue. It was a musical, lilting language that seemed at odds with his savage appearance.

  “I am Dak,” the Mala’kii said. “This is my name, given by choice. I offer respect for your gift.”

  “I am Nalia Arynthaal, eldest daughter of the Frost Bear and Princess of Thardin.”

  The prisoner’s eyes narrowed at the mention of her father’s honor name—a thing well known in Alderak. Nalia had hoped the warrior would recognize it, given that her father had been on the Moravian front for most of the season. Dak glanced again around the room and looked to Nalia with greater respect. Nalia kept her expression bland.

  “We know of your father. A dangerous man.” Dak said the words with an o
dd reverence.

  Nalia regarded the sword in her lap, running a finger along the flat of the blade. “This sword belongs to you?”

  Dak stiffened. “It does.”

  “What do these markings mean?” Nalia indicated the carvings on the hilt.

  Dak gave her a guarded look. He took the censer in reluctant hands and drank. When he he was through wetting his throat, he took a deep breath and gave her another reverent nod.

  “When a man is born, his jurinkai—his sword…” his mouth tripped over the word, “is forged. His naming rune is carved into its hilt. Every year, he carves a new one. The jurinkai is the only thing for a man. It is the haidar. It is everything.”

  Nalia had directed Verith to dig for information about the Mala’kii prisoners, and one bit had stuck out amongst the rest. When the male warriors had been separated from their swords, according to a few Shundovian cavalrymen, they’d gone mad. Nalia had gathered as many Mala’kii blades as she could find.

  My gamble has paid its wager, it seems.

  “The haidar.” Nalia tested the foreign word. “What does that mean?”

  Dak’s brows drew together. “I have no words to explain. A man has duty. He has honor. The jurinkai is his honor, his duty as well. It is the honor the malahim give to him, to fight and die for the Mala’kii. The haidar is this—the man’s honor, his purpose under the sky.”

  Nalia grasped the hilt of the sword and hefted it. It was heavier than she had expected, but she didn’t dishonor herself by showing strain. She stood from the chair and took a step in Dak’s direction, stopping just short of his range. His eyes tracked the blade with concern, but to his credit, he didn’t cower. Nalia gave him a smile and grounded the tip of the sword, resting her hands on the pommel.

  “I have had your jurinkai, and those of your brothers-in-arms, collected and brought to me. Some of them had been taken by soldiers as trophies of war. Others had been sold to merchants. It took considerable effort—and quite a bit of money—to retrieve them, but I’ve gathered all I could find.”

  Dak’s back straightened. “Why do this thing? We are enemies.”

  “Enemies of chance, not of necessity.” Nalia looked to the sword. “We can still show one another a measure of honor, can we not?”

  “Honor.” Dak made a gesture Nalia didn’t recognize. “We thought our souls lost to the dark.”

  Nalia gave him a cool smile. “If you would have your jurinkai returned, I require a boon from you.”

  “A boon?”

  “You must do something for me. A task.”

  The Mala’kii regarded her with suspicion. “Task?”

  “You must go to your Maihdrim and carry a message.” Nalia filled her voice with steel. “Tell her that I wish to see the fighting between our peoples ended, and I would speak with her to this purpose. Agree to do this, and I will return your jurinkai and release you to the Haunted Hills. Return with an answer, and I will release more of your brothers and sisters from bondage.”

  The warrior smiled. “The Maihdrim does not want peace. I will go, but I do not know what she will say. She may kill me.”

  Nalia narrowed her eyes at Dak. She tried to put herself in the place of this Maihdrim. There were too many things she didn’t know about the Mala’kii and their way of life. What was motivating their attacks? What words would grasp the attention of their sorceress-queen?

  “Tell her,” Nalia said, “that the best way to survive a stampede is to join it.”

  The Mala’kii warrior looked at her with consideration and nodded his head. His eyes flashed again to his sword, though Nalia thought the gesture more anxious than threatening. Dak settled back on his knees.

  “I do this boon for you, Nalia Arynthaal of Thardin. That promise I can give. No one can speak for the Maihdrim. She may not wish for peace.”

  “Very well.” Nalia raised her chin. “You will be led from camp by my Sworn Men. You will be chained until out of sight of the palisades. You will be given your freedom, your jurinkai will be returned, and my men will lead you to a place I have chosen to meet with your Maihdrim. They will wait for your return, should the Maihdrim choose to reply.”

  Dak bowed his head. Nalia nodded at her Sworn Men, who stepped forward and hoisted Dak to his feet. Dak grimaced as he was hauled from the floor but gave no resistance.

  Nalia looked Dak in the eyes. “Your fellow Mala’kii will remain safe while you’re gone—they are under my protection. My men will remain camped at the meeting spot for ten days. I trust they will be treated with the same honor I’m showing your people. If any harm comes to them, I will consider it a grave insult. Such a thing will deserve an answer in kind. Do you understand?”

  “You kill them.” Dak showed no hint of anger. “I understand.”

  Nalia favored him with a cool smile. “I don’t have to elaborate, then.” Nalia turned to Yurian. “Captain, give Dak more water and allow him time to stretch his legs before setting out. Treat him well.”

  “Yes, Highness.” Yurian gestured at the man holding Dak by the shoulder, and the Mala’kii warrior was led from the tent. Yurian traded a private glance with her as he bowed his way out, conveying his concern through his eyes. Nalia reassured him with a short nod and handed the Mala’kii sword to one of her Sworn Men as they filed from the pavilion.

  Servants bustled inside under Serena’s instruction, bringing the spare furniture back into the tent and resettling it. Serena approached, still clutching the censer of water to her chest, and gave Nalia a smile. Nalia returned it.

  “Did you see the way he looked at me, Highness? I felt…I don’t know. I’ve never had that reaction.”

  “I did.” Nalia turned to look at her. “It was odd. I wanted him distracted, but—”

  “He didn’t care for me.” Serena scowled at the tent flap. “He didn’t fancy me at all.”

  “The haidar.” Nalia recalled what Dak had said. “His purpose under the sky—to fight and die for the Mala’kii. Did you catch the word he used when he said someone gives that honor to them? It sounded like Maihdrim, but different.”

  Serena nodded. “Malahim. He said ‘it is the honor that the malahim give to them’. He used the word ildinum to refer to his brethren.”

  “What do you think it means? Men? Warriors? It sounds like a caste—to hear him speak, the men in their society are born to be soldiers.”

  Serena sighed. “He was so…foreign.”

  “Will you send a runner to fetch Verith?”

  “By your command, Highness.” Serena curtsied and hurried away.

  Nalia sat in the high chair. She sank into a moody silence, allowing the room to be set aright without comment. She didn’t look up when a servant poured her a cup of wine but continued to stare inward.

  The next step in Nalia’s plan was in motion, and she was feeling anxious. She was like an archer waiting for the arrow to fall, watching with expectant eyes as it hurtled toward its target. The anticipation was already gnawing at her.

  Nalia’s mother would have advised patience. Nalia took a calming breath and banished her mother from her thoughts. Waiting had never been one of Nalia’s strengths. She always wanted to be moving, to be acting. Sitting still had always driven her to boredom. Just as the thought crossed her mind, Verith entered the tent.

  “Highness.” Verith curtsied upon entering. “I’ve a few papers that require your seal—requisitions for the quartermasters. The Galanians are mad for their paperwork.”

  Nalia smiled. “They are a meticulous people.”

  “Persnickety.” Verith returned her smile. “I have to admit, though—the organization is astonishing. I’d like to pick Major Penton’s brain sometime and discover how he makes it all work. Two hundred loads of timber came through the gates of this camp since its construction—two hundred. That’s enough wood for a small village, or—”

  “A war camp one hundred thousand strong?”

  Verith’s cheeks colored, but she nodded with enthusiasm.

&
nbsp; “I’ll never understand why you get so excited about those things. In the meantime, I need something from you.”

  “I am at your command, Highness.” Verith curtsied again. She had always been the most formal of Nalia’s handmaidens. Nalia waved the gesture away and stood.

  “Find me someone who knows the Mala’kii. If this Maihdrim responds to my request for a meeting, I don’t plan to walk in blind. I want to know what they eat, I want to know how they raise their children, I want to know everything.”

  “I’ve spoken to most of the officers in camp who’ve fought them,” Verith said. “There isn’t much there that we don’t already know.”

  “Find me a local, then, or a wagoneer.” Nalia tapped her lower lip with a pensive finger. “Someone who’s traded with them for many years. War doesn’t breed understanding, but trade forces people to work together. Knowing what the Mala’kii are willing to trade for will tell me something about their society.”

  “A good idea, Highness. I’ll see to it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Verith curtsied again on her way out, disappearing through the tent flap into the dusty midday air. When Nalia was alone, the anxiety rose again in her chest. She closed her eyes and took calming breaths.

  Nalia had just sent an emissary to a barbarian sorceress—the leader of a brutal, archaic society. Had she made a mistake, invited her own doom to shelter from the cold? All Nalia could do was wait and find out—wait and chew her nails to the bone while she did.

  Her mother invaded her thoughts again, admonishing her to be patient. Nalia dismissed her worries with another sigh and rose to pace around the tent. She chased her thoughts with slow, measured steps, and chewed at the problem.

  It was a long time before she sat down again.

  ***

  The dungeons under Shundov Castle stank worse than before.

  The graveyard stench wafted up the darkened stairs, assaulting Maarkov’s nose with its potency. Rhythmic noises came from below—scraping, sifting, and hammering. The clamor coming from the dungeon filled Maarkov’s belly with dread. It slowed his feet on the stairs.