by Jon Kiln
“There are bats in the jungles, far to the south of Llandaff, that drink blood.” Ganry spoke quietly. His eyes were distant, and he paused for a moment as a slight shudder ran through his body. “And slugs,” he added. “Nasty little slugs in the rivers that latch onto a man and bleed him dry if they aren’t peeled off. I never heard of a dragon-man, though.”
“Rooggaru is the last of his kind,” said Linz. “At least, that’s what I always heard. Long ago, before our ancestors came here, before we were Lake Men, we fought against Rooggaru’s people and defeated them. That is why he hates our people, why he steals our children and haunts our lake at night. That is why he sends the water dragons.”
“He controls them?” asked Myriam sharply.
“I don’t know.” Linz shrugged helplessly. “It’s just a story.”
“Your mother is no story,” said Ganry. “Your uncle neither. Something has happened here.”
“You’re right,” agreed Linz. “And if it’s the Rooggaru…” The boy paused. Gathering up his courage, he straightened his shoulders and looked Ganry in the eye. The boy was trying so hard to be a man.
“We have to do something about it,” he said. “We have to kill the Rooggaru.”
17
Harald poured the wine himself and offered one of the ornate goblets to Arexos. The young squire took it gratefully, but remembered enough of his manners to wait until the Regent had sipped his own wine before raising the cup to his lips. Harald smiled, a friendly and encouraging smile. He hoped the put the boy at ease. That was why they were alone in the Regent's private audience chamber.
It was a cosy room with overstuffed couches and a blazing fire in the hearth. Thick carpet covered the cold stone floor. Stained glass decorated the tall, arched windows, depicting triumphant scenes from the history of Palara. The central window held an image of Terrick, accepting the crown of his newly created nation. The crown that Harald himself could still, maddeningly, not truly call his own.
“You've served your country well, young man,” Harald said to Arexos, setting aside his goblet of wine. Again the easy smile. Keep the boy at ease. “We are pleased that you have returned to us, and grateful for the intelligence you brought with you from Vandemland. But tell me… Arexos, isn't it?”
The squire gulped, nearly choking on the wine. His lips opened and closed as he stammered, before managing a strangled reply. “Yes, your grace.”
“Arexos.” Harald maintained his easy smile. The boy was on edge still, but that was understandable after what he'd been through. “Henrickson's squire, isn't that right?”
“Yes, your grace.” The answer came quick this time, and more steady. That was good. Arexos was beginning to relax.
Before the squire was brought in, Harald had dusted the bottom of one of the goblets with a powder of ground poppies. That, of course, was the goblet he'd offered Arexos. The powder would do far more to ease the boy's tensions than Harald's affectations of friendliness. Even so, the Regent kept up his bright smile and welcoming attitude.
“Well,” he said. “It really is too bad about Henrickson. We must see to getting you reassigned. As a matter of fact, it's probably worth consideration to go ahead and knight you. Heaven knows, you've certainly been through a lot these past months. What do you say to that, eh?”
“Your grace…” Arexos nearly choked on his gratitude. Stammering again, his face flushed and he gulped down more of the drugged wine. Very good. Harald was sure the boy had already thought about a knighthood. What squire wouldn't have? This was going to be easy. Now the boy was practically tripping over himself with gratitude. “It would be the highest honor, your grace.”
“Of course.” It was an effort to keep up this saccharine facade, but Harald made himself do it all the same. He wanted some answers from this boy. If the honey didn't work, he could always try the stick. “Now then, I'm afraid I really must ask you to relive parts of your adventures over again. You see, we need to know some things.”
“Of course, your grace. How can I be of help to you?”
“Well,” said Harald. “About this party of Vandemlanders. You told Zaim they were camped out near Brammanville. Of course they'll have moved on. Too bad their brute of a commander escaped our men in the port. Slaver, wasn't he?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Terrible business.” Harald shook his head in mock disgust. “Ah well. These Vandemlanders will have moved on. You're quite sure their ultimate objective is Castle Villeroy?”
“Absolutely certain, your grace,” answered Arexos at once. His voice began to slur ever so slightly. Harald restrained an urge to frown, hoping he had not used too much of the powder. “Their leader, Qutaybah, is in league with the Duchess D'Anjou.”
“Well, it's a good thing we have the good duchess in our custody,” said Harald, waving off that particular detail as unimportant. “I'm more concerned with someone we have not been able to secure. Are you quite certain there was not a young woman amongst this company of savages?”
“Young woman, your grace?”
“My niece, you see. I'm afraid the Princess Myriam was abducted by agents of the duchess. Castle Locke has fallen, but there was no sign of the princess there. We can only assume someone spirited her away during the siege, perhaps through some hidden bolthole we have yet to locate. What we are wondering, Arexos my boy, is if this… Qutaybah, you say?”
Arexos nodded.
“Well, might it not have been this Qutaybah who snuck her out and away from her would-be rescuers?”
At that, the boy drew back his head with a puzzled look on his face. Harald cursed inwardly, suddenly wondering how much Henrickson might have told his squire. If the man had shared any details of Harald's plans - the coup, the executions, the plot to steal the throne for himself - then Henrickson was a fool.
“Rescuers, your grace?” The words came more slurred than ever now. The confusion in the boy's eyes was not just from the conversation. They had begun to take on a glazed cast.
“Of course,” said Harald. “We must secure my niece so that she may return to the Castle and take her throne.”
“Oh. Yes. Her throne.” Arexos nodded, blinking slowly. “I'm sorry, you grace. She was not among the company of the Vandemlanders.”
“You're quite certain of this?”
“Absolutely, your grace. I would have seen her.”
Harald nodded, mulling it over. If Arexos was telling the truth - if! - then Myriam was somewhere else. Probably still with that musclebound giant his men had reported seeing in Athaca and on the cliffs over the Berghein Valley before the siege. They could be anywhere by now, but Harald's instincts told him they would be making their way to him.
Perhaps not immediately. But sooner or later, Myriam would come seeking her crown. He meant to see her dead, preferably in some believable accident, long before she could reach Castle Villeroy. But first he would have to find the rotten little bitch. This scrap of a boy wasn't going to be much help with that. He could see that much. Worse, Arexos had claimed not to know the path this slaver Qutaybah meant to follow into Palara.
Useless. Worse than useless. Still smiling with insincere warmth, Harald looked over the increasingly drowsy young man and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. A knighthood? Hardly. More likely, this fool Arexos was destined for a date with the royal executioner.
18
The people of Rock Eagle Clan had a permanent encampment two leagues' distance from the oasis where Artas had made his remarkable double-shot. Over the heated objections of Draagos, Naavos had decreed that the travelers from Berghein Valley would be taken to this encampment as honored guests of the clan.
Although Artas had technically lost the shooting contest, his final shot - which had split his opponents arrow in twain despite Artas having loosed it before Draagos' arrow even struck the target - had greatly impressed all of the clansmen. Even Draagos had shown reluctant admiration for the shot. And when one of the other tribesman had reminded them that
Artas had made his original shot, it was agreed that the contest was at worst a questionable tie.
It was enough for Naavos, who declared the “theft” of the water to be forgiven. The bearded clan leader insisted that Artas, Zander, and the other two accompany him and his clan brothers back to Rock Eagle Clan's home. That home turned out to be an impressive settlement tucked away in the cool depths of a long, narrow canyon not far off.
So they made their way over the desert as the morning sun rose. Within minutes of dawn, the temperature had begun to soar. But they had plenty of water for the short trek. Ector and Dristan rode close beside and just behind their leader. Zander himself rode abreast with Naavos, and the two men spoke in low tones through most of the journey. As for Artas, he stuck close to Zander as well. Though he did not allow himself to look at Draagos, he felt the angry tribesman's eyes on his back the whole way.
Following the shoot-off, the other tribesmen were all quite friendly. Naavos had introduced each of them in a curt fashion before the group mounted up and set out for the canyon. There was Beaanor, with the stubbled cheeks and surprising eyes of pale blue. There was Tolemaas, a grizzled oldster with leathery, sun-burnt skin and a hawk nose that had been broken at least half a dozen times in his long, violent life. Then came Esaaradan, the youngest of the tribesman. His cheeks were smooth and supple with youth, his dark eyes bright with interest. Lastly there was Kaandemos, nearly as old as Tolemaas but with light skin and clouded eyes. He was a kind of priest, Artas had learned, although a holy man who had no qualms at wielding a spear like all the rest.
Listening in on Zander's conversation, Artas had also learned that Naavos was indeed the current chieftain of Rock Eagle Clan. His father had been chief before him. Draagos was a close cousin, and their grandfather had been the first chief of Rock Eagle Clan when the tribe split away from the Desert Eagle Clan more than fifty years ago. Zander seemed fascinated in this history, though Artas thought some of that interest must be feigned.
As they rode, the young archer wondered how long they would have to stay with these people. It was not that he found them unpleasant. Quite the opposite, with the exception of the still fuming Draagos. Well, Kaandemos sort of gave Artas the creeps as well, but the others had all been quite pleasant during the ride. But Artas and his companions had a mission, and the longer it took to complete, then the longer it would be before they could return to the east where they could do some good.
He fervently hoped that, by the time they finally did return to Palara, they would not be too late.
They had been riding for about an hour when the rocks began rising to either side. The slopes were at first gradual, but soon became steep before leveling out. The canyon between was narrow, though mostly straight. The rock was a dark, reddish brown. The path was shaded from the still rising sun by the cliffs, and the ride from there on was blessedly cool.
Ten minutes ride through the canyon brought them to the settlement. Here, the canyon widened out into a broad, open area. The space was a rough oval of bare, stony earth surrounded on all sides by the rearing cliffs of the plateau. The cliff walls were dotted with shadowy caves. Dozens of these openings were further shaded by hide awnings stretched over the mouths. Rough wooden structures clung to the wall beside others.
At the back of the settlement, opposite where the canyon defile entered, was a small spring. The water bubbled up from underground and was trapped in a stone pool the tribesmen had built to contain it. Presumably, the spring had once fed a stream and that was what had slowly worn the canyon passage that allowed people to enter this hidden grotto.
Near the pool, a series of low stone fences divided a large area into a dozen small enclosures where crops grew. Artas saw corn and beans and what looked like winter wheat. Hardy plants, the kind that could survive the hellish dry climate here in the wastes.
Most of the remaining open space was taken up by crude structures of plaster, stone, and dried mud. These were mostly small, no more than a single room. Fabric hangings served as doors and their windows were open circles without glass. In the center of this “town” stood a larger building, constructed in the same poor fashion. Artas saw it was large enough inside to accommodate the entire tribe if necessary, and from the low height of the roof he guessed its floor had been dug down beneath the ground level for added cooling.
Men and women were everywhere, going about their daily routine. A group of rambunctious children ran and played over near the farming paddocks. More children, older than the rowdies below, climbed the encircling cliffs. Adults emerged from the cave mouths, which Artas supposed were their homes. It was still quite early in the day, but no one appeared sleepy or just woken. Already there was work being done.
As Naavos led his party into the settlement, a few heads turned. There was little interest at first, but soon a murmur went up at the sight of strangers in the grotto. Naavos grinned, waving to several men and women as they passed. Soon they reached the large hall in the center of the settlement, and Naavos called the halt and jumped down from his horse.
The other men of his party also dismounted. Beaanor started off toward a handsome woman who had come out of the crowd and waited nearby. He paused after a few steps, looking back. He called to Esaaradan, motioning for the youngster to follow. With a reluctant glance at the travelers, the youth obeyed. Draagos, looking dour, remained beside his horse. Tolemaas and Kaandemos remained as well, though neither of the old men seemed angry.
Naavos turned to face his guests, still grinning. “Welcome, friends,” he said. “Welcome to the home of Rock Eagle Clan.”
***
“And now, my friends,” said Naavos, setting the beautifully painted fired-clay cup down on the bare earth floor in front of his crossed legs, “you must tell us of yourselves and your journey.”
They were seated together on the floor at one end of the settlement's great hall, the long, low building Artas had seen in the center of the village. The floor was indeed dug down below the outside ground level, as he had suspected. The room was shadowy and cool despite the still rising heat of the day. Light filtered in through the open door, and through narrow slits set into the walls at intervals near the roof.
The meeting room was largely unfurnished. There were rugs piled up against the wall, and Naavos had provided one for each man to spread on the packed earth of the floor. They were seated on these rugs, each man with his legs crossed in front of him. In addition to Naavos, Draagos, Tolemaas and Kaandemos, there were three other men of Rock Eagle Clan facing the travelers. Each was an oldster, apparently the elders of the tribe.
Draagos sat somewhat apart from the older men, and there was a sense that he did not quite belong. However, no objection had been raised to his presence. Kaandemos had raised an eyebrow at the fiery tribesman, but that was all.
The four travelers sat facing the tribesmen. Artas sat beside Zander. Dristan sat to the archer's other side, and Ector sat to Zander's right. The two soldiers said nothing, both looking to their commander to speak. Artas decided likewise to let Zander do the talking. His idea of a wager had proved successful, but it had very nearly been the death of them all. He thought it best to keep his mouth shut for the time being.
So it was Zander who told the story. He laid it out simply and without embellishment, but he did not spare the details. He told the tribal elders of the warring kingdoms in the east, of the fall of Castle Locke and the fugitive princess, of the usurper Harald and his lust for ever greater conquest, and finally of their own small part in the conflict. Naavos and his fellows listened intently, occasionally asking questions which Naavos translated.
When Zander had finished the tale, the chief turned to the four oldsters at his side and they conferred briefly in hushed tones. Draagos still sat to one side, watching all of this without comment. The man's sour, disgruntled expression was comment enough.
“So,” said Naavos when the discussion was ended. He nodded his head once, sharply, as if all was now understood. “You
seek the fire worshippers. The path to their stronghold is treacherous, fraught with peril. But this path is known to us.”
“Then you'll show us the way?” asked Zander hopefully.
Naavos held up a hand, one finger extended. His face turned pensive and he pursed his lips in hesitation. “Perhaps,” he said at last. “A guide can take you as far as the foothills beneath their place of power, yes. But there is first something you must do in return. We are friends, yes? And friends are never in one another's debt.”
Zander's face fell, but he quickly schooled his features. He spread his hands and smiled. “Friend, I feel indebted to you already for the gift of shelter from the sun, and the water for ourselves and our horses. We would be happy to help the Rock Eagle Clan in any way we can. Tell me, what is it you require of us?”
The chieftain's lips twitched with a hint of amusement, but when he spoke there was no humor in his words. His eyes were steady and serious.
“Not far from here lies a strange ruin,” said Naavos. “Made of wood, it is like no dwelling built by any clan. It stands half-buried in the shifting sands. My people call it the mish'an gro, the oasis of ghosts. Each month, when the nightsun reaches full, the ghosts return from the spiritland to stride once more upon the sand. These ghosts trouble my people. Each month, we lose goats and horses and sometimes even young men, foolish young men who seek to prove their bravery by daring the open desert on the night of the full nightsun.”
Artas shifted uncomfortably. Ector and Dristan exchanged a look over their companions' shoulders. But Zander sat still, listening politely. His face betrayed no reaction to the story. Behind impassive eyes, however, the commander was curious. He did not believe in marauding ghosts, so there must be some natural explanation. Yet Naavos and his fellow tribesmen, though in many ways primitive, did not seem stupid.
They were hard men, and practical as hard men often are. Their way of life was less advanced than that of the eastern kingdoms, but they lived in a harsh wasteland that offered little comfort. Yet they had been fair in their dealings with Zander and his fellows. They were civilized. Even so, as Naavos spoke of these “ghosts,” the other oldsters, and even Draagos, Zander was shocked to see, drew their limbs close against their bodies and made warding signs against evil with their hands.
