The arena fell silent, and Sarjak continued to grin. Sinjin held his ground, pivoting to follow the smaller man's movements. Intimidation was an effective tactic, and Sarjak was well trained. His movements catlike, he stalked Sinjin. Leaping high, his legs carved precise lines. Kicking the air didn't impress Sinjin but did show how nimble and skilled his opponent was. Still, the man had already expended a great deal of energy without landing a blow.
Though armed with an inferior spear, Sinjin was not untrained and had advantages of his own, though he suspected the use of Istra's power during such a fight would incite greater violence. Still, he wasn't against using his gifts to save his own life. Pivoting again, he watched the diminutive warrior prepare to do another of his flips. Sinjin was trying to decide if this was his opportunity to strike when Sarjak of the Scorpion Clan launched a surprise attack. What had seemed the setup to a harmless move was actually a devastating strike. As he thrust his spear into Sinjin's side, bringing pain and warmth, Sarjak grinned.
This was when most fighters made mistakes. He could almost hear his uncle coaching from the past. "Don't rush in to soothe your pride. Wait 'til you've got the advantage; then strike. Pride is a dead man's weapon."
He hadn't always understood or appreciated the words, but they saved him from a quick death. Though small, Sarjak was a potent enemy.
Pivot and feint. Sinjin tried to elicit some response. He hadn't wanted to hurt this man, but blood soaked his pant leg. He wouldn't last much longer. Sarjak could let him bleed to death. Again, Sinjin made a sloppy attempt at provoking an ill-timed attack out of Sarjak, and again the man held back. Each pivot and turn, Sinjin's movements got a little sloppier, dizziness driving him to one knee. As he picked himself up, the crowd booed. "Thief," they chanted, which raised his ire, but he didn't let it get to him. He just needed Sarjak to move a little closer. Louder the crowd grew, and Sarjak turned his attention away for just an instant.
Sinjin was already moving when Strom opened his shirt, revealing the amber figurine. Without a word, the smith caused the statuette to shine brightly, further distracting Sarjak. It was all the break he needed to land a blow across the Arghast warrior's knees. Exerting his will, the mundane spear struck with more force than the swing alone would have imparted, which sent the small man tumbling over backward, clutching his knee in pain.
Circling, Sinjin looked for an opening, knowing the show of weakness could be false, but Sarjak struggled to stand. Still Sinjin suspected a farce. When he stepped in for a feint, Sarjak sent the presumably injured leg soaring toward Sinjin's unprotected face. Perhaps it was all the years of living with Kendra, but Sinjin knew how to dodge. He managed to get his face clear and take a swing at the exposed knee. Sarjak's scream gave evidence the knee truly was injured.
With no more tricks and dizziness starting to set in, Sinjin pushed harder than he should have. Suddenly seeing a keystone previously blocked from view distracted him. Sarjak's bare foot landed on his jaw.
The crowd launched to their feet and shook the foundation with their shouts. Strom and Kendra tried to reach him. Trying to sneak around where no one was looking, Osbourne also came. They would not be fast enough. Though no taller than Gwen Hawk, Sarjak of the Scorpion clan held his spear poised for a deadly strike.
* * *
The forests of Astor might be the worst place on Godsland as far as Nat Dersinger was concerned. It would all likely be over soon, his fate already determined. A waxing gibbous moon hid among the comets. Not so long ago, the dead god's periodic light had set the meter for life. Now, though, every night was brighter than the closest fullest moon he'd ever known. They said the dead god had been closer once, looming larger in the skies and pulling the tides to extremes. Now, though, one had to search for the moon amid Istra's brilliance. Could he even be certain the moon was not yet full? The light played tricks with his eyes. He could not afford to be fooled this time.
Snow capped the mountains in the distance, and the peaks shone like burnished copper. Within those peaks rested Ohmahold, perhaps the oldest fortification on the Greatland. Using the contours of converging mountain ranges, the ancients had constructed a safe haven within the most formidable natural defenses possible. Nature had assisted greatly, but it did not come without a price. Weaknesses of which few were aware and fewer still were mindful of had existed since before the rise of civilization. Again, Nat shivered at the thought.
Any time he followed in Catrin's footsteps, even in reverse, Nat worried. She was a bright flame. Getting too close meant risking the burn. Even she and Brother Vaughn had not known about the items Nat had been sent to retrieve. No one born in the past thousand years knew--until now. Excitement vied with worry. The dragon had treated him kindly as well as unkindly, but there was something more in this for Nat, who'd been ostracized for warning of these very events. Now he had the opportunity to be a part of those events as they unfolded and to uncover knowledge once lost.
Common thought was that the ancients had left them gifts to help them along when Istra finally returned. In actuality, the ancients had left gifts for themselves and hidden them well. Growing familiarity provided glimpses into Mael's feelings and motivations. It was both terrifying and oddly comforting. He made himself think of other things, knowing the dragon was likely nearby, watching him and reading his thoughts.
When a steaming pool backed up to a rock face appeared ahead, he knew a long night waited. The druids watched these forests closely, and a fire was a sure way to draw their attention. Nat had no problem with druids; they were generally kind folks so long as you didn't abuse the land. But in these parts, druids and the Cathurans were tightly aligned. Nat also had no problems with Cathurans, except that he was about to rob them, he hoped without their ever knowing.
Nat backed off from the pool, looking for a sheltered place to spend a night. Not much presented itself. This was not the kind of place anyone would want to stay for long. Sun-bleached bones lined the shores of the pool, a clear warning that obviously some ignored at their own peril. Knowing he was one, Nat quailed. Though still safe on land, the thought of soon entering the water and possibly being eaten by daggerfish prevented him from getting any restful sleep. His dreams were of teeth and red water.
When a full day passed, clouds blew in with the sunset. No matter how bright or full, the moon could not be seen. As a fisherman, he'd used the cycles of the moon his entire life, but this one time he worried he was wrong, that he had somehow miscalculated. Never before had his knowledge of the dead god's cycles been an actual matter of life and death. The clouds also prevented him from keeping accurate time, and he thumbed his sand clock, trying to decide what to do.
If he entered the water too soon, before the moon was high, he would be almost certainly eaten going in. If he waited too long, he would either become trapped inside Ohmahold or be eaten on his way out. He suppressed thoughts of surrendering to the Cathurans. Visions of Mael clawing his way into the hold made him quail.
A rabbit skin was his only assurance. His legs shaking, Nat wrapped the skin around a rock and tossed it into the mist-covered water. Though it bobbed and floated, the skin remained otherwise unmolested. Nat said a prayer that the fish weren't just good at recognizing living prey. Stripping down to naught but a loincloth, he stood by the pool and shivered from more than just the cold. He picked up a small waxed bundle and an amber figurine. Not understanding how the figurine worked, he hoped the light would last long enough. If everything went as planned, he would be in and out in a single night. But it was an audacious plan.
Unable to stand the thought of waiting too long, Nat slowly walked into the water, risking only toes at first. With every step, he was more vulnerable and would have a more difficult time escaping. When he ducked his head under the water, he was beyond hope if daggerfish attacked. Small forms brushed up against him in groups, feeling like loose stones that danced through the water. If not for holding his breath, he would have cried out. What had he done to offend fate, he
asked himself while swimming through the blackness and still feeling stone overhead. It was then he questioned if he'd found the right pool or even the right tunnel leading from the pool. Panicking, he scrabbled harder, knowing it was too late to go back the way he'd come. When at last he broke the surface, he coughed and sputtered, trying to regain his breath. The sounds echoed through the ancient mines beneath Ohmahold.
Quickly Nat emerged, dried himself as best he could, and donned the leather slippers he'd wrapped in a waxed pack. Feeling cold and vulnerable, he trembled on his legs. In no way was Nat Dersinger made for stealth. Running through darkened halls, racing against the sand clock and wearing nothing but a loincloth and slippers, he could not have felt more like a fool. The dragon had better be right.
Chapter 9
The creative mind accelerates over time.
-- Osbourne Macano, glassblower
* * *
"Stop!"
The booming voice echoed from nowhere. Sarjak of the Scorpion Clan hesitated. His posture resembled his clan's namesake, his spear like the arachnid's tail, its tip ready to lash out with speed and force. Strom wanted to go to Sinjin, to stop the fight before Catrin's son was dead, but tribesmen stood ready to prevent just that. His figurine would no longer be much use. Fingering the spider stone, Strom knew another way, one which terrified him.
Catrin's voice, though twisted and distorted, drew Strom's gaze toward a stone grove at the back of the arena and away from Sarjak's spear. Previously obscured from view, the stone grove cleared as the Arghast moved away from the keystone with haste. Looking again, Strom cursed himself for being unobservant. Signs of recent damage marred the area. Flickering amber light danced around the keystone. Pain filled Catrin Volker's visage when she appeared above the circular artifact, as if she, too, were fractured and torn.
"Give my son the sword," Catrin's shade said. Dark shadows danced around her, laughing and encroaching on her spirit. Lightning split the air above the keystone and Catrin recoiled.
"Mom!" Sinjin yelled, no longer under threat from Sarjak's spear.
The Arghast warrior who'd been so close to ending Sinjin's life now rushed toward the keystone. Catrin, still trapped within the Noonspire and under attack, lashed out with ropes of fire before her image flickered and faded away.
"For the Herald!" Sarjak of the Scorpion Clan yelled as he leaped into the shattered portal. His high-pitched scream ended abruptly as the keystone fell dark and silent.
Sarjak was gone.
The men blocking Strom moved. The mood shifted. It had been clear all along this was a sacred, holy place. Catrin's appearance was a significant event, and it seemed to have triggered some knew belief. While Strom detested prophecies, they did on occasion come in handy. Reaching Sinjin's side, he was grateful for this instance. He examined the wound, which was still bleeding rapidly. The young man was already weakened. Kendra reached him a moment later, tearing strips from her garments and applying pressure to stem the blood flow. "Get the sword," she said to Strom in a low growl, "and then get us out of here."
The smith just nodded and searched for the man who'd challenged Sinjin in the first place. It was an impossible task. The man had been wearing headgear, and only minor variations in his garb gave any indication of his identity. Strom remembered his physical form well, but these were a lean, muscular people, so he didn't stand out. It didn't help that no one wanted to face them. Most formed an orderly line, leaving the building in subdued silence. Strom was not far from losing his temper and demanding they all stop what they were doing and take the desert apart if that was what it took to get Catrin's boiling sword. An older man approached. Strom recognized him as the man who'd given the order to start the fight.
"Please accept our humble apologies," the man began.
Strom grunted.
"I've sent for water, clean bandages, and herbs for the Herald's son."
"Where's the sword?" Strom asked with a command in his tone. The Arghast respected strength, and he knew that, but he'd also had about all he could stand of the tribesmen. Perhaps the Drakon and Dragon Clan were more flexible in their beliefs due to the changes they had seen in their own lives, but for whatever reason, the Arghast on the Godfist were more steadfast. When honest, Strom had to admit the fact that their prophecies kept coming true probably had something to do with it. Still, a big part of him believed prophecies fulfilled themselves. Would Catrin have had to come through the keystone if the Arghast had not believed she needed to in order to fulfill their role? It wasn't a question that would be answered any time soon.
"I have sent for the sword."
"Where is it?" Strom repeated.
The older man hesitated, and Strom leaned closer. "A sacred place," he said.
"Take us there. Now."
"I cannot," the man said. "I have sent the fastest horses."
"We have dragons."
"About that . . ."
Not waiting to hear what the man said, Strom marched toward the entrance. Though the Arghast had been true to their word and white-robed figures worked to clean and dress Sinjin's wound, anger continued to build within the smith. Burning like a forge under full bellows, his rage grew. "Out of my way!" he barked at the last of those seeking to make an orderly exit. The line parted before him, and he knew he must resemble a charging bull. It was something he'd worked on over the years, which sometimes proved useful.
When he reached the sands above, he wondered again how they managed to keep sand from filling the entire place and hiding it beneath the dunes forever, but the question was soon driven from his mind. The dragons truly were gone. Cursing, Strom turned back toward the arena like a gathering thunderhead. The older man met him at the entranceway.
"What's your name?" Strom asked, no warmth in his voice.
"Thane."
"What happened to our dragons, Thane?"
"I don't know," the man said.
Strom growled.
"I am told they simply flew away."
The big smith wanted to be angry with Thane, to blame all this on him, but he could not. For all he knew, the dragons had abandoned them of their own volition. It wouldn't be the first time.
"We're sorry for how you've been treated," Thane apologized again.
"This is twice," Strom said, looking Thane directly in the eye. "If I ever come back here again, you all had better be nice. Is that clear?"
Thane nodded.
Moving back inside, Strom pushed through the crowd, which again parted before him.
Sinjin was on his feet, his abdomen wrapped in clean dressing.
"How are you feeling?" Strom asked, sounding like a completely different person.
"I've been better . . . but I'm not dead. Thanks."
Strom grinned at him. Thane said nothing but nodded in understanding and silent apology.
Kendra was about to say something sarcastic when a shout from the entranceway drew everyone's attention.
"Dragons!" someone shouted.
"Out of our way!" Strom barked as they practically carried Sinjin from the arena.
When they reached open air, Strom almost turned around and rushed back in. Feral dragons approached, though were still some distance away. Even closer, though, were Valterius and Gerhonda, each bearing a heavy load. Both worked hard to maintain their altitude. Beneath them, their loads flailed and writhed, making the task more difficult. When Strom realized the dragons carried horses, each with a rider still in the saddle, he prepared himself for more trouble. This was not the kind of thing the Arghast took lightly.
The horses did arrive with far greater speed than they would have achieved without "help," and with ferals on the way, every instant mattered. Valterius bugled in triumph when he set the horse and rider gently before Sinjin, like a hunting dog delivering a fat duck. The rider teetered in his saddle, his horse sidestepping and wheeling, the whites of his eyes visible in his panic. Bearing a bundle wrapped in blankets, he presented it on trembling knees.
Tak
ing his arm from around Kendra's shoulders, Sinjin accepted the cloth-wrapped sword with a wince. Pulling back the oiled cloth revealed Strom's masterpiece. Though he'd never wanted to create death machines, the smith had to admit this sword was beautiful and unique. Unlike single-bladed swords that were the pinnacle of technology developed over hundreds of years, everything about this sword was superior and advanced. Strong but brittle metals mixed with softer, malleable metals were apparent in acid-etched lines along the blade. Wisplike joins fused hardened metal that formed the cutting edges. Even while he'd been forging the sword, Strom had not understood. Now, looking at it with fresh eyes, he still did not completely understand all the reasons for the things he'd done. It had all come from Kyrien, the knowledge a specter he'd chase for all his days.
Gerhonda placed the other horse and rider as gently as she could on the ground then whined at Kendra, looking back toward the ferals. There was no time for words. Strom helped Sinjin and Osbourne mount Valterius and get strapped in. Sinjin looked better already. Pain was clear on the younger man's face, but it was accompanied by unquestionable determination that made Strom proud.
Kendra reached down a hand, and Strom used the leverage to gain the saddle. Gerhonda decided he could finish strapping in from mid air. It was not a decision he appreciated until he looked back to see just how close the ferals had gotten--far too close, indeed. Reaching deep into his pocket, he fingered the spider stone, praying he would not need to use it.
* * *
Making their way back to the dry docks and staging fields, Kenward Trell had to admire his mother's foresight and wisdom. Everywhere he looked in these hills, he found raw materials. Though primarily made of wood, and specific types of wood for different purposes, metal was a critical component in shipbuilding. The craftsmen his mother had assembled needed ore, and finding it locally would be far cheaper than shipping it in. His family earned their living through trade and needed to continue doing so if they wanted to finance such an elaborate construction operation. His mother had never been one for half measures. She hid things from him still; just as he withheld information from her; most of the time the arrangement suited them.
The Seventh Magic (Book 3) Page 9
