The warlord didn’t prove nearly as useful as he’d hoped. Rylin didn’t have the mental strength to beat him down with magic, and the man proved heroically obstinate about answering any useful questions. It was only when Rylin presented a knife to the warlord’s throat that the fellow’s tongue loosened a little—he confirmed that the dragons were to be sent on to Vedessus, capital of Arappa, and then to Darassus. Unfortunately, it was in that same moment that someone outside shouted for Warlord Talkus.
His prisoner called out, presumably seeking help, but Rylin ran him through before more than a vague squawk was communicated.
He heard footsteps outside the cottage as the questioner called again for Talkus. Rylin kept his hand over the dying man’s mouth as he lowered him to the scrubbed wooden floor, then jerked the cape off a slack neck. A moment later, Rylin was wearing Talkus’ image, and called out that he would be along in a moment. It was a fair approximation of the warlord’s high voice.
“The general’s called a meeting, Warlord.”
“One moment,” Rylin replied, surprised by just how petulant he managed to sound.
He bent to strip the weird hat from Talkus’ head, then used a booted foot to push the corpse deeper into the house, wiped his knife on the man’s shirt, and sheathed it.
His first thought was to call the messenger in here to be killed so he could slip away unchallenged. He probably had only a few minutes worth of magical power left inside the semblance, and it was time to switch over to the second stone. He had just finished transferring the images to the other semblance when he heard a footfall and saw the outline of a man in the doorway of the home.
“Warlord, are you in there?”
“I am.” Rylin stepped forward.
“The meeting’s to begin promptly, and High Warlord Zhintin wants you there.”
It would be very simple to kill this man and sneak away. But then if warlord Talkus didn’t turn up, mightn’t that get the Naor wondering where he’d gone?
Probably the chaotic nature of the attack upon the city would protect Rylin’s movements for a while. In a flash of inspiration, though, other possibilities presented themselves. If he were in the same room with the general and top officers, might he be able to kill them all? Though he’d be unlikely to survive against the Naor’s top amassed warriors, a sacrifice on his part might cripple their command structure. But would his death leave the refugees trapped?
He realized that he’d been more than a little lucky as well as a little smart so far. If he were to attempt something so bold as the action he now contemplated, he’d have to be very smart and very lucky. The potential amount of information he could learn, and the advantages it could give future warfare against the Naor, could not be underestimated. Yet wouldn’t he be mad to try? He needed a little more information about what he was walking into.
“I’m coming,” he said and started forward. “Why does Zhintin want me?”
The messenger still sounded respectful, but a little puzzled as well. “I’m sure he wants to hear your report on the downed dragon, my lord. The sub-commander said he saw you ride in. Were you able to look it over before your flight?”
“Of course,” he replied. They exited the house and he judged they were on a course for the gate tower. He dare not ask who was assembled. Surely Warlord Talkus would be expected to know the commanders.
“What about the battle for the city?” he ventured.
“The dragons were a great asset, as High Warlord Zhintin predicted, and the city was ours almost as soon as the west and south walls fell.”
“I know that,” he snapped. He had surmised it, at least. “I’ve been busy. I want to know the state of our forces and what resistance is left.”
“There’s little organized resistance, Warlord. The attack force reached the citadel quickly after you breached the walls and rumor has it the governor is dead, along with the top leaders of the Alantran forces. We’ve had no important losses. Many captives have been rounded up. All the better for you, eh?”
The warlord he was impersonating must have some need for prisoners. Surely they weren’t just chopped up for dragon food. By “no important losses” did this messenger mean all the commanders were unharmed? How many would he soon face?
As they neared the gatehouse, he saw no sign of the combat that must have taken place outside it, despite a generous amount of torchlight spilling from the ground floor windows. Many warriors, both Naor and Alantran, had doubtless been killed here, but no bodies lay beside the tower, nor were there broken arrows, swords, or other weapons of any kind, apart from the spears in the hands of the two tall sentries standing outside the main door. Slovenly about much else, the Naor were apparently organized with arms, command centers, and corpses.
The messenger who’d summoned Rylin hurried ahead to open the door for him, and the sentries ground their spear butts and came to attention. Rylin couldn’t be sure what the salute from a Naor warlord looked like, or whether they even gave one to the rank and file, so he simply breezed past. He felt the cloak swinging from his shoulders as he moved, lending him a sense of dramatic importance. Apart from the absurd hat and fur-trimmed cape, the rest of his appearance was illusion.
Inside the gate’s watchtower was a worn wooden staircase leading to the second level, and a door he knew would open to a mess hall. Once again, the messenger opened it for him. This time he stepped through less boldly.
Surely the table had never before hosted a meeting like the one now underway. He counted ten people seated in the bright rectangular chamber, well illuminated by pairs of sconces, two to each wall, and a lantern dangling from a ceiling beam that set their breastplates gleaming. A complex abstract mural suggesting a rolling, tree-topped landscape, rich with mountain browns and the green of grass and trees, wrapped each of the walls and intertwined the many mullioned windows, a sophisticated work completely at odds with the furred, murderous, and filthy occupants seated around the table in the room’s center.
All but one of eleven chairs, inlaid with carved masterpieces of leaping game animals, was already occupied. The stench of sweat and body odor was almost overpowering. Rylin guessed that warlord Talkus had bathed a little more recently than many of the men here; he hadn’t smelled this bad even after Rylin had killed him. Under the circumstances, sight of the table’s mostly consumed feast—various animal bones, half-gnawed bread, and drink—was revolting, despite the length of time since his last meal.
The hulking warriors at the table paid him scarce attention as he walked in, for one of them was making a report.
Rylin stepped to the empty chair, idly wondering if the man he impersonated was always apportioned a position farthest from the table head, or if the chairs had been assigned on a first-come, first-serve basis.
A single look at the group before him persuaded Rylin that his mad idea about killing them all would result only in his own death. These were veterans, the quarters were too close, and there were countless warriors just a shout away. Had he just jeopardized all the lives under his charge by taking this risky step? Was he being bold and clever, or would Varama have chided him for not thinking the problem through?
As he took his seat, only one man, an older fellow with a long, thin beard, at the right corner of the table, paid him any heed at all. His eyes were searching, and Rylin wondered if the man might be a sorcerer. A furred cloak similar to Rylin’s own hung from his shoulders, and in a moment Rylin guessed this was Zhintin, the lord of the dragons and his commanding officer. Probably wanting to know whether Rylin had good news or bad. Rylin gave a short nod, and the man relaxed, then gave his attention over to the scarred, red-bearded warrior addressing the meeting.
The speaker’s voice was gravelly, as though he’d been gargling sand. The scars of an old neck wound showed above his scale mail when he turned his head. While he rattled on about the conditions of horses for various groups—all good to excellent, in his estimation—Rylin surveyed the rest of the table’s occupants more
closely. Half were men of early middle-age; the others were in their midtwenties, and all but one of them was bearded. It struck him as peculiar that the Naor would allow any men to be beardless, going on what he knew of Naor society.
And then he realized with a start that the one without a beard was a woman. She was a brunette with shoulder-length hair, sitting two chairs down from the general. She wore scale mail like all the others, but there was no missing the lack of a laryngeal bump along her throat. And despite a concerted effort to mask femininity through absolute absence of any refinements, she was pretty, even though her nose had been broken at some point. Rylin tried not to stare.
He let his eyes drift from her to the table head and contemplated the general, surprised to find such a young man seated there. His red beard was cut straight across only an inch below his chin and was waxed stiffly so that it looked almost like a comb. His eyes were green and rather small, though they were alertly centered on the reporting officer. Unlike many of his warriors, he wore no ornaments, and there were few flourishes upon his gear.
The gravelly, red-haired officer finally quieted and the young general turned to another warrior to ask for casualties.
Rylin listened patiently as reports were delivered. He learned that the information he’d obtained in the days previous was accurate—there were eighteen thousand Naor in and around the area, and some were already riding north to establish footholds in outlying regions. There was as yet no sign of reinforcements from other Dendressi realms—the Naor actually used the word “fae” to refer to the Allied Realms, which seemed to mean both “alien” and “wrong” at the same time.
As a black-haired cavalry officer was in the midst of his scouting report, the woman interrupted him. Her voice was low and rough, possibly in a deliberate attempt to sound more masculine. “Did you not find any sign of Altenerai near my encounter? It was a few hours outside the settlement they call Wyndyss.”
The officer bowed his head to her, and addressed her with a male honorific. “We found nothing of interest there, Lord Vannek.”
Her lips settled into an aggrieved frown. “Then you weren’t looking closely enough. Kyrkenall was there. There were two others, in those armored Altenerai coats. And one of them looked a lot like N’lahr.”
Rylin’s ears all but rang. So Kyrkenall was still alive? And what was this talk of N’lahr?
“We found horse tracks,” the scarred soldier beside Rylin spoke up.
The original speaker interrupted. “But they led up to a rock slide, and there was no way through it. It was a fae trick. Just like dressing someone up like N’lahr,” the officer said with a smirk. “If N’lahr was really alive, don’t you think he’d have turned up before this?” Rylin sensed he was no longer answering Vannek, but playing to the rest of the table in an attempt to score political points.
“Enough,” the general said, and angrily slapped the table with his hand. For the first time he acted as young as he looked, but everyone around the table froze. “The account of my brother was verified by his officers. His honor, and his story, are beyond question, Tarsht.”
Interesting that the general referred to the woman as both “brother” and “he.”
“Of course, Lord General…,” the black-haired officer said quickly. Where he had seemed smug and certain mere moments ago, Rylin now saw his eyes wide in fear.
The general continued, his manner that of a hound fixed upon the kill. “Do you suggest a grandson of the great one provided a false report to me? Or that he is easily tricked?”
The “great one”—the woman was a descendant of the Naor ruler, Mazakan. Perhaps that explained why, even as a woman, she wielded power.
The Naor officer had grown ashen faced. “No, my lord.”
“I think you do. Leave us.”
“I meant no disrespect, my Lord General,” Tarsht stammered. “Not to your family—”
The general looked at the man on the other side of the stammering officer and snapped a command. “Rolk, Tarsht does not obey. His spoils are yours.”
“No!” The man named Tarsht backed away.
But the heavyset fellow beside him grabbed his long hair from behind and pulled him off balance, as Rolk was already plunging his food-stained knife once, then twice, into the officer’s neck. Rolk stepped back and casually dropped the dying man on the ground behind the table. Rolk’s graying beard writhed in a grim snarl of satisfaction.
The general glared around the table, then looked to Rolk. “Have someone get that thing out of here,” he ordered.
“Yes, my lord.” Rolk’s voice was husky in answer. He moved swiftly behind their chairs and called out to soldiers in the hall. Everyone pretended not to notice as two soldiers dragged the corpse from the room. Rolk tossed the officer’s empty chair in a corner.
Rylin hoped no one else could hear the thudding of his own heart, sounding as loud as a warning drum to him. Gods, it was madness to be here. So this was how Naor officers dealt with insubordination? Rylin didn’t suspect it a method likely to promote independent thought. How would he cover if he were asked to report on … anything?
He tried to focus. But his mind turned to the talk of N’lahr. Wily as Kyrkenall was, he supposed the archer might have played a similar ruse Rylin used this very day, but what companion could he get to play N’lahr while he and Elenai were hunted outlaws?
As Rolk returned to his seat after obtrusively wiping his knife on his pant leg before sheathing it, the reports from other officers continued. Rylin learned that another leader, Chargan, was expected to arrive within the next week, intending to use Alantris as a staging point from which to attack golden Darassus itself. Apparently, an army led by Mazakan was already deployed about the city of Vedessus and awaiting arrival of the dragons. Those walls, the Naor expected, would fall even more easily than the walls around Alantris.
Rylin listened in dread. The Naor had planned all of this very well. The timing would limit any reinforcement from allied realms. Astonishing that the Naor could be so clever when they lacked insight about so many other issues.
As the reports dragged out, Rylin began to fear above all for the length of his semblance’s duration. He activated his inner sight so that he might extend a sensory tendril toward the semblance and discovered it dangerously low. Lower than it should have been. He’d thought Varama had fully charged the item, but perhaps she hadn’t managed it, or it might be that it required more power to maintain a more elaborate disguise. It wasn’t as though he were simply wearing the illusion of a khalat with slightly different piping, as he had when he’d impersonated Exalt Thelar.
He couldn’t be sure how much time he had left and didn’t have the experience to guess. He tried not to fidget as he considered his options. If the thing dropped, he could leap for the door, or leap for the general. If he was going to die, he’d like to take out the Naor commander.
Rylin lost track of the conversation again, so he’d missed when the dragon lord, Zhintin, began to speak about the condition of the great beasts.
Zhintin’s voice was thin, obsequious. Apologetic. “Using the dragons in battle proved far more taxing than my men had supposed, General. If they’re to be used at peak efficiency against Vedessus my pilots need time to recover.”
The general wasn’t interested in excuses. His voice was cold and sharp. “They must be sent on to the Great Lord without delay. You know this, Zhintin.”
“I don’t make excuses, my lord.” Zhintin bowed his head, quickly. “I merely inform. I tell you, it was harder for my men to control the great beasts than your brother Chargan had anticipated.”
The general’s little eyes were merciless. “Do you say he deliberately misled you?”
Zhintin held up a hand. “No, sir. Not at all. We don’t each have the power and skill of your esteemed bloodline.”
His commander’s voice was heavy with disapproval. “Then you misjudged.”
Zhintin spoke on courageously. “Yes, sir; it was very challenging t
o maneuver the beasts and attack at the same time, watching for enemy ballistae and spears. Our practice didn’t take that into account. It left our handlers far more fatigued than we had expected.”
The general stared at him, and Rylin wondered if Zhintin was about to get the same treatment as Tarsht. Maybe Zhintin wondered the same thing. The general turned to Rolk. “I’m not happy about this. What do you suggest?”
Zhintin visibly gulped as Rolk coldly eyed him then turned his head toward his ruler. “Wizards are weak, and magic is never dependable. There are no spares. They probably need the time.”
That must not have been the answer the general looked for, because he frowned. He glared across the table and spoke as though he regretted being advised to mercy. “Give your men three hours. Requisition as many prisoners as you need for an olech.”
There was no missing the relief in Zhintin’s voice as he bowed his head. “Yes, my lord general. They will be far more successful moving forward with this rest that you’ve ordered.”
Rylin wiped the rising snarl from his face at the thought of the citizens being rounded up for slaughter. When life was expended there was, indeed, a brief surge of magical power, but hundreds, perhaps thousands would have to be slain to generate enough energy to achieve anything noteworthy.
Rolk spoke up, his voice a hoarse growl. “My lord, we haven’t had time to sort out the prisoners. We don’t know the valuable from the useless.”
The general nodded shortly. From this one, at least, he was willing to hear unpleasant information. He looked back to Zhintin. “Cull babes and the elderly, Zhintin. We need the able-bodied.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Go. Now.”
As Zhintin started to rise, Rolk spoke again. “Some of the weak ones will be bargaining chips, my lord. They may be relatives of some important—”
The general cut him off sharply. Apparently he’d taken enough advice. “No. Zhintin, you have your orders.”
Upon the Flight of the Queen Page 6
