“Emperor Kurgan commanded him to attack Ildakar. What else would he do?” A scowl crossed Cyrus’s face beneath the fold of his gray hood. “Even if he chose the wrong leader to follow, Utros is a great military commander. Iron Fang is long dead, and Utros can be the true ruler that we have always needed. Our people will be part of his new army. He needs us! The Hidden People are a great army. We have waited so long for him.”
“Utros has more soldiers than you can imagine,” Nicci said. “How will you help him? Many mobs consider themselves armies until they face a real enemy.”
Cyrus looked at her defiantly. “Follow me. I will show you.”
Leaving the speaking chamber, Cyrus glided through the stone corridors until he paused before a sealed storeroom. Cyrus took a deep anticipatory breath and tugged on the door. The dark wood was so old it looked petrified, and the hinges creaked as they reluctantly swung open.
When the torchlight chased away the shadows, Nicci saw a vast chamber filled with gleaming swords in storage racks, enough weapons for an army of thousands. Spears stood in the corners like corn shocks. Curved helmets were piled on shelves. Stacked shields all bore Kurgan’s flame symbol.
Cyrus lifted one of the swords. “We keep these sharpened and oiled, ready to be used the moment General Utros calls us to war. We train at night, practicing our swordplay in front of his statue.” He looked eager. “We have waited long to be called to our duty, but it will happen. We know it will happen! Considering the stories of General Utros, we have no doubt.”
“You should have doubts,” Nicci scolded. Despite her skepticism about the man’s blind faith, she admired the blades and armor. “There is much you don’t know about your hero.”
Cyrus cut her off. “I know all I need to know, and we are ready for him.”
After showing her the weapons, he ushered her out and closed the door behind them. She heard the Hidden People stirring inside the dim corridors of the shuttered buildings, their conversations building. Outside, the sun had gone down, and once again the people had the freedom to roam the city.
CHAPTER 20
Inside the enclosed hold of the Norukai serpent ship, the air stank of sweat, fish, and fear. Bannon hunched on the wooden bench, feeling the manacles like jaws around his wrists. The jangle of the heavy chains was softer than the groans of pain and anxiety from the nearby slaves. But he made himself stay strong. He had survived this long.
The oars creaked as the slaves strained to row, driving the serpent ship downriver. The dull heartbeat of the pace drum echoed inside the hold, where the captives struggled to keep up with the rhythm. They worked hard to avoid the whip of the oar master, who was all too anxious to start the day by making an example of someone.
Open hatches in the hull were designed to let in sunshine and air, but provided little of either. Instead, the reminder of daylight and freedom was merely another aspect of the Norukai torture. Gripping the sweat-slick oars, Bannon’s hands were covered with blisters. His voice was only a dry croak as he groaned. He couldn’t guess how long it would be before the hourly bucket of river water was passed around again, a ladleful splashed into their mouths.
Bannon’s muscles throbbed from his biceps to his bones. The current of the Killraven River would pull them along, and the dark sails caught breezes, but King Grieve insisted on greater speed, forcing the captives to sweat and bleed and die if necessary. While others begged, Bannon didn’t give the scarred raiders that satisfaction. The drumbeat pounded harder, and he strained to keep up.
The oar master was a surly man named Bosko, prone to flatulence, which only increased the stink in the confined space belowdecks. Tattoos and scars covered his face, but Bosko would have been ugly even without the mutilation.
Sitting under the open hatch up to the main deck, he bellowed, “Harder, you worms! Lazy men will be hungry men. If you want your feast at noon, you’d better work up an appetite.” He laughed, flinging his scarred mouth wide.
Bannon’s stomach recoiled at the thought of the rancid fish guts they would shove into his mouth. He had been starving for so many days, and he would force himself to swallow the nourishment, no matter the awful taste.
The big miserable man chained next to him whimpered. His shoulders hunched and shook, and his hands were loose on the oar. Bannon whispered, “Please row—help me. If they think you’re lazy, they’ll chop off your hands, and I don’t want that to happen to you.” The man flinched as if Bannon’s words were as sharp as a Norukai whip. “Trust me, stick with me. We’ll get through this.”
Sullen, the big man gripped the oar shaft and pulled, though he couldn’t articulate words.
The man, Erik, was one of the new captives taken two nights ago when the serpent ships had raided a small peaceful village. When the raid had launched, Chalk remained behind on deck, bouncing with excitement as he watched King Grieve swing his war axe and lead his fighters. “The axe cleaves the wood! The sword cleaves the bone!” the albino called out. He had looked at Bannon as if the words had special meaning. From the deck of the main ship, Bannon had watched the ruthless Norukai ransack and burn. He wished he had Sturdy, or even a stick, to smash Chalk’s face, or King Grieve, or the shipwright Gara, or the oar master Bosko. Any Norukai would do.
They had pillaged the settlement, seizing supplies, burning homes, slaughtering children, raping women. They had also captured a handful of strong, healthy people, including Erik, to press into slavery. After the serpent ships set off again, Bannon was glad to learn that several of the Norukai had not come back, so the villagers must have put up unexpected resistance.
Now, Bannon and Erik were chained together on this bench, though they had few opportunities to talk. The big man was drowning in grief. “You’ve got to work so they don’t kill you,” Bannon urged him. “I know it’s terrible, and I can only guess at what you’ve lost, but don’t give up. Keep watching for your chance to escape. You’ll know when the time comes.”
Still sobbing, Erik nodded. “They’re all dead. . . .”
Bannon tried to think of a way to give the poor man strength. “Getting killed won’t bring your family back. The Norukai won’t tolerate insubordination. We’re no more than a haul of fish to them.”
“I hate them.” Erik had shaggy brown hair and a beard, a square face, broad shoulders. The raiders had killed his wife and two children, but captured him because he looked like a strong worker. “I hate them,” he repeated.
“We have that much in common. Sweet Sea Mother, we will find some way out of this. Stick with me, and don’t give up.”
A looming shadow appeared at the hatch above, and King Grieve shouted down into the hold. The oar master stopped drumming so the king’s words could be heard. “You are beaten. You are slaves. You serve the Norukai. Your lives are ours, and we can take your lives whenever we like, if you don’t work.”
The chained men slumped on the benches. Bannon held his silence, though a flare of anger made his skin feel hot. Erik tried to stifle his weeping. Bannon wanted to comfort the man, but he could only offer empty hope and his own optimism. He comforted himself with the promise that he would kill as many of the Norukai as he could.
Bosko lifted a ladle of clean water from a wooden bucket at his side and slurped a drink for himself as he eyed the captives who looked desperately at the liquid. Without the least bit of embarrassment, he passed gas in a loud burst.
Grieve glared at the oar master from the deck above. “Why did you stop drumming? Keep the ship moving.”
Bosko pounded out the beat again at an even faster pace than before.
After Grieve retreated from the upper hatch, a spidery shape dropped down on the wooden ladder, peering into the smelly place. Chalk scuttled into the hold, where his bare feet splashed in the puddles of bilge that collected there.
“Row, row, row! Down the river we go. You’ll all grieve!” He stopped abruptly when he saw Bannon chained to the bench. With mincing footsteps, he came to torment the young man
, though he seemed to consider it conversation. “You like to row? Off we go!”
“I hate to row,” Bannon said, then thought of Ian as well as Erik’s family, all of the victims the raiders had left in their wake. “I hate the Norukai. Can you understand why?”
With a grave expression, Chalk bobbed his head on his bony neck. “Some Norukai are not nice.”
Erik shrank away from the scrawny albino, but Chalk’s attention remained entirely on Bannon. He took a seat on a sharp edge of the adjacent bench, squirming to find a comfortable spot, as if this were merely an afternoon in the park and they were two friends chatting.
“I want all Norukai to die,” Bannon said.
“Even me?” Chalk said. “I’m your friend.”
He paused in his rowing. “Friend? I’m chained here as a slave!”
“I give you fish,” Chalk said.
“You give me fish guts.”
“Moist and tender fish guts.” He licked his lips. “They are good! They are what I eat.”
“Leave me alone.” Bannon bent to his rowing because that was better than the albino’s taunting. Next to him, Erik groaned and sniffled.
As if jilted, Chalk frowned. “If you don’t like my fish guts, then I’ll give your portion to him.” He looked indignantly at the new captive. The thought only made Erik moan even more.
“Why do you keep pestering me?” Bannon asked. Was this creature some kind of strange ally? “You don’t see how cruel King Grieve is, how cruel you all are, the pain you’ve caused.”
Erik found the courage to echo the words, “I hate you all.” The other slaves muttered as well, all of them listening.
Chalk was surprised and curious, as if he honestly hadn’t considered the idea. “Why? Why do you hate?” From the expression on the albino’s face, he seemed to be expecting an answer.
Bannon was surprised. “You honestly don’t know? You can’t see the terrible things you’ve done?”
“Terrible? We are Norukai. This is what we do.” He scratched his hideously scarred chest. “Would you have us be different?”
“Yes!” Bannon wasn’t sure how he could get through to the odd man. “The Norukai tried to capture me when I was a boy, but I got away. They took my friend Ian instead, sold him to Ildakar as a slave for the combat arena. He spent all his life being tortured and trained.”
“Ah, a champion,” Chalk said.
“A slave!”
The shaman remained perplexed. “If he was captured, why do you feel sorry for him? That means he was weak. If he fought in a combat arena, he must have had a glorious life. I know about Ildakar. Yes, yes, Ildakar! Gone now.” He frowned, tugged on his scarred lip. “What did your friend expect?”
“Ian expected a life!”
Chalk scratched his straggly white hair. “A life? If he was a champion, what better life is there? Maybe he could have been a Norukai warrior instead. Would that have been a better life?”
“No! He could have lived on Chiriya Island. He could have married, had a wife, children, a nice home.” Bannon sighed with the sadness of lost hopes for his friend.
Chalk made a rude noise. “Weak. Sounds weak. I think he must have been strong.”
“If he had stayed home, he would have been loved,” Bannon said. “I loved him. He was my friend, and the Norukai took all that away. He would have had a much better life.”
“Love . . .” Chalk frowned. “Not everyone has love. Not poor Chalk. Do we all deserve love?”
“Yes, we all deserve love,” Bannon said, “even if someone else takes it away.”
“I have never known love. I don’t understand it.”
“You don’t understand a lot of things.”
The shaman found that hilariously funny and said in a singsong voice, “Love, love! Grieve, Grieve! You’ll all grieve. No love for me, I’ve seen it. No love for me.”
Chalk seemed entirely convinced, and Bannon felt an odd moment of twisted sympathy. The countless bite marks and rough scars on the smooth white skin made the shaman repulsive. In frustration, Bannon asked, “Why do you keep bothering me? Why am I special?”
“The axe cleaves the wood. The sword cleaves the bone!” Chalk tapped his temple. “Because you’re in my head and maybe by talking to you I can get you out.” He paused to consider. “You’ll all grieve. Sailing, sailing, sailing!” As if he heard some hidden whistle, Chalk bounced off the bench. “Talk later. For now, row, row, row! Soon, we’ll be out on the shining sea again.”
Leaving Bannon baffled, the albino scrambled along the underdeck, ducking low even though he was much shorter than the beams. He climbed the ladder to the open air, while the slaves looked longingly after him.
CHAPTER 21
As Adessa continued north along the river, the channel widened to create a maze of marshes, tall reeds interspersed with sluggish rivulets and stagnant pools.
Carrying her stained sack, she splashed along, stepping on grassy hummocks or sliding into loose muck. Once, she sank up to her waist in a slurry of silt, but she hauled herself out, disappointed in her clumsiness. If she wasn’t careful, she might lose her trophy. She had carried the wizard commander’s head for many miles and many days. Adessa was eager to see the expression of warm gratitude on Thora’s face when she opened the sack and pulled out the rotting horror.
As she made her way through the marsh, she felt the bloated burden at her hip. By now, Maxim’s head was growing softer, squishier. The marsh was full of unpleasant odors, but the sweet nauseating stench of decay hung like a cloud. She skirted several fishing towns at bends in the river, not wanting questions or company. The closer she got to Ildakar, the more threatening the swamps would be, the deadlier the predators. For now, she wanted to make good time.
She pressed her fingers against the sack to feel her victim’s clumped hair, the oozing skin. Liquid seeped through the fabric, making a new stain of pus and spoiled blood.
“Do you remember these marshes?” she asked aloud. “That town where you thought you were safe? Tarada, I think it was called. I killed your followers there, and you ran.” She paused, expecting his mouth to move and speak. “What? No reply?”
Sure that she had not imagined it the first time, she kept trying to provoke the wizard commander’s spirit to come again. She knew for certain that Maxim’s eyes had opened, that he had truly spoken to her. Since then, she had kept the head tied inside the sack to stifle his reanimation.
But Maxim could not speak to her because he was dead! It must have been her imagination. And even if the wizard commander did utter words, he was defeated. He had nothing to say to her.
That night Adessa made a solitary camp on a hummock of brown grass and peat, where she could sleep. Setting the sack in the matted grass, she found a dead swamp oak with wood rotten enough that she could break off the branches. She piled the twigs and dry grasses to start a fire. The orange flames were the only light for as far as she could see. Adessa heard the constant buzzing of marsh insects, night birds, and slithering creatures that hunted in the darkness. She sat cross-legged on a mossy rock that was solid, if not comfortable. Adessa needed no comfort.
She peeled thick reeds and roasted the bland but edible pulp. She had found berries during the day, even killed a small marsh hare with a thrown knife, which she now skinned and roasted. It was enough to satisfy.
Maxim’s head remained wrapped in the sack, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from it. She saw only the lumpy outline inside the fabric, but she knew that he was staring at her with jellied eyes. His puffy purplish lips would be twisted in a mocking smile.
She heard a whispered voice above the undertone of swamp sounds. “You can’t hide from me by keeping me in this sack.”
“You cannot speak.”
“Then why are you answering me?”
“You’re dead.”
“I don’t dispute that fact.”
“Then stop talking to me!” She bit into the roasted rabbit leg so viciously that she broke t
he bone between her teeth. She spat out the hard shards.
“I am still the wizard commander.” Maxim’s voice was muffled by the sack. “You tricked me, surprised me. That was the only way you were able to kill me, but I still have great powers you can’t understand.”
Adessa lurched over to yank open the sack. She pulled out the head. “Be quiet!”
His blackened skin sagged in all the wrong places, and his oozing eyes came bright and alive, turning toward her. “I merely thought you might like some conversation. No need to be rude. It’s lonely out here in the swamps, and you don’t have any company.” His gruesome face grinned at her. One of his loose teeth fell from his gums and dropped into the grass. “My many lovers have told me I’m very good company.”
“I don’t want your conversation.”
“I know what you fear, dear Adessa. You’re afraid that you might be going mad.”
“I’m not mad!”
Maxim’s lips parted. “Would a sane woman talk to a rotting head in the middle of a swamp?” His smile broadened so that the decaying skin cracked and yellowish pus ran down into his goatee. “Would a sane woman hear him answer?”
She carried her grisly trophy to a stagnant eddy at the edge of the hummock and submerged the head. “Now I don’t have to hear you.” She stood up, smug.
Through the still water she could see Maxim’s eyes looking up at her, but his mouth made no sound.
Satisfied, she went back to her meal, finished the rabbit with a handful of berries, but she couldn’t stop thinking about her trophy. She worried about the decomposing head under the water. What if the current was stronger than she expected? What if he drifted away?
She knelt on the edge of the grasses to check on the head. She was alarmed to see half a dozen brown fingerlings nibbling on the decaying face. The little fish darted in to peck at the open eyes, to eat flakes of putrid flesh. If the fish devoured what was left of the wizard commander, Adessa would have nothing more than a skull to show Sovrena Thora!
Heart of Black Ice (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles Book 4) Page 12
