Ako wondered what Kalarvo had been going to say. “So there is important treasure still here?”
“No, not as such. We took almost all. The priceless items are in the chests down by the…down by the river.”
Ako shrugged; flanked by Wiyat and Padan, he marched boldly down the main path to the chief buildings at the heart of the palace. He held his shield at the ready while blood dripped off his blade and onto the flagstones. On either side, the Red Crane looters were darting in and out of buildings. Shouts and screams of pain came out of the palace. The Kitran hadn’t expected to be attacked by anyone, much less warriors wearing Kitran helmets and shields. The Red Crane looters had organized into teams, seemingly based on the ships in which they had rowed. With their blood lust up, the looters found it easier and more satisfying to kill the Kitrans and steal whatever the Kitrans had already found.
The Keltens’ rescue team walked for many minutes, gradually leaving the looters behind. It was quiet in this section of the place complex; Ako slowed to a more cautious pace. He approached a highly decorated building, set somewhat above the other structures on raised stones. A broad stairway led to what had been a doorway. With his shield he pushed his way through the shattered fragments of a door. Dead bodies littered the floor, Red Sword warriors mostly. A few corpses of women, partially clothed, lay in pools of blood, staring up at the ceiling with lifeless eyes. Flies buzzed around, disturbed from their feast by the Keltens.
Standing in the shadows beside the far doorway, Ako peered out. Two hundred feet away stood what was obviously the great hall, surrounded on all sides by stairs at least ten feet wide. A large group of Sogand warriors sat or squatted on the steps leading up to the hall. A pile of treasure was in the middle of the group. Their leader, very tall and wearing a saber tiger skin, was shouting and kicking at his soldiers.
“Time for them to die,” Ako said with barely checked fury. He nocked an arrow and waited for the others to make ready. He glanced from side to side: eleven bows were pulled. Even Frostel had found a bow and some arrows.
“Fire!”
The Keltens’ arrows streaked through the air, puncturing the unwary Sogand soldiers. Ako fired arrow after arrow, as fast as he could pull them from his quiver. The Kitran leader stayed standing; he was either lucky or skilled at knocking missiles out of the sky. The Kitran warriors were wearing good armor, and not every arrow that hit killed, but many did. Twenty, thirty enemies fell to the ground and did not get up. The rest, screaming in rage, snatched up their shields and swords and, following their commander, they charged across the short space. Five more died before they reached the Keltens.
Ako threw aside his bow and stood in the doorway, crouched, every muscle ready, like the saber tiger, like the bear. He sprang on the enemy as they rushed close, knocking a Sogand sprawling with his shield before driving his sword through the barbarian’s throat. Padan, Wiyat, Jay, Lathe, and Frostel were instantly by his side while the rest rained down death.
“Vengeance of Sho’Ash strikes you!” Ako cried out while he still had the breath to shout.
Ako knew he was fighting alongside some of finest warriors in Serica. He had trained his Kelten scouts, now knights, for years, and he knew they were sterling. He had utmost confidence in his men, as well as in Jay Kirdar and Blue Frostel. Ako was also bolstered by the iron belief that what he was doing was right and blessed by Sho’Ash. He was not thinking about gold or loot—all his fears and doubts had vanished from his mind. Instead, he was exultant. This fight, this singular moment, was what he lived for: the culmination of his entire life, twenty years of experience and training, all for this battle. Nothing was going to defeat him. No man or Sogand would stand against him and live.
The Kitran soldiers fighting Ako and his men had no idea what or who they were up against. These men who had suddenly raked them with lethal arrows were not Red Swords, worn down by months of siege, by sleepless nights, by rotten food and tainted water. These strangers, appearing out of nowhere and wearing unknown armor, were deadly warriors. If the Kitran had had warning, they could have attacked from two directions, they could have summoned reinforcements, they could have waited behind their shields at the top of the steps of the great hall. But speed and surprise and the sudden hail of arrows had given the Kitran only two choices: attack or flee.
Finally, the Kitran rear ranks did flee. The barbarians in the rear saw their comrades slaughtered, the rivulets of blood flowing down the steps, and not one of their challengers had been brought down. They cried out in dismay and ran away north.
Still the melee continued as the front ranks of Kitran warriors fought on, grimly, desperately, vainly. Ako’s sword was broken by a towering Kitran wielding a heavy iron club: It happened when Ako’s blade was momentarily wedged in an enemy’s shield. While the knight jerked at his sword, an iron bar came down with a crash and broke his weapon into pieces. Ako unleashed a stream of foul curses as he drew his mace and looked up at the Kitran who had broken his sword: a giant, nearly seven feet tall. Striking like a snake, Ako brought his mace down on the Sogand’s meaty hands. Then, with a bellow of pure hated, Ako thrust his mace right into the hulking Sogand’s mouth, smashing the barbarian’s teeth in before he pulled back and brought his weapon down on the behemoth’s head, stunning him like an ox. As the injured fighter stood, dazed, one of Basil’s black-feathered arrows sank deep into his eye, and he toppled over backward with a thud that shook the ground.
Another five or ten minutes of vicious fighting ensued until only the enemy commander remained alive. He had singled out Frostel for his target, perhaps because Frostel’s armor was concealed under his worn blue robe. Both men were bleeding from wounds, and now they grappled on the flagstones as if they were engaged in some pagan ritual in a pit filled with blood. One knife was lodged below Frostel’s ribs. One of Frostel’s daggers stuck out of the Kitran commander’s shoulder.
Frostel backed away slowly as he shifted his remaining dagger to his right hand. “He is mine!” Frostel panted.
The enemy commander took up his long sword from the bloody stones and feinted at Frostel with a twisted rictus of rage on his face. However, the Keltens were having none of this duel. One, two, three arrows struck the Kitran: two in his face, one in the neck. The Kitran commander clawed at the feathered shafts and then fell, choking on his own blood.
Frostel turned to look at the Kelten archers with a wild expression, his eyes red with fury.
Ako grabbed Frostel’s bloody arm and shouted into his face, “It’s over! We won, Frostel! We won!” Behind him, the other warriors let out feral cries, savage yells, howls of mad jubilation. For a moment, Ako allowed the ecstasy of victory to sweep him away as well, and he roared out all his strength. No thoughts, no plans, nothing but transcendent triumph.
Frostel staggered around in a circle with his mouth open and then grimaced in pain as he felt the knife blade in his side, maybe for the first time. He fell to his knees and, looking up at Ako, he mumbled something Ako couldn’t hear and then closed his eyes and fell forward onto stones slick with blood.
A group of about twenty Red Crane looters appeared from the right side of the battleground; they let out whoops of delight as they picked up handfuls of silver cats that were lying amid the pile of Kitran loot. Ten or twelve more came over from the left, and there was pushing and shoving until one stocky man with fingers as stiff as claws yelled at them. His voice was strangely high pitched, but all the looters stopped and listened.
“We take it all back, and we divide it with everyone who makes it out alive.” He glared at the other looters. “There’s more than enough here. If we find the Fire Sword, we keep it all. So find that bastard! Find him! And find bags to carry this shit.”
From beside Frostel’s body, Kagne spoke to Ako. “It’s a bad wound.” He gestured at the prone man. “He needs a doctor.”
Ako guessed what Kagne wasn’t saying: Frostel mi
ght not live out the day. He marched over to the claw-handed looter. “You there!” he shouted. “Will you guard Frostel while we search for the Fire Sword?”
The stocky man, seeing that Ako wasn’t contesting his right to the pile of loot, relaxed slightly. “Aye, Blue Frostel’s a bloody hero, ain’t he? He and you lot got us here. Reckon we owe him. We pays our whores, don’t we, lads?” Turning to one of his companions, a vulpine, narrow-faced man, he jerked harshly on the man’s arm and pointed at Frostel. “Piri! Watch him!”
Ako nodded, saying, “Keep the treasure. Better you than the Kitran.”
“Eston’s shit! That’s right.” The stocky man continued with a stream of foul oaths as Ako turned away.
He knew there was no time to waste, but he couldn’t help going back to the battle line, where he picked up two pieces of his fine blade. It couldn’t be reforged, not like it had. The blade and hilt fell from his armored hands onto the stone steps with sharp ringing sounds as he made his away over the piled dead, seeking the Kitran who Frostel had fought. Ako tore the commander’s sword from the dead barbarian’s hand. It was long enough and sharp enough. A sword was just a weapon, he told himself. Just a length of keen-edged metal, nothing more.
Kalarvo came out of hiding and looked around at the pile of bodies. “By the holy Mavana, you walk in her light though you know it not.”
“Lead us to Sandun!” Ako said roughly, not pleased at being linked in any way to the false goddess.
“That building, over there.” Kalarvo pointed to the east. “Downstairs, in the converted treasure room. After you.”
Ako led the way with Jay beside him. For the first time, Jay seemed perturbed. Even in the midst of battle, Jay had been detached, rarely showing much emotion. But now, after the elation of their victory, Jay’s worry and concern was evident in his voice.
“This is bad awful.” It was as though Jay were arguing with himself. “If Sandun were here, he would have found a way to join us. What happened to him? Was this all for nothing? Where in the seven hells is he?”
They went through the door of the building Kalarvo indicated. Within, the rooms had been turned outside down. Loose and broken arrows were on the floor. Smashed boxes, torn bags, and bedding were heaped about in piles. Several Red Sword warriors lay dead on the floor.
“Guard quarters,” Kalarvo told them. “Last night, only the gravely injured remained here.”
They went down the narrow stairs to the basement.
“The converted treasure room is back there, at the end of the hall.” Kalarvo pointed down the dark corridor.
“Sandun!” Ako shouted. “Renieth?” There was no answer. “Damn this darkness.”
As Ako moved down the hallway, he saw two sprawled shapes on the ground. With a sinking heart, he bent down to them. Close up, despite the faint light, he could tell they were Red Sword warriors. One body was cold; the other was still warm. As Ako touched the warm man’s arm, he stirred and started to speak.
“Holy one? Is that you? I thought I heard your voice in my dream. Have we won? Has the Mavana come at last?”
Kalarvo bent down and brushed away the matted bloody hair from the warrior’s face.
“The Mavana is coming, Pennu, never fear. But tell me, what of the two men you were guarding here? The Fire Sword? The minister of Kunhalvar?”
The Red Sword guard, Pennu, became agitated. “They were taken…soldiers of the evil…they came. Ilka and I, we fought them. I was struck down, and…when I woke, I could not move. But I heard them talking. They were at the end of the corridor, going up the stairs. I waited, I prayed a long time…I must have slept.”
Ako knelt close to the man and spoke urgently: “When? When were they taken? How long ago?”
Pennu was getting weaker; he was bleeding from some dreadful wound that Ako couldn’t see. The smell of fresh blood filled the air.
“I don’t know. Several hours, I think? I can’t…what time is it? By the Mavana…what time?”
Pennu’s head lolled to one side, and he stopped breathing.
Ako stood up. Lathe came down the stairs with an oil lamp he had found somewhere. It was passed along from hand to hand to Ako, who carried the lamp with a frozen heart to the end of the corridor. After what seemed like a hundred steps, he reached the opening. The small room was empty: just a broken chair, a mattress, and a smashed teapot.
“Sandun’s not here,” Ako said with terrible sadness. “He’s been taken by the enemy.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lords of Serica
Kagne sat under a canopy. The afternoon wind had shifted, and now ash was slowly falling out of the sky in a gray rain. Beside him were bags of silver cats: one-tenth of the loot from the palace of Kemeklos, given to them at Lord Vaina’s command. It would be shared among all ten of them—or eleven, if Frostel survived his grave injuries. Doctor Haz was caring for the mighty warrior in his temporary medical tent, but the prognosis was doubtful. The bags held a copious quantity of silver, but it meant nothing to Kagne now.
Kagne’s head was in his hands. Everyone else was asleep; he didn’t blame them. While he had slept for a short time, he never liked sleeping in the day. Also, there was something in the air. Or rather, something in his mind, in the north. The True Master. Just as Polkinombu, the krasuth, had said.
Sandun was gone, likely taken to Nilin’s camp, north of Kemeklos. North. A strange coincidence—if it were a coincidence at all.
Miri, Sandun’s wife, came out of her tent; he saw her out of the corner of his eye. She looked at him and then slowly picked her way through the dry grass, heading his way. Kagne didn’t want to talk to her. What could he say? He’d seen she was terribly hurt when they told her the news outside the south river gate. They all were. There were no words.
When she reached him, she said softly, “Can we talk? Privately?”
Puzzled, Kagne nodded and stood up. The world spun around him for a second or two. He had drunk a quarter of a barrel of water once they made it out of the hell of flames that Kemeklos had become. He had drunk some wine also. Probably.
He followed the Lady Miri to Sandun’s tent. He saw that she held Sandun’s armored pouch in her hands. What was this about?
“My husband told me about the Ghost Wolf,” Miri said. “He told me that you formed a spirit bond with my lord a week ago. He told me he knew where you were. What about the reverse? Do you know where he is?”
Kagne looked at Miri. “Before, I mean, earlier, I could tell he was in the center of the city. But now I can’t say. He’s too far away. I can’t.”
Miri slowly drew out the golden circle of metal with its twisted shape in the middle—the circle from Ghost Wolf’s hall, the power that had saved him, saved them both. She held it by its leather cord, and Kagne could sense Miri’s apprehension. He reached out and grasped the golden circle with his right hand. Then Kagne closed his eyes and tried to feel it with his mind, just as he’d felt Basil’s stone cutter when he caused it to glow. For a while it was cold, closed to him. But then, like a door, it opened, and he felt a warmth, a thrill, a fission run up his arm. He could think lucidly again. He felt like he had just drunk pure spring water from the hills above Lake Tricon. Refreshed. He took several deep breaths.
“Can you find him?” Miri asked, pleading with her eyes.
Kagne looked at her and felt a connection, though not like the one he’d felt with Sandun: weaker, more tenuous. He tried to let his mind drift, but instead his thoughts flew north. He was drawn north. The power waiting there was more obvious to him now than ever before. Near that power he felt something else, something small, like a tiny fish floating near the surface of a pool. The texture and sensation seemed familiar. Yes, Sandun was there. He knew his friend’s location.
Kagne opened his eyes and smiled at Miri. “I can find him.”
“What can I do?” she said, staring
at him with her dark eyes.
He saw her, saw flickers of colors behind her eyes. This disk he held—what was it for? It was powerful but, he reminded himself, it did not belong to him. It was Sandun’s. Just as this was Sandun’s wife standing within arm’s reach.
“I need to think,” he told her truthfully. But untruthfully he said, “If I need help, I’ll ask you.” He didn’t want to see that desperate expression on Lady Miri’s face again.
He turned away from Sandun’s wife and walked slowly in the direction of Lord Vaina’s tent. Kagne was going to ask one of the guards where the krasuth was, but as he neared the tent, he realized he already knew. He could feel Polkinombu close by, at the north end of the camp. Kagne bent his steps that way and soon found the krasuth sitting under a tree, facing the burning city.
Aside from protecting Lord Vaina during the battle of Devek, the krasuth hadn’t played a role in the campaign, rarely speaking and never offering advice. Kagne had talked with Polkinombu just once on the journey.
“We are going north,” Kagne had said to the small man, eight nights past, the day before they reached the city of Jupelos.
“We are,” replied the krasuth.
“What will I find there?”
“Go and see!” Polkinombu had responded with sudden, unexpected emotion. “Don’t lose this chance! It won’t arise for years. Likely never!” The wind had swirled around them and then settled down.
“I am on the path,” Kagne had replied, and Polkinombu had nodded slowly.
Kagne hadn’t talked to the krasuth since.
Now he stood in front of the krasuth. The man looked up at him and indicated with his hand that Kagne should sit beside him.
“I have come north,” Kagne said. “And there is not much farther to go. The True Master is beyond this city. Very close.”
“You see the emanations of the real,” replied Polkinombu.
“I desire to meet the True Master. You will take me to him.”
The Fire Sword Page 47
