She watched the monk, who'd introduced himself as Cuama, sprint back the way they'd come. He paused long enough to snatch Chamtivos's head from the leaf pile where it landed and soon disappeared into the trees. No doubt he'd present the head to the others as proof the warlord was indeed quite dead and no longer a thorn in their side.
She didn't try to wake Serovek. As long as he still breathed and showed no outward signs of distress, she'd let him be while they waited for Cuama to return with help. She used the time to strip the dead of all their weaponry, including the knife she pulled from the archer's body. The only things she left were the pair of arrows still lodged in the back of the man Serovek had obviously used as a shield in a charge toward his enemies. She braced her foot on the corpse, using the leverage to break the arrow shafts in half. By her initial count of the hunters who'd landed on the island, she, Serovek, and the monks had dispatched all of them, but she wasn't taking any chances by leaving retrievable, repairable weaponry.
Chamtivos's headless body lay crumpled in the dirt. Anhuset poked his body with her toe. “Scum with visions of greatness but no character to achieve it. Consider yourself privileged to have died by the hand of one whose boots you weren't fit to lick.” She gave the corpse a hard shove, sending it tumbling down the slope in a flail of arms and legs before it came to a thumping stop against a big conifer. “May the scavengers eat well,” she said and turned away to head back to Serovek.
By the time Cuama returned with three more monks, Anhuset had amassed a small arsenal of looted weapons and laid Serovek on his back in a cushion of leaf fall. The monks wasted no time constructing a sledge with fallen tree limbs and a pair of cloaks to carry Serovek down to the shore. She helped them lift, then lower him into one of the boats and climbed in with him.
Dark water lapped against the boat's sides, and the vessel yawed right, then left as Cuama and two of his brothers climbed in as well to take up oars. One more monk shoved the boat away from the shore, wading deep into the lake before hoisting himself into the vessel as well. Anhuset gave the island a brief glimpse before setting her sights on the opposite shore. “Goodbye and good riddance,” she muttered.
Those same arrowing wakes that had followed Chamtivos's boats to the island now moved parallel to the monks' boats for the return trip. She now knew what created the big wake, had caught a clear glimpse of a giant sinuous body with the head and skin of an eel, a great milky eye and a double set of jaws filled with curving fangs that had clamped down on one of Chamtivos's men and dragged him beneath the water.
Anhuset didn't count that hunter as one of her kills. She'd merely dodged her attacker's charge and given him a shove that propelled him off the cliff on the island's windward side. She'd assumed he'd drown, weighted down by armor and weaponry or simply because he didn't know how to swim. The lake monster though had other ideas.
Unfortunately, it looked as though this one did as well. The wake's arrow point increased in speed and decreased in distance as it turned perpendicular and shot straight toward the boat's side. “Brace!” she called to the others, gripping Serovek with one arm while she reached for one of the looted swords with her free hand. The thing was either going to ram the boat so that it capsized and spilled its occupants into the water or breach, hurling itself down on top of them. She and Serovek had survived the predation of more than a dozen hunters. She refused to be devoured by a snake in the water when they'd just defeated one in men's clothing.
One of the monks leaned over the boat's side and plunged his hand into the water. He bellowed two words in a language Anhuset didn't understand, and two bolts of lightning forked across the water's surface to light the ripples of waves just below the surface. They illuminated a colossal shape whose length stretched far and away from the wake point. The fine hairs on Anhuset's arms rose, and her scalp tingled.
A lake monster, much like the one she'd seen earlier, only bigger, broke the surface in a towering flume of water. The creature writhed and convulsed, trapped in a net of lightning that turned its milky eyes blue, red, even lavender in its reflective arcs. The muscular body, its girth greater than a draft horse's, shivered as muscle contracted under sleek gray skin. The vicious jaws snapped together once, twice, like steel traps.
Another monk joined the first, adding his invocation, and more lightning scorched fern-like roads into the creatures hide before it plunged back into the water with a splash whose deluge threatened to swamp the boat and gave them all a thorough dousing.
Anhuset wiped her eyes and immediately checked the unconscious margrave in her arms. He sputtered once, mumbled something unintelligible, but didn't wake. She gently brushed water droplets from his cheeks and turned her attention to her companions.
Awe and admiration battled with bitterness for supremacy inside her. Warrior monks with formidable sorcerous powers. What the Kai had once possessed generations ago, what they possessed to a much lesser degree only a year earlier before the Shadow Queen of Haradis had tossed her people to ancient, voracious wolves in her bid to seize a power she could neither control nor understand.
A growl settled low in her throat. “Secmis, you vicious bitch,” she muttered in bast-Kai. “If there's any shred of you left, I hope it suffers for all of time and existence.”
The fading of the Kai and the ascendancy of humans—an inevitable future. Anhuset grieved inside even as she held a human male protectively in her arms and thanked every god whose name she knew for each breath he took.
The monks in her boat and the ones occupying the other three vessels ignored her, intent either on rowing as hard as they could for the safety of land or watching the water for any signs of more of the great eel monsters. In Anhuset's opinion, the boats couldn't reach the shore fast enough, especially after one priest pointed out the breach and plunge of serpentine humps and the wave crests and troughs not far from them.
Were she not acting as Serovek's pillow and support, she'd have been in the water with those monks pulling and pushing the boat on land. As it was, she blew out a grateful breath at the sound of the keel scraping along rock as they beached the boats and left the lake and its hungry denizens behind them.
A young acolyte remained to guard a small herd of saddled horses, bowed to their group, his gaze darting repeatedly to her as the monks eased Serovek from her embrace and out of the boat. She followed, once more taking his heavy weight into her arms so that he lay across her lap instead of the unforgiving rocks covering the beach.
She almost laughed aloud at the acolyte's wide-eyed shock when Cuama retrieved Chamtivos's head from one of the boats and shoved it into an empty satchel tied to one of the saddles. The monk tugged on the bag, testing the knot's hold. Satisfied, he patted horse's neck and approached Anhuset.
“The two of you riding pillion won't work. Hard on the horse and far too slow. And I don't think you want to risk draping him over a saddle and tying him down,” he said. Anhuset shook her head. Whatever internal injuries Serovek might have would be exacerbated by such a transport. Cuama continued. “We can construct another sled. All of our horses are trained to pull one if necessary. We'd only have to get as far as Chamtivos's camp before we can put him in the wagon with our brother Megiddo and take him to the monastery that way.” At her scowl he held up his hands in a reassuring gesture. “Those who remained at the camp have been subdued and taken prisoner. They're no longer a threat.”
Anhuset wondered if Karulin was one of those taken prisoner or if he'd fought and died in a fight with the monks. She didn't dwell on the question. “I want to ride the horse that pulls the sled.”
“As you wish.”
The return ride to Chamtivos's camp took twice as long as the ride to the island for which Anhuset was both frustrated and grateful. The monks were mindful of Serovek in the makeshift sled and kept their pace leisurely. Anhuset didn't bother counting the number of times she twisted in the saddle to check on her passenger. They were many and often.
The warlord's raider camp was a d
ifferent place from the one she'd left: shelters broken and strewn about along with supplies, Chamtivos's tent a pale puddle of torn canvas in whose midst those raiders left behind now knelt, hands bound behind their backs. She spotted Karulin among them, his resigned expression changing to fleeting relief when he saw her and Serovek. He didn't call out to her or beg for clemency from her. His quick nod was one of acknowledgment and respect.
“Cuama.” The monk turned his horse around and halted it beside hers. Anhuset gestured to Karulin. “Do you know that man?”
His gaze settled on Karulin. “Chamtivos's second. A much more reasonable sort than his master. The Jeden Order has attempted to negotiate with Chamtivos through him. Unfortunately, Chamtivos rarely listened to his more rational minion.” Cuama frowned. “I was disappointed to see him here, though not surprised. I think he struggled under Chamtivos's command, but he was loyal to him.”
His eyebrows arched when Anhuset said “Maybe not as loyal as you think.” She lowered her voice so that only the monk heard her. “He betrayed Chamtivos by giving us a knife that allowed us to make weapons. He also argued against the hunt at his own personal risk. And his presence here means he managed not to participate in the hunt despite Chamtivos's disapproval.” She glanced at Karulin who watched them intently. “If what I observed is correct, he's as esteemed among Chamtivos's followers as Chamtivos was. Even more so I think, because as you say, he's a more reasonable man.” A saner one too.
Cuama returned Karulin's regard just as intently. “With Chamtivos no longer an obstacle, we might finally achieve peace for this valley. Karulin is our prisoner for now, but his value to us may be in his freedom.”
“I ask clemency for him in gratitude for his help,” she said.
“Noted, and you'll have the chance to defend him to the abbot when we reach the monastery.”
While the monks dismantled the remainder of the camp, confiscated weapons and horses, and prepared the prisoners for a march to the monastery, Anhuset checked Megiddo who lay undisturbed in the wagon, then Serovek's stallion. Magas had trumpeted a greeting upon seeing his master, great hooves stamping the ground as he yanked on the lead line that tethered him to the ground stake.
The stallion eye-rolled when she approached, snorting a warning. Anhuset kept out of reach so as not to be nipped or kicked. He'd not acted this way before with her, but she was splattered in blood not her own and reeking of death. A careful visual inspection revealed that except for a flay mark across his left flank, likely inflicted during Chamtivos's initial attack, he was unharmed. Serovek had worried for Magas, and Anhuset was glad she could tell him all was well with his beloved horse.
Their party split into two groups. The smaller of the two included Anhuset, Serovek, and Megiddo, all sharing the wagon. Serovek lay beside his bespelled comrade on a bedding of blankets. There wasn't enough room for a third person in the wagon bed or Anhuset would have sat beside him for the remainder of the trip. Instead she recovered the gelding she'd ridden during their trip and paced alongside the wagon, ahead of Magas who followed docilely behind, tied to the rear hitch. They left behind the larger party with the prisoners and the dead.
Before they left, Anhuset paused in front of Karulin. “The monks know,” she told him. His fellow prisoners eyed her with suspicion and Karulin with puzzlement. They were unaware of what he'd done for her, and she kept her remarks enigmatic and open to assumption. She kept her remarks enigmatic so he could choose what to reveal to the others. “What's given in fairness is repaid in gratitude. There will be no debt.”
He stared at her for several moments, expression guarded. “One who equals three,” he finally said. “You're a credit to your people. Farewell, Kai woman.”
The second leg of their journey seemed even more interminable, but they made it to the monastery belonging to the Jeden Order of Nazim monks.
Cuama kept her distracted during the trip with a history of the monastery. “The old scrolls say the Gullperi built it for one of their gods,” he said. “When the Gullperi abandoned it, the forest swallowed it whole in vines. Supposedly a sorcerer stumbled upon it and cleared away the foliage.” He gave a disbelieving sniff. “When you see the monastery, you'll probably think that unlikely. I suspect it's more a matter of treasure hunters came to explore and loot, with a few of them getting roasted by Elder magic for their curiosity.”
His remark emphasized the potency of Elder magic still lingering in Gullperi holy places. Powerful, sometimes lethal magic. Anhuset had witnessed it firsthand atop the tor when Brishen invoked a necromantic spell to turn himself and four others into the deathless Wraith kings. It didn't surprise her that the same power pooled latent in an ancient Gullperi temple.
Cuama was right to predict her disbelief in the notion that one man had freed the monastery from its venial prison. Its size alone made that impossible.The majestic structure rose from the valley floor in a series of rose granite walls that blushed pink in the sunlight. The Gullperi had carved it straight out of a hillside, a tribute of colossal arches, soaring columns and decorative flourishes made for a forgotten god. Strange symbols etched into the granite decorated its façade, and the temple towered above the tallest trees carpeting the valley floor.
As they rode closer, she noted details beyond the majesty and decoration. This was a fortress dressed up as a place of worship, possessing all the architectural hallmarks of any military stronghold. No wonder the Jeden Order had claimed it as their own. It was the perfect sanctuary for sorcerous warrior priests who walked the line of heresy in their belief in and worship of a single god they called Faltik the One.
A swarm of robed and armored clerics spilled from the monastery's entrance and crossed the bridge spanning a dry, shallow moat. They surrounded the arriving group. Anhuset bared her teeth in a warning snarl when one monk reached over the wagon's side to touch Serovek. He pulled back and dropped the same hand to the pommel of the sword sheathed at his waist. Anhuset mirrored his action.
“Peace,” Cuama said in Common tongue. He then addressed the monk in Beladine, but in an accent too thick and too swiftly spoken for her to understand what was said. The other monk backed away from the wagon with a bow but kept pace alongside it.
“You're safe here,” Cuama reassured her. “As is the margrave and Megiddo. Ulsten is one of our best healers. His lordship will be in good hands under his care.”
Anhuset was prevented from asking questions about Ulsten and what the monk intended to do to Serovek by a voice shouting her name from the entrance gate. Erostis stood there, bandaged on one side of his body. He waved to her, face haggard despite his joyous expression. She left the wagon to guide her horse past the procession to where the Beladine soldier waited. She dismounted, offering her arm. “You live,” she said by way of greeting, grasping his forearm in firm grip.
He did the same to her, his smile widening at her succinct salutation. “I do indeed, and I'm glad to see you're still breathing as well.” His gaze traveled to the wagon, the smile slipping away as he caught sight of the riderless Magas. “His lordship?” he asked, voice pained.
“Injured but alive.” She ran her gaze over his bandages. He was up and walking without a stick or the help of another, though he wore the same sickly pallor Serovek did. “One of the monks boasts of strong healing skills. It seems it isn't empty crowing.”
Erostis tapped his shoulder gingerly. “I took two arrows. Bodkin tips instead of broadheads, or I'd be long dead by now. These priests know a thing or two about healing magic.” His grave visage saddened even more. “Klanek wasn't so lucky. The monks tried to save him but to no avail.”
Anhuset had known Erostis and Klanek for a short time, yet it felt as if she'd lost a battle mate. “I didn't know him well, but he was your friend and a valued soldier. I offer my sympathies.”
He nodded. “My thanks, sha-Anhuset.”
Their conversation ended when the wagon carrying Serovek and Megiddo rolled past them. A monk among the group waiting for th
e procession to pass approached Erostis to coax him back to his room. Erostis shrugged him off, his expression pleading when he turned from watching the wagon roll by to Anhuset who gathered her horse's reins to follow. “You'll tell me when he wakens?”
A good man, loyal to his liege. Anhuset was glad Erostis had survived the attack. “Of course, I'll seek you out as soon as he opens his eyes.”
In the hour that followed, the monks took Megiddo's bier to one part of the monastery while sending her and Serovek to another.
“We reserve this wing of the monastery for visitors,” Cuama told her as they followed a group of priests carrying Serovek down a narrow cloister and up a flight of stairs. They emerged into a hallway that reminded her of the barracks at Saggara. Plain doors on either side, unadorned walls and wooden floors that creaked underfoot.
When Cuama tried to separate her from Serovek at the entrance to one of the chambers, she planted her feet and glowered. “It's worth it to me to fight for the right to stay. Is it worth it to you and your brothers to fight to make me leave?”
Cuama gave a long-suffering sigh before ushering her inside the chamber where she took up residence on a small bench set out of the way in one corner of the room. A bed and table with an unlit oil lamp were the only other furnishings. She watched without commenting as the monks deposited Serovek on the bed, his feet hanging over the end, his broad shoulders taking up the entire width of the narrow frame. The chamber, already small when unoccupied, grew crowded with the arrival of more monks, including the healer Ulsten.
The Ippos King: Wraith Kings Book Three Page 25
