by Tad Williams
“The queen is very wise,” said Dallo. “Very wise indeed.”
“Thank you, Majesty,” said Turia, making another courtesy. “I truly wanted to know.”
At last Dallo, his niece, and his servants—several more had been loitering about the gardens, it seemed—departed with their guards.
Miriamele twisted her wedding ring on her finger, aching again for her husband, her brave kitchen boy, her closest friend. Nabban, the source of a major tributary of her family’s blood, a place where everything seemed louder, brighter, and usually more dangerous, now had begun to seem like a prison.
24
The Tebi Pit
The more days and nights Nezeru spent in Fortress Dark Lantern, the more puzzled she became. The underground warren of tunnels was so extensive that it took a long time simply to walk from the place where she slept in one of the dormitory wings to the low-ceilinged central hall to receive her daily ration of puju bread and dried fish. The more she looked, the more the Builder magister’s daughter became convinced that cave-borers—many-legged digging beasts from deep in the earth—must have been brought all the way from Nakkiga to do the work.
But that did not answer her larger questions—why was it so big, and why had it been built here? As far as she knew, the fort was in a region between two great forests on the outer fringes of mortal territory, perhaps as much as a hundred leagues away from the Hikeda’ya’s own lands. As for the soldiers under Juni’ata’s command, they seemed just as much of a mystery. Nezeru had been taught Sacrifice Order history, but she had never heard of the War-Shrike Legion, yet here she was in their midst.
She could remember rumors about carefully chosen recruits who trained on their own and did not take their oaths with Nezeru and the rest. She had assumed that if such warriors existed they were just a larger than usual group of Sacrifices culled early by one of the other Orders, or even by the palace itself. The orders of Singers and Celebrants, and even some of the larger more powerful noble clans, often chose recruits from among the new Sacrifices while they were still shaking and sweating from their ordeal in Yedade’s Box. But the War-Shrikes were not merely a few recruits but a sizable and clearly well-trained fighting force, all posted to a huge fortress she had never heard of . . . in the middle of nowhere. And from a few comments she had overheard, the Legion Sey-Jok’kochi was apparently part of something larger—the “Northeastern Host” she had heard it called, another term entirely new to her.
“We are doing the Queen’s most important work,” was all Scout Rinde would tell her when she asked.
“I have done the Queen’s work myself.” Nezeru did not like being treated like an ignorant new Sacrifice. “The other Talons and I journeyed farther than this, and risked our lives countless times for the Mother of All—and succeeded at the task she had given us as well. I do not like having things hidden from me.”
Rinde had almost smiled, but shook his head. “I admire your bravery, Sacrifice, but trust my words—you do not want to be heard asking questions. Not in Fortress Dark Lantern.”
And that had to suffice. Commander Juni’ata might not have formally accused her of being a spy, but Nezeru knew perfectly well that she was being carefully watched.
Soon Saomeji will meet with others of our folk, she consoled herself. If there are Sacrifices sent to meet them, there will be Echoes among them. Then Juni’ata can learn the truth—that the Queen herself sent us to the mountain, and that the mighty Lord Akhenabi thanked us for the bones of Hakatri when we brought them. Perhaps then they will treat me with some respect.
But she could not help wondering what had become of Jarnulf. What if he had succeeded in killing the others? Without Saomeji and the captured dragon to confirm her story, Juni’ata might decide Nezeru was simply a deserter, and those who tried to escape their duties with the Order of Sacrifice met very, very bad ends.
* * *
• • •
Over the days that followed she was allowed to accompany the scouts out on patrol but was never given any responsibility or permitted to stray from Rinde’s side. Nezeru was frustrated, having been trained in tracking, but she did her best to remain outwardly calm and do what a good Sacrifice should. The chief scout did not make things too hard on her, but although she admired Rinde’s leadership, she could not regard him as an ally. She no longer had any allies, she realized, not even in her own order.
But why did she no longer feel herself completely part of her own people? Was it only that Jarnulf’s questions had confused her? She knew now that the mortal had been a traitor, so why had she come to doubt the trustworthiness of almost every one of her leaders except the Queen herself? Whether it had been Jarnulf’s words or some deeper cause, her once-unshakeable belief in the Order of Sacrifice had soured. She feared she would never know that confidence again.
Most of the days Nezeru and the scouts did little more than roam the outer boundaries of Fortress Dark Lantern’s territory, leagues and leagues of tangled, hilly woodland. A few times they even met and exchanged information with Sacrifice scouts from other forts in the area, such as the small troop from a nearby stronghold called Fortress Deeping who used only hand signs to communicate even when Rinde and his scouts spoke aloud. By the time the two groups parted, Nezeru had begun to wonder if any of the Fortress Deeping scouts could speak, and if not, what the advantage might be in assembling a troop of mute soldiers. Rinde told her, “They are silent because they learn to be so and do not speak while they are in service, even when they are away from their charges.”
“Charges?”
“The stonechafers they care for at Fortress Deeping are very large and dangerous, with jaws that chew stone. They are also easily startled by noise.”
Nezeru had heard the word only a few times before this, but it confirmed her guess about the tunnel excavations—“stonechafer” was an ancient name for the massive cave-borers that lived in Nakkiga’s depths.
* * *
• • •
Nezeru found herself even more disturbed after the scouts encountered mortals one evening, a group of what looked like three or four mortal families, men, women, and children, foraging for nuts and roots on a forested hillside. Since Rinde’s troop were shielded by brush and had not been seen, she assumed the Sacrifices would retreat; instead, at a whispered word from their leader, the scouts shook the bows off their shoulders and nocked their arrows. At Rinde’s gesture they let fly, and every dart found a target. The surprised and terrified mortals began to flee in all directions. Some charged right toward their attackers without seeing them.
Another flight of arrows felled more of the mortals, then the Sacrifices were running up the hill at what must have seemed terrible speed to the survivors: in a matter of instants the Hikeda’ya were among them, cutting throats. From start to finish the skirmish lasted only a couple of dozen heartbeats.
When silence fell again the scouts stood among the bodies, looking for movement; an old man trying to crawl away was quickly spitted on the end of Rinde’s own sword. As Nezeru tried to understand her tangle of feelings—these were enemies, of course, even if they were not warriors, yet the sight of dead women and children lying among them disturbed her—one of the other scouts let out a low whistle.
Far away up the hillside one child was still on its feet, as if it had been returning to the group when the attack began. Nezeru thought it was a female, but the shocked little face was too dirty and the hair too shaggy and unkempt to be sure. The small figure stood for a moment, open-mouthed, then turned and ran.
Rinde lifted his bow and took aim. For a moment Nezeru had the mad thought of trying to discourage him, but kept silent. One of the other scouts murmured something that sparked laughter from the others, then the leader’s bowstring sang and the child fell down, limbs thrown all awry. The small body rolled a few paces back down the slope and stopped. A moment later the long summer grass that had been f
lattened by its fall sprang back.
Why did Rinde not hesitate as I once did? Nezeru was full of both shock and shame. What is torn or broken inside me that I could not do the same? And given that task again, would I succeed or fail? Any young mortal might grow up to be another slayer of my own people.
But still, to shoot down a mere child—! She could not make sense of her own feelings and that angered her. Why has it become so hard to hate our enemies?
* * *
Jarnulf, Saomeji and the helpless Makho spent most of the day descending a long sheet of rock that had been scraped flat by stone and ice in eons long past. The slope was not steep enough to ease Goh Gam Gar’s burden, and he had done little all day but groan and complain. When they reached the end of the long, rocky shelf and the giant saw that there was no easy route down to the slope below, he growled so deeply that Jarnulf could feel his own ribs quiver. Then Goh Gam Gar turned loose the sledge and slumped to the ground as though he would never walk another step.
“Get up, beast!” commanded Saomeji. “It is only a little way farther. Must I punish you?”
“You said we meet the rest of your stinking Higdaja today,” the giant snarled at him between panting breaths. “They can carry the beast down the mountain from this place, because I am finished. Punish me again—kill me. I will not carry it more.”
Saomeji’s face remained almost expressionless as always, but Jarnulf could tell he was furious. Saomeji raised the red crystal rod and the giant writhed, huge mouth open, great, gray tongue lolling in helpless pain.
“One day old Gam will pull your head off your neck and swallow it,” the giant gasped.
Saomeji sent pain crashing through the monster again and again, and Jarnulf thought this time it would actually kill him, but as Goh Gam Gar lay thrashing and bellowing, Saomeji looked down the slope and his odd golden eyes narrowed. Hikeda’ya soldiers were stepping out of the trees beneath the shelf of stone, a few at first, then dozens, all silent as cats. A female Sacrifice wearing the helmet of a war-leader called out. “We are here as promised, Singer.”
“You are a welcome sight, Commander,” Saomeji called back.
“Punish the giant later,” she said. “We have come to help you bring your burden down to our camp.”
Saomeji slipped the crystal rod back into his robe, leaving the giant gasping on the ground. As the pale-skinned Sacrifices swarmed up the hillside and went to work, silent as termites, Jarnulf stayed close to the the Singer. Already a good number of the Sacrifice soldiers had noticed him. None had offered him anything worse than stares of contempt, but he did not want to be caught on his own if one of them decided he was a slave in need of being chastised.
With so many warriors, horses, and ropes, the immense bulk of the dragon was soon lowered onto the next slope and moving again. As they reached the bottom of the long shelf of rock Jarnulf could make out the well-hidden outlines of a Hikeda’ya camp nestled in a clearing in the woods; dozens more Sacrifice soldiers waited there. A huge, six-wheeled wagon stood by itself in the center of the clearing, too large to hide. It was painted a red so dark it was almost black, and ornamented with symbols that could only barely be seen in the fading light, at least by Jarnulf with his mortal eyes. A team of eight huge black war-goats stood cropping and chewing disinterestedly at dry grass nearby. Their slotted eyes flicked briefly to the newcomers, but they did not startle even at the trussed dragon as it was dragged to the edge of the clearing.
The wagon’s door swung open and a tall figure stepped out into the twilight. Jarnulf knew who it was in an instant. His heart sped and his skin turned cold and clammy as the newcomer turned to Saomeji, his wrinkled mask of dead skin framed by the dark hood. “So you return at last, Acolyte,” he said in a voice like a corpse being dragged across gravel.
“I do, great Akhenabi, Lord of Song.”
“But you return with fewer members of your Hand than you had at Bitter Moon Castle.”
“Our task was a dangerous one, Master.” There was a strange note in the halfblood Singer’s response, a certain bitterness that even Jarnulf thought out of character for a Hikeda’ya speaking to his superior. “But we succeeded.”
“Did you? Then I suppose congratulations are in order. So what have you brought me?” Akhenabi descended the wagon steps and moved toward the captured dragon. “The beast looks as if it is dying. A dead worm is no use to me, Acolyte.”
“It is not dying, Master. I have kept it alive through great hardship.” Saomeji’s voice sounded almost pained. “We captured it high on the mountain and have carried it all this way.” The giant Goh Gam Gar snorted at this from the place where he crouched. Saomeji gave him a cold, cold look.
Akhenabi gestured and several hooded Singers sprang forward. “Care for the beast,” he told them. “See that it stays alive if you wish to remain that way as well.” His eyes narrowed in the eyeholes of his mask as he saw Makho’s unmoving form on the sledge. “And what is this?”
“That is Makho, the chieftain of our hand. He was burned with dragon’s blood.”
This seemed to interest Akhenabi, who approached and studied Makho’s ruined face. “Why did you carry him back and risk your mission?” He suddenly noticed Jarnulf lurking behind Saomeji. “And what is this creature?” His eyes narrowed into black slits. “Why have you taken on a mortal slave? Where did you find it?”
“This is no ordinary slave, but a Queen’s Huntsman,” said Saomeji. “Our Echo, Ibi-Khai, was killed by a swarm of Furi’a just beyond Bitter Moon Castle, not long after we parted from you. We took the mortal as our guide to help us reach the eastern mountains where the dragons live.”
Akhenabi stared at Jarnulf for a long moment, then gestured for him to approach. Jarnulf obeyed as if trapped in a nightmare, knowing that he had no hope of resisting the Lord of Song’s power, that within moments his every secret would be revealed.
My death will be unbearably slow . . . unspeakably painful . . .
“Master,” said Saomeji. “Please, I beg your patience, but I have one more thing to speak of with you and time is short. The chieftain, Makho—he is dying.”
Akhenabi was clearly annoyed by the interruption but for the moment his attention was distracted from Jarnulf. “And what can that mean to me?”
“I brought him back because I thought he might still be useful to us—to you and our queen.”
“Useful?” Akhenabi’s laugh was like a stick dragged across a paling. “What use could this broken thing possibly be to the Mother of All?”
“Chieftain Makho has been splashed with dragon’s blood—you can see how badly—and yet he still lives. He has been a celebrated destroyer of the queen’s enemies.”
“So?”
“I thought . . .” Now that the moment had come, Saomeji seemed reluctant. “I thought perhaps . . . as another weapon for the queen’s vengeance . . .”
“Out with it.” Akhenabi’s voice was harsh.
Saomeji took a deep breath. “Perhaps the Tebi Pit?”
For a moment the eyes stared blankly from the mask. Then, slowly, the Lord of Song began to nod. “The Tebi Pit . . . !” he rasped. “By the Lost Garden, that is an idea. But the Sacrifice chieftain is not dead.”
“Would that prevent the Word of Resurrection from fulfilling its purpose?” Saomeji asked, more confident now. “Or might it become even more potent?”
Jarnulf had no idea what they were talking about, but was grateful for anything that took Akhenabi’s attention from him; he retreated a few discreet steps toward Saomeji as the Lord of Song moved to Makho and stood over him. “The Word of Resurrection used on a living creature? It will cause him pain that will make what the dragon’s blood did to him seem like a festival week.”
“Yes,” said Saomeji. “I am certain it will, Master. But it was always Makho’s greatest wish to serve our queen. We can make him a powerful weapon against
her enemies.”
Akhenabi nodded again. “The Tebi Pit. It is a clever idea and you have done well, Acolyte Saomeji. I am pleased with you.” He called several of his Singers forward and ordered them to carry Makho’s litter into his wagon. “And dig a hole,” he said. “As wide as the chieftain is tall, and just as deep.”
Akhenabi’s attention now turned elsewhere, Jarnulf was almost breathless with relief, but could not avoid a twinge of regret for Makho. He would have gladly killed the chieftain himself many times over, but he had seen the horrible agony the dragon’s blood had caused, and if this Tebi Pit was worse— well, that was something Jarnulf was not certain he would wish even on his enemies.
* * *
• • •
All night long he heard disturbing noises from Akhenabi’s wagon, gasps and whimpers and even low gulping croaks that might have come from the throats of monstrous frogs. Once he heard a fierce keening like a mountain gale, though no wind blew; later, he thought he heard the sound of leathery wings beating above him in the darkness.
And if I survive all this horror, it will be simply to achieve my own death in the end, he thought, and in that moment it all felt as cold and pointless as the empty light of the distant stars. But my sacrifice can at least be meaningful, with the Lord’s help. He began to pray. Please, Lord, let my ending bring good for my people. Please let my death mean something my life never could.
Because he could not sleep—did not dare sleep—Jarnulf crawled closer to where the giant lay shackled by Akhenabi’s minions. He could see the gleam of the creature’s eyes and knew Goh Gam Gar was also awake.
