Dawn of the Ice Bear (13 page)

They sailed perilously near Zingara's coast. The course had been the subject of considerable debate, with the sailors wanting to go wide, passing around the Barachan Isles with plenty of room to spare. Those isles were full of pirates, all knew, and they didn't want to take the chance of having the ship attacked.

But Kral argued that time was of the essence. Skirting between the islands and the coast would save days, if not weeks, depending on weather and winds out in the open ocean. In the end, Kral won the debate by reminding the others that they had agreed to accept him as the captain and had further agreed to the destination he had insisted upon. That, and the fact that Allatin was frankly afraid of him, and so readily took his side after the slightest intimidation on Kral's part.

So they rushed through the narrow channel between islands and shore, anxious the whole time lest they become the object of assault from one direction or the other. Once clear of the Barachans, they steered out to sea a bit so that instead of passing right by Kordava, they could come at the Black River's mouth from out of the west. The river's mouth was vast, and Kral wanted to avoid close scrutiny from Kordava, Zingara's biggest city, which sat on its eastern edge. The western side was more sparsely settled. Zingarans were often at war with Picts, and Kral wanted to avoid the populated parts of that country if at all possible.

“We'll be at the river soon, Alanya,” Kral said. She had been standing on deck, gazing out toward the gap in the thickly wooded banks, with Kordava gleaming whitely on the far side. He had slipped up behind her, as silently as ever, and put a hand on her shoulder. She started, but knew it was him. “It will be dangerous, cutting up through Zingara. Dangerous for a Pict, and for anyone accompanying him.”

The plan was to avoid Aquilonia, where Kral was likely still wanted for the supposed murder of her uncle Lupinius, the killing—albeit in self-defense—of an Aquilonian soldier, and the escape from jail that her family friend Cheveray had engineered. Instead they would take the Black River through the Pictish lands to the border of Cimmeria and travel on foot to the village of Taern, where Conor lived. “If I was worried about a little danger, would I have stayed with you this long?” she asked.

Kral chuckled. He looked handsome in the golden late-afternoon sun. Just in the time she had known him, his face seemed to have changed, matured. When they'd met in the forest outside Koronaka, he had definitely been a Pictish boy. Now he was a man, captain of a ship, hardened by tragedy and struggle. His cheeks were narrower, cut by deep crags. Lines had appeared at the edges of his brown eyes. His body, always muscular, was lean, rangy, browned by the sun. “I suppose not,” he answered. “But this might be more dangerous yet. We cannot expect to find any friends or allies until we get beyond Zingara's borders, into the Pictish lands.”

“Have you talked to Donial about it?” she asked. If her brother chose not to stay with them, she would have been glad. Since their father had died she had felt ever more responsible for him, even though he seemed to believe he had grown up enough to take care of himself.

“You know him,” Kral said with a grin. “He's willing to go anywhere, do anything, if he thinks there might be some adventure in it.”

Which was exactly what Alanya had been afraid of. “Sometimes I wish he was not so eager,” she said.

“You could order him to stay behind,” Kral suggested. “He could join up with a trading caravan from Kordava back to Tarantia and wait for us there.”

“I could,” she admitted. She ran fingers through her hair, which was a dark reddish color now, the ash having been rinsed out. “I could even pay the caravan leader myself and see Donial put aboard a wagon. But do you believe for a moment that he wouldn't be right back with us the next morning?”

Kral nodded. “That sounds like your brother.”

“Best to just keep him with us, I guess,” Alanya said. “So we can at least keep an eye on him.”

“Then keep an eye on him we shall,” Kral said. His voice was oddly low, husky. His Aquilonian had improved immeasurably since she had known him. “You know I can make no positive assurances of his safety, or yours. But I will do whatever is in my power—”

“Kral!”

Alanya spun around. It was Allatin, calling to him from the bow.

“Aye?” Kral said.

“We will hold here until dark,” Allatin said. “Any closer and we'll be spotted for sure.”

“And then at dark, we move in closer?” Kral asked.

“Aye,” Allatin said. “We should be able to get a bit nearer, then you and your friends can take one of the boats the rest of the way.”

Kral considered for a moment. “One of your men should accompany us,” he suggested. “The dinghy is not suited to the Black. I'll find a canoe, or make one, for that journey. But you'll want your boat back after the three of us have gone.”

“I keep telling you, it's four.” Tarawa stepped up onto the deck. Donial appeared behind her. Alanya had noticed that the two had been spending a lot of time together since they had set sail.

Alanya was confused. “But . . . I thought you and your friends would make for Kush after this,” she said.

“They will,” Tarawa corrected. Her strong jaw was set, her posture determined. “As for me, I told you before that I had signed on for the whole journey. Wherever it takes you.”

“You have already helped us more than you can know,” Kral said. “You owe us nothing.”

“You opened my eyes and offered me escape from what I had assumed was to be my lot for as long as I lived,” Tarawa countered. “I owe you all. And even if I did not, I would still choose to accompany you if you'd have me. If only to see what the end of this mad quest holds.”

“It may hold dangers untold,” Kral warned her.

“That matters not,” Tarawa said. “There is nothing left for me in Dugalla. And do you think I would have lived long and happily had I stayed in Kuthmet?”

“Not likely,” Donial put in. Alanya was not surprised to hear him add, “We will be glad of your company, Tarawa. Eight hands are better than six.”

“Then it is settled,” Tarawa said. “Until this is finished, one way or another, I travel with you.”

Alanya was glad that Tarawa was so determined. She liked being with Kral and Donial, of course. But she could not deny that having another female with them would be a pleasant change.

“We should make ready to go, then,” she said, thinking of her mother's mirror and the Teeth, snug inside its canvas bag in their cabin. “We will not be coming back to this ship again once we leave it.”

“I brought nothing with me,” Tarawa reminded her, “but the clothing I wore. When I leave, that's what I will take away.”

“We can get you some weapons from the ship's stock,” Kral assured her. “You do not want to enter Zingara, or the Pictish wilderness, without them.”

 

 

THE ROAD TO Tanasul was free of Picts, as they all seemed to be farther south, around Koronaka. As a result, Sharzen's journey was unhindered once they had made it clear of the first attack. A distinct coolness in the air as they rode told Sharzen that autumn was passing quickly, giving way to an early winter.

Having sent riders ahead, Sharzen was not surprised to find that his group was expected and that the settlement was on full alert, as ready as they could be for Pictish invasion. At his command, the main gate was opened and his riders allowed entrance. When he dismounted, soldiers were right there to take his horse to a stable to be groomed and fed. Scarcely had he felt solid ground under his boots when a gaunt figure hurried across the open square toward him. Sharzen recognized Pulliam, governor of Tanasul, a man with a dour outlook who found the worst in everything he encountered.

“So you survived after all,” Pulliam said as he neared Sharzen. He reached out and clasped Sharzen's arm firmly. “I am glad to see it.”

“Did you have any doubts?” Sharzen asked. “I sent riders—”

“Aye,” Pulliam said. “But between the time that they left your side and the time you arrived here, any number of disasters could have befallen you.”

“True enough,” Sharzen said. “You should send riders,” he suggested, “to intercept the Aquilonian reinforcements headed for Koronaka, and tell them to come here instead.” He pulled his cloak tighter around himself and glanced at the slate-gray afternoon sky. “Cold here. We were attacked once, right after we left Koronaka,” he continued, finally answering Pulliam's question. “But only that one time. No sign of the savages after that.”

Pulliam tugged on his arm, “Come inside,” he said. “You're right, it has become damnably cold here these last few days. But I've hot mulled wine inside. You could probably use some food, as well.”

Sharzen had not given food much thought until Pulliam mentioned it. But knowing they were close to Tanasul, he and his guards had ridden through the time they would ordinarily have stopped for lunch. He let Pulliam lead him into a two-story log building. Inside a great room, a fire crackled in a stone fireplace, filling the space with the aroma of woodsmoke. Rustic tables with benches were arrayed in front of it. Pulliam clapped his hands, and a stout servingwoman wearing a gray apron over a rough brown dress came through a doorway. “Wine,” Pulliam commanded. “Hot and strong.”

He bade Sharzen sit at one of the tables and drew out the bench opposite for himself. With his elbows on the table and his long, narrow hands under his pointy chin, Pulliam looked like an odd collection of angles and corners. He wore his customary frown as he asked, “What happened there, at Koronaka? I've heard only the abbreviated version your riders told me.”

“What happened is that our long-standing fear seems to be coming true,” Sharzen answered. “Instead of dealing with one clan at a time, the Picts have united, so we had to fight all of them at once. They overwhelmed our defenses, overran our walls. We could not hold them off. Finally, we decided that it would be best to leave the settlement before we were all killed. Those of us you saw come in were only the first group—another, on foot, will follow.”

“On foot?” Pulliam echoed. “They'll be slaughtered.”

“Perhaps,” Sharzen said. “We had not enough mounts for everyone, so they were left to take their chances.”

“I saw no women or children with your group,” Pulliam pointed out. “Only warriors.”

“The men insisted on providing me an armed escort,” Sharzen said. “The rest of our soldiers stayed behind with the civilians to help protect them.”

Pulliam nodded, his eyes locked with Sharzen. They both understood how things worked. Sharzen was not proud of leaving the civilians behind, possibly to die. But he was a realist, and he knew that not everyone could be saved. He knew, also, that it was most important to keep him alive, so that he could share with the other settlements the benefit of his experience in dealing with the Picts. Since the savages had united, he was convinced that the war would be long and bloody, and his wisdom could prove beneficial.

Of course, as soon as possible, he hoped to be back in Aquilonia while others fought it.

 

 

KANILLA REY TWISTED his thick lower lip between his fingers, worrying.

He had been unable to make contact with Gorian for some time. And the man had not tried to reach him.

Since he knew his agent had reached Stygia, this led to only one conclusion. Shehkmi al Nasir had defeated Gorian—captured him or killed him outright.

Kanilla Rey had known there was a chance this would happen, of course. He had hoped the mercenaries would be strong enough to resist his Stygian counterpart. But if they weren't—then it might mean that al Nasir had the stone that Kanilla Rey had given to Gorian. The stone that allowed them to communicate with each other.

If al Nasir actually did have the stone, then he would likely be able to trace it back to Kanilla Rey. The connection between it and the much larger rock from which it had come was too strong to be hidden from a sorcerer of Shehkmi al Nasir's abilities.

And when al Nasir knew who had sent armed mercenaries into his home, he would be furious. Kanilla Rey could think of various things al Nasir might do to express his rage, none of them pleasant in the least.

So he had a conundrum on his hands. Did he stay in his longtime home, his sanctum sanctorum, waiting for al Nasir to figure it out? To come for him, or send emissaries? Or did he run?

For that matter, would running help?

He paced the sanctum's floor, gazing at the big rock from time to time as if it might offer some solution. He was doing so when its surface changed, becoming indistinct, then crystallizing into a glassy clarity.

Gorian? Trying to reach him at last?

Kanilla Rey hurried to the big stone, peered into its depths to see if his tool was finally reaching out to him.

But instead of Gorian's face, he saw the scowling visage of Shehkmi al Nasir.

Kanilla Rey clutched for the knife he always wore at his belt, drew it. Its steel could do naught against whatever magical attack al Nasir might hurl at him. The Stygian's penchant for quick revenge was well-known, and Kanilla Rey had no intention of becoming the newest example.

That didn't mean he had to wait here for it to happen. Clearly Gorian had failed. Now al Nasir knew who was behind the attempt.

Kanilla Rey plunged the blade deep into his own belly, drew it across for several inches, then turned it up and kept carving.

He was still alive when he slumped over, falling across the rock, his body obscuring the image of al Nasir's face. Blood streamed down the sides of the rock.