Return of the Guardian-King (36 page)
Again Abramm met Rolland’s eyes, but neither of them spoke. Cedric stood from the fire first—without a word—and stooped to spread out his bedroll. Since there wasn’t much more to say, the others soon followed his lead.
As they traveled downriver over the next few days, they passed beacon towers, an occasional small garrison, and more and more often, signs of recently raided farms and villages off in the fields to the northeast. Finally, five nights along and only two-thirds of the way to Trakas according to Janner—which effectively nullified Dugla’is’s time estimate of reaching Deveren Dol within a week—Abramm first saw the signal lights. They flashed red off the cloud of smoke that hung over a nearby ridge and presumably the neighboring camp. If he had not been away from his own group’s campfire seeing to his business, he wouldn’t have seen it, but the moment he did, he knew what it was. With the night silence broken only by the sounds of the insects and the night birds and the frogs at the river, he crept over to the ridgetop and settled himself in a good position to see Dugla’is’s camp, but by then no one was stirring, and the fire was dying down enough he wondered if he’d imagined it. Or else had seen the fire’s reflection and made it something it wasn’t.
But when the light show was repeated the next night, and Abramm pointed it out, Janner immediately agreed with his assessment, though he expressed surprise at the acuity of Abramm’s sight. “I’ve never seen ’em myself before,” he said, “though now you point it out, it’s clear.”
Rolland wanted to confront Dugla’is the moment he saw them, but the others talked him out of it. For one thing, Dugla’is would never admit to having generated the signals. “And you think Trinley would believe us over him?” Abramm asked.
“Worse,” Janner added, “is that he’ll know we’re on to him.”
“Surely he must know we’re behind him.”
“He does. In fact, I think he’s been deliberately making poor time, hoping we’ll go past. Probably even wondering why we don’t.” Janner squinted up into the night sky, dark now, the scarlet light having long-since vanished.
“We should overtake them, then,” Abramm said, “find a place to hide downriver, then let them pass us again without their knowing it.”
“The mists in Obla are thick,” Janner said, nodding. “And the ruins offer plenty of inlets to hide, especially now with the river so high.”
Abramm shook his head. “No. If you think he meets with the slavers in Obla, I want to be behind him again before we get there.”
Janner frowned. “There may be a couple of places downstream we might tuck into, but . . .” He trailed off, looking doubtful.
“We’ll make it work,” Abramm said.
They passed Dugla’is’s three vessels the next morning, coming up on them slowly, then tracking alongside them, the two groups exchanging playful jibes for a time until the current picked up and Janner’s
Sandpiper
swiftly outdistanced the other boats. Abramm left them with the image of the gaunt blue-vested boatman burned into his memory, his white eyes staring at Abramm with an unnerving intensity that seemed somehow familiar.
The remainder of the day they played with the other group, making frequent rest stops so they might wait for Dugla’is’s slower vessels to catch up, then sprinting ahead again when they did. That night they estimated the location of the other group’s camp, now not far behind them, by the scarlet lights flickering on the campfire smoke again. The next morning they headed down the river early to find a place to hide. And a good thing, too, for Janner was right to be concerned. They had to tuck the
Sandpiper
deep into a flooded willow stand, to the point of running her aground, and even then they were visible from the main current in the river if one knew what to look for.
But Eidon was with them, and Dugla’is’s vessels sailed right past without a hint that anyone had seen them. After that it was a matter of keeping far enough back to avoid being spotted, but close enough they’d still get there in time when Dugla’is made his trade.
By midafternoon, they had reached the outskirts of Obla, where as Janner had predicted, the high waters submerged the river grasses that normally lined its banks and stood halfway up the trunks of the trees beyond them, or reached in long fingers through the outlying cotton fields. A thin mist overhung water and field and drifted between trees and the old columns and shards of ancient walls thrusting up from the weeds here and there. The farther south they traveled, the thicker it became, until by day’s end it had completely veiled their surroundings.
As twilight deepened around them, they glided along in silence, Abramm seated at
Sandpiper’s
prow as they searched for Dugla’is’s moorage. Janner followed the contours of the river’s edge, its waters having overrun the city’s ancient retaining walls to lap against the crumbling remains of old buildings and stairways. Shapes and shadows emerged from the gloom seemingly at the last minute, and time and again they narrowly averted collision. As the riverman had said, it was no natural mist, but the dry, chill fog of Moroq’s Shadow.
Finally they came round a bend and Abramm spied three pale shapes in the gloom ahead of them. Hissing for Janner’s attention, he pointed them out. Even so, the riverman almost hit them, passing them by less than an oarslength. They were Dugla’is’s vessels, snugged up to the city walls and floating there deserted. Which was both blessing and curse. Blessing because it was the only way the rescuers hadn’t been spotted. Curse because it meant Dugla’is was probably already making his evil transaction.
No one said a word as they continued down the river and around another bend. There Janner guided his vessel up over a submerged shelf of mortared white stone and tied her to an iron ring set into a white wall. Wading through knee-deep waters to a narrow stairway, they ascended to a weed-grown plaza whose walls loomed vaguely in the mist. There Janner said they would camp.
“But no fire tonight,” he cautioned. “Only warmstars for the children inside the tent.”
“You think we’re in danger?” Abramm asked him quietly.
“I think it’s best we not draw attention to ourselves,” Janner said, “and hope they still believe we’re long gone down the river.”
That only intensified the tension that had been building among them all since they’d first seen the signal lights and realized the worst was coming. They carried out the rest of their preparations in silence, Daesi and Marta hurrying the children into the tent as soon as it was up and preparing the meal over the warmstars within.
Meanwhile, Janner led Abramm and Rolland into the city’s ancient corridors to try to deliver their friends. But, though Janner had a sword and the other two their staffs, Abramm had no idea what they could do against a full company of Fermikians, whom Janner said went armed everywhere they went. More than that, whatever the situation they encountered this night, they would surely be outnumbered. The only hope of success he saw was if the men in Trinley’s party helped them.
“How is it ya see so well in the dark?” Janner asked abruptly as they stepped into a narrow alleyway behind the building where they were camped.
“It’s a gift,” Abramm said.
“You see through the Shadow, as well.”
“And your point is?”
Janner shrugged. “Just unusual. A bit unnerving. Makes me wonder why.”
“Makes you wonder if you can trust—” Abramm broke off, listening intently. “What is that noise?”
It was a low rhythmic rumble, though he couldn’t place its direction of origin.
They all stopped and listened to what seemed a distant bumping, scraping sound that faded into silence soon after they noted it. The riverman shook his head. They walked on in silence, hearing it several more times as they pressed deeper into the ruined city, but never did its nature grow clearer.
Finally they passed through a short arched tunnel and found themselves emerging onto the midlevel tier of a small amphitheater where Dugla’is had brought his little group to camp. A bonfire of thorn branches danced at the midst of what was once a central stage, its pavement buckled and invaded by grasses and weeds. Two opposing tunnel gateways yawned darkly amidst rising concentric rings of white-granite stairs, one tunnel heading toward the river, the other toward the city’s heart. The fire’s glow lit the amphitheater all the way up to the highest tier, where fluted decorative columns plunged into a thick ceiling of mist. An acrid odor tinged the air, vaguely familiar.
Though Dugla’is and his company had likely arrived several hours ago, there was no sign of any cooking under way or finishing up, no tents raised, and no bedrolls laid out. Instead, three of Dugla’is’s men stood at intervals around the encampment as if on guard, and Dugla’is himself, conspicuous in his lace-cuffed shirt and leather tunic, paced before a fifth man a little way off from the fire—which left two of his men unaccounted for, one of them the white-eyed, blue-vested deckhand who had so unsettled Abramm when they’d passed them on the river the day before.
The Kiriathans stood in two groups, the women and children huddled together on one side of the fire, the men standing in an eerie stillness on the other, staring at Dugla’is.
“Odd the way they’re all standin’ there,” Rolland whispered. “Like they don’t know what they’re doin’. Or they’re asleep ’r something.”
“They’re drugged,” Janner said.
From overhead came the sound of leaves rustling in the wind, though the air stood perfectly still. Abramm glanced upward, confirming the absence of trees or vines, only the mist-swallowed columns.
“Probably put it in the food,” Janner said. He shook his head and murmured incredulously, “He really
is
a blood-sucking slave trader.”
“What are we gonna do?” Rolland asked.
At that moment, the sixth of Dugla’is’s men emerged from the tunnel on the left, the one closest to the river. He strode up to his employer as if to make a report. Dugla’is replied briefly, his motions sharp and tense. The man shook his head and rattled off an elaboration, gesturing back the way he had come. Abramm could hear the mutter of their voices, but nothing discernible as words.
Overhead, the leaves rattled again.
Though Dugla’is questioned his man ever more sternly, the latter shook his head with increasing certainty. Finally he fell silent as Dugla’is turned away, barking a heartfelt blasphemy that carried up the stone tiers quite distinctly. The three men who watched him from the midlevel tunnel withdrew to its concealing darkness.
“He sent that other man back to find us,” Janner whispered. “Now Dugla’is wonders if his ploy failed and we passed him again.”
“Maybe we should get back to our own camp,” Rolland murmured, glancing worriedly at Abramm.
The latter had no answer for him, ideas of what they might do tumbling through his head at breakneck pace. They were four men against seven— eight if the blue-vested man returned or, worse, if the Fermikians whom Dugla’is awaited arrived anytime soon.
Barely had he formed the thought when it became reality and five men emerged from the cityside tunnel, clad in the sand-colored robes and turbans of the desert men. Curved swords hung at their hips, along with shorter blades scabbarded in red or black leather. A long strip of looping gold braid dangled around the neck of the one in front, while two in the rear lugged an obviously heavy wooden chest.
Dugla’is strode to meet the man with the gold braid, speaking sharply, as if the group were late. The newcomer shrugged lazily and turned his gaze to the two docile groups of people standing by the fire. Both men and women watched the Fermikians as if they were simply more of Dugla’is’s boatmen. The leader smiled, said something more to the riverman, then raised a hand. Immediately the two men with the chest advanced to drop it at Dugla’is’s feet.
The Chesedhan’s second-in-command stepped forward to unlatch the lid and press it back. Gold coin and tableware glinted in the firelight as he shoved a hand deep into the treasure, then nodded up at Dugla’is. Shortly, two of the Chesedhan crewmen lugged the chest into the riverside tunnel, presumably to load it on their vessel.
Now the Fermikians advanced on the Kiriathans, who watched them unconcernedly. And when the gold-braid-decked desert man bid them in heavily accented Kiriathan to “Come this way,” they complied as docilely as sheep, Abramm realized two things—one, that they were not the first group to be preyed upon like this, and two, he was not going to stand by and let it happen, regardless of the odds.
The decision seized him suddenly, surprising him as much as it did everyone else. One moment he was a passive observer, and the next he was charging down the steps, staff in hand, bellowing at Trinley and Galen and the others to “Wake up! It’s a trap! You’re being deceived.”
He was halfway to the bottom when he felt a sudden smothering crow of triumph as his arena-trained senses screamed with the awareness of imminent danger. Skidding to a stop, he turned toward the papery sound swooping toward him. Monstrous wings blocked his view of everything but a pair of crested yellow eyes above gaping jaws. A blast of hot, sweetly foul breath caught him square in the face as he hurled himself backward to avoid the talons that came in after the breath, struggling to believe the obvious truth that he was being attacked by a dragon. Not of dream, not of myth, but real flesh and blood and claw.
Stumbling off the edge of the tier, he lost balance and fell, bouncing and slithering down several more tiers before he came to a stop, overwhelmed by the burning in his eyes and the crawling, gagging fire that seared the inside of his mouth and throat. The dragon’s breath was like that of the tanniym— caustic, poisonous, spore-filled—but in a far more powerful dose.
A familiar voice spoke in his head:
“Still think I’m not a dragon, pup?”
Tapheina? Shock paralyzed him. What was she doing here? How had she become a dragon? And where was she now?
Coming for him—that much was sure.
Calling on the Light to burn off the spore, he scrambled upright, vision still blurred by tears and obscured by the brightness. No matter—he had to keep moving, and down was the best option. Charging down the tiers, he felt the wind of her wings and the hot fever of her essence coming in behind him, too fast, too soon. He stepped suddenly out of her line of attack and ducked, holding his staff horizontally before him and then jabbing one end of it up into her side as she dove past him. Light sizzled up the stick’s length and toppled the creature sideways. One wing hit the stone tiers hard, and she flipped over, stuttering downward over the steps, screaming furiously. But when she hit the paved stage at the bottom, she’d twisted herself round so as to fling herself back at him, her jaws catching the fabric of his tunic as he dodged their vicious snap.
