Paul Thompson - Destiny

Hamaramis paled. “Allow it? What can we do? More water—?”

“The dead are beyond the goddess’s blessings.”

“Then what?” he demanded.

The beloved of Elir-Sana responded to his frightened anger briefly and with formidable calm. When she’d finished explaining what must be done, the old general dispatched warriors to ride through camp and spread the word. Everyone was to retire inside their tents, close the flaps, and admit no one. The dead couldn’t enter a home closed to them unless they were invited. That was the prevailing theory, anyway. Sa’ida couldn’t be certain it would hold true for flimsy tents and the spirits inhabiting the “Refuge of the Damned,” as Inath-Wakenti was known in the texts of her goddess.

“How long?” the general asked.

“Until sunrise. I pray the new light of day will banish the spirits, at least until night falls again.”

Hamaramis insisted she must pass the night with the Speaker’s household. Her lone tent was too exposed. She accepted the invitation and urged haste. Leading elements of the ghostly horde were halfway to the camp.

The sides of the Speaker’s tent had been drawn down. Only the main door flap remained open, and the last members of Gilthas’s household were hurrying inside. Hamaramis delayed to watch as elves hurried into shelter. Warriors led their horses into corrals. Parents scooped up straggling children. In moments the camp’s many paths were deserted.

The old general held back the heavy tapestry that served as the door flap to the Speaker’s tent and gestured for Sa’ida to precede him.

“What exactly will they do?” he asked.

“What ghosts always do. Haunt us.”

The eastern half of the valley had fewer monoliths, and thick foliage filled the void. It wasn’t lush, healthy verdure, but a mass of thorny creeper, trumpet vine, and barberry bushes. The ground covers were a tangle guaranteed to trip the unwary. The bushes were head high, with branches thick as an elf’s wrist and covered by i half-inch spines. Kerian and her comrades were forced to cut their way through. Arms and faces were soon covered by scratches.

Sometime after midnight Kerian halted to catch her breath. Her thoughts turned to her husband. His malady made sleep heavy but unsettled, tormenting him with fever, drenching sweats, and nightmares. As she looked back over her shoulder toward the distant camp, even more than usual she wished him pleasant dreams.

One by one her companions ceased their labors and followed her example, gazing across the starlit landscape in the direction of those they’d left behind. During their eastward trek, the land had risen slowly and they had a clear line of sight to the camp, below them. The bonfires were faint at this distance.

As the three elves watched, a great column of light suddenly blazed upward from the camp. The column resolved into a multitude of will-o’-the-wisps, streaking into the night sky, corkscrewing, crashing into each other, and washing the monoliths in frantic rainbow glory. High in the sky, the lights abruptly winked out, leaving the valley cloaked in darkness once more.

The three elves regarded each other in silent consternation.

“What was that?” Hytanthas demanded.

“The lights must have attacked the camp.”

Taranath regarded Kerian in horror. Fearing the worst, he whispered, “The Speaker?”

She reassured them both. The bond between husband and wife was so strong, she knew without a doubt that Gilthas still lived. But something extraordinary had occurred, and she was equally certain he was at the center of it.

No other displays disturbed the night, so Kerian turned her face eastward again.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Whatever it was, it’s all right.”

The mountains rose gray and massive before them. The thick growth had seriously impeded their progress. Turning their anxiety into strength, they cleared the bushes with renewed vigor. The vines and barberry gave way to wild sage, and each stroke of their swords filled the air with its heavy odor. The smell was not a pleasant one. Trust the cursed valley, Kerian thought bitterly, to warp a savory herbal aroma into a nauseating stench.

The heavy foliage ended abruptly, and all three elves stumbled gratefully into the open, breathing deeply of fresher air. The ground ahead was dotted with stunted pines and plain gray boulders rather than the usual snow-white monoliths. High, thin clouds had begun to cover the stars above Mount Rakaris.

They paused to clean their blades. Kerian had just slipped hers into its scabbard when she spotted someone sitting on a nearby boulder, watching them. She’d had no warning of his presence. When she glanced up at the clouding sky, he hadn’t been there. When she looked down again, he was. Unnerved, she barked a loud challenge. Hytanthas had his sword halfway out of its sheath, but Taranath put a hand on its hilt, halting him.

“Robien,” Taranath called. “Kerian, this is the bounty hunter we freed from Faeterus’s trap.”

Robien slid off the boulder and approached. Starlight glinted off his spectacles. He bowed to the Lioness with a sweep of one hand. “Lady Kerianseray,” he said with formal precision.

“Kerian will do. Taran’s told me how he found you.” Giving him an appraising look, she added, “You have a powerful friend.”

He made an offhand comment about the khan, and she let it go. He was alive because a flock of bats had shaded the creeping sand, delaying its deadly effect until Taranath’s patrol could dig him out. If Robien didn’t realize who had sent those bats to lifeless Inath-Wakenti, it wasn’t her place to enlighten him. She asked why he was here.

“We’re pursuing the same target. It has occurred to me we should join forces.”

The Lioness regarded him in silence for a time. He was accomplished, and his abilities would be useful in their quest to stop Faeterus. But she didn’t trust his motives. He’d slipped away from Taranath’s elves almost as soon as they’d returned to camp. He hadn’t wanted their help then, why did he want it now? In her usual blunt fashion, she put that very question to him. He met bluntness with bluntness.

“What do you intend for the sorcerer?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “I intend to have his head before he can cause more grief.”

“My contract is to bring him back to Khuri-Khan alive.” She started to argue, but he held up a hand. “Contracts can be amended.”

Sahim-Khan would pay more for a live victim to punish. But two brushes with death in the space of a few days had shaken Robien’s considerable confidence. He told them of the attack by the spirits, that he might have wandered forever in the tunnels if not for his enchanted spectacles. Not only could they detect any trace of living beings, but they allowed him to see in utter darkness. As it was, he’d been trapped underground for two days, and in that time he’d done some hard thinking. He’d concluded that he could find Faeterus, or he could survive Inath-Wakenti. Doing both might be more than one elf, no matter how skilled, could manage on his own.

“I agree the mage is too dangerous to take alive,” he finished. “All I ask is sufficient evidence to prove to Sahim-Khan that Faeterus is indeed dead.”

“Two ears and a tail for you, it is,” replied Kerian with unconscious irony.

The two elves, both Kagonesti yet so very different, clasped hands, and the Lioness found her small force greatly enlarged.

Now that they were clear of the heavy undergrowth, she wanted to make a quick reconnaissance. In hacking their way through the tangle, they’d lost the trail. Robien offered to find it again because he was the freshest of the group. The other three rested, sharing a water bottle. They hadn’t long to wait. The bounty hunter returned and announced he’d found a trail.