Guardians of the Lost (28 page)

He yanked on the chain. There came a snapping sound and Lf'kk went limp, his neck broken.

Raven said nothing. The woman said nothing. She understood, though. In some small measure, he had avenged her wrongs. She smiled sadly, stood taller and straighter.

Raven released the chain, stepped back. The taan's body slid to the ground and lay there, lifeless eyes staring into the crowd. One taan started to make a gargling sound in his throat and then another and another and soon all joined in. They began stamping their feet on the ground. Some of the warriors who were wearing armor smacked the flat of their hands on their breastplates. If Raven had not found it too unbelievable, he would have said they were cheering him.

The taan began to shout and perhaps it was as well he did not understand, for it might have weakened his resolve.

The taan shouted, “Strong food! Strong food!”

Raven paid no attention to the cheers or shouts. He turned to face Dag-ruk. He had only one hope left—that the taan had some sense of honor. That she would be bound to keep her promise and let him fight an opponent of his own choosing.

“Kutryx Dag-ruk,” he said. “I won the battle. I now claim my
prize. I am free to choose my own opponent for the next fight. I choose him.”

Raven pointed straight at Qu-tok.

Dag-ruk could not understand him, nor could any of the other taan, but there was no doubting what he had said. Dur-zor did not even bother to translate. Qu-tok understood and he didn't like it. The other warriors grinned, chuckled and made comments that appeared to infuriate Qu-tok, for he glared at them, snarled something in return and then stalked over to speak to the huntmaster. Pointing at Raven, Qu-tok began to argue vehemently.

Raven looked urgently at Dur-zor, silently asking her what was going on. With an uneasy glance at Qu-tok, Dur-zor moved a step or two into the circle, coming closer so that Raven could hear her over the commotion.

“By daring to claim you are the equal of Qu-tok, you have shamed him.”

“Good,” said Raven grimly.

“You do not understand. There is no reason for him to fight you. He would gain nothing, for there is no glory in killing a slave.”

“I might kill him,” Raven said, his fear of failure rising, his anger growing.

Dur-zor shook her head sadly. “You killed a boy who made a mistake. Qu-tok is a mighty warrior. He will not make mistakes.”

Raven said nothing. He looked back at the huntmaster, who continued to listen to Qu-tok's spittings and snarlings.

Dur-zor stared at Raven intently and suddenly she understood. “You don't believe you can kill him, do you? You want him to kill you. You
want
to die.”

“I want to die with honor,” Raven said through grit teeth. He clenched his manacled hands. “Is that so hard for you to understand?”

“No,” said Dur-zor softly. “No, it is not.”

“Then tell me what I can do to make him fight me!”

“All right,” Dur-zor said, considering, “I will tell you. You must—”

“Kutryx!” A stentorian shout rang throughout the camp, caused all heads to turn. “Kutryx!”

A taan came running through the long grass. He carried a spear in his hand and he brandished it to call attention to himself. “Kyl-sarnz! Kyl-sarnz!” Halting his run, he pointed with his spear behind him. “Kyl-sarnz!” he repeated.

“Kyl-sarnz,” the other taan cried, sounding jubilant, elated.

The huntmaster began to snap orders. The taan dispersed in all directions, all of them talking excitedly. Children jumped up and down, creating a clamor. Qu-tok and his fellow warriors bellowed at taskers, who came hurrying forward to adjust their armor, polishing it with handfuls of grass and their own spit. Two taskers stepped into the circle to grab up Lf'kk's corpse and haul it away. Two more taskers approached Raven, who stood in the center of the blackened ring, staring about in bewilderment.

“What is happening, Dur-zor? What's going on?”

“The scout says that one of the kyl-sarnz is coming.”

“What's that?” Raven demanded. “Is that your god? Is the god coming?”

“No,” Dur-zor said. “Our god is far away in another land, we are told. But he has sent the kyl-sarnz and that is a very great honor. Kyl-sarnz means god-touched. The kyl-sarnz are those taan whom the god, Dagnarus, has chosen as his most trusted servants, commanders of his armies. One of them is coming to visit us this day. This is a rare occurrence and may mean that our battle group is being singled out for something special. That is why everyone is excited.”

“Dur-zor,” cried Raven desperately, as she turned to leave, “does this mean that the contests are ended?”

Dur-zor looked back over her shoulder. “You will not die this day, Raven. I am sorry.”

Raven was a prey to such bitter disappointment that he was physically sick with it. Dizzy, nauseous, his belly and his bowels cramping painfully, he had no care what happened to him now. He had lost his chance of avenging himself. Another would be slow in coming; Qu-tok would see to that. The tasker taans hustled Raven back to his stake, dragging him when he could not walk fast enough to suit them. They dumped him into the dirt, chained him up. Raven doubled over, heaved up his breakfast.

Angered by the mess he had made, for it meant more work for them, one of the taskers struck Raven hard across the face while the other went to fetch a bucket of water. Raven vomited again, this time on the taan's feet. The tasker struck him again, savagely, and Raven achieved his goal. He lost consciousness.

Raven woke to a pounding head and intense stillness. He could hear nothing, no movement in the camp, no bird calls or the buzzing of bees, no clicking of grasshoppers. He could not even hear the sound of the wind rustling the grass. The taan were still here. He could see them quite clearly, gathered together in the center of the camp. For a moment Raven feared that the taan had done him some critical injury, caused him to go deaf.

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his head, Raven managed to struggle into a sitting position. The clank and rattle of his chains were loud in the stillness. He was relieved to hear them, even though some of the taan on the outskirts of the circle turned to cast him looks of anger. The silence had a reverent quality to it. The kyl-sarnz must be here. Drained of strength and emotion, Raven settled himself to watch, too weak and dispirited to do anything else.

A voice broke the stillness. Raven couldn't see the source of the voice, for it came from the center of the crowd of taan. The voice spoke the language of the taan, but it did not sound like the taan. The voice was strange, cold and hard. The taan language was an ugly language to listen to, harsh and guttural, bestial. It had warmth to it, though, a warmth of emotion, even if those emotions were oftentimes crude, cruel and savage. This voice was devoid of all emotion, devoid of warmth, devoid of life.

The voice ceased speaking. Another voice answered. Raven recognized the voice of the huntmaster. Dag-ruk sounded awed, respectful. When she ceased speaking, the other taan raised their voices, began to chant, “Lnskt, Lnskt,” bending their bodies as they shouted, all of them bowing.

The circle of taan parted. A group of warriors appeared. Raven saw Qu-tok walking proudly among them. In their midst stood the kyl-sarnz.

At the sight, a shudder convulsed Raven's body. Fear shriveled his gut. His heart lurched, he could not breathe. Then adrenaline flooded his body and he felt the wild impulse to leap to his feet and run away, run even though he was chained to the stake. He had to flee this terror, though it meant he ripped his arms from their sockets.

The accursed armor that he had carried to the Temple of the Magi had come to life. The accursed armor walked and spoke.

Raven froze, paralyzed. He dared not move, for fear lest the armored being turn its hideous head and see him. He had never been so afraid in his life, had never known what true fear was until this moment. The sight of this being brought back the horror of that nightmare ride with the armor, the terror of the dreams in which the armor had come to life, claimed him, dragged him into endless, empty darkness.

The helm was fashioned in the likeness of the taan, the face made of metal far more fearsome and loathsome than the faces of the taan. Curved spikes protruded from the elbows and shoulders of the armor; the armor-covered hands ended in long, sharp talons.

The kyl-sarnz was accompanied by several taan shamans, whose robes were far more ornate than the robes worn by R'lt and were decorated with a fiery phoenix. A group of taan warriors walked behind the kyl-sarnz, forming an honor guard. These warriors wore elaborate armor that made the armor of which Qu-tok was so proud look poor and shabby by comparison. This armor had not been stolen from dead warriors, but had obviously been specially made for these taan. They were covered with scars, their hides lumpy with stones. Hideous to look upon, they appeared almost deformed. They were armed with sword, shield and spear and they walked with pride, heads held high. The other taan regarded them with reverence, awe and envy.

Accompanied by his entourage, the kyl-sarnz left the taan encampment. The taan continued chanting “Lnskt, Lnskt” until long after the Vrykyl was out of sight and hearing. Then the huntmaster, Dag-ruk, gave a wild whoop and jumped straight into the air. The other warriors began to shout and jump and started to rampage
about the camp, brandishing their weapons and hollering. Darkness fell. Fires burned bright. The taan feasted and celebrated far into the night.

Raven watched the taan dance, their bodies silhouetted black against the vivid orange of the fires. Exhaustion set in. He dozed some, but whenever he drifted off, a blood-curdling yell would rouse him from sleep, from a horrible dream that he was riding again with that black armor.

He woke to a touch on his arm. Starting violently, thinking it was a black armored hand, he thrust himself up off the ground and stood quivering, every muscle taut, ready to fight to the death. He stood blinking and shivering for a few moments, until he realized that the figure crouching in front of him, staring at him in astonishment, was not a Vrykyl, but only Dur-zor.

This was the first time she had dared come near him, the first time she had touched him.

Raven gave a shuddering sigh and sank back down into the dirt. “I'm sorry I scared you,” he said. He shook his head. “Bad dream.”

“Ah,” she said and nodded. She held in her hand a wooden dish filled with roast boar meat. Dur-zor set the meat in front of Raven.

“What's this?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The pain in his head had subsided into a dull ache. His empty stomach rumbled, but he had no appetite. He feared the food would make him sick again. “You said slaves were not given strong food.”

“Dag-ruk sent it,” said Dur-zor and she smiled, pleased for him. “She says that you bring us luck. You brought the kyl-sarnz to our camp.”

“No!” cried Raven in hollow tones, shrinking back. Chill sweat beaded on his forehead, trickled down his neck and breast. “No, don't say that!”

Dur-zor seemed puzzled by his reaction. “But why? The coming of a kyl-sarnz is good. Kyl-bufftt Lnskt has honored our tribe greatly. It is the will of our god that we be the ones to escort the slave caravan back to Taan-Cridkx. And when we return, Dag-ruk will be made a nizam, a high honor.”

“You are saying that your warriors are going to escort the slave
caravan back to this…wherever it is. Will Qu-tok be among them?”

“Of course,” said Dur-zor. “Where else would he go?”

“Good,” said Raven. He reached for the dish. “I will eat. Give Dag-ruk my thanks for the strong food.”

T
he boat trip north up the Sea of Redesh was a relatively easy journey, though not a very comfortable one. Jessan unwittingly used the blood knife almost every night to kill his food and he continued to be haunted by nightmares—actual nightmares, for he could hear the beating of horses' hooves in his sleep. Every morning, the Grandmother wakened, raised the seeing stick and every morning, she eyed Jessan strangely.

Jessan resented her unspoken accusation. He'd done nothing wrong. He wasn't responsible for what some stupid stick thought it saw, nor was he accountable for his actions to an old pecwae woman. He might have shared the bad dreams with her or at least with Bashae, but, in truth, Jessan was ashamed of the dreams. He was striving to earn his name, to earn his place in the tribe as a powerful warrior and yet he woke up in the night quaking and shivering like a mewling brat who has lost its mama. He kept his guilty secret, for how could he admit that he was weak inside, a coward?

Depressed and unhappy, always tired from lack of sleep, Jessan plied his paddle in brooding silence, sorry he had ever agreed to go on this journey. The Grandmother was ill-at-ease and in a bad
humor. She stared suspiciously into shadows along the banks, cried out in alarms that proved to be false, and fussed continually with her stones. Caught in the middle, Bashae tried to talk to Jessan, only to be coldly repulsed. When he tried to talk to the Grandmother, she snapped at him and told him to leave her alone, she hadn't come on this trip to be pestered. Shrugging his shoulders, Bashae sat at the front of the boat, paddled when he was told to, but spent most of his time indulging himself in the beauty and wonder of his ever-changing surroundings.

Boat traffic increased the farther north they traveled. Jessan was forced to keep close to the bank to avoid being run down by the immense ships of all nations that sailed the Sea of Redesh. Awed at the sight of their colorfully painted sails and the hundreds of oars that swept through the water in what seemed to be miraculous rhythm, Bashae thoroughly enjoyed the trip and this did nothing to ease the tensions in the boat, for both the Grandmother and Jessan felt Bashae had no right to be enjoying himself when they were not and resented him deeply on that account.

Matters between the three of them grew easier, when they came nearer the port city of Myanmin. They fell in with a party of Trevenici mercenaries, who were returning to their duties with the Nimorean military. The Trevenici were interested to know why Jessan was ferrying two pecwae about. Jessan told the Trevenici the knight's story and they were pleased by it, as they would have been pleased by any story of a warrior who had fought well and died well. They accorded the Grandmother marked respect, giving her a place of honor among them and serving her themselves. This put the Grandmother in a good mood and she actually started speaking to Jessan and Bashae.

Jessan cheered up, as well. The Trevenici had plenty of food with them and insisted on sharing it. Jessan no longer had to use the blood knife and his bad dreams abated somewhat. The eyes of fire no longer seemd to search for him and although he could hear hoofbeats, they grew distant.

In addition, he learned a great deal about the city of Myanmin, the capital of Nimorea.

“As cities go, Myanmin is fair to look upon,” Eyes-Like-Dawn stated, “for there are many elves who have homes and businesses in Myanmin and elves can always be counted upon to be respectful of nature and not chop it down or burn it up or brick it over or wall it in.”

The other Trevenici nodded in agreement.

“Still,” she concluded, “Myanmin is a city and there are a great many buildings, all made of stone and wood, a great many streets and a great many people. The Nimoreans do have one peculiar habit that they brought with them into exile from Nimra. They build their temples to their gods below ground like the ants.”

Jessan was astonished. “How could the gods who dwell in the vastness of the heavens be honored by a building that is nothing more than an anthill?”

“They build like this for defensive purposes. Unlike the temples in other cities, Nimorean temples are not open to outsiders, unless they have received special dispensation from the priesthood to enter. Any who break these rules may be put to death.”

“As they should be,” said Sharp Sword. “And their souls cursed to the Void.” He spoke sternly and the others agreed. The Trevenici are a devout people, respectful of all gods, not just their own.

“But still some try,” said Eyes-Like-Dawn, “for it is said that a vast quantity of jewels and golden statues and silver argents can be found in Nimorean temples. Some would consider the exchange of their souls for such wealth might be worth the gamble.”

Jessan was uneasy at the turn the conversation had taken. The talk of souls being sold to the Void made him think of the eyes that had watched him in the night. He changed the subject, stating that he had business in Kite Makers Street and asking how to find it.

“What do they do in this street?” Bashae asked eagerly. “I know about the deadly kite spider. I even saw one once, floating in the air, waiting to drop down on someone. Do the Nimoreans spin kite webs on this street? Do they breed spiders there?”

If the Trevenici smiled, they did not allow the pecwae to see that they did so.

“No, they have nothing to do with spiders, Bashae,” said Sharp
Sword. “The kite spider takes its name from the type of kites that the Nimoreans produce in the Street of the Kite Makers. The kite is a device constructed of wood covered over with rice paper. When a kite is set loose upon the wind, the wind carries it up to the heavens. A length of rope attached to the kite permits a person on the ground to control it.

“Some kites are small and very colorful, being made in the shapes of birds or butterflies. Such kites are used to entertain children. Some kites are called ‘fighting kites.' These have a knife blade on the end of the kite. The elves send the kites into the air to do battle, each elf trying to cut the string of the other. But some of the kites have a more serious purpose. Some are built as large as a house and are strong enough to carry people into the air. The elves often use these—what they call living kites—to spy on the enemy, for such kites can float over enemy positions and keep well out of the range of arrow fire.”

Jessan listened politely, for these Trevenici were his elders and seasoned warriors. He truly thought they were mocking him, however, for he could not believe such wild tales. He was of a mind to be angry, but his mood soon lightened, for the Trevenici next began to tell stories of their battles and these he could believe. He listened eagerly and when it was time for sleep, he could grin at the thought of flying elves.

The Trevenici retired early to be up and away with the dawn. The Grandmother did not carry out her nightly practice of placing the twenty-seven turquoise stones around the camp. Since the Trevenici had done her honor, she felt she was obligated to return the compliment.

“In the presence of such brave and renowned warriors,” she said with a bow that caused all the beads on her skirt to click together and the bells to ring, “I know that no evil will come to us this night.”

Jessan was devoutly grateful for this, for although he knew the Trevenici would be outwardly respectful, he feared they would be inwardly laughing. His lack of sleep and the hard physical exercise of paddling the boat caused him to fall asleep almost immediately. He woke again soon after, with the idea that someone was near
him. He was disconcerted to find it was the Grandmother. He played possum, kept his eyes closed, not wanting to talk to her. He hoped against hope she would go away and leave him alone. The Grandmother did not wake him, did not speak to him. She hovered near him and he could not figure out what she was doing. Eventually, weariness overcame him and he slept.

Jessan woke with the dawn. Sitting up, he was startled and a little uneasy to find that the Grandmother had surreptitiously placed seven of the turquoise stones around him.

 

They entered the city early in the morning, for Jessan wanted to find this Arim in the Kite Makers' Street and be on his way immediately to the elven lands. He figured that by the time they located Arim it would be around noon, they should be started on their journey to Tromek by nightfall. They came into the city along with those bringing their goods to market, the most crowded time of day. This was probably well, for the busy gate guards passed them through without much question, though they stared hard at the pecwae, few of whom were seen these days outside of the wilderness.

“Keep an eye on your little friends,” one of the guards warned Jessan. “It is illegal to trade in pecwae slaves, but there are some who don't mind breaking the law if it's worth their while.”

“Pecwae slaves,” Jessan repeated, astonished. “What would anyone want with a pecwae slave? The pecwae hasn't been born who has done an honest day's labor.”

The guard chuckled. He was a retired soldier, had served with Trevenici before and admired their blunt way of speaking. “The rich women of New Vinnengael keep them as pets,” he said. “They will pay dearly for them, so, like I said, watch them, especially the young one.”

Bashae had imagined that Myanmin might be like Wild Town, with perhaps a few more buildings and a couple more streets. The pecwae was completely unprepared for the immensity and the grandeur of the Nimorean city. He walked as one dazed as they passed through the city gate, staring in bedazzled wonder at the
stone buildings that were so tall—some of them being three stories—they seemed to touch the sky. He gaped at the Nimorean people, who had all of them seemingly painted their skin a deep, rich, glossy black.

He saw in one instant more people than he had imagined could exist in the world. He was deafened by the noise of carts rumbling over cobblestones, horses' hooves clattering, vendors hawking their wares or calling out to friends, or voices raised to argue with other vendors. He felt weak in the knees and queasy in the stomach and light in the head and he could not move. He might well have taken root in one spot had not Jessan poked his friend in the back and ordered him sternly not to look like a gawking pecwae seeing a city for the first time.

“That's what I am,” Bashae pointed out, aggrieved.

“You don't have to
look
like it!” Jessan told him. “Shut your mouth and keep moving.”

If the Grandmother was intimidated, she did not show it. She advanced confidently into the crowd, skirts clicking, silver bells tinkling, her agate-eyed stick thumping the ground, her sharp eyes darting everywhere. Jessan was thankful for that, at least. He was himself secretly overwhelmed and amazed at the sights and sounds and smells, but with Trevenici stoicism, he took care not to show it. This confident image was somewhat marred when he was nearly run over by a horse cart, for he had no thought of looking before he stepped into the street.

Bashae pulled his friend out from beneath the horses' noses just in time. The cart driver swore at Jessan and flourished his whip as his cart went speeding past, shouting “barbarian” in Naru, the language of both Nimra and Nimorea, a language that fortunately Jessan did not understand.

“The fool should have gotten out of my way,” Jessan stated, glowering after the cart and glowering still more at the people around him, some of whom had begun to snicker.

He looked around, secretly bewildered by the maze of streets spreading out before him, all of them bustling with activity.

The Trevenici had given him directions, but he could not find
any of the landmarks they had named: a sign with a crow holding a coin in its beak, a building that was three dwelling houses stacked one on top of another. The instructions started to blur in his mind, he forgot which he was supposed to find first and was well and truly lost before he ever started out.

He could not show weakness in front of the pecwae, who were counting on him, and with a show of confidence but a sinking heart, he chose a street at random. He was cheered to find a sign with a crow on it, although the crow was holding a mug in its claw, not a coin in its beak. This led him only to a dead-end, however. They were forced to turn and retrace their steps, while Jessan muttered that he'd wanted to see what was at the back of the alleyway.

The sun rose high in the sky. They walked all morning and found no sign of kites or kite makers. Bashae was limping, his feet were rubbed raw from the stones on which they walked. The Grandmother continued on gamely, though she was starting to slow down, leaned more heavily on her stick. Jessan had reason to recall the guard's friendly warning, for the pecwae were attracting a good deal of notice and some of it seemed sinister. He kept his hand on Bashae's shoulder.

“Let's go find the kite maker, Jessan,” said Bashae, stopping to stare in pity at some poor child who had been turned to stone and was spewing water out of his mouth.

He'd seen a lot of stone people in this city. He could only conclude that this was some sort of terrible punishment and he was fearful that he might accidentally break some law and end up that way himself.

“My feet hurt and I don't like this city.”

Jessan did not like this city either. He was more than ready to see the kite maker, but he did not have a clue as to where he might be. The thought came to him that they could wander about this city for a lifetime and never find the way, for they had been walking all morning long and had yet to be in the same place twice. He was about to humble himself, bury his pride and admit that he was lost when, to his vast relief, he saw two of the Trevenici they had met the previous night.

Jessan waved. The Trevenici responded and came walking over to him. “By the gods,” said Sharp Sword, “what are you doing in this part of town? The street you want is clear on the other side.”

“They are taking in the sights,” said Eyes-Like-Dawn. “We are going to the Street of the Kite Makers ourselves,” she added, elbowing Sharp Sword when he would have spoken. She remembered what it was to be eighteen and proud. “Would you like to come with us?”