Rise Of Empire (85 page)

Waiting inside were four Tenkins. Three men and a woman sat upon a raised mound covered in luxurious cushions. Their leopard-clad guide bowed deeply to the four, then left. Outside, the rain increased and poured off the thatched roof.

Dilladrum stepped forward, bowed with his hands clasped before him, and spoke in Tenkin, which was a mix of the old imperial tongue and Ghazel. Hadrian had mastered a working knowledge of the language, but the isolation between villages had caused each to develop a slightly different dialect. While Hadrian missed a number of Dilladrum’s words, he recognized that formal introductions were being made.

“This is Burandu,” Dilladrum explained to the
Emerald Storm’s
crew in Apelanese. “He is Elder.” Dilladrum paused to think, then added, “Similar to the lord of a manor, but not quite. Beside him is Joqdan, his warlord—chief knight, if you will. Zulron is Oudorro’s oberdaza.” He gestured at a stunted,
misshapen Tenkin, the only deformed one Hadrian had ever seen. “The closest thing to his office in Avryn might be a chief priest as well as doctor, and next to him is Fan Irlanu. You have no equivalent position for her. She’s a seer, a visionary.”

“Welcome, peoples of great Avryn.” Burandu spoke haltingly in Apelanese. Despite his age, betrayed only by a head of startling white hair, he looked as strong and handsome as any man in the village. He sat adorned in a silk waistcloth and kilt, a broad necklace of gold, and a headdress formed from long, brightly colored feathers. “We are pleased to have you in our home.”

“Thank you, sir, for granting us an invitation,” Wesley replied.

“We enjoy company of those Dilladrum brings. Once brothers in ancient days—is good to sit, to listen, to find each other. Come, drink, and remember.”

Zulron cast a fine powder over a brazier of coals. Flames burst forth, illuminating the lodge.

They all sat amid the pillows and hides. Royce found a place within the shadows against the rear wall. As always, Thranic and Bernie kept their distance from the rest of the party. They sat close to the four Tenkins, where the sentinel watched Zulron with great interest. Bulard invited Hadrian to sit beside him.

“This explains a great deal,” said the old man, pointing to the decorations in the hut. “These are people lost in time. Do you see those decorated shields hanging from the rafter with the oil lamps? They used to do that in the ancient imperial throne room, and the leaders mirror the imperial body, represented by a king and his two councilors, always a wizard and a warrior. Although the seer is probably an addition of the Ghazel influences. She’s lovely.”

Hadrian had to agree: Fan Irlanu was stunning, even by
Tenkin standards. Her thin silk gown embraced her body with the intimacy of liquid.

Food and wine circulated as men carried in jugs and platters. “After eating,” Burandu said to Wesley, “I ask you, Dilladrum, and your second to meet at my
durbo.
I discuss recent news on the road ahead. I fear the beasts are loose and you must be careful. You tell me of road just traveled.”

Wesley nodded with a mouthful of food, then, after swallowing, added, “Of course, Your, ah …” He hesitated before simply adding, “Sir.”

Bulard looked with suspicion at the sliced meat set before him. Hadrian chuckled, watching the old man push it around his plate. “It’s pork. Wild pigs thrive in these jungles and the Tenkin hunt them. You’ll find it a little tougher and gamier than what you’re used to back home, but it’s good—you’ll like it.”

“How do you know so much about them?” the old man asked.

“I lived in Calis for several years.”

“Doing what?”

“You know, I still ask myself that.” Hadrian stuffed a hunk of pork in his mouth and chewed, but Bulard’s expression showed he did not understand. At last Hadrian gave in. “I was a mercenary. I fought for the highest bidder.”

“You seem ashamed.” Bulard tried a bit of fruit and grimaced. “The mercenary profession has a long and illustrious history. I should know.”

“My father never approved of me using my training for profit. In a way, you might say he thought it sacrilegious. I didn’t understand then, but I do now.”

“So were you any good?”

“A lot of men died.”

“Battles are sometimes necessary and men die in war—it
happens. You have nothing to be ashamed of. To be a warrior and live is a reward Maribor bestows on the virtuous. You should be proud.”

“Except there was no war, just battles. No cause, just money. No virtue, just killing.”

Bulard wrinkled his brows as if trying to decipher this and Hadrian got up before he could think of anything else to ask.

When the meal was over, three Tenkin boys held large palm branches over the heads of Burandu, Wesley, Dilladrum, and Wyatt as they ventured out into the rain. With the Elder gone, formalities relaxed. The Vintu headed out to resume camp preparations before all daylight was lost. Across the hall, Thranic and Levy spoke quietly with the oberdaza, Zulron, and all three left together. Poe, Derning, and Grady helped themselves to a jug of wine and reclined casually on the pillows.

Hadrian went over to sit beside Royce. “Wanna try the wine?”

“It’s not time for drinking yet,” the hood replied.

“How you feeling?”

“Not good enough.”

“You need to get the dressing on your wound changed?”

“It can wait.”

“Wait too long and it’ll fester.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You should at least eat. The pork is good. Best meal you’ll have for a while, I think. It’ll help you heal.”

There was no reply. They sat listening to the wind and rain on the grassy roof and low conversations punctuated by the occasional laugh and clink of ceramic cups.

“Are you aware you’re being watched?” Royce asked. “The Tenkin on the dais, the one Dilladrum called Joqdan, the warlord. He’s been staring at you since we entered. Do you know him?”

Hadrian looked at the bald, muscular man wreathed in a dozen bone necklaces. “Never seen him before. The woman next to him—she looks oddly familiar.”

“She looks like Gwen.”

“That’s it. You’re right. She does look just like her. Is Gwen from—”

“I don’t know.”

“I just assumed she was from Wesbaden. Everyone in Avryn who’s from Calis is from there, but she could be from a village like this, huh?” Hadrian chuckled. “What an odd pairing you two make. Maybe Gwen’s from this very village. That could be her sister up there, or cousin. You might be meeting the bride’s family before the wedding, just like a proper suitor. You should brush your hair and take a bath. Make a good enough impression, and the two of you could settle down here. You’d look good bare-chested in one of those kilts.”

Hadrian expected a cutting retort. All he heard from his friend was a harsh series of breaths. Looking over, he noticed the hood was drooping.

“Hey, you’re really not doing too good, are you?”

The hood shook.

Hadrian placed a hand on Royce’s back. His cloak was soaked and hot. “Damn it. I’ll convince Wesley to extend our stay. In the meantime, let’s get you dry and in a bed.”

With a flaming brand, the oberdaza led Thranic and Levy toward a cliff wall at the edge of the village, where the great waterfall thundered. Somehow even the plunging water felt foul as it splattered against rocks, casting a damp mist. Thranic continually wiped the tainted wet from his face. Everything about the village was evil. Everywhere stood signs
that these humans had turned their backs on Novron and embraced his enemy—the hideous feathers they wore, the symbolic designs in the pillows, the tattoos on their bodies. They did not whisper, but rather shouted, their allegiance to Uberlin. Thranic could not imagine a greater blasphemy, and yet the others were blind to their transgressions. Given the opportunity, Thranic would burn the whole village to ash and scatter the remains. He had tried to prepare himself for what to expect even before the
Emerald Storm
set sail, but now, surrounded by their poison, he longed to strike a blow for Novron. While he could not safely put a torch to this nest of vipers, there was another profanation he could rectify, one that these worshipers of Uberlin might even assist him with.

The powder the oberdaza used to ignite the braziers had caught his attention. The Tenkin witch doctor was also an alchemist. Zulron was not like the rest of the heathens. He lacked their illusionary facade, their glimmer of false beauty. One leg was shorter than its partner, causing Zulron to shuffle with a noticeable limp. One shoulder rode up, hugging his chin, while the other slipped low, dangling a weak and withered arm. He was singular in his wretched appearance, and this honest display of his evil made him more trustworthy than the rest.

As they reached the waterfall, Zulron led them along a narrow path around the frothing pool to a crack in the cliff face. Within the fissure was a cave. Its ceiling teemed with chattering bats and its floor was laden with guano.

“This is my storeroom and workshop,” Zulron explained as he pushed deeper into the cavern. “It stays cooler here and is well protected from wind and rain.”

“And what prying eyes can’t see …” Thranic added, guessing at the truth of the matter. Years of dealing with tainted souls had left him with an understanding of evil’s true nature.

Zulron paused only briefly, to cast a glance over his low-slung shoulder at the sentinel. “You see more clearly than the rest of your brethren.”

“And you speak Apelanese better than yours.”

“I’m not built for hunting. I rely on study and have learned much about your world.”

“This is disgusting.” Levy grimaced, carefully picking his path.

“Yes,” the oberdaza agreed. He walked through the guano as if it were a field of spring grass. “But these bats are my gatekeepers, and their soil, my moat.”

Soon the cave grew wide and the floor cleared of filth. In the center of the cavern was a domed oven built of carefully piled stones. Surrounding it were dozens of huge clay pots, bundles of browned leaves, and a vast pile of poorly stacked wood. On shelves carved from the stone walls rested hundreds of smaller ceramic jars and a variety of stones, crystals, and bowls.

Zulron reached into one of the pots and threw a handful of dust into the mouth of the oven. He thrust his torch at the base, and a fire roared to life, which he then fed with wood. When the oven was sated and he had finished lighting a number of oil lamps, he turned to Levy. “Let me see it.”

The doctor set his pack on the floor and withdrew the bundle of bloody rags. Zulron took the bandages and studied each, even holding them to his nose and sniffing. “And you say these belong to the hooded one among you? It’s his blood?”

“Yes.”

“How was he wounded?”

“I shot him with a crossbow.”

Zulron showed no surprise. “Did you not wish him dead? Or are you a poor hunter?”

“He moved.”

Zulron raised a dark brow. “He is quick?”

“Yes.”

“Sees well in the dark?”

“Yes.”

“And you came by ship, yes? How did he fare on the water?”

“Poorly—very sick for the first four days, I hear.”

“And his ears, are they pointed?”

“No. He has no elven features. This is why we need you to test the blood. You know the method?”

The oberdaza nodded.

Thranic felt a twinge of regret that this creature was so unworthy to Novron. He sensed a kinship of minds. “How long?”

Zulron rubbed the crusted bandages between his fingers. “Days with this. It is too old. If we had a fresh sample, it could be quick.”

“Getting blood from him is nearly impossible,” Levy grumbled.

“I will start the test with these, but I’ll also see what I can do to get fresh blood. He will need treatment soon.”

“Treatment?”

“The jungle does not abide the weak or the wounded for long. He will summon me or die.”

“How much gold will you want?” Thranic asked.

Zulron shook his head. “I have no need for gold.”

“What payment, then?”

“My reward will not come from you. I will reap my own reward, and it is no concern of yours.”