Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten (Order of Fire Book 1) (10 page)

Crumbled bluffs closed in on Dancer’s left side and the stallion adjusted his step, shifting slightly to the right. Zar now had a better view of the ground—they had elevated more than he thought. He could see in the distance the plain returning beside the rocks, where it had been pushed to the east by stone bluffs and boulders. The rocky ground narrowed out like a fence to his right side, and Zar searched the edges carefully for a place to get down. This was the time.

Dancer moved far too fast for Zar to fully examine the ledges. He had never been this far up the pass without descending. To the left, a hill rose that would no doubt lead to a cliff, and to the right the trail squeezed narrowly between the higher ground and the plain below. Zar stayed straight ahead. Guiding the stallion through the middle, he observed the ground lowering even more, and he could see the grass of the plain rising to meet them afar off.

The ground had grown rough and littered with boulders, and slowing Dancer a bit, Zar could see the grass of the plain coming closer. The rocky ground he now traveled dropped abruptly in the distance as the trail led to a plateau. It would be much easier for Dancer to jump from it than walk down it, and Zar spurred the mount forward, questioning his decision the closer he got to the plateau’s edge.

Dancer moved fluidly toward the stone edge while rays of evening sun sparkled across his ebon coat. There was an indescribable grace in his movement. Even as his hooves lifted off the rocky lip, Zar felt only a smooth ascent toward the evening sky while the stallion floated like the fog. It seemed a rather long period of time that they were in the air, and when Dancer finally began to sink toward the plain, Zar felt himself shifting forward as the mount’s neck arched toward the ground below. He thought they would both topple over and hit the ground head first. Instead, Dancer soared onto the plain below, striking hard and giving Zar a jolt. There was no break in his movement coasting down onto the plain, still galloping as he landed.

The sun hung low in the sky and Zar could feel the cool of dawn approaching as Dancer crossed the plain between the hills. In the distance, the ground deepened where it seemed a great mountain had been dropped into the earth and left an impression. The Great War had been fought here in old times; the old kings of Krii had united to expel the Serradiians. It was said that the valley remained stained with blood for an entire year—and so it was named Red Valley. The Serradiians were pushed back over the mountains, and, eventually, across the sea. In the years to follow, a winter expedition had failed to return them to the continent for they were unable to cross the strait due to a winter storm; and in the warmer months, when Leviathan appeared in the strait, they never attempted to.

Zar swore he could feel the souls of the dead as he passed through the valley. It was shameful to think that more blood would be spilled in this place, and he
almost
felt guilty knowing what he intended to do.
Almost.

The thought of sneaking in and rescuing Shahla without being seen had crossed his mind, but it was quickly brushed away by anger and disgust, and some other feeling Zar could not name. His blood was boiling. His arms had reached for his sword and dagger a half dozen times, like they had a mind of their own. Each time he breathed deep and relaxed his limbs, assuring himself in a uniquely calm but crazed whisper that the time would come soon enough. He was close to a quarter of a mile away from building when he dismounted and traveled the rest of the way on foot.

When he came to the structure that was nothing more than a large stable equipped with an upper room, the structure that a Snowguard had referred to as “the storehouse” not a half a day before, he drew his sword out slowly. Shouts rang through the window of the upstairs room, and shadows danced across the candlelit room. The structure itself had a dark look to it, its worn wooden frame blackened by weather and rain, leaning slightly to one side as it stood in the valley. He had never looked at any one object in such a way, with both contempt and anticipation, hoping to the heavens that Shahla was there, but knowing how upset he’d be if she was.

was better found than lost—better to have suffered a bit and been rescued, than to never be found.

The dusk darkened and made way for the night.

Zar moved to the stable entrance and shuffled inside. A musty odor greeted him, and the sound of reveling from the upper floor he had heard from outside.

“Who’s there?” A voice called from above.

Zar disregarded the voice and searched the stalls on the right side—all horses—nearly a dozen as it looked, though he didn’t waste time to count. And on the left— women.

Not many things were able to stop Zar in his tracks, but these women chained in stalls, bodies soiled with mud and the manure of livestock, was certainly one of them. They sat shivering, looking entirely frightened at the sight of him, and before he could assure them he meant no harm they had scurried to the corners of their stalls. There were two or three in each stall, and Zar moved along, checking one after the other as he made his way down the hall, still ignoring the noises above, even the sounds of footsteps that were making their way down those crooked stairs.

He needed to see Shahla, first. He needed to know if she was there.

He had caught the eyes of a girl who couldn’t have been any more than fifteen, looking at him through the gate of her stall. She sat shivering in a corner with wide, white eyes that stood out starkly against her face that was smeared with the umber soil that covered the ground beneath her. She looked terrified, and as Zar moved his hands to open the gate he was spotted by a guard who had come down to see about the noise.

“There’s someone here!” the man yelled.

Zar rushed the guard, blades clanging together. The man pushed down. Zar pulled back his weight, causing the man to lunge forward. With his left hand he pulled his dagger from his belt and let the man stumble into it while he guided the flailing blade away with his right. Others trampled down the stairs as his dagger entered smoothly into the man’s ribs.

The men gathered all around him.

They were about a dozen, as Zar had already concluded from their mounts. A crooked bunch—one man still fumbled to tie up his leather pants, and above Zar could hear the shameful whimpers of a violated woman. The men were dressed light, a few equipped with mail while most wore nothing but a simple cotton shirt. They had made themselves quite comfortable stationed in the middle of the valley with a room full of women to guard. They probably thought it was the best assignment they could have gotten from their king—out in the middle of nowhere with enough women to satisfy each of their twisted fancies ten times over.

Just before a brief outburst from one of the guards had them all rushing in, Zar heard a familiar voice call his name.

Zar let his victim fall, parried with his dagger, and sliced into a throat. He swung his right sword arm behind him wildly to keep the attackers there at bay, and hopped forward into the attack of another, catching the man’s blade with his dagger. The man whose throat he had split stumbled over his shoulders, neck wide open like a gaping mouth.

While the men shuffled around the falling corpse, Zar parried another blade, then sliced with his dagger. He turned to the left to parry with his dagger and the blade was knocked away just in time, brushing the side of his pants just above the knee and splitting the leather.

He knocked off the arm of the man who had lunged forward. Another rushed from the front and another at his right side, and Zar jumped into one to avoid the other. His chest struck against the other man’s, inside of his wide blow, and Zar, too close to attack with his sword, stabbed his dagger into the man’s gut. He rolled off the man and out of the way of the other’s blade, and swung back-handed and wide with his sword, catching the other near the wrist.

The men moved closely about him, but fighting
t
his
way it did not matter. He was always in range, whether near or far, the dagger busily poking and stabbing when he was too close to use his main weapon, and when he had adequate room he could still hack with his sword. There were only openings—openings up close and openings from afar. He kept always in an awkward range, either too close or too far away. What
seemed
to be too close or too far away. It’s how he kept himself safe. His dagger worked close when they were tangled and clinched, and his sword reached them when they thought themselves out of its range.

Zar fell into one man that was too close, hugged around him, and stabbed him in the back. He skipped away from oncoming blades, then turned back toward them, slicing out long and stretching out his arm until his sword found flesh. He danced away again, letting steel soar downward as it missed him, then darted forward into the men as they recovered.

Tangled in a vine of limbs and blades, catching steel, moving from man to man, wrapping around, stabbing, feinting back, lifting his sword arm high and letting it crash through muscle and bone, he was fueled by the thought of a girl who sat waiting in a dark and filthy stall. He hoped from that shadow of a place she wasn’t watching, peering into the light through the slots of her stall’s gate to see him claim limbs and lives for her sake. He hoped she didn’t see that deadly dance, the river of blood from the growing heap of slain and dismembered men.

11

“I have a tightness in
my shoulders
, could you give a hand?” Anza removed the cloak of fine silk from her shoulders, letting it drop to the ground. Her torso was bare except for a meager cotton cloth that bound her breasts. Her long legs lay covered in loose cotton pants and stretched off the wicker stool she sat on.

“I can give two,” said Stroan, moving behind Anza and resting his palms on her shoulders.

Stroan could not deny she was a most attractive woman—even as hard as she was. There were few women in the clan that matched her in terms of physical appeal, though she would never walk, talk, or giggle as womanly as they. Her face was striking, with almost unnaturally smooth skin spread over a sharp bone structure, high cheek bones, bedchamber eyes, and full, lush lips that Stroan was sure all men looked at and lusted after. Though her shoulders were muscular, they did not seem overly built for a woman, but rounded and strong, and carrying a rare amalgam of power and grace that when seen must be admired. She was tall and amply filled out, with bulges in all the right places and a slender waist to accentuate them. She was, albeit not unblemished, an enchanting warrior queen, and the collection of scars grazing her forearms, shoulders, and stomach seemed minor as they blended into the sweet brown intensity of her skin.

Three years ago Stroan never would have imagined he would be there in her chamber, working his fingers into her skin with only the dim light of a small candle to survey them. His dealings with her had become dangerously casual as of late. He was her right hand, and they had become close as a result—a result he did not oppose, for in the weeks of late he had seen a side of the matriarch that he was sure few others knew existed. She had worries and concerns, weaknesses even, and though she was their ruler she was still a woman, and no less immune to being taken by emotion than any other woman.

Stroan had been privileged to become close enough to know her for the woman she really was, flawed and imperfect. He imagined that beside a handful of servants, a few elders, and
maybe
Yari Thorn, there were none who actually knew her. But she had let him in, and Stroan knew it took great trust for her to do so.

But more than trust, Stroan feared there was now something else. He had noticed a change in her look when her eyes passed over him, and now he was alone with her in the Great Aerie massaging her shoulders, a thing she had asked of him most casually as if it were a harmless gesture like bringing her a candle or an extra fur rug.

Was this what they had been moving towards on those late nights when they shared their thoughts with one another regarding the siege of Snowstone, and their conversations had drifted from strategy to matters far more personal? Was this what was in progress as the bounds of a master-servant relationship had been knocked down and the two shared laughs in the midst of their meetings? Was this where they were going as she revealed to him the beautifully flawed, magnificently vulnerable person that she really was?

Stroan had never noticed until now.

He hoped he was sorely mistaken. Of all the men she could send to her chamber would she really have
him
? He could not tell, and he could not imagine it, but if the time came and it was true, he could not refuse her. No Condor could refuse anything of their matriarch—nor would any desire to. Aside from that, no sane man would ever refuse to share a bed with Anza—besides a man in love with another woman, perhaps, a woman whose face he could not rid from his mind.

Stroan’s fingers stopped moving.

“What is it?” It felt as if he had only stopped for a few moments when the lady’s voice sounded. “Have you finished already?”

“How does it feel?” said Stroan, quickly replacing his hands firmly at the base of her neck. He must have lost track of time thinking about Yuna, and he wondered how long he’d been idle.

“It’s good,” Anza replied. “You have strong fingers. All my servants are far too gentle with me.”

Stroan laughed.

“And you know how to use them,” Anza continued, leaning her head back and exhaling slowly. “I may require them to grace
more
than my shoulders.” She chuckled.

Stroan’s throat tightened and he swallowed hard. There was a time when he would have slid his hands down over the front of her shoulders, and caressed her breasts before moving down her smooth belly, all the while kissing and sucking at her neck while letting his hands slide down between her thighs. But now, because of what this meant for him and Yuna, he was frozen at the invitation.
It was an invitation
, wasn’t it?

He should’ve seen it all coming. He should’ve known that working so intimately with her might result in such a situation, and he should’ve been prepared for it. But he wasn’t. Instead, he stood thinking about how all of this had come to pass—and why. Did she find him fine to look at? Was it his curse for being a handsome right hand to the matriarch? Was it a curse at all? No one in the clan knew what lovers she had among the cliffs. Some said she satisfied her desires with womankind, with Yari Thorn in particular, or with the many servant girls that waited on her hand and foot.

Among his racing thoughts Stroan chose to indulge only those that concerned Yuna, and found it ironic that they were both in similar situations. Surely she would understand. More importantly he thought of how now he could never tell Anza of his love for Yuna, something he had been working up nerve for and waiting for the appropriate time to bring to her attention.

“You know my hands are yours, my lady, wherever you would have them.” Stroan replied after what he thought to be too much silence.

“I speak casually, yet you address me formally,” said Anza, smiling knowingly. “You haven’t called me lady in private for weeks. You must not desire it.”

Was it true? How could he have given himself away so easily? No. How could he hide anything from someone as perceptive as her?

There was still time to turn it around and Stroan thought hard for the right words. He was a shrewd man himself, witty, and quick of tongue, and he knew he could pull this back together, even if it seemed Anza was already a step ahead.

“Forgive me, Anza, but if you could see into my heart and know the truth of it I wouldn’t have to force these words. The desire is well within me though I am not worthy, and being a servant and you the matriarch even thinking such thoughts leaves me uneasy.”

Stroan had found the perfect words, and they had sounded convincing because they were true. As he considered it, he didn’t know how anyone of the Condor who came to have such affairs with Anza brought themselves to the act without fearfulness, how they stood knowing that they would lie with the mother of the clan. While it was a thing he was sure happened, he didn’t know who it happened with or when it took place. Stroan had always imagined she had the great hunters to her chamber, being men of powerful physique and muscle, but now that he thought about it he couldn’t recall seeing one of them going to or from her chamber even one time. The only other answer he could come to was that there were none that he knew of that visited her chamber on a regular basis besides her servants, Yari Thorn, and himself. If she wasn’t regularly taking servants or the vixen archer to her bed, then it explained clearly to Stroan the additional duties of
his
role.

“You fear me still?” Anza laughed. “I swear my rank is more of a curse to me than a benefit.”

“There is a kind of fear that is good, Anza,” Stroan said quickly. “You know that the clan reveres you, and you make us strong by commanding such respect.”

Anza stretched her arms up and released a sigh, rising from the wicker stool. Taking a seat in her wooden chair that sat dead center against one of the four of the Great Aerie’s walls, she motioned Stroan to move the stool up and sit before her.

Stroan glanced over to the matriarch’s bed when he heard the words. He had eyed the stacked bear-skins, the satin coversheet and stuffed fox-fur pillows when Anza’s words turned him back towards her.

“I will command no such thing of you.” She smiled, eyeing him intently. “I can command anything of anyone here in the clan and they will do it—yet it yields little gratification unless they want to. Do you think me so simple as to command you to my bed? If I was after a simple lay I would’ve called one of the great hunters.”

Anza chuckled at her own statement and Stroan joined in with her—only
he
laughed at the irony of her reference to the hunters which he found to be more than a bit eerie.

“But enough on that matter,” said Anza, seeming to sense Stroan’s discomfort. “I would have you check on our hired hand and see if everything’s well. Everything should be ready in the valley as of now. Would you see to it?”

“Of course, Anza.”

“Since you doubted the efficiency of Ozgan,” said Anza eyeing Stroan with a grin, “go see for yourself if the girls are there.”

Stroan could do nothing but smile. “I will make sure of it,” he said with a faint bow of the head.

Stroan opened one of the aerie doors, stepped out onto the bank of the hill, and closed the door behind him. He scaled down the hill into the rocks. He was surprised at the emotions he felt—anger, and a bit of guilt. But stronger than these he felt helplessness—a feeling he had always loathed and swore he would do without. He didn’t like the idea of being helpless. He had always thought that people could change their situations. If they worked hard, were diligent, and found the favor of their god they could be raised from a situation of deficiency to distinction, from grief to glory. After all, he had been of the lowest class in his clan as a boy, and now he was second only to the ruler herself.

His disadvantages had been significant for he had been born male in a society where females were thought to be the better gender, and most men served as nothing but expendable soldiers, hunters, and breeders. His parents had also been of the low city, not having their own aeries in the high city, but leading a poor and simple life in the surrounding outer cliffs. They didn’t enjoy the luxury of sleeping in the protected aeries of the high city, but instead made their home with others of their kind among the low craters of the outer cliffs.

But Stroan changed
his
situation. Paying close attention to his society’s hierarchy, he’d learned that those of the highest rank were assassins—not run of the mill killers, but gifted mercenaries. These Condor were most valuable because of what they could offer to the clan, and the matriarch always took notice of them because they were essential in fulfilling her plan. They would never have the numbers or manpower to take Snowstone by force, but with wit, stealth, and strategy the new kingdom was naught but a killing away.

Stroan hadn’t been the only one to notice these things as a child. There were many others, and what started was a movement of young Condor all pushing to make a name for themselves by being the best assassins. What resulted were dozens of callow youths running off to their deaths, and a handful of skilled fighters becoming expert killers. Of these were Stroan, Yari Thorn, Minkus and Maza the twin deaths, and, of course, the three apostates. They were the ones who had given the Condor a name and reputation for having the lands most gifted mercenaries—so much that people of the highest importance had begun to call on them.

Stroan flew down the rocks to the low city, making his way toward the sound of the bleating herd until he came to the rams’ gorge. He slid down a tall, steep wall and looked ahead to see the gully widening in the distance where a cedar fence stretched across the way.

“Stroan!” Little Gargo called out enthusiastically, leaning on the rain-weathered cedar gatepost of the fence that spanned across the gulley. “Flint’s lookin’ all ready to go. You takin’ him out?”

The head stable master was a cheerful old man with a long gray beard and gentle eyes. He was quite short, but his posture was firm and upright, and he always seemed to have far more energy than a man should at his age.

“Aye, we’re heading out.”

Old Gargo skipped nimbly over to Flint’s stall, yanked the leather bridle off the front post and wasted no time securing it to the ram’s head.

Stroan started to tell him not to worry about it, but the old man had already slid on the nose band and fastened the cheek-piece, and was now tightening the brow-band around the horns. “I could’ve done it, Gargo.”

“Aye, but not as fast as me,” said Gargo, his eyes squinting as he grinned cheerfully.

“You may be right about that,” Stroan agreed. “Come, Flint.”

Gargo held open the gate as the charcoal ram obeyed Stroan’s voice. Exiting the corral the animal approached its master, and Stroan ran his hand along one of the long horns that extended into the air. Flint was young; his horns had just slightly started to curl.

Stroan hopped on.

“Until I see you next, Gargo.”

“Until then,” the old man called as Flint carried Stroan away.

Stroan whispered in the animal’s ear and patted the ram’s neck a few times and the mount went dashing out of the cliffs. They were gone from the Clouds in no time at all. After they had left the city behind, Stroan pulled the reins to slow the mount, allowing Flint to rest as they walked leisurely over the hillside plains.

It was too quiet outside the city—nothing but mountain cliffs and rocks stared silently as his mount moved nimbly through. Nature was watching him, it seemed, looking on from different places in the mountains, all thinking the same thoughts as he, but not daring to say a word. He didn’t blame them, either. He was in quite the situation.

Stroan knew he would lament this journey— traveling alone and in silence, with nothing to do but think of Yuna the whole time. She was in his thoughts even now, whispering as sweet as a goddess, telling him how she missed him and wished to be with him. But those sweet thoughts were short-lived. Stroan was soon gripped by a grim foreboding as his life and future with the clan flashed before him, and he saw himself not as a free man but a servant in Anza’s shadow. Among all this it wasn’t doing Anza’s bidding that made the future bleak, it was that nowhere among his visions of the future did he see Yuna by his side.