144: Wrath (12 page)

Over the ridge, a large group of Dorokti came to meet them. They carried spears and hide shields and were led by an athletic young female with the features of a lioness. She wore an ornate necklace covered with glittering beads that danced across the fur of her chest. A long, violet skirt draped from her hips, and she held a tall, white staff in her left hand. At its top was a magnificent white crystal the size of man’s skull.

A few Dorokti led the escaped horses, and Flint, back toward the group. The Faldred was bruised and scraped, and the back of his robes were dirty and worn thin.

Polas looked back to Xandra and Kiff. "From here on out, you both need to be silent. Do you understand me?"

Xandra nodded.

"When you say 'silent'--" Kiff started.

"Just keep your mouth shut," Polas said.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Ginakti camp thrummed with excitement. Children ran ahead of the group, giggling and laughing at the strangers. A particularly daring young boy hunched his shoulders, furrowed his brow, and began to walk at a bobbing pace next to Flint. One of the adults grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away for a good scolding.

The woman leading them obviously commanded respect from the growing group of on-lookers.

"She must be their Seer," Flint said only to receive a shush from Xandra.

"We’re not supposed to be talking," Kiff said. "Lest our voices offend these sensitive Fallen."

Polas glared back at him, and several nearby Dorokti growled in response to the racial slur. The hunter directly behind the Undlander gave him a hard shove to the back.

"Huh," Kiff said, "so they do understand us. Good to know."

"You need to shut your mouth," Polas said. "We are not trying to make enemies of these people."

The boy shrugged, but his posture remained defiant as they made their way to a large tent on the far side of the camp. Most of the clan had gathered in the camp center to see what was happening.

Family members came to take away the bodies of the dead to be prepared for burial rights, and whispers in the Dorokti tongue spread throughout the crowd. Dark glares followed Kiff with every step. No doubt, he had already made many enemies within their ranks.

The Seer stopped before a massive tent. It was made of hide and bone and could easily hold over one hundred warriors within. The posts supporting the tent’s edges were rib bones from a gargantuan tenkoth. There were no extra hangings, decorations, or embellishments save what were needed to support the tent, but it held a natural beauty in its craftsmanship. The bones were carved in tight swirls that flared out as they reached up toward the sky. The hides were a sweeping patchwork from dark to light that made the tent feel alive, as though it were in motion.

Flint whistled softly in appreciation as the group entered the tent’s opening. Inside, the tent had even less ornamentation, but it was equally impressive. Four wooden columns carved with faces of the Dorokti ancestors held up the middle portions of the tent, and a massive throne made from the skulls and bones of many animals sat at the very center of the room. The gathered Dorokti filed in behind them to see how their leader would deal with the interlopers.

On the throne sat Vor, Lord of the Ginakti clan. He was seven feet tall and had broad, scarred shoulders. He, like all Ginakti leaders before him, resembled a regal ram with a protruding snout and curling horns on either side of his head. He had powerful limbs, a broad chest, and his dark eyes held both wisdom and strength. His right hand rested on the handle of an oversized waraxe.

Kertyah stopped in front of Vor’s throne and kowtowed. The Seer followed suit and whispered a few words in the Dorokti language. Vor nodded and stood, leaving his axe beside his throne.

"And who do you claim to be?" Vor asked. "You come carrying blades into our lands. My
Kei'ensah
tells me one of you wanted to be discovered."

Polas stepped forward. "I am Polas Kas Dorian, and these are my companions; Xandra, the Daughter of Hope, Flint, the White-Handed Mage of the Hollow Mountains, and Kiff."

Kertyah grunted a few words to Vor who nodded in return, and a guard stepped out of the crowd, carrying a large metal collar. The metal was black iron, an extremely heavy and hard material with a very unique property: it had the ability to restrain magic. The guards clamped the collar around Flint’s neck and locked it in place with a black iron pin.

"Kas Dorian, eh?" Vor said with a smirk. "Returned from countless ages, yet you seem no older than my uncles. And if you are the Iron Blood, what business would you have in my lands?"

"I seek the true leader of the Dorokti, the descendent of Ve the Ravager."

Vor circled the group slowly, taking time to look each of his captives over from head to toe. The room was hushed, and the gathered Dorokti seemed to breath in time with his heavy steps. Finally, he returned to his throne and sat. "You will be our guests until we find out more of you and your claims."

He nodded to the guards who dragged them all from the tent amidst jeers and laughter.

"If this is how they treat their guests, I'd hate to be a prisoner," Kiff said.

Heavy skins formed the tent walls and blocked out all light but a thin sliver that sneaked in through the closed entryway. Flint had no need for greater illumination as his Faldred eyes were capable of seeing with minimal need for light, but that did not make him any more comfortable with his situation. His neck itched terribly, and his fingers were too thick to get a good scratch with the cursed black iron collar in the way.

"Wonder if they threw the two of us together on purpose," Kiff said. The Undlander boy had not even removed his goggles, but was walking around checking the boxes that served as makeshift seating and the pile of furs that was likely to be their beds for the night. "Kind of thoughtful, really. They put us in a pitch-dark tent so we both feel more at home. I'm sure they've got Xandra and the Butcher in some bright, open-top with nice down pillows and comfy, plush chairs."

Flint did not think that likely. "I believe that we are prisoners in truth, Kiff, and I would assume that the Ginakti put Xandra and Master Kas Dorian in a similarly outfitted hold."

"Tell me, Flint," the Undlander said, "do Faldred ever make jokes?"

"Well of course we do. We Faldred are very well studied in the humors. In fact, a close acquaintance of mine wrote his dissertation on the pranks of the Lildrin peoples. Why do you ask?"

"Never mind." Kiff sprawled out on the stack of furs and put his hands behind his head. "How long do you think it will be until they eat us?"

"It's more likely they will escort us out of their lands or, in the worst case, slay us here and take our bodies to the edge of their territory and bury us there. From what I know of the Dorokti, they are not the type to resort to cannibalism despite their fearsome visages. I should think an Undlander would be less likely to judge a being based on his appearance. Besides, these Ginakti seem to have a strong respect for death, which implies that they also hold life in deference."

Flint walked to the tent's opening and peeked through the folds of hide. He saw a similar, heavily draped tent about five horse-lengths away with three guards stationed in front of it. A group of six children kicked a leather ball in an open circle while their mothers kept watch and rolled out flat bread from mashed grains. He noticed that the ground was mostly grass and not worn down with much traffic, as though the group had not camped long. Lastly, he saw the wooden grip of a heavy club as it grew in proximity to his face.

The blow took him between the eyes and knocked him onto his seat.

"That went well," the Undlander said.

Flint stood, dusted off his backside, and picked up his pack. Thankfully, the Dorokti had left him the majority of his scrolls and gear. "We need to begin formulating a plan and a few contingencies to run alongside. Do you speak any other languages? We should probably avoid High Peltin based on its similarities to the Dorokti tongue."

"Well enough, I guess, 'cause I don't speak High Peltin."

"Ah, Corash, the native language of the Underlands. I am chagrined that I did not think of it first." Flint pulled out a small scroll and a cinder stick. He began to draw hard lines, dashes, and tick-marks along the top of the parchment.

"That's a no for me," Kiff said. "And I certainly can't read it."

Flint looked up from his writing. "Truly? An Undlander who does not speak or read his own language? What do they teach in your elementary schools?"

"Tell you what; you go ahead and work on those plans. Use whatever language you like. Heck, use Cairtol for all I care. Take your notes while I take a nap, and then we'll discuss."

Flint scratched his bald head. "The Cairtol have no written language. Theirs is a completely oral tradition. Perhaps I should use Waysmahli. Yes, that seems fitting considering our destination. Very well, I will wake you when I have a simple plan drawn up."

"Well, not too soon," Kiff said. "Take your time. Make sure you cover every angle."

"My Undlander friend, when a Faldred says he will make a simple plan, you can be certain all possibilities are included."

The cool morning air found Polas waiting in his tent as the first trickle of light beaded through the entryway. He had discovered that he no longer needed the sun to wake him; his body would do that with its aches and pains and the tingle of coldfire that burned in his legs. Perhaps he had spent too many years sleeping. He sat in silence, barely able to see the edges of his stiff, hide blanket.

Xandra slept peacefully a few feet away, undisturbed by the chill. Or, at least, Polas assumed so. He would not have been able to tell her from a lump of pillow or another sleeping figure in the darkness if he had been asked.

Polas heard soft footsteps approaching. He closed his eyes so that he would not be blinded as he had the first time the Seer had come to visit him. It was three days past since Ezree had introduced herself to him, and she had repeated her visit each morning since.

The light burned at his eyelids, flashing red. Polas slowly opened his eyes and let them adjust. Ezree was a beautiful creature. She stood silhouetted at the entrance as she pinned the tent flaps back, citrine light trickling over her shoulders. She was slender and graceful and had an air of strength about her. Her golden fur danced in a passing breeze, and the beads and bones strung around her neck rattled against her pelage with each step. She came alone, as she had each day, and sat on the ground in front of Polas with her staff held across her lap. When first she came to see him, Polas had questioned the absence of guards. "I do not need them," she had said, and Polas believed her. It was not that she threatened power or prowess in combat, but rather that she exuded a sort of calmness and comfort that made him feel completely disarmed in her presence. Were he not immune to such things, he would have attributed to the effect to a spell or aura she wore.

"Kas Dorian, you are surely hungry. I will have breakfast sent for you as soon as we speak."

"Thank you, Seer," Polas said. "What would you ask of me today?"

She had asked him the same questions every day so far. Who was he? Where was he from? Where was he going? Who was Ve the Ravager and why should her people be bound to his word? She was prodding for holes in his tale, something to verify or discredit his story completely.