144: Wrath (13 page)

Polas heard Xandra stirring at the sound of his voice. The girl did not like Ezree and was convinced that the woman would have their hearts freed from their chests sooner than she would free them from their prison.

"Should I just start from the beginning again?" Polas asked.

"No," Ezree replied. "No, today we move forward. You have said much of your cause and the one you have called Ve the Ravager. Today I want to ask you about the four-legged man."

"Four-legged man? I have not spoken of one before now. To whom do you refer?"

Ezree stared at him, her fierce blue eyes searching him for any signs of a lie. Polas stared back at those eyes and thought of his wife. At once, he understood why he felt so at peace with this Dorokti woman. She had Finadel's eyes, and when he thought on it, she had her calm, tranquility, and quiet strength too. Not the power of a king or a warrior, but something that could make men bend their knee or climb mountains at a word. He remembered her voice, strong but soft, like the eddies of a rippling brook.

"Iron Blood." Ezree's voice pulled him back to the present. "The four-legged man. Do you know of him?"

Polas shook his head. "No. You know those I travel with, and I have told you of Narci, Ranar, and the others. There were Yarsacs who fought alongside us, but none I knew by name."

She was quiet for a moment, and the song of a meadowlark drifted in on the wind. "And you seek no army, only the Lord of the Dorokti? Tell me again of your reason."

"I'm not fighting a war. You see the company I keep, and already this is more than I would wish to take with me to Waysmale's shores. I did not come here to take your hunters away and leave your clan undefended."

"You came only for our king, yes?"

The way she said it sound so much worse that it was. "Yes. Only the direct descendant of Ve."

She stared at him as though her eyes could see into his very soul. Outside the tent, Polas could hear the sounds of horses and men going from one place to another, of songs being sung, and of blades being sharpened. The smell of strip-steak and eggs caught his nose and his stomach growled audibly.

"Your breakfast will be sent." Without a further word, Ezree stood, exited the tent, and closed the flaps behind her, leaving them once again in darkness.

"Master Kas Dorian?" Xandra's voice was still scratchy from sleep. "Do you think it is wise to be so open with her? How do you know that she's not twisting everything you say against you?"

"I don't, but it is better that I give her the whole truth of my past, or as much as I know of it, in hopes that they have kept their own histories."

Morning light blinded them both as a gruff Dorokti with dark grey skin, thick shoulders and a round horn at the end of his snout brought them their breakfast. Polas had to fumble about in the dark to find his plate. "Sure wish I could tell what I'm eating."

"Hold on. I've been practicing."

A pinpoint of brilliant white light glowed from Xandra's direction. It grew steadily until it became a bright saucer of illumination, and Polas realized that the girl was using her plate as a focus. The light filled the tent, and he saw how dirty he was from the long ride and sleeping on the ground the last few nights. His hands were brown, and his fingernails looked as though they held all the dirt between the Dorokti camp and Odes'Kan. His plate held a mash of eggs and meat covered with a bit of crushed pepper for flavor. All in all, not a bad breakfast for a prisoner.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Polas asked between bites of eggs.

"I've been practicing for a while now, but I just figured out that it's easier to hold the light if I focus it into something."

"Very well done, but let's keep that hidden from the Dorokti for now. We may need as many extra dirks in our boot as we can hold."

Xandra grinned ear to ear, and Polas thought of little Leyryl the first time she caught a fish big enough to share with the family. This girl was far too young to be throwing her life away in Waysmale, no matter who had raised her.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Lacien of the Shining Feather was broken. His long, black hair was knotted and unwashed, and his clothes were in tatters. He lay on his side on the floor of the dark prison cell watching days and years pass him by. The proud Melaci was reduced to a memory, and his once lustrous wings were now a dull black. His eyes and face held no emotion, and his meal of thick curd acted as a feeding trough for the rats.

His cell was cold and hard, drilled into the rock beneath the Cratin city of Berco. Mildew cleaved to cold stone dripping with rust-colored water. A heavy door made of steel bars caged his once glorious form. Spiders spun their webs over his unmoving body, and insects crawled over his face and through his hair. The gentle rise and fall of his chest were the only signs that life still flowed within him.

Eight cells comprised the small jail, and all seven others were devoid of sentient life, though many held the remains of once-living beings and the carrion that crawled upon their bones. A single door acted as entry and exit to the prison, and it was watched over by two guards on the inside as well as two in the antechamber.

The guards were Cratin, powerful and intelligent beings with the torso and shape of a man and the head of a bull. Their bipedal legs ended in hairy hooves that clacked against the stone floor. Beneath their silvered mail, they had the musculature of men devoted to the pursuit of strength. One had thick, black hair across his arced back, and his neck was like a cedar branch. The other had brown fur coating his veiny arms, and his horns were capped with black beads. Despite their barbaric appearances, Cratin were possessed of a keen and often devious intellect. The two sentries sat beside the door playing a strategy game, each one pondering over their moves with due deliberation. The scrape and tick of moving pieces and the scurrying of vermin were the only sounds in the hopeless den.

At the far end of the hall against a wall covered in manacles, chains, and collars, a small golden portal sizzled to life. Out stepped Matthew the Blue, still carrying the ornate bow and dragging his stack of books behind him.

The guards sprang to their feet, sending their game pieces flying. They snorted as they drew their weapons and charged the tiny Cairtol.

Matthew smirked and waved his hand, and a yellow portal opened in the floor beneath the guards’ feet. The two fell into the yellow abyss, yelling curses in their guttural Cratin tongue.

Matthew laughed and dusted his hands off before gesturing to close the portal. He took a quick survey of the prison, and upon seeing Lacien, walked hurriedly over to his cell. Once there, he dropped his stack of books on the ground beneath the lock. With some effort, he climbed on top and examined the keyhole. He closed his eyes tightly, and when he opened them again, they glowed bright yellow. A tiny, golden pane appeared, no larger than an apple. Matthew motioned downward, and the glowing circle consumed the lock. He blinked the color away from his eyes, and the cell door swung open.

"Come, Lacien," Matthew said, "it is time you left this prison cell. Fate has given you another chance to restore your family’s name."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Vor sat on his throne and stroked the edge of his axe. He had sent away all of his guards so that he could speak privately with the Seer and his
Kei'ensah
. A small bowl of charred tesleaf twigs sat in the middle of the group with a fire pit lit beneath it.

The trespassers were wearing on his patience, and he wanted to be rid of them, but he could not do so without knowing everything they knew. They dared to claim the right of Blood Debt, and the one who called himself Kas Dorian knew too much about the histories of his people and of their ways. The only explanation was that the Faldred was a scholar who had studied with another tribe; they had learned much from the Clan of Wind or the Clan of Fire, and now they were attempting to use that knowledge against the Clan of Earth. Vor would not be taken for a fool.

"He is either truly Kas Dorian or a very good imitation of the man, my lord." Ezree spoke the language of the Dorokti, a language more ancient than the Iron Blood or even some of the races of Traesparin.

"But he knew nothing of the four-legged man?" Vor asked in kind.

"That is true," the Ezree said. "But if he does not seek an army, then perhaps he would not know one is to be gathered."

"And your arts?"

Ezree shook her head. "I have tried many ways, but he defies all of them. In fact, I do not believe he even feels the presence of my arcanis. It is not as though he resists, more that he is untouched by them."

"Then perhaps he does have Iron Blood, or more likely he wears a spell himself to keep yours at camp."

"No. I would be able to see its glow, especially one so powerful as to block my arts."

Vor laughed. "You have forgotten your modesty, or have these outsiders stirred up the warrior in you?"

"I am the Seer of the Ginakti Clan. I carry the pride of my people. False modesty does not help our king to understand his prisoners."

"Well said." Vor reached for his cup and took a long drink of melon wine. "And what does my
Kei'ensah
say of these trespassers?"

Kertyah watched the small fire dance beneath the incense bowl. His black fur caught the orange light, but gave back only ripples of deep blue and violet. It was as though he carried the night with him wherever he went.

"My lord, I have seen true honor in their leader. He risked himself for his captor twice and has not raised a blade against any of our people. Perhaps we should again consult the mists. There might be something hidden there that we have forgotten."

 "No, we have looked enough into the past. It is time my people looked forward." Vor stood. "I must decide, for we cannot have these beings in our midst forever. Call for a gathering, and I will see to the prisoners."

The giant tent was full once again, as all the Ginakti wanted to see what would become of the strangers. Kiff was pretty sure he saw a few of the Fallen exchanging bets, probably wagering on which would be killed first. Unfortunately for them, Flint had made a simple plan. Seventeen of them to be exact, and Kiff knew his role in each. Cause trouble. It was easy for him, and he was impressed that the Faldred scholar had come up with so many creative uses of his talents.

Kiff watched and waited as the Seer stepped between Vor and Polas. She ran her fingers along Polas’s chest and shoulders and waved her staff above his head. Ineffective sparks of light leaped from her fingertips and fizzled against his masked face. Polas did not flinch.

After a few more failed tests of her arcane skills, the Seer turned and nodded to her king. Murmurs tore through the crowd, and Vor had to raise his hand to silence them. Kiff laughed to himself. They were probably all aghast that their precious Seer could not conjure enough magic to harm a full-grown man. It was a joke, really. Kiff had seen better magic tricks in the tavern at Dethel's Bend, but these barbaric people had likely never seen what a real mage could do with a little practice.

"Kas Dorian," Vor said, "you and our ancients fought many battles together. How is that you still live?"

"I do not know," Polas replied. "But your ancients’ Seer told me this day would come. You, Lord of the Dorokti, owe me your service."

Kiff was impressed with the Butcher's
nesahnkas
. Not a lot of men would flat out tell a king, even a king of a backwater people, that they should be a slave.

"And how are you to know you have the proper Dorokti lord, Kas Dorian? There are five clans now. Perhaps you should seek aid from the Clan of Fire," Vor suggested with a shrug.

"You are the Lord of Nas Sonath, the ancestral home of the Dorokti people. I know nothing of your other clans, for in my time there was only one, but if you hold at all to the traditions of your ancestors, your lineage is bound to me."

Vor turned and walked back to his throne. "Old traditions. Ancient prophecies. What should I care?"

"Damn Fallen," Kiff said. "Can’t expect them to honor any debts they owe."

The crowd grumbled and growled loudly. The guard closest to Kiff kicked him in the back of the legs, and he fell forward onto his knees. He had the crowd. Time to prepare for step two.

Vor turned in front of Kiff and glared. "I would watch your tongue, Undlander. You have no friends here from what I can tell." His eyes moved slowly down the row of prisoners. Flint and Polas stared straight ahead toward the throne, but Xandra kept her eyes cast to the floor.

Kiff stood slowly in attempt to act casual. His right hand worked gradually, scarcely moving, behind his back.

Vor looked back to Polas. "We are a proud people and a people with laws. Under that law, this whelp owes for the life he has taken."

The Dorokti leader leaned down into Kiff’s face, snarling.

"This ‘whelp’ is protected by my blade," Polas said.

Vor turned and gave Polas a long, appraising look as though assessing his chances of defeating the ancient general or, perhaps, evaluating the conviction behind his words.

Kiff lashed out and punched Vor in the face. His fist popped with the impact, and he curled the hand toward his chest in pain. Four guards sprang toward the Undlander and subdued him. The crowd was silent, awaiting immediate vengeance from their lord. Vor turned, eyes ablaze, and backhanded him. Kiff fell to the ground and lifted his mask slightly to spit out a mouthful of blood.

Vor laughed loudly, dabbing his nose with the back of his hand. "Audacious pup," he snorted. "Kas Dorian, I suggest you put a leash on your boy."

"I’ll take it into consideration," Polas replied. "Are you with me?"

Vor returned to his throne and sat. "We Dorokti of the Ginakti clan are the keepers of the Ancestors’ prophecies and the heart of all Dorokti. Our honor is bound to the ancient oath, and, as you have said, my lineage is bound to you. My axe," he said, picking up the heavy weapon, "is yours until the Dark One falls."