Where had they come from so suddenly? She remembered the giant Goh Gam Gar walking, then a moment later he had disappeared when the ground seemed to fall away beneath him. The earth beneath their feet must be riddled with Furi’a burrows, and the weight of the great beast had simply been too much.
She thought she heard Makho’s shout, “Here to me!” but couldn’t be certain where it came from. In any case, at that moment it was all she could do to keep the scuttling goblins from overwhelming her where she stood. Although dozens lay slaughtered around her feet, half a dozen of the hideous, manlike beasts were climbing her body, some with sharp stone blades in their tiny, malformed hands. Nezeru knew that if not for her jerkin and trews made of armored hide, the creatures would already be stabbing their crude knives into her flesh.
With a great shake, she managed to dislodge several of the things at once. “Makho!” she screamed. “Where are you? I am here!” But no one answered. The hand chieftain was either too busy defending himself or dead. The words of the first Queen’s Stricture came to her, as if she were a child again.
Mother of All, give strength to your servant. My life is yours. My body is yours. My spirit is yours.
A desperate, blasphemous thought followed the prayer, as if someone else entirely had spoken in her mind. But it was the queen who sent us here to die! Even in the grip of fear, Nezeru was ashamed by this proof of her own cowardly mortal blood. Was she not a Queen’s Talon, sworn and death-sung? If the Mother of All needed dragon’s blood, then it was the Talons’ holy task to provide it. If they died trying to do so—if Nezeru herself died here, overrun by these squeaking nightmares—what would that matter? Others would come to serve the queen. The Hikeda’ya would survive and the Garden would be remembered. Only the queen could promise that.
All this sped through her mind in a fraction of an instant, then Nezeru felt a pain sharp as fire—something was biting her wrist. She thrashed her arm but could not dislodge it. One of the Furi’a had managed to find a bare space between her glove and the sleeve of her jerkin, and now it hung there like a large rat that she could not shake loose. The rest of the goblins took advantage of her distraction to throw themselves at her, so Nezeru hammered the matted little head as hard as she could with the pommel of her sword until she felt the skull crunch. The digger dropped away from her now-bloody wrist, but another half dozen were already climbing up her legs; even as she pulled some off, others scrambled to reach her face. Every time she snatched one away, two more seemed to take its place, and the snowy ground all about was alive with Furi’a—more than she had ever seen, more than she had believed could exist in one place. Nezeru knew she was looking at her own death. Even an entire squadron of Sacrifices could not have prevailed against such vast numbers.
She began to chant her death-song, the one she had sung in the arena on the day she had become a Queen’s Talon.
Hea-hai! Hea-hai!
Yes, I live for the Garden,
But I died when the blessed Garden died.
Yes, I live for the Queen,
But I died when her son the White Prince died . . .
Suddenly, she saw a bright light sputter across the gray sky, then a burning ball of flame roared down into the center of the goblin swarm only a dozen paces from where she stood. Fire splashed over the swarming creatures as the arrow struck ground, in an instant changing their hungry chattering into shrieks of terror so high-pitched she could barely hear them. Another burning ball came hurtling down, striking closer to her this time. Nezeru threw herself to one side and began crawling. The digging creatures spattered by the fiery bolts shrieked and ran in all directions across the snow, blinded by pain and terror; a substantial number never moved again, but lay blackened and burning in the spots where the fire had struck them, their ugly little bodies twitching like the legs of dying insects. This was no ordinary fire, Nezeru recognized, but something thicker and hotter, a fire that clung where it fell and kept blazing.
As most of her enemies scattered, at least for the moment, she scraped with her knife at the clawing Furi’a that still clung to her, sawing loose some who would not release their grip, even in death. As she did, she saw a shape sliding down the nearby hill, a white figure against a white slope, carrying something that burned far brighter than the dim dawn skies. It was a flaming arrow, and even as the white-clad figure slid, the arrow flew from his bow like some mortal fable of an angry god flinging thunderbolts. The arrow splashed fire through the ranks of diggers still climbing from the hole in the ground. At first Nezeru thought this must be Saomeji wielding the powers of his order, but the figure did not have the Singer’s compact size and, even in the weak light just before sunrise, his partially hooded face seemed oddly dark.
Nezeru felt the rumble beneath her feet a long moment before she heard it, then turned in time to see something huge erupt from beneath the snow like a mountain created in a single moment. It was Goh Gam Gar, roaring as he thrashed his way free of the broken ice, his fur matted all over with blood.
“To me!” someone shouted again, and Nezeru recognized the voice as Makho’s. He was alive, although she still could not locate him. She could see the white-clad newcomer, who had a blazing arrow balanced on his bow and had almost reached the bottom of the slope; for a moment she could see the stranger’s face clearly.
Their would-be savior was a mortal.
This mortal stopped a few long paces from the bottom of the slope and waved his arm urgently, then sent another streak of flame into the swarm of diggers where they were thickest, around the hole where the giant had first broken through. As the flames splashed them, the little creatures milled in screeching confusion, some still trying to climb out of the tunnels while others, many badly burned, fought to get back in. The din was terrible and shrill, like the piping of terrified bats. Nezeru saw now that the mortal carried a pot of flames in his hand, but had to set it down each time he wanted to draw his bow, which slowed him considerably on the steep slope.
Goh Gam Gar had dug his way out of the collapsed snow and out onto open ground with only one hand, because his other clutched the limp body of one of the Hikeda’ya as though it were a child’s doll.
“Up here!” the mortal cried. “Up here, where it is only rock beneath. Their tunnels do not reach here!” To Nezeru’s further astonishment, he said it in flawless Hikeda’yasao, the speech of Nakkiga.
Now that fire was no longer falling on them from the sky, the diggers were beginning to find their courage again. The terrified horde that had seemed about to disappear back into the earth only moments earlier now came rushing back out into the blue dawn. Nezeru knew she should wait for Makho to command them, but she could not see the hand chieftain at all and could barely hear his voice, so instead she scrambled over the bloody snow mounds toward the slope where the stranger waited, treading on tiny, burned bodies with almost every step.
A moment later Makho himself appeared at the opposite edge of the great hole. He was clearly exhausted and had taken many wounds—his arms, neck, and face were all dripping blood—but he found the strength to reach back down into the pit and help another red-smeared figure that Nezeru guessed must be Kemme, and then began dragging him up the hill. After a moment Kemme found the strength to stumble after Makho on his own. Even the giant had managed finally to clamber out of the hole, and was crawling up the icy slope on all fours, leaving broad streaks of red on the blue, dawn-brightened snow.
The stranger led Makho’s Talons up the snowy hill until they reached a flat overhang of rock a hundred steps above the valley floor. Only when they were far enough beneath the overhang to feel stone both beneath their feet did they let themselves slump to the ground in exhaustion, gasping for breath. Nezeru’s heart was beating even faster than it had in her fight to escape the island of the bones; she had been so certain death had come that it was hard for her to understand that she was still alive. Her very bones seemed to quiver withi
n her. The smell of blood and burning goblin flesh was everywhere, fouler even than the stench of the giant at such close quarters.
For long moments no one spoke, then Makho stirred and sat up, glaring at their rescuer where he crouched a few yards away. For half a moment the golden color of the stranger’s skin almost made Nezeru believe she had misidentified him as a mortal, that he must really be a Zida’ya, the Hikeda’ya’s untrustworthy cousins, but the bones of his face were nothing like theirs. It was only a long life in the sun that had given such strange color to his skin.
“Who are you?” Makho demanded of him. “How do you dare interfere in the great queen’s business?”
The mortal, who wore clothing made of scraped white hides, gave Makho a look that Nezeru could only interpret as amused, as bizarre and dangerous as that seemed. He was tall and almost as slender as a Hikeda’ya, and his short, straight hair was colored a much lighter gold than his skin, so pale that it was almost white. “Ah, I beg pardon,” he said to Makho. “Was it your business to die, then? Because otherwise, instead of interfering, I just saved your queen’s hand from being eaten by goblins. I was taught that the Cloud People brought courtesy with them from the Garden as well as witchwood—”
Before the mortal had even finished, Makho lunged across the distance between them and pressed the tip of Cold Root, still festooned with the bloody hair and rags of dead Furi’a, against the stranger’s throat, leaning so close that their faces were only a few handspans apart. “Why do you speak of witchwood, mortal?” Makho said in a serpent’s hiss. “You are a spy.”
The mortal only stared back at him, then said, “Look down.”
Nezeru saw it at the same time as Makho himself did: even with the chieftain’s sword at his throat, the stranger managed to draw his own long, thin blade in an instant. In a blink, its point was touching Makho’s ribcage, poised just above his heart. Nezeru was stunned. Even Makho, for all his fierce scowl, seemed slightly unnerved, and no wonder: Who had ever heard of a mortal as swift as one of the Hikeda’ya?
“If I die, then you die in the same second,” the stranger said with surprising mildness. “If you prefer another conclusion to this ra’haishu—” he used an old Hikeda’ya term that meant “tunnel meeting” and implied a mistake that could lead to sudden death—“then I suggest you take your blade (which by the way is in need of cleaning) away from my neck and we can begin again. I imagine this time you will begin by thanking me.”
A low rumbling filled the shallow cave. It was Goh Gam Gar, crouched in a pool of his own blood, laughing. “I like it! This little ice rat has teeth!”
Makho pulled the crystal goad from his jerkin and pointed it toward the giant. His hand trembled, which was one of the more unexpected things Nezeru had seen in this long hour of surprises. “Open your mouth to me again, monster, and I will make you tear off your own head.”
“I can see you must be a very popular leader,” said the mortal.
“Makho,” said Saomeji. “A moment . . .”
“Do not use my name, you fool.”
“I am sorry, but I have words you must hear.” The Singer held up his hands, which were stained with blood. Even his sleeves were drenched in red almost to the elbow. “Ibi-Khai is dead.”
“What?” Makho turned from the stranger so quickly that Nezeru thought he might even have been grateful for the distraction. “Are you certain?”
Saomeji gestured to Ibi-Khai’s motionless form, which the giant had set down on the ground a short distance away. “See for yourself. His throat has been torn out by the Furi’a. He was dead before we reached this spot.”
“But how will we find our way through unknown lands?” Kemme demanded, as though angry at their dead comrade. “Only Ibi-Khai was told the way. Without another Echo to learn it from our masters, we are lost. We will never find . . .”
“Silence!” Makho had stepped back, his face rigid with fury, as well as something else Nezeru had never seen but which almost looked like fear. “Have you lost your wits, all of you? We will talk when we have decided what to do with this stranger—a stranger who very conveniently speaks our tongue.” He glared at their mortal rescuer. “What is your name and business, creature, and how do you know the words of the Hikeda’ya?”
The stranger’s long knife had disappeared again as suddenly as it had appeared; though he stared back at Makho without fear, he now showed empty hands. “My name is Jarnulf. I speak your tongue because I was raised beside the mountain, in Nakkiga-That-Was, before I became free.”
“Liar,” said Makho. “There are no free mortals in Nakkiga.”
“I am not in Nakkiga, am I? But I was freed by my master, Denabi sey-Xoka.”
Makho, Kemme, and Saomeji all stared at the stranger in surprise. Even Nezeru recognized the name.
“You lie.” Makho held one hand poised near Cold Root’s hilt. Violence filled the air like incense. “Anyone who speaks our tongue could claim to have belonged to the Weapons Master Denabi. His name is well known in all the lands of our people and any liar could learn it.”
“I did not simply belong to him,” Jarnulf said. “I was trained by the master’s own hand.” As with the long knife, the mortal’s sword seemed almost to jump into his hand. “Do you wish to test me, Hand Chieftain?” the mortal asked. “It seems a poor idea to me, since you have already lost one of your company today.”
Makho did not speak, but batted away the mortal’s blade with his bare hand and then sprang into an astonishingly swift attack, Cold Root a silvery blur. Nezeru knew that for all her own speed, if she had been the target she would already be dead, but the mortal barely moved, tilting his wrist and sword just enough to divert Makho’s lunge, pivoting easily on his heel to direct the force of the attack past him.
The hand chieftain did not let his obvious surprise at the skill of Jarnulf’s defense end his attack. For a few brief moments both blades whirled and struck, struck again, then jumped apart. Neither had drawn blood, and the mortal did not look as if he had been seriously tested. Nezeru kept her expression carefully neutral, but inside she was amazed and disturbed. Their chieftain was known as one of the best blades in all the Order of Sacrifice. She herself would never have dared to cross swords with Makho, and yet here was a mortal, a former slave if he spoke the truth, who might be his equal.
“Chieftain Makho, I beg you stop,” cried Saomeji. He stepped between the two of them, an act of bravery that impressed Nezeru almost as much as the fighting skill of the young mortal. “It is daylight now, which is the only thing that keeps the Furi’a from attacking us again. We must get farther from their nest, much farther, before the dark comes again. And we are already badly wearied.”
“Speak for yourself,” chortled the giant. “Goh Gam Gar has not had such sport since I ate one of the knights of old Asu’a during the Storm King’s fall. Let the two of them fight on!”
Makho never turned his eyes from Jarnulf. “This creature is a spy. Everything he says is impossible. Trained by Denabi himself? A mortal slave with no collar?”
“I told you. Denabi-z’hue himself took the collar from my neck.” Jarnulf looked at Makho again, then turned his gaze to the rest of the Hikeda’ya and deliberately set his blade point down against the snow, pushing it in until it stood on its own. “I will show you. You, the female—come and look.” He untied the cords at the top of his hide jacket, folded back the collar, then tilted his head forward like a victim readied for sacrifice.
Nezeru didn’t know what to do. Ibi-Khai lay dead, the rest were still listless from battle, and Makho only glared at the stranger like a wolf protecting its kill. She walked toward the stranger, waiting for her chieftain to order her to stop, but Makho said nothing.
The first surprise was that the mortal was only a little taller than she was. The second was his smell, a very strange mixture of scents she identified as typical of mortals, but strangely diminish
ed, as well as a strong smell of pine sap. Nezeru leaned closer to examine him. A line of callused flesh ringed the base of his neck where it began to broaden into his shoulders, in exactly the place a slave-yoke would sit.
“He has a scar from the kuwa,” she reported.
“Which proves only that he was a slave once,” snapped Makho, “and perhaps still is, despite his fanciful tale of Denabi. How is it that a former slave roams free on the borders of Hikeda’ya lands?”
“Because I am Queen’s Huntsman and a slave-taker,” said Jarnulf, knotting his jacket closed again. “I capture those that try to flee the Queen’s lands. If you still doubt me, I suggest you ask my former master.”
“Denabi sey-Xoka went to wait for the Garden three circles of seasons ago,” said Makho. “But I’m sure you knew that, since it makes your story more convenient.”
A strange expression crossed the mortal’s face, one Nezeru did not entirely recognize: there was sadness in it, but something else as well. “No. I did not know that my old master had died. I have not returned to Nakkiga in many years. I do my business with the border castles.” Jarnulf’s hand rose and sketched the Hikeda’ya sign for Hopeful Return. “So the Weapons Master travels back to the Garden. May his road be straight.”
He had done it all so naturally, so much like any ordinary man of her people, that Nezeru could no longer doubt him. Even Makho had lost something of his usual certainty, but still stared at the newcomer as if he were some kind of wandering spirit or other dubious omen.
“Do you know the lands beyond our borders well, Queen’s Huntsman?” Saomeji suddenly asked.
Jarnulf almost smiled, but it was not a friendly expression. “Of course. I travel far in search of traitors and the queen’s other enemies. I know the lands beyond Nakkiga’s old walls as well as I know my own skin, my own bones.”