“They do keep trying,” replied Beltzer. He put the old man down and stared closely at his wrinkled skin and rheumy eyes. “By the Source, you look all but dead yourself.”
“Soon,” said Okas, smiling. “The Dream calls. But I will stay a little while with my old friends.” He turned to Chareos, who had shed his ice-covered cloak and was stripping his wet clothes from himself and standing before the fire shivering. “You and I, we speak,” Okas said. “Back room good place.”
“This minute?”
“Yes,” answered Okas, moving through to the workshop. Chareos pulled a fresh tunic from his pack and dressed, then walked to where Okas waited. The old man reached out and took his hand, holding it firmly for several seconds. “Sit down,” he ordered, “and tell me of quest.”
Chareos explained about the raid on the village and Kiall’s love for Ravenna. “The others are coming along for different reasons. Beltzer is a lost soul down from the mountain. Finn fears his death will leave Maggrig alone.”
“And you?”
“Me? I have nothing better to do with my life.”
“Is that true, Chareos? Do you not carry a dream?”
“Another man’s dream. It was never my own.”
Okas clambered up on the edge of the workbench and sat down, his short legs dangling less than halfway to the floor. He looked closely at Chareos. “Not your dream, you say. So, you also do not understand nature of this quest, nor where it take you. Tell me of Tenaka Khan and gatetower night.”
Chareos smiled. “Do you know everything, Okas?”
“No; that is why I ask.”
“He climbed up to sit with us, and we talked of many things: love, life, power, conquest, duty. He was a knowledgeable man. He had a dream, but he said the stars stood in his way.”
“What did he mean by it?”
“I don’t know. He was no youngster then. Perhaps he meant death.”
“How did he die?”
“As I understand it, he collapsed at a feast. He was drinking wine, and his heart gave out.”
“What happened then? After feast?”
Chareos spread his hands. “How would I know? They buried him in Ulric’s tomb. It was a great ceremony, and thousands witnessed it. Our own ambassadors—and others from Ventria and the east—attended. Then his eldest son, Jungir, became khan. He killed all his brothers and now rules the Nadir. What has this to do with our quest? Or are you merely curious?”
Okas lifted his hand, the index finger pointed up, and spun it in the air. Golden light streamed from the finger, forming a circle. Other circles sprang up, crisscrossing the first until a sphere hung there. He dropped his hand and traced a straight golden line. “This line is how you see your quest: flat, straight, start, finish. But this,” he said, raising his eyes to the globe, “is how it really is. Your line is touched by many others. I know your secret, Chareos. I know who you are. You are son of last Earl of Dros Delnoch. You are heir to Armor of Bronze. And that makes you blood relative of Tenaka Khan and descendant of both Ulric and Earl Regnak, the second Earl of Bronze.”
“That is a secret I hope you will share with no one else,” whispered Chareos. “I have no desire to return to the Drenai, and I want no one seeking me out.”
“As you wish … but blood is strong, and it calls across the centuries. You will find it so. Why did Tenaka Khan let you live?”
“I don’t know. Truly I don’t.”
“And the ghosts-yet-to-be?”
“Just another riddle,” answered Chareos. “Are not all men the ghosts of the future?”
“Yes. But in the Nadir tongue the phrase could be translated as ‘companions of the ghost’ or even ‘followers of the ghost.’ Is that not so?”
“I am not skilled in the nuances of the Nadir tongue. What difference does it make?”
Okas jumped down to the floor, landing lightly. “I will take you to Nadren village where Ravenna and the others were held. Then we see.”
“Is she still there?”
“I cannot say. I will pick up the spirit trail at her home.”
Okas returned to the main room, where Kiall had lifted a heavy bundle to the tabletop. When he opened it, golden objects fell across the wooden surface, glinting in the lantern light. There were armbands, necklets, brooches, rings, and even a belt with solid gold clasp.
“Oh, joy!” cried Beltzer, dipping his huge fingers into the treasure and lifting a dozen items clear. “Chareos said you were resourceful, but he didn’t do you justice.”
“With this we should be able to buy back Ravenna,” said Kiall.
“With this you could buy a hundred women,” countered Beltzer. “When do we share it out?”
“We don’t,” Kiall stated. “As I said, this is for Ravenna.”
Beltzer reddened. “I worked for this, too,” he said, “and you must have stripped it from the bodies of the men I slew at the Gateway. Part of it is mine. Mine!” He scooped up a handful of golden objects and began to cram them into his pockets. Kiall stepped back and drew his sword, but Beltzer saw the move and swept up his ax.
“Stop this foolishness!” roared Chareos, moving between them. “Sheath the blade, Kiall. And you, Beltzer, put back the gold.”
“But Chareos—” began Beltzer.
“Do it now!”
Beltzer slammed the gold back to the table and stalked off to sit by the fire. Chareos turned his angry eyes on Kiall. “There is truth in what he said. Think on it!”
Kiall stood silently for a few moments, then he relaxed. “You split it fairly, Chareos,” said the young man. “I will use my share to buy Ravenna.”
Finn stepped to the table, lifted a single ring, and slipped it on his finger. “This will do for me,” he said. Maggrig chose a wristband. Chareos took nothing.
Beltzer stood and glared at the others. “You will not shame me,” he hissed. “I will take what is mine!” He shoveled a number of items into his deep pockets and returned to the fire.
“We leave at first light for Tavern Town,” said Chareos. “We will buy extra horses there. Since you are now rich, Beltzer, you can buy your own—and all the food and supplies you will need.”
6
“YOU TELL ME I face great danger, and yet you do not know whence it comes?” asked Jungir Khan, his manner easy, his voice cold. He lounged back on the ivory inlaid throne and stared down at the shaman kneeling before him.
Shotza kept his eyes on the rugs below him, considering his words with great care. He was the third shaman to serve Jungir Khan; the first had been impaled, and the second strangled. He was determined there would be no fourth. “Great Khan,” he said, “there is a magic barrier at work which will take me time to pierce. I already know where the magic originates.”
“And where is that?” whispered Jungir.
“From Asta Khan, sire.” Shotza risked a glance to see the effect the name had on the man above him.
Jungir’s face betrayed no emotion, but his dark eyes narrowed. “Still alive? How can this be? He was an old man when my father became khan. He left the city of tents to die more than twenty years ago.”
“But he did not die, lord. He lives still in the Mountains of the Moon. There are many caves there, and tunnels that go through to the center of the world.”
Jungir rose to his feet. He was tall for a Nadir, as his father, Tenaka, had been. He had jet-black hair drawn back in a tight topknot and a short, trimmed trident beard. His eyes were slanted and dark, betraying no evidence of his half-breed ancestry. “Stand up,” he ordered the little shaman, and Shotza rose. He was just over five feet tall, wiry and bald. Less than sixty years old, the skin of his face hung in wrinkled folds.
Jungir looked into the shaman’s curiously pale eyes and smiled. “Do you fear me?” he asked.
“As I fear the winds of death, lord.”
“Do you love me?”
“Love? You are my khan. The future of the Nadir rests with you,” answered Shotza. “Why would you need my
love also?”
“I do not. But the answer is a good one. Now tell me of Asta.”
The khan returned to his throne and sat with his head back, gazing up at the silken roof that gave the throne hall the appearance of a vast tent. The silks were gifts from the eastern kingdom of Kiatze, a dowry for the bride they had sent him.
“After Asta left the Wolves, he passed from the knowledge of men,” began Shotza. “We all thought he had died. But at the last full moon, when I tried to trace the silver thread of your destiny, I found that a great mist had settled over the sign of your house. I tried to pierce it and at first had some success. Then it hardened into a wall. I flew high but could not find the top. Using all the arcane powers my masters taught me, I finally breached the wall. But all too briefly. Yet I saw the face of Asta Khan. And I sensed the perils that await you in the coming year.”
Shotza licked his lips and once more considered his words. “I saw the gleaming Armor of Bronze floating beneath a star and a swordsman of great skill. But then Asta became aware of me—I was thrown back, and the wall sealed itself once more.”
“And that is all you saw?” asked Jungir softly.
“All that I could see clearly,” Shotza answered, wary of offering a direct lie to his king.
The khan nodded. “Find Asta Khan—and kill him. Take a hundred of my guards. Scour the mountains. Bring me his head.”
“With respect, Great Khan, you could send a thousand men and not find him. Asta was the greatest of shamans; he cannot be taken by men.”
“His magic is stronger than yours?”
Shotza closed his eyes. “Yes, lord. There is not one man alive who could overcome him.”
“It is not my way, Shotza, to have inferior men serve me.”.
“No, lord. But there is a way in which I could defeat him. I have six worthy acolytes. Together, and with certain necessary sacrifices, we could overcome Asta.”
“Necessary sacrifices?”
“Blood kin of Asta Khan, sacrificed on the night of midwinter.”
“How many such sacrifices?”
“Twenty at least. Maybe thirty. Each one will weaken the old man.”
“And you, of course, know the whereabouts of Asta’s family?”
“I do, lord.”
“Then I leave the preparations to you, Shotza. Now, this peril from the Armor of Bronze—does it herald yet another Drenai uprising?”
“I do not think so, lord. I saw the image of the armor, yet the star was in the north. There can be no Drenai threat from the lands of the Gothir. But once I have breached Asta’s wall, I will know more. I will know it all.”
Shotza bowed deeply. Jungir waved him away, and the shaman made his way to his chambers and sat down on a silk-covered divan. Free from the piercing eyes of Jungir Khan, he lay back and allowed his fear to show. His heart was palpitating, and he found it difficult to breathe. Slowly he calmed himself, thanking the gods of the steppes that Jungir had not pressed him about the other images.
He had seen a babe, wrapped in a cloak, lying on a cold stone floor.
And hovering over the child was the grim ghost of Tenaka Khan, Lord of the Wolves.
Jungir watched the little man leave, then sat in silence for several minutes. He could smell Shotza’s fear and knew full well that there was more the shaman could have said. None of these sorcerers ever gave the whole truth. It was against their nature. Secretive, deceitful, and cunning, they were weaned on subtlety and guile. But they had their uses. Shotza was the best of them, and it must have taken great courage to admit that Asta Khan was more powerful. Jungir rose and stretched. He walked to the hanging tent wall that masked the window and pulled it aside.
The new city of Ulrickham stretched out before his eyes, low single-story dwellings of mud-dried brick and stone. Yet inside all of them were the tent hangings that meant home to the Nadir. Nomads for ten thousand years, they were ill suited to cities of stone. Yet Tenaka had insisted on the building of the cities, with their schools and hospitals.
“It ill behooves the world’s greatest nation to live like savages,” he had told Jungir. “How can we grow? How can we fasten our grip on the events of the world if we do not learn civilized ways? It is not enough to be feared on the battlefield.”
Such talk had made him unpopular with the older Nadir warlords, but how could they turn on the man who had done what the mighty Ulric could not? How could they betray the man who had conquered the round-eyed southerners?
Jungir stepped back from the window and wandered into the Hall of Heroes. There, after the fashion of the conquered Drenai, were the statues of Nadir warriors. Jungir paused before his father’s likeness and stared into the cold gray eyes. “Just how I remember you, Father,” he whispered. “Cold and aloof.” The statue was expertly carved, showing the lean power, the fine jaw, and the noble stance of the khan. In one hand he held a longsword, in the other the helm of Ulric. “I loved you,” said Jungir.
A cool breeze caused the torches to flicker, and shadows danced on the stone face, seeming to bring it to life. Jungir could almost see the stone eyes gleaming violet, the mouth curving into that long-remembered cynical smile. He shivered. “I did love you,” he repeated, “but I knew of your plan. You trained me well, Father. I had my spies, too. No man should think to live forever … not even Tenaka Khan. And had you succeeded, where would Jungir have found a place? The eternal heir to a living god? No. I, too, am of the blood of Ulric. I had a right to rule, to make my own life.”
The statue was silent. “How strange, Father. There is no difference in talking to you now from when you were alive. It was always like speaking to stone. Well, I wept when you died. And I almost stopped you drinking that poison. Almost. I reached out my hand to you. You looked into my eyes, and you said nothing. A single word from you and I would have stopped you. But you looked away. Did you know, I wonder, as the poison touched your soul? In those last moments, as you lay on the floor with me kneeling by you, did you know that it was I who put the black powder in your wine? Did you?” He gazed once more into the cold eyes. “Why did you never love me?” he asked.
But the statue was silent.
The twelve days lost beyond the gate cost the questers dearly, for a savage blizzard kept them trapped in the cabin for eighteen days. Food ran short, and Finn almost died after setting off to hunt for meat. After killing a deer, he was caught in a second blizzard and had to take refuge in a cave. An avalanche blocked the entrance, and it was only through the magic of Okas that Chareos and the others found the hunter and dug a tunnel through to him.
The winter storms eased off on the nineteenth day, but even then it took another three weeks before the exhausted group topped the last rise before Tavern Town.
Beltzer led the way down to the inn, pounding on the door and calling for Naza. The little man shouted with delight when he saw the giant and embraced him.
“I feared you dead,” he said. “Come in, come in! Mael has just lit the fire. It will soon be warm. Come in!”
“Where is everyone?” asked Kiall.
“They don’t fell the timber at this time of year,” Naza replied. “There will be no one here for another two months. Most of the passes are blocked. Sit down by the fire. I will fetch you some wine.” His smile faded as Okas entered the tavern. “He’s … he’s …” stammered the innkeeper.
“Yes, he is,” Chareos said swiftly. “He is also a friend who, like us, last ate three days ago.”
“Wine first,” grunted Beltzer, throwing his arm around Naza’s shoulder and leading him back toward the cellar.
The flames took hold of the logs and began to rise, but even so it was cold inside the inn. Chareos pulled up a chair and sat. His eyes were dull, and purple rings showed under them. Even the hardy Finn was exhausted. Only Okas and Kiall seemed none the worse for the ordeal in the mountains. The old man had been untroubled by the cold, and the youngster had grown in strength as the days had passed.
“We’re too old
for this,” said Finn, reading Chareos’ thoughts. Chareos nodded, too tired to reply. Returning with wine, Beltzer thrust a poker deep into the fire and waited until the iron glowed red and bright. Then he plunged it into the wine pitcher. He poured five goblets and handed one to each of the questers. He downed his own swiftly and refilled the goblet. Naza brought them bread, smoked cheese, and cold meat.
After the meal Chareos slowly climbed the stairs to the upper guest room, pulled off his boots, and was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the bolster. Maggrig and Finn took a second room, while Okas lay down on the stone hearth and slept before the fire.
Beltzer and Kiall sat together, the giant calling out for a third pitcher of wine.
Mael brought it. “I take it you still have no money?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, he has,” said Kiall. “Pay the bill, Beltzer.”
Beltzer muttered a curse and dipped into his pocket, producing a thick gold ring. Mael took it, judging the weight. “That should settle about half of what you owe Naza,” she said, leaving her hand extended.
“You are a hard woman,” grumbled Beltzer. He fished around in his pocket, seeking a small token, but he had only larger items. Finally he produced a wristband. “That’s worth ten times what I owe,” he told her.
Mael laughed at him as she took the band and examined it. “I have never seen workmanship like it or gold as red as this. Naza will give you a fair price—and you are right. It is worth far more than you owe. I will see to it that you are reimbursed.”
“Don’t bother,” said Beltzer, flushing. “Keep it. I’ll probably come back one day with not a copper coin to my name.”
“There’s truth in that,” she told him.
After she had gone, Beltzer turned to Kiall. “What are you staring at, boy? Never seen a man settle a debt before?”
Kiall had drunk too much wine, and his head was light, his thoughts serene. “I never thought to see you settle one.”