The Hidden City

  ‘He actually saw them,’ Talen reported. ‘He described them too well to have been making it up.’ The young thief had just returned from his foray into the seamier parts of Beresa.

  ‘What sort of fellow was he?’ Sparhawk asked. ‘This is too important for us to be taken in by random gossip.’

  ‘He’s a Dacite,’ Talen replied, ‘a guttersnipe from Jura. His politics go about as far as his purse. His main reason for joining Scarpa’s army in the first place was his enthusiasm for the idea of taking part in the looting of Matherion. We’re not talking about a man with high ideals here. When he got to Natayos and found out that there might be actual fighting involved, he started to lose interest. Anyway, I found him in one of the shabbiest taverns I’ve ever seen, and he was roaring drunk. Believe me, Fron, he was in no condition to lie to me. I told him that I was thinking of joining Scarpa’s army, and he turned all fatherly on me – “Don’ even shink about it, boy. It’s tur’ble there” – that sort of thing. He said that Scarpa’s a raving lunatic with delusions of invincibility who thinks he can just blow on the Atans and make them go away. He said he’d just about decided to desert anyway, and then Scarpa came back to Natayos – along with Krager, Elron and Baron Parok. They had the Queen and Alean with them, and Zalasta met them at the gate. The Dacite happened to be nearby, so he could hear what they were saying. Evidently, Zalasta’s still got a few good manners, so he wasn’t very happy about the way Scarpa had been treating his prisoners. The two of them had an argument about it, and Zalasta tied his son into a very complicated knot with magic. I guess Scarpa was squirming around like a worm on a hot rock for a while. Then Zalasta took the ladies to a large house that had been fixed up for them. From what my deserter said, the house comes fairly close to being luxurious – if you discount the bars on the windows.’

  ‘He could have been coached,’ Sparhawk fretted. ‘Maybe he wasn’t as drunk as he appeared to be.’

  ‘Believe me, Fron, he was drunk,’ Talen assured him. I cut a purse on my way to that tavern – just to keep in practice – so I had plenty of money. I poured enough strong drink into him to stun a regiment.’

  ‘I think he’s right, Fron,’ Stragen said. ‘There are just too many details for this to be a contrived story.’

  ‘And if this deserter had been sent to spin cobwebs for our benefit, why would he waste time and effort entertaining a young pickpocket?’ Talen added. ‘None of us look the way we did the last time Zalasta saw us, and I doubt that even he could have guessed how Sephrenia and Xanetia put their heads together to modify us.’

  ‘I still think we should hold off,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Aphrael’s going to put Xanetia into Natayos in a day or so, and Xanetia can find out for sure if it’s really Ehlana who’s locked up in that house.’

  ‘We could at least get closer,’ Stragen said.

  ‘Why? Distance doesn’t mean anything to my blue friend here.’ Sparhawk touched the bulge under the front of his tunic. ‘Just as soon as I know for certain that Ehlana’s there, we’ll go pay Zalasta and his bastard a call. I might even invite Khwaj to come along. He has some plans for them that sort of interest me.’

  The light was suddenly very bright, and the citizens of Sopal abruptly ceased jerking around like marionettes on strings and started to walk like normal humans. It had taken a half a day to explain to Ghnomb why it was necessary for them to return to real time, and the God of Eat still had some serious reservations about the whole idea.

  ‘I’ll wait in that tavern just up the street,’ Tynian said to Ulath as the two of them stepped out of the narrow alley. ‘Do you remember the password?’

  Ulath grunted. ‘I shouldn’t be long,’ he said. He walked across the street toward the pair of travelers who had just come into town. ‘That’s an interesting looking saddlebow you’ve got there, neighbor,’ he said to one of them, a broken-nosed man on a roan horse. ‘What’s it made of? Ramshorn?’

  Berit gave him a startled look, then glanced quickly around the narrow street near the east gate of Sopal. I didn’t think to ask the saddle-maker, Sergeant,’ he replied, noticing the blond Elene’s tattered-looking uniform jacket. ‘Ah – maybe you could give my young friend and me some advice.’

  ‘Advice is free. Go ahead and ask.’

  ‘Do you happen to know of a good inn here in Sopal?’

  The one my friend and I are staying at isn’t too bad. It’s about three streets over.’ Ulath pointed. ‘It’s got the sign of a boar hanging out front – although the picture doesn’t look very much like any boar I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘We’ll look into it.’

  ‘Maybe my friend and I’ll see you there. We’re usually in the taproom after supper.’

  ‘We’ll stop by – if we decide to stay there.’

  Ulath nodded and walked up the street to a tavern and went on inside, where he joined Tynian at a table near the fire. ‘What did you do with our shaggy friend?’ he asked.

  ‘He went out looking for another dog,’ Tynian replied. ‘You might have made a mistake there, Sergeant. He seems to be developing a taste for them. There won’t be a dog left in the whole town if we stay much longer.’

  Ulath sat down and leaned back. ‘Ran into an Elene fellow out there in the street,’ he said, loudly enough to be heard by the other tavern patrons.

  ‘Oh?’ Tynian said casually. ‘Astellian or Edomish?’

  ‘It was sort of hard to say. He’d had his nose broken at one time or another, so it was a little difficult to determine his race. He was looking for a good inn, so I recommended the one where we’re staying. We might see him there. It’s good to hear somebody talking Elenic for a change. I get tired of listening to people babbling at me in Tamul. If you’re about finished here, why don’t we drift on down to the harbor and see if we can find somebody to ferry us on across the lake to Tiana.’

  Tynian drained his tankard. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, standing up.

  The two of them left the tavern and strolled back to their inn, talking casually and moving at the leisurely pace of men with nothing really pressing to do.

  ‘I want to have a look at that shoe on my horse’s left forehoof,’ Ulath said when they arrived. ‘Go on ahead. I’ll meet you in the taproom.’

  ‘Where else?’ Tynian laughed.

  Khalad was in the stable as Ulath had expected. He was making some show of currying Faran. ‘I see that you and your friend decided to stay here,’ the big Thalesian said in a casual tone.

  ‘It was handy,’ Khalad shrugged.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ Ulath said in a voice hardly more than a whisper. ‘We were able to pick up some information. Nothing’s going to happen here. You’ll get another one of those messages.’

  Khalad nodded.

  ‘It’s going to tell you to go on across the lake to Tiana. Be careful of what you say on the boat, because there’ll be a fellow on board who’s working for the other side – an Arjuni with a long scar on his cheek.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out for him,’ Khalad said.

  ‘You’ll get another message in Tiana,’ Ulath continued. ‘You’ll be told to go on around the lake to Arjun.’

  ‘That’s the long way around,’ Khalad objected. ‘We could take the road from here and be in Arjun in less than half the time.’

  ‘Evidently they don’t want you to get there that soon. They’ve probably got some other irons in the fire. I won’t swear to this, but I think they’ll send you on to Derel from Arjun. If Kalten’s right and Ehlana’s being held in Natayos, that would be the next logical step.’

  Khalad nodded again. ‘I’ll tell Berit. I think we’d better stay out of that taproom. I’m sure we’re being watched, and if we start talking with other Elenes, we’ll just put the enemy on their guard.’

  The horses in the stable suddenly began to squeal and kick at the sides of their stalls.

  ‘What’s wrong with the horses?’ Khalad demanded. ‘And what’s that odd smell?’

  Ulath muttered
an oath. Then he raised his voice and spoke in Trollish. ‘Bhlokw, it is not good that you come into the dens of the man-things this way. You have been eating dog, and the man-things and their beasts can smell you.’

  There was an injured silence as Ulath’s unseen traveling-companion withdrew from the stable.

  Betuana and Engessa, dressed in sleek otter-skins, accompanied Vanion and the knights south from Sarna. At Engessa’s suggestion they proceeded due west to come down out of the mountains in eastern Cynesga.

  ‘We’ve been watching them, Vanion-Preceptor,’ the towering Atan said as he loped along beside Vanion’s horse. ‘Their main supply dump is about five leagues west of the frontier.’

  ‘Did you have anything pressing to attend to, your Majesty?’ Vanion asked Betuana, who was running along on the other side.

  ‘Nothing that can’t wait. What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Since we’re here anyway, we might as well swing over and burn their supply dump. My knights are getting restless, and a little exercise might do them some good.’

  ‘It is rather chilly,’ she observed with just the hint of a smile. ‘A fire would be nice.’

  ‘Shall we, then?’

  ‘Why don’t we?’

  The Cynesgan supply dump covered about five acres. It lay in a rocky, treeless basin, and it was defended by about a regiment of Cynesgan troops in flowing robes. As the column of armored knights approached, the defenders galloped forth to meet them. That particular maneuver might best be described as a tactical blunder. The gravel-covered floor of the Desert of Cynesga was flat and clear of obstructions, so the charge of the Church Knights was unimpeded. There was an enormous crash as the two forces collided, and the knights, after only a momentary hesitation, rode on, trampling the bodies of the wounded and slain under the steel-shod hooves of their mounts while the squealing horses of the Cynesgans fled in terror.

  ‘Impressive,’ Betuana conceded as she ran along beside Vanion’s mount. ‘But isn’t it tedious to endure the weight – and the smell – of the armor for months on end for the sake of two minutes of entertainment?’

  ‘There are drawbacks to any style of warfare, your Majesty,’ Vanion said, raising his visor. ‘A part of the idea behind armored charges is to persuade others to avoid confrontations. It holds down the casualties in the long run.’

  ‘A reputation for extreme severity is a good weapon, Vanion-Preceptor,’ she agreed.

  ‘We like it,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s go build that bonfire so that your Majesty can warm her toes.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ she smiled.

  There was a dust-covered hill directly ahead, rising like a slightly rounded pyramid to block the way to the supply dump. With simple arm-gestures, Vanion directed his knights to diverge and sweep around both sides of the hill to swarm over the accumulated supplies of Cyrgon’s army. They galloped forward with that vast, steely, clinking thunder that proclaims implacable invincibility.

  And then the hill moved. The dust which had covered it shuddered away in a great billowing cloud, and the two enormous wings unfurled their glossy blackness to reveal the wedge-shaped face of Klæl. The beast of ultimate darkness roared, and the fangs of lightning, jagged and flickering, emerged from behind snarling lips.

  And out from beneath the shelter of those two great wings came an army like no army Vanion had ever seen.

  They were as tall as the Atans and more bulky. Their bare arms were huge, and their steel breastplates fit them like a second skin, revealing every knotted muscle. Their helmets bore exotic-looking embellishments – horns or antlers or stiff steel wings – and, like their breastplates, their visors fit tightly over their faces, exactly duplicating the features of each individual warrior. There was no humanity in those polished faces. The brows were impossibly wide, and, like the face of Klæl himself, they narrowed down to almost delicately pointed chins. The eye-slits blazed, and there were twin holes in place of noses. The mouths of those masks were open, and they were filled with cruelly pointed teeth.

  They swarmed out from beneath Klæl’s wings with his lightning playing around them. They brandished weapons that appeared to be part mace and part axe – steel atrocities dredged from nightmare.

  They were too close to permit any kind of orderly withdrawal, and the knights, still moving at a thunderous gallop, were committed before they could fully comprehend the nature of the enemy.

  The impact as the two armies came together shook the earth, and that solid, steely crash shattered into a chaos of sound – blows, shrieks, the agonized squeals of horses, the tearing of metal.

  ‘Sound a withdrawal!’ Vanion bellowed to the leader of the Genidians. ‘Blow your heart into that Ogre-horn, man! Get our people clear!’

  The carnage was ghastly. Horses and men were being ripped to pieces by Klæl’s inhuman army. Vanion drove his spurs home, and his horse leapt forward. The Pandion Preceptor drove his lance through the steel breastplate of one of the aliens and saw blood – at least he thought it might be blood, thick yellow blood – gushing from the steel-lipped mask. The creature fell back, but still swung its cruel weapon. Vanion pulled his hand clear of the butt of the lance, leaving the beast transfixed, skewered, as it were, and drew his sword.

  It took a long time. The thing absorbed blows which would have dismembered a human. Eventually, however, Vanion chopped it down – almost like a peasant chopping out a tough, stringy thorn-bush.

  ‘Engessa!’ Betuana’s shriek of rage and despair rang out above the other sounds of the battle.

  Vanion wheeled his horse and saw the Atan Queen rushing to the aid of her stricken general. Even the monstrous creatures Klæl had unleashed quailed in the face of her fury as she cut her way to Engessa’s side.

  Vanion smashed his way through to her, his sword flickering in the chill light, spraying yellow blood in gushing fountains. ‘Can you carry him?’ he shouted to Betuana.

  She bent and with no apparent effort lifted her fallen friend in her arms.

  ‘Pull back!’ Vanion shouted. ‘I’ll cover you!’ And he hurled his horse into the path of the monsters who were rushing to attack her.

  There was no hope in Betuana’s face as she ran toward the rear, cradling Engessa’s limp body in her arms, and her eyes were streaming tears.

  Vanion ground his teeth together, raised his sword, and charged.

  Sephrenia was very tired when they reached Dirgis. ‘I’m not really hungry,’ she told Xanetia and Aphrael after they had taken a room in a respectable inn near the center of the city. ‘All I want is a nice hot bath and about twelve hours of sleep.’

  ‘Art thou unwell, sister mine?’ Xanetia’s voice was concerned.

  Sephrenia smiled wearily. ‘No, dear,’ she said, laying one hand on the Anarae’s arm. ‘I’m a little tired, that’s all. This rushing around is starting to wear on me. You two go ahead and have some supper. Just ask someone to bring a small pot of tea up to the room. That’ll be enough for right now. I’ll make up for it at breakfast time. Only don’t make too much noise when you come up to bed.’

  She spent a pleasant half-hour immersed to her ears in steaming water in the bath-house and returned to their room tightly wrapped in her Styric robe and carrying a candle to light her way.

  Their room was not large, but it was warm and cozy, heated by one of the porcelain stoves common here in Tamuli. Sephrenia rather liked the concept of a stove, since it kept the ashes and cinders off the floor. She drew a chair close to the fire and began to brush her long, black hair.

  ‘Vanity, Sephrenia? After all these years?’

  She started half to her feet at the sound of the familiar voice. Zalasta scarcely looked the same. He no longer wore his Styric robe, but rather a leather jerkin of an Arjuni cut, stout canvas trousers, and thick-soled boots. He had even so far discarded his heritage that he wore a short sword at his waist. His white hair and beard were tangled, and his face was haggard. ‘Please don’t make a scene, love,’ he told her. His voice w
as weary and devoid of any emotion beyond a kind of profound regret. He sighed. ‘Where did we go wrong, Sephrenia?’ he asked sadly. ‘What tore us apart and brought us to this sorry state?’

  ‘You don’t really want me to tell you, do you, Zalasta?’ she replied. ‘Why couldn’t you just let it go? I did love you, you know – not that way, of course, but it was love. Couldn’t you accept that and forget about the other?’

  ‘Evidently not. It didn’t even occur to me.’

  ‘Sparhawk’s going to kill you, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps. To be honest with you, though, I no longer really care.’

  ‘What’s the point of this then? Why have you come here?’

  ‘I wanted to see you one last time – hear the sound of your voice.’ He rose from the chair in the corner where he had been sitting. ‘It all could have been so different – if it hadn’t been for Aphrael. She was the one who took you into the lands of the Elenes and corrupted you. You’re Styric, Sephrenia. We Styrics have no business consorting with the Elene barbarians.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Zalasta. Anakha’s an Elene. That’s our business with them. You’d better leave. Aphrael’s downstairs eating supper right now. If she finds you here, she’ll have your heart for dessert.’

  ‘In a moment. There’s something I have to do first. After that, she can do anything to me she wants to do.’ His face suddenly twisted into an expression of anguish. ‘Why, Sephrenia? Why? How could you bear the unclean touch of that Elene savage?’

  ‘Vanion? You wouldn’t understand. You couldn’t even begin to comprehend it.’ She stood, her face defiant. ‘Do whatever it is you have to do and leave. The very sight of you sickens me.’

  ‘Very well,’ His face was suddenly as cold as stone.

  She was not really surprised when he drew a long bronze dagger out from under his jerkin. In spite of everything, he was still Styric enough to loathe the touch of steel. ‘You have no idea of how much I regret this,’ he told her as he came closer.