Citadels of the Lost (16 page)

The manticore strode around in front of the kneeling elf and chimerian, extending both of his broad, strong hands. “Come! Get up. Let us talk quickly, for you are late arriving and there is much to be done.”

“Late?” Soen asked, taking the manticore's offered huge hand, his own smaller hand nearly disappearing in its grasp as the manticore effortlessly pulled the two of them to their feet. “You were expecting us?”

“Of course,” the manticore flashed another beaming smile. “We've been tracking you for several hours. I wanted to just bring you in but Gradek was concerned and suspicious. Of course, his job is to be concerned and suspicious, so I can hardly fault him. Unfortunately, you arrived just ahead of a much bigger problem, which I must address very shortly. I hope to have a much longer discussion with you both later, but there simply is not time to interview you now. For the time being, what are your names?”

The manticore's breezy manner had taken Soen by surprise. The lion-man race was little known for its humor, and it had often been said that they had practiced being dour until it was a fine art among them. “I am Thein Tja-kai, a merchant of the Fourth Estate and the Order of Paktan.”

“A merchant who travels without goods,” the manticore observed as he turned toward the chimerian. “And you?”

“I am simply known as Vendis, sir,” the chimerian answered awkwardly.

The manticore nodded. “Well, I am Grahn Aur . . . the leader of these combined clan-prides on our pilgrimage into the land of the Chosen One.”

“
You
are the leader?” Soen asked, his voice rising in astonishment. “But I thought the old one . . .”

“No,” Grahn Aur said, a smile playing about his fangs as he spoke. “That is one of the Clan Elders. He is in need of some rest before we set out again, and I offered him my tent. It will not be a long rest, sadly, for our time is already short.” Grahn turned to one of the guards. “Hegral, please remove Vendis and keep him company outside while I speak with the elf alone. I'll call for him when it is his turn.”

Vendis barely had time to raise one of his four arms in protest before the powerful Hegral grabbed him and dragged him swiftly out through the tent flap.

“You can hardly blame them for being suspicious,” Grahn Aur said with a deep sigh. He turned back to gaze at Soen. “Tell me, Thein Tja-kai, why does an elf come seeking so carefully the company of pilgrims?”

Soen looked into the bright eyes of the manticore and saw something familiar in them. “Because I, too, am a pilgrim, Grahn Aur.”

“Indeed? And what do you seek, Thein Tja-kai?”

“A man of prophecy . . . a man named Drakis.”

“It seems all the world is seeking Drakis,” the manticore answered, his manner turning suddenly thoughtful. “And perhaps we shall find him together then, Thein of the Paktan. But first we must survive your brethren.”

“The Legions?” Soen asked.

“Already assembled to the south and moving. I had hoped they would wait to attack in daylight, but that is not our fate,” Grahn Aur nodded. “The order has already been given to break the camp. Our warriors are arrayed at the rear to cover our flight.”

“Flight?” Soen exclaimed. “May I ask to where?”

“The only place the gods have granted us,” Grahn Aur replied. “You come at a strange time, Thein of the Paktan. Do you believe in this Drakis that the prophecies foretold?”

Soen felt uncomfortable under the manticore's gaze. “I do not know, Grahn Aur. I only know that I seek him and must find him. That is the truth of it.”

As close to the truth of it as I might speak,
Soen thought.

The manticore smiled and nodded his great head. His eyes fixed on Soen for a few long moments as the lion-man thought before speaking again.

“You shall join with us, Thein. We shall seek him together,” Grahn Aur said with some conviction. He snapped his fingers loudly. Hegral appeared instantly, his large hand on the grip of the sword at his waist. “Take Thein to find Captain Gradek. I believe he is holding a walking stick that was confiscated during Thein's introduction to our camp. Have him kindly return it to our fellow traveler.”

“Yes, Master Grahn Aur,” Hegral said in a snapping voice that was a little too loud.

“Thank you,” Soen said, bowing graciously to Grahn Aur. “That stick means a lot to me.”

Grahn Aur bowed in return. “So Captain Gradek has informed me.”

Several minutes had slowly passed since Hegral and his elven charge had left Grahn Aur with the chimerian prisoner. During all that time, each had watched the other with interest but neither had spoken a word. At last, Grahn Aur spoke.

“Is he the one, Vendis?”

“I believe so, Master,” Vendis replied with casual ease. “That he is—or was—an Inquisitor of the Iblisi is certain given that Matei staff he tries so hard to conceal. There are a number of their Order who are scouring the Northmarch, Vestasia, and the Shadow Coast right now, but I feel certain that we have the one.”

“Soen Tjen-rei,” Grahn Aur murmured. “An Inquisitor who appears to be out of favor with his own Order.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, Master,” Vendis said, folding the upper set of his arms across his chest while placing the lower set of hands on his hips. “Why do you let him so near you?”

“There's an old saying among my people,” the manticore said. “Hold your enemies closer than your friends. You still do not know why he is seeking Drakis, then?”

“No, Master,” Vendis answered. “I wonder if he does himself.”

“G
RADEK!” SOEN YELLED as he followed on the heels of the manticorian warrior. “Where is my staff?”

“I have more important duties than finding your stick for you,” Gradek roared back as he stormed down the line of manticore warriors arrayed in a battle formation beyond the southern end of the encampment.

Soen raged inside. He could think of a dozen ways to kill the manticorian War Master on the spot with or without his Matei staff and had certainly done so to others with less provocation. Killing Gradek meant disrupting the chain of command for these warriors at a critical time, and Soen just could not bring himself to make a bad situation worse simply for his own satisfaction.

Not, he noted, that it would make much difference.

Gradek continued yelling at the warriors arrayed in front of him. “Maintain the line! They'll come at you quickly out of their magical gates. You've got to get to them before they can form up, then charge when you see your chance!”

Soen shook his head. It was a classic manticorian battle structure that had been passed down from generation to generation for the last thousand years and bent in more recent times to address the specific challenges presented by the difference in elven warfare doctrines.

It was also why the Legions of Rhonas had won every battle against the manticores in the last two hundred years.

“Do you even have a clan, Gradek?” Soen suddenly demanded as he continued to follow on the manticore's heels.

“Have a clan?” Gradek turned suddenly, baring his fangs as his eyes narrowed on the elf. “I am a warrior of Clan Hravash, you insignificant long-head! Who were your parents?”

Soen held both hands up, palms facing away from the manticore. “My apologies, War Master Gradek.”

The manticore snarled and then turned once more to stalking the line of warriors.

Soen quickly looked around. Night had fallen but he knew that would not stop the Legions any more than the antiquated battle traditions of the manticores. He could see that there were elements of the camp that had started to move—incredibly toward the cursed mists of the Shrouded Plain—but it was like watching a river break up at the end of winter; the wagons and pilgrims closer to the battle line had to wait until the bulk of the camp in front of them started moving before they could move themselves. The edges of the encampment were over a hundred yards from the battle line, but that distance would be nothing for the Legions to cross once they smelled the blood of unarmed prey. Nothing among the pilgrims was happening quickly enough.

Then Soen saw what he was looking for—the battle standard of Clan Hravash. By tradition, such a standard flew in every battle the manticore clans fought and usually above the clan house that commanded the battle line. That it now flew above a handcart did not diminish its significance to the manticores.

Soen ran across the open space toward the rear of the pilgrim company still waiting to move forward. He could see hundreds of faces glancing backward toward him, uncertain and afraid. It did not distract him from his purpose.

He quickly closed with the battle standard and the cart next to it, sliding slightly on the prairie grass beneath his feet as he came to a stop. Gradek would not have trusted an item of honor to anyone else once he had given his word. Manticore battle traditions dictated that all his possessions be held in his home during battle and were considered sacrosanct in any conflict. But when a manticore no longer had a home, his possessions would be kept . . .

Soen suddenly stopped tossing Gradek's life possessions on the ground and smiled. His matei staff filled his hands with familiar warmth.

A sudden shout and instantly the air filled with a roaring cacophony of sounds. The Legions were on the march toward the manticore battle line and were within a thousand yards. Many in the first line were Impress Warriors but elven warriors were backing them up. The Blade of the Northern Will was a Modalis Legion and preferred to use their own warriors in battle in combination with Impress Warriors of the Sixth Estate slaves.

Soen quickly ran back toward where he could see Gradek once again yelling instructions at his warriors. The elf's mind spun the words in his mind, conjuring the power building in his matei staff. He could only trust that the darkness would help him.

Gradek had pulled out his signal horn, a small curving instrument with which the manticores issued their signals on the field of battle.

The former Inquisitor stopped behind the manticore commander and felt the release of the energy from both his body and the staff; the rush of the power through him. It was a momentary ecstasy, and he felt the customary emotional and physical drain when it was done. He glanced once behind him and, satisfied, spoke loud enough for as many of the manticores grimly arrayed before him to hear.

“Gradek! The encampment!” Soen shouted. “They've moved to the west!”

Gradek spun around, the horn already raised. “Now what are you . . . ?”

“They've shifted along the front of the fog,” Soen said, pointing with his staff and hoping that the manticorian warrior would not notice that he had retrieved his own staff from the bottom of Gradek's cart.

The manticore's jaw dropped open.

The entire camp had somehow shifted behind him.

“Your battle lines,” Soen said, pointing once more toward the warriors. “You'll be out of position! The clans will be undefended!”

Gradek shouted at once. “Warriors of the clans! Rise up! Charge right! Protect the clans!”

Gradek put the horn to his lips and sounded a series of thunderous blasts. Answering blasts resounded all down the battle line.

The manticorians stood up in confusion. The signal was not the one they were expecting. They were trained warriors though, Soen realized, many of them were still very young. They, too, now could see that their wives, children, brothers, sisters—their clans—had all inexplicably moved from behind the protection of the carefully placed battle lines and were now so far to the west that they could not longer be protected.

“Charge right!” Gradek bellowed, then sounded the signal again for the line to shift.

“Charge right!” the line answered and they began to run across the line of march from the approaching elven Legions.

Soen crouched down in the grass, his black eyes gazing with fixed intensity on the approaching line of the Legions. The magic he had conjured bent what little light there was from the stars above, making the image of the fleeing pilgrim company appear much farther to the west than its actual position. Shifting the battle lines to protect the false company was meant to draw the Legions away from the real refugees.

“Take it,” Soen muttered toward the approaching Legions through his sharp, clenched teeth. “Take it!”

The front lines of the Legions wavered for a moment, and then started marching toward their right.

Soen smiled. He could not see the refugees behind him as his own spell prevented it, but he could see the image of them off to the west.