Citadels of the Lost (37 page)

“These can't have been here long,” Ishander said.

“Long enough,” Jugar replied, examining the markings on the boxes. “They are the very supplies we need. Some of it is spoiled, to be sure, but there should be enough salvageable.”

“Enough to continue on!” Ishander crowed.

“Continue on . . . to where?” Jugar asked.

Ishander was grinning again. “See this . . . carving atop this wooden box. It says we're to take the right-hand fork of the river. That's where he went—and it tells that this way is where the Citadel is to be found.”

“How is that possible?” Jugar said, peering at the carving on the box.

“Because all of these boxes are marked in his name,” Ishander said, motioning around him. “Each one is marked ‘Pellender.'”

“Pellender?” Jugar repeated in astonishment. “Your father?”

“Yes, he came this way and left these supplies,” Ishander nodded with excitement.

Jugar grinned as well. “And we know one thing more about him, my boy—that he has been to the Citadels before.”

“He has?” Ishander asked.

“Obviously! Because he left his supplies in
here
,” Jugar pointed out. “And he would have needed to have
magic
to open the door and put them here!”

“W
E HAD A DEAL,”Vendis said in crisp, clipped tones. “It was agreed on the word of the Pajak of Krishu. Our bargain is as unbreakable as his word!”

Soen looked away with a slight smile. He sat cross-legged behind the chimerian and the rest of the Pilgrim delegation on one of the many rugs that had been spread over the ground and now formed the floor of the
Jhagi
—the goblin equivalent of the command tents, which the elves themselves used in the field. Vendis sat with his legs crossed as well, with all four of his fists balled up and resting on his hips. The idea that anyone would take the word of a goblin—especially a Pajak of any of the various Nordesian tribes—was the source of temporary, if unfortunately ironic, amusement to the discredited Iblisi.

The delegation seated just in front of Soen consisted of Vendis, Tsojai Acheran, and Braun. The Grahn Aur had invited Soen in case any discussion of the mission itself became part of the negotiation—his presence granted over the objection of Tsojai.

Not, it now appeared, that they would ever even get to that part of the negotiation.

The Jhagi tent in which they met was approximately the same size as most command tents which Soen had had occasion to visit during his many journeys on behalf of his Order but given the diminutive size of the goblins themselves, the tent seemed extravagant and ostentatious. Small shields that barely qualified as a buckler to his elven eye hung on each of the tent poles. There were curtained compartments all along the back of the tent, each dividing veil replete with golden embroidery or colorful batik patterns. Ornate and elaborate lamps hung from the pinnacle of the tent poles as much to be seen as to illuminate. Elaborate tapestries were arranged on each of the walls of the tent, most primarily ornamental, but others, Soen noted, were detailed maps of Nordesia, Glachold, and Port Glorious.

Central to every aspect of both the tent and, it seemed, the encampment was the ornate throne of embossed gold and silver that sat in the center. It was set at the apex of two phalanxes of goblin warriors ; each of their brick-red-colored faces glaring at Soen and Vendis in turn. There were perhaps two hundred of these warriors inside the tent, each wearing the thick, black leather skirt, polished to a shine, and the matching black leather breastplate over the crimson tunic of the Wyvern Riders.

Several actual wyverns—ugly beasts to Soen's eye—were corralled inside the tent to one side. Wyverns had been the goblins' warrior mounts as far back as the Age of Mists. Flightless beasts with too-small leathery wings, they nevertheless had powerful flanks and long legs that carried them with devastating swiftness across terrain the elves could barely navigate. Their lengthy, barbed tails gave a painful sting, and their small heads at the end of long, scaly necks had a snout filled with sharp teeth. There had been speculation among the Iblisi regarding whether these wyverns were an offshoot of the legendary dragons of the north or a different species altogether. What was known about them, however, was that once trained they were fearless in battle, could outrun man or elf, and were devoted to their riders so completely that a trained goblin could ride his wyvern into battle with both hands free to either fire his bow or wield his
Krish
—a long-handled, bladed device that could be used as either a spear or a cutting weapon.

In the center of all this, a goblin wearing a thick fleece vest sat atop the throne, his face darker than its usual brick-red color though his wide mouth was twisting into various forms of amusement as he spoke. “The Pajak of Krishu is a mighty warrior who laughs at the weak and does not deal with the dead. He says that you
had
a deal with him which you cannot enforce nor put to his advantage as you once claimed.”

The fact that it was the Pajak of Krishu that was seated on the throne saying these words with such condescension did not improve the chimerian's mood.

“Does the Pajak understand that all the people of our nation have been moving toward the Mistral Bay on the understanding of the Pajak's bargain with us?” Vendis continued. “There are women and children among them who are in need of food and shelter. All their hopes for deliverance rest on this expedition to the northern lands across the waters!”

“The Pilgrims of the Grahn Aur run from their enemies,” the goblin replied from his throne in a nearly bored air. “They do not deserve hope or deliverance.”

“They will soon reach the waters of Mistral Bay,” Vendis continued. “Then where shall they go unless the great Pajak of Krishu will lend them the aid that he has promised?”

“They would go nowhere,” the goblin sneered. “They cannot continue toward the north, for it would only bring them into difficult lands and closer to the fortress of their elven enemies. Back across the low hills they cannot go, for the Legions of Rhonas pursue them there. Westward they will never go—for those are the lands of the goblin kings and we have vowed none shall cross our borders and live!”

“Then must the Pajak of Krishu fulfill his bargain and give us the ship and provisions that he generously offered,” Tsojai said.

“No, the Pajak will not!” the goblin sniffed.

Braun opened his hands. “If it is a matter of the bargained price . . .”

“At no price,” the goblin warlord yelled.

“Then the Pajak of Krishu has no honor!” Vendis shouted.

Soen winced visibly.

The ringing of two hundred
Krish
blades sliding from their crossback scabbards resounded in the hall as the Pajak of Krishu stood.

“Insolent, thoughtless bendy!” cried the goblin warlord, his bony finger pointing down at the chimerian in disdain. “You come into the tent of the Pajak, enjoy the hospitality of his fortress, the protection of his warriors, the magnificence of his wyverns, and the magnanimous generosity of his compassion—only to insult him to his face? The Pajak of Krishu would be justified under the Law of Nashkan in having you pulled apart by the wyverns of his own house! And I would do so at once were I more certain that tying a bendy to my precious pets would not do them harm!”

Soen drew in a deep breath, thanked whatever gods were still listening to him that he had familiarized himself with the customs of the northern lands before he had started down this bad road, and then held both of his arms upright, the backs of his hands turned toward the enraged goblin.

The Pajak saw the gesture and stopped his tirade, turning his glaring, large green eyes on the elf. “And what do you want?”

“I beg to speak before the Pajak,” Soen said, his pupil-less black eyes averted.

Tsojai spoke sharply. “Soen has no authority here!”

“I believe that the Pajak alone grants authority in his own Jhagi,” Soen countered.

“At least
this
long-head has manners,” the Pajak spat.

“And why should I listen to the insults of this quiet elf called Soen when the chimerian and his brother elf are doing so well on their own?”

“The chimerian,” Soen answered in a calm voice, “is a fool and does not respect the riders of the wyverns' flight.”

“Well said,” added Braun.

Vendis gaped at Soen. “Are you
trying
to get us killed?”

Soen ignored the chimerian and continued as he lowered his hands back into his lap. “The Pajak is both generous and honorable. He had once agreed to furnish us with a ship to cross the northern waters. He had before agreed to give us aid in this journey. The Pajak remains a goblin of honored story and fame. But we are fools. Will the Pajak tell us why he will no longer accept our treasures in exchange for his generously offered assistance?”

The goblin's eyes narrowed as he pursed his thick lips. His head began to nod and he sat back down on his throne.

Two hundred krish blades quietly slid back into their resting places as well.

“The Pajak is honorable and generous,” the goblin warlord said, relaxing back into his large and gaudy throne.

“And is this why the Pajak has generously determined
not
to accept payment for his aid?” Soen asked casually.

“The long-head is wise,” the Pajak nodded.

“What does that mean?” Tsojai whispered to Soen.

The goblin on the throne glared contemptuously at the nervous elf.

“Let us speak clearly before our host,” Soen said in a voice that was loud enough to carry through the tent. He enunciated with exaggerated clarity. “The Pajak of Krishu is both generous and honorable. I believe he is refusing the offering of our payment to his tribe because it would be stealing, would the noble Pajak agree?”

The goblin warlord's face split into a wide, sharp-toothed grin as he waved a hand in a magnanimous gesture.

“You see,” continued Soen with one eye on the Pajak, “he knows that he cannot fulfill his bargain. To take our payment without granting us the agreed exchange would be theft—something which a noble Pajak would know to be against the Laws of Nashkan and would put a curse on his tribe. The Pajak is no thief.”

“Nor my people,” the goblin said in a magnanimous tone. “We are the Krishu.”

“Yes,” Soen bowed from where he sat. “But may this long-head ask the noble and generous Pajak of Krishu why with all the powers of his great people he cannot provide ships and provisions?”

“We are not a people of the water,” the Pajak replied.

“What need have the goblins of Nordesia of the wide waters when they command the northern hills and all the land between them?” Soen said, smiling with his own pointed teeth. “But when the Pajak of Krishu made the bargain, he most sincerely believed he could fulfill it. Something, it seems has changed—for which the Pajak and his tribe are surely blameless.”

The goblin considered from his throne for a moment.

“Will not the Pajak grant these poor fools the benefit of his knowledge and cunning?” Soen asked quietly.

The goblin warlord smiled once more. “The Pajak likes you, Soen. Your tongue is as smooth as any he has heard and no doubt you could charm eggs from a male wyvern. The Pajak cannot provide you a ship, Soen of the elves, because they were all burned in the water that held them two nights ago off the shore of Glachold.”

“Glachold!” Vendis exclaimed. “We had heard it was all but deserted.”

“It has reached the Pajak's ear that the garrison in Port Glorious got an unexpected arrival of two full cohorts—almost twelve hundred warriors—who have been on forced march,” the Pajak replied, his eyes fixed on his guests. “They arrived in Glachold two days ago and have burned every boat they found down to its keel.”

“We would be able to destroy the cohorts in Glachold,” Vendis said. “It's not that strong . . .”

“The Pajak would ask what you would then do, having captured the wondrous port of Glachold?” the goblin warlord sniffed, shaking his head. “You would have your backs to the sea with no ships and the Legions of the elves from the south. Still, it is all hot blood and fancy. You will never reach Glachold.”

“We will,” Tsojai replied. “We are marching there even now.”

The goblin shook his head and smiled once more. “The Pajak knows that the Legions are closer than you believe. They have the smell of your blood in their nostrils and will soon be upon you. Two days, perhaps three . . . no more.”

“Then help us,” Vendis pleaded. “You have your mighty wyvern riders! You could slow the Legions—buy us time to escape!”

“Escape?” the goblin shouted in derision. The goblins in the hall all broke into laughter. The Pajak joined them, and it was some time before they quieted enough for the Pajak to speak again. “You want us to fight so that you can
flee
? Your people who have never once yet obtained the honor of a victory in battle wish to appeal to the Pajak of Krishu to fight your battle for you? We are a noble and a great race! We have had victory in battle and earned our right to survive! And you ask us to pit our warriors against the might of all Rhonas when you will not risk it yourselves? We will watch your battle with amusement. When it is finished, then we will have your treasures after all, Pilgrims of the Coward Drakis.”

“What does
that
mean?” the chimerian demanded.

“It means,” Soen answered, “that he won't take your bribe for the boats he cannot deliver—but there is nothing dishonorable about stripping the dead on a battlefield. He expects us to die.”