Dawn of the Ice Bear (15 page)

Al Nasir smiled. He would reserve a special punishment for her. One that would take days and days, making her beg for the sweet release of death. The others could be killed quickly or slowly, as circumstances dictated. They were common thieves, he supposed, and nothing better could be expected of them. He had been surprised that they had come in the company of mercenaries, but not that they had abandoned the corpses of their fellows so readily. Mercenaries and that young boy who stank of the sea.

But they had taken his crown, and so they would be dealt with.

Not right away, though. They had an apparent goal, a destination. Al Nasir had to assume that they were on the trail of the missing teeth, else they would have taken the crown straight to Kanilla Rey and not gone to the trouble of building themselves a canoe and paddling up a wild river. Unless they were not working for Kanilla Rey after all, as he knew the dead fighting men had been. Or unless they had some way of knowing that the Aquilonian mage had killed himself to avoid al Nasir's vengeance.

If they thought they could find the teeth, he was more than happy to let them. If they turned out to be unsuccessful—or if, unlikely as it seemed, he was wrong in his judgment of their course—he would have them killed then.

In the meantime, he would have to prepare some acolytes for another ocean voyage. This time they would be more wary of failure, he wagered.

Before he let the image fade away, he listened to it, sniffed it. He could not hear things like conversations, could not smell the odors of river water or unwashed bodies. But he could, nonetheless, collect impressions about the place he observed. When he was satisfied, he waved a hand at the smoke window, and it vanished.

The Black River, he had decided. Heading north. Into the Pictish lands, no doubt. It made sense—a Pictish crown, and one of those in the boat appeared to be a Pict as well.

He would, of course, keep an eye on them. But it was a starting point.

 

 

THE SECOND DAY on the river the group encountered the first set of rapids.

Alanya looked at the water with a worried eye. It had started flowing faster, showing whitecaps. She had seen rapids before, but never from a tiny boat trying to force its way against the current. She didn't want to sound worried, but she had to know. “Are you sure we can do this, Kral?”

“Of course,” Kral answered confidently. “This one's easy. Wait until we reach Dead Elk Narrows. That is where you can worry.”

“So you have been here before?” Tarawa asked.

“Not exactly,” Kral said. He had never been inside Zingara's borders before the
Restless Heart
dropped them off, and they had not yet passed into the Pictish wilderness. They were well into Zingara now, though past the most populous parts, and had not seen another boat since early morning.

“Then how do you know?” Donial wondered.

“I have heard stories of the Black River all my life,” Kral explained. “None of them told of treacherous waters this deep inside Zingara. So I have to believe that this will only be some minor whitewater and nothing terribly difficult to navigate.”

Alanya's concern was not completely alleviated by that explanation. Just because no one had told Kral stories of this spot did not mean it wasn't trouble. How many of his friends or family had ever traveled down the river as far as Zingara, after all? It did not sound like a lot, from things he had said previously.

So she continued to feel trepidation as the little boat made its way upriver into increasingly turbulent waters. The whitecaps were higher and more frequent now, splashing her inside the canoe. Kral still held his position in the tiny craft's stern, helping to keep the canoe upright against the rough water, while Tarawa paddled in the bow.

Within minutes, she could hear a dull roar as the once-placid river turned into a thundering monster. Kral and Tarawa increased the pace of their paddling. The canoe shuddered and shook. Alanya hoped it would hold together, since it had been crafted so quickly. What if it had needed more time to set? They could easily swim to shore, but her mother's mirror was in a pouch on the canoe's floor, as was the crown they had traveled so far to claim.

A surge pushed against the bow, turning the canoe almost sideways in the river. Kral shouted at Tarawa to stop paddling, and he jammed his own paddle in the water and held it firm, slowing the sideways movement. Then he bade Tarawa paddle in a wide, sweeping motion on the canoe's left side. Working together in this way, they managed to bring the canoe back to its proper orientation. But they had lost momentum, and even though they paddled hard, the craft barely seemed to move forward against the rushing current.

“Perhaps we should get out and carry it,” Alanya said.

“Not yet,” Donial countered, apparently speaking for Kral and Tarawa, both too involved in their effort to talk. “We make progress still.”

She had noticed that Donial had been disagreeing with her more frequently lately. Well, that was not quite accurate, she amended mentally. As a little brother, he had always been somewhat argumentative. If she had said the sky was a lovely shade of blue today, he might have claimed that it was a sinister cerulean, instead. But recently, his disagreements had been over matters of greater substance, and expressed freely, with less emotion attached. Perhaps it was just a function of his growing up or a reaction to the stresses of the journey.

Or maybe he was showing off for Tarawa. A combination of all three, most likely.

Still, as the water became choppier, the current yet more forceful, she worried. Kral seemed determined to beat the river. He jammed his paddle into the water, tugged it back, raised it out, and plowed it back in with what looked to her like anger. All she could see of Tarawa was the girl's back, her shoulders broad, her arms working feverishly, mechanically, as she tried to match Kral's urgency.

Finally, they rounded a wooded bend and saw the source of the thunder. A short waterfall. Really, just a collection of massive granite boulders over which the river spilled, dropping about a dozen feet to the lower surface, where it landed with a white crash before continuing downstream.

“We cannot . . . cannot possibly paddle up that,” Alanya pointed out.

“You are right,” Kral said, breathing hard with the effort of paddling. “Time to portage.”

He turned the canoe toward the west bank—it slipped back downriver as they went—and pulled for shore. By the time they reached it, all were soaked to the skin by water splashing up over the gunwales, and the belongings stuffed into the bottom of the canoe were equally wet. At the bank, Tarawa jumped out first, grabbing the bow with both hands and dragging it up onto a pebbled strip of sand. The others followed her out, then removed their various tied-down belongings, shaking the river water from them as best they could. Finally, Donial and Kral lifted the canoe and turned it over to dump out the water that had collected inside.

Kral seemed almost reluctant to set the canoe back down on the ground. “I know time is important,” Alanya said. “But we really should rest for a short while, shouldn't we? It will do us no good to kill ourselves with exhaustion before we get to Cimmeria.”

Kral relented unhappily. “I suppose you're right,” he said, lowering himself to a fallen tree. “But only a short break. I fear that time is running out even as we travel. I could not tell you why I feel that way . . . but I do.”

“Every mile we put between us and Stygia makes me happy,” Tarawa said. “The quicker the better, for me.”

“I know,” Alanya replied. “For me, too. I do not mean to nag, but you are both working so hard. When we get back in the river it's my turn to paddle for a while. Me and Donial.”

“That's right,” Donial added. “We have watched you two workhorses long enough.”

Tarawa laughed and flashed her brilliant smile his way. “So I look like a horse to you?”

“Not at all,” Donial backtracked. “You look . . . like a lovely girl who has just come out of the bath. With her clothing on.”

“Would you have it any other way?” Tarawa teased.

“Perhaps not here in front of the others,” Donial suggested with a wicked grin. “But in private . . .”

“In private you'd see just what you do now,” Tarawa assured him.

Alanya wondered if she meant it. Their banter was definitely flirtatious. But Tarawa had probably had enough of the touch of men for a while, if not for a lifetime, judging from what little she had said about her service to al Nasir.

Kral smiled at their exchange, then nodded his assent to Alanya's suggestion. “Very well,” he agreed wearily. “You two take over on the other side.” He closed his eyes and relaxed his limbs for a while. Alanya shivered from the soaking she had taken, and the cold air on her flesh as it dried. But she knew the chore of hauling the canoe and all their belongings through the woods and up the slope, to get around the boulders obstructing the river, would warm her back up again. After that, the effort of paddling the boat would likely keep her that way.

She closed her own eyes. Her muscles, she realized, were bunched up and tense from the encounter with the falls. She didn't feel like sleeping, but she wanted to relax them before they got under way again. The day was far from over, and they had miles yet to go.

SHARZEN SAT IN Pulliam's office, waiting.

Waiting.

The governor of Tanasul had been hospitable enough. Sharzen's belly was full, he had wine or mead when he wanted it, and he had been offered his choice of several women with whom to while away the hours. The office was kept warm by a steady fire, and the two couches in there were comfortable. Pulliam himself was out at the moment, checking on the troops, but when he was around his conversation was interesting and wide-ranging. Every day, reinforcements arrived—not the promised Aquilonian army, but Gundermen, Poitainians, Bossonians, Taurans, and the like, coming singly or in pairs or in small groups. Coming to offer their swords against the battle they all knew was coming. Even the rest of the group from Koronaka—about half the size of the original group, he noted sadly—had shown up.

With all the new arrivals milling around, looking for housing, training with the troops, Tanasul looked like a busy settlement. But Sharzen knew it was all just part of the waiting.

The Picts would be here soon, he knew. Pulliam's soldiers had seen shadows moving about in the trees. Bird sounds had been interrupted, and less than an hour ago someone had reported seeing a flock take off from their treetop perches as one, a sure sign that something had disturbed them. Sharzen was convinced he knew what it had been.

He wished something would happen. The Aquilonian army to arrive. The Picts to just attack, to get the waiting over with. Anything would be better than this anticipation, this unending dread.

From outside, he heard some kind of commotion.
It's begun,
he thought, lurching unsteadily to his feet. Perhaps he had consumed a bit too much wine. He tried to shake off the effects as he fought his sword from its scabbard and headed for the door.

Before he reached it, however, the door was thrown open and four soldiers muscled a nearly naked Pict warrior inside with his hands tied or shackled behind his back. The man looked like some kind of wild beast, snarling and hissing, wrenching his shoulders in every direction to try to toss off the soldiers gripping them. Pulliam followed them in, glaring at the prisoner. He pointed toward an empty corner of the big room. “There!” he shouted. “Put him there!”

The soldiers hauled their prisoner to the indicated corner and slammed him against the wall, face-first. The Pict slowly turned back toward the room, blood running from his nose and lips. He pressed his back into the corner and sank to the floor, staring ferociously at his captors.

Pulliam hoisted himself up to his full height, which was not very much taller than the Pict, and strode across the room. He stood just out of the Pict's reach, Sharzen noted, and the soldiers surrounded the savage with swords and a halberd. “Now, you,” Pulliam said. “Tell us what your people are up to. I know you plan to attack us, but when? How? How many are you?”

The Pict just glowered at him. “Perhaps he speaks no Aquilonian,” Sharzen suggested.

Pulliam kicked at the cornered man, hitting a hand the Pict raised in self-defense. “He speaks it!” Pulliam shot back. “He just doesn't want to help us.” He drew his own sword and turned back to the prisoner. “But he will.” He held the tip of his blade out toward the Pict. The man was already pressed into the corner, with no place to escape to, so when Pulliam's blade scraped across his cheek, just beneath his right eye, he had nowhere to turn.

“Well?” Pulliam demanded.

The Pict still did not answer. He slowly raised one hand and wiped blood off his chin and lips. Pulliam's blade wavered as if the very steel grew nervous at the proximity of the Pict's hand. The Pict's fierce dark eyes blazed with fury.

“I'm waiting,” Pulliam said. “But in another thirty seconds, I shall put out your eye. So you had better tell me what I want to know.”

Still, the Pict only sat and stared. His hand had gone higher now, tugging through his mad tangle of dark hair. He did not look, to Sharzen, particularly scared. Angry, yes. Perhaps even vengeful. But not frightened.

Which, Sharzen realized, scared
him
just a little.

Pulliam pressed against the man's cheek with the point of his blade, cutting the flesh there, and inscribing a line up toward his right eye. The Pict watched it coming with interest but without evident fear. Sharzen found himself amazed and impressed by the savage's cold disregard for his impending mutilation.