Dawn of the Ice Bear (5 page)

Or perhaps not.

Now, standing by his window in the first rays of the sun, the drumming was definitely real. It seemed to fill every valley of the Pictish lands, to echo from every mountain. It sounded as if the forest itself had come to horrible life, trees beating against their own bark-covered chests with branch arms and fists of twigs.

It had started with the dawn, six days before. A persistent, tuneless drumming. Less like music than like random sounds. Scouts had been dispatched into the forests to find out what it meant. First a pair of them, then when they did not return, six more. Then twenty, in groups of four.

None came back.

Sharzen poured himself his first flagon of wine for the morning. Ever since the drums began, he had not been able to start his day without one. And he kept one close at hand until he could finally fall asleep at night.

He had never felt so alone. Not for the first time, he realized that he missed Lupinius. The man had been a scoundrel, out only for himself, as false a friend as anyone could fear to have. But even with all that, he had been a reassuring presence. When one was virtually friendless, isolated by power and position, even a make-believe friend was better than none. Lupinius would have had some idea of how to deal with the interminable drumming noise.

Sharzen had had ideas the first day or so, but now the drums rattled him so much that he could barely think straight. When the scouts had failed to return he had been unable to come up with any new thoughts. Instead, he had summoned Gestian, the captain who commanded Koronaka's troops, and told him that the defense of the settlement was in his hands. Gestian had accepted the responsibility without comment. His ranks had been swelled lately, with the addition of many of the Rangers left unemployed by Lupinius's sudden absence. Without funding from Aquilonia, Sharzen was not sure how long he would be able to pay any of the soldiers. But he had sent several urgent messages to King Conan, telling him that the Pictish problem was getting worse, and he needed more support from Tarantia. He had heard that the King was, in fact, taking the situation seriously, and had ordered troops sent to the Westermarck to reinforce the settlements there.

Listening to the drums, Sharzen just hoped it wasn't too little, too late.

 

 

WHEN KRAL DARED to move again, his joints were locked, his muscles aching from sitting rigid and motionless against the punishing winds. He was entirely crusted with a coating of sand. He kept his eyes tightly shut and wiped their outer surface, but with hands so sandy he was not sure if it did any good. He was sure the wind had died at last, so he forced himself to look.

The sun was visible again, its rays already beginning to heat the air. Kral's companions were practically indistinguishable from the desert floor itself, so caked with sand were they. Donial had fallen asleep, so Kral shook him gently. Alanya and Mikelo moved under their own power, but they were all sore and stiff.

“How much time do you think we lost?” Alanya asked, blinking in the sun's glare.

“Too much,” Kral replied. “We had a good lead on Gorian and we have lost time. Even if the sandstorm hit them, they were staying still today, so it would not have affected their progress.”

“Do you think it was a natural storm?” Donial asked, sounding a bit concerned. “Or was it that Stygian mage's doing?”

“I would say natural,” Mikelo answered. “I told you that Stygia was a hellish place. I have heard of such storms lasting a day and a night and another day.”

“Even if this Shehkmi al Nasir knows that his Aquilonian rival has sent soldiers for the Teeth,” Kral said, “he would have no way to know of our approach.”

“But who knows what magicians know, or how?” Donial queried. “They have ways beyond the ken of mere humans.”

“Aye,” Mikelo agreed. “So I have heard, as well.”

“The shamans of my people have their secrets,” Kral said. “And inexplicable knowledge is often among them. Still, we are only four, traveling lightly. The mercenaries are twice our number. I would consider them the greater threat”—here he paused, and smiled, aware of his imminent immodesty—“if I did not know us.”

The others laughed. Kral had never been one to overstate his own abilities and accomplishments. Some in his clan had done that, and usually they were shown as liars or fools before too long. Kral had learned well from their mistakes and was careful not to make claims for himself that he could not back up with action.

But at the same time, these last weeks he had found that he was capable of much more than he ever expected. With that new self-knowledge came new confidence. He was strong, he was skilled, and he was possessed of an inordinate amount of courage. Perhaps most important, he had whatever quality makes a person a leader instead of a follower—someone other people would gladly put their trust in and risk their lives for. His army was tiny, it was true, but they were loyal and steadfast and would do anything for him.

And he for them. That, he supposed, was the true test of leadership. Making sure one's followers knew that there was a good reason they looked to the leader for direction and example.

Now, he thought, he needed to lead again. Kuthmet, Shehkmi al Nasir, and the Teeth of the Ice Bear waited.

 

 

AS THEY NEARED the city, Kral could smell water in the air. He had almost begun to give up hope that he would ever smell that again—the slightly fetid, fishy aroma of a river. The desert was almost odorless, in a way. Nothing but dry air and dirt. One had to be right on top of the few scraggly bushes to smell anything at all from them.

The sun was high overhead when they reached the city's outskirts. The buildings here were low to the ground, the same color as the sand surrounding them, with narrow passageways between. There were no walls around the city of Kuthmet. The city's authorities, Kral supposed, relied on the harsh desert to provide protection from marauders—that, and the Styx forming its northern barrier. And, Kral guessed with a shiver, quite possibly the magic of Shehkmi al Nasir and those like him.

Other smells mingled with the river's odor now. Kral could smell fires burning, food cooking. The scent of people and animals, masses of them living close together. Sweat and sewage. Oils and soaps. Underneath it all, another, odd smell. Something he could not identify.

Mikelo saw him wrinkling his nose, trying to figure it out. “Do you smell that?” Kral asked him.

Mikelo looked worried. “Snakes,” he said. “That is the smell of snakes. And the sun is still up. At night, it gets much worse.”

“Worse in what way?” Donial asked.

“More of them,” Mikelo explained. “A lot more.”

Kral had little experience with snakes. They were blessedly rare in the Pictish wilderness. But from what he had heard, he did not expect to enjoy their company. “Then maybe we can conclude our business during the day.”

He started down one of the narrow alleyways between the squared-off, low structures. Before he had gone far, Alanya spoke up. “How do you propose we find this magician?” she asked.

Kral had given this a lot of thought on the long hike over, and he had come up with an idea. He had discussed it briefly with Mikelo, who after all had been to Stygia once before, but hadn't brought it up with the others yet. “What Mikelo and I were thinking,” he said, “is that almost everyone in town probably knows who Shehkmi al Nasir is and where he can be found. Many of the people we might meet would think it in their best interests to report our presence to him, rather than tell us where to look. Perhaps most of them. But there might be a group of people who would care not if something were to happen to al Nasir and would have very little interest in protecting him.”

“Who would that be?” Donial wondered.

“Mikelo says that Stygian sorcerers often use slave labor,” Kral replied. “And that if al Nasir is like most he's heard about, he is probably a cruel master. If we can find where his slaves dwell, perhaps we can get some help from them.”

“That seems like a good idea,” Alanya said. “If we can find them.”

“If we went about asking for Shehkmi al Nasir, people would likely take notice of us,” Mikelo offered. “But if we ask for his slaves, they will barely recognize our existence.”

“Except for one thing,” Donial brought up. “Or maybe two. A Pict in Stygia is likely a very odd sight. And the same for a blond girl. I think we need to disguise both of you before we are seen by anyone.”

Kral nodded toward one of the nearby buildings. “We could break into a house,” he suggested. “Find some clothing more suited to Stygia. We might also find trouble, if someone is inside.”

“What about my hair?” Alanya asked.

Kral shrugged. “Maybe we can find something with a hood. Were we in the forest, I would know how to make a black dye, but there is a definite scarcity of trees around here.”

“We can look anyway,” Alanya said. “There might be something.”

Kral was a little hesitant about entering some unknown house here. The neighborhood was quiet—so far, they had not seen a single person. But that didn't mean everyone wasn't inside. He would hate to start their visit to Kuthmet by having to kill a family of locals. Once they were in, however, they were committed—they could not leave witnesses alive to sound an alarm.

His own experience with solid houses was still somewhat limited, so he let the others decide which building to try. The one they picked was, like the rest of its neighbors, square, flat-roofed, with only narrow window slits. A rough wooden door bolted from the outside indicated that whoever lived within had gone out. Kral pressed an ear to the door, listening. He heard nothing from the inside.

“Best get at it,” he said softly. “Before someone comes around.”

The others murmured assent. He slid back the bolt, pushed the door open. Inside, the house was plain, its raw plank floor partly covered by a woven, patterned rug, a few pieces of wooden furniture standing about. Pots and pans hung on a hearth, and dark ash filled the fireplace. Smells of cooking with rich spices lingered in the air.

“A bedroom,” Alanya whispered. “That is where the clothing would be, most likely.”

An interior doorway led to another room. Kral passed through and saw a sleeping area with two straw mats on the floor next to a wooden chest. Opening the chest, he found that it was full of folded Stygian clothing—dark robes, and a few others, some almost white, some a reddish brown with darker patterns. He pawed through them until he found one big enough to fit him, then passed smaller ones to the others.

Alanya, meanwhile, was examining another chest, with clay bottles ranged on top of it. She pulled the stoppers from some of them, sniffing their contents. A couple of times she poured a few drops on her hand and looked at it.

“What are you doing?” Donial asked her.

“I think this is henna dye,” she said.

“Can you use it on your hair?”

“I think so. It will make it reddish, not black like a Stygian woman's. But darker than it is.”

“Can you add some of the ash from the fireplace?” Kral wondered. “Would that make it darker?”

“It will stink,” Alanya said. “But I suppose it might.”

She poured some of the stuff into her hand, then went back into the other room. When she returned, rubbing her hands together to mix the ash and dye, Kral, Donial and Mikelo had all donned their stolen robes. Kral's had a hood that covered his head. Alanya tossed him a wan smile. “I am not sure what this will look like,” she warned. With that, she worked the mixture into her hair. Almost instantly, it was darker, matted with the pasty substance.

He gave her a robe to put on over her shift. When she had fixed it about herself, she looked at him again, her luxurious hair thick and drooping. Nothing could be done about her blue eyes, but Kral guessed that if anyone came close enough to see those, he could take care of it. “Am I beautiful?” she asked teasingly.

“Always,” he said.

Not teasing a bit.

AS HER HAIR dried, Alanya kept pulling a lock in front of her eyes to check on it. It had indeed turned several shades darker, if not quite the rich, jet-black common to Stygians. She hoped it would hold after she rinsed it out in clean water—if she had the chance to do so—because the combination of henna dye and wood ash stank like . . . well, like nothing she had ever put on her head, that was for sure.

They walked through Kuthmet, toward the center of town. Here, there were plenty of people, busily going about their business or simply sitting in teahouses, smoking pipes and sipping tea from small ceramic cups. A few of them glanced at the quartet, strangers in their town, but for the most part no one paid them any real attention. Alanya credited their disguises. Somehow, she felt like the dark hair made her a different person: mysterious, exotic, a young lady with no history, no past. She liked the feeling.

Once in a while they stopped so Mikelo could ask someone, as discreetly as possible, where the slave classes might be found. A Stygian woman directed them to a neighborhood on the city's eastern fringe. The four passed through the center of town, not talking much lest their voices and language give them away, keeping their eyes on the ground. When they saw acolytes of Set, recognizable because of their flowing black robes and shaved heads, they stepped to the side of the road or went to a different street altogether. Others did the same, and Alanya had a definite sense that people lived in a perpetual state of fear in this city.

They had been inside the city for a couple of hours when they made it to the slave area. Here the buildings were smaller, more run-down, the streets closer together and more crowded. The smells of cooking were more pronounced and pungent than they had been in the rest of Kuthmet. Skins tended to be darker, as well, as most of the slaves here were from the south, Kush or Darfar or the Black Kingdoms. Most, though by no means all—Alanya also saw people who looked to her like Khaurans and Zamorans, Vendhyans, even a few who might have been Aquilonian. She even saw a couple of blondes, and touched her own hair, remembering how it used to look. And smell.