Dawn of the Ice Bear (6 page)

Here, most people were not as fearful or shy. She and her friends were met with direct looks, even stares, and some they encountered even greeted them. One of these, Mikelo replied to, and then after a brief and friendly exchange, he asked a question in Stygian. The response he got seemed animated and affirmative. After, he turned to the others. “We are in luck,” he said. “This fellow says he can take us to the home of some of al Nasir's slaves.”

“I should have thought they would live with al Nasir,” Donial said.

“Often an important Stygian will let his slaves live outside his own premises,” Mikelo explained. “Knowing that they will show up as needed. Where are they going to run—off into the desert?”

The dark-skinned man smiled amiably and led the four through a warren of cramped, narrow streets. Alanya began to feel a bit nervous. She had no way to know how bad Mikelo's Stygian was, or what he had really asked their guide. For all she knew, he truly was mad at her and the others and was leading them into some kind of trap. She didn't think that was the case, but the more the streets twisted and turned, so she didn't know if she would ever be able to find her way out, the more she worried. She thought that now she understood how Kral might have felt upon first arriving in Tarantia.

But a few minutes later, the black man pointed them to a particular house. The door was painted a bright flame red and set into a thick mud wall. The man said something Alanya could not understand, then he backed away from them, still smiling and chuckling happily.

“He says this is the home of Tarawa,” Mikelo said. “One of al Nasir's most beloved slaves.”

“Shouldn't we find one a bit less beloved?” Donial wondered.

“Just because this Tarawa is beloved of al Nasir,” Kral countered, “doesn't mean the feeling is returned.”

“That was the impression he gave me,” Mikelo said.

“My Stygian is not the best, I admit. But it didn't sound like Tarawa wasted any love on al Nasir.”

“Then let us waste no more time,” Kral said. He glanced at the sky, which was already growing grayish blue with the approach of dusk. He went to the door, found a pull-cord beside it, and tugged. From inside they could hear the clang of a bell. A few moments passed, then the door opened.

If this was Tarawa, Alanya could see at a glance why she was a favorite of the sorcerer. The woman at the door was slender and well formed, with a lush, feminine figure. Her skin was nut brown and looked smooth as silk. Thick dark hair fell to the middle of her back. She looked about Alanya's age. Maybe a couple of years older, but no more.

Mikelo said something to her. Alanya caught the name “Tarawa.”

The girl smiled. “Yes,” she said in good Aquilonian. “I am Tarawa. I imagine you are more comfortable with Aquilonian than Stygian.”

“We are,” Alanya said. “My name is Alanya. This is my brother Donial, and our friends Kral and Mikelo.”

“Welcome,” Tarawa said. A quizzical look crossed her face. “You are a long way from home. How is it you happen to be at my door?”

“We were directed here by one we met in the street,” Kral replied. “He said that you belong to a magician called Shehkmi al Nasir. I am sorry to be so direct, but I fear time is of the essence.” “You are not Aquilonian,” Tarawa observed. “My father spent several months in Numalia, and he never described one like you.”

“He is a Pict,” Alanya explained. “But we have come far, for a very important purpose. Is it true that you serve Shehkmi al Nasir?”

Tarawa laughed. Alanya found herself smiling along with the woman's infectious laughter. “He likes to believe so,” Tarawa said. “I was sold to him, at any rate, after being captured by slavers in my native Kush.”

“May we come inside?” Alanya asked, still wary of being seen by someone who might mention their presence to the sorcerer.

“Of course.” Tarawa stepped out of the doorway to let them pass. Her home was small, a single room with a fireplace and a large pot, a sleeping area, a few wooden chairs, and a table on which rested brightly painted ceramic bowls and dishware.

“Do you live here alone?” Alanya asked her.

“With a few other slaves,” Tarawa replied. “Shehkmi al Nasir owns the house. The others are at al Nasir's even now.”

“Is he a kind man?”

Tarawa laughed again, but this time without humor. “He is as vicious as a snake,” she said. “Without heart or pity or love for anything or anyone. He exists solely for power, for what he can do to become ever stronger. I doubt that the idea of being kind has ever occurred to him. Certainly he was not kind when he slew my mother, or my brother. I am all that remains of the family.”

Once again, Kral let his impatience dictate his next statement. “He has something that belongs to my people. Something very precious to us. I know not what it might mean to him, but it belongs to the Picts. I mean to have it back. Will you help me?”

A look of surprise crossed Tarawa's beautiful face. “My, but you are bold. You think to take something from Shehkmi al Nasir? He is—as he is so fond of reminding everyone—second only to Thoth Amon himself in his sorcerous abilities. Or at least, so he claims—I know not if he speaks the truth. And you—the four of you—believe you can cross him and survive?”

Kral simply shrugged and stared at her. Alanya had seen that look in his eyes before. It said, “Since I have not tried and failed, I have no doubt that I can succeed.” It was an attitude she admired a great deal even though she knew at some point he would have to be proven wrong.

But she could not shake a nagging feeling that this was all happening too easily. “How do you suppose it is that the first person we asked brought us right to you, Tarawa?”

Tarawa flashed that beautiful smile at her. “If you asked in the slave district,” she said, “it would have been more unusual for you
not
to have been brought to this house. You do not look like people who have come in order to pay tribute to Shehkmi al Nasir. He is much feared in this quarter, and there is no devotion to him except that achieved through whip and blade. Everyone knows that my family and I all serve him, and that I am one of his favorites—though, as I have indicated, the feeling is not returned. So you would naturally have been brought to me, and gladly, by any of the slaves you asked.”

The explanation eased Alanya's worries a little. Still, her father had occasionally said, “If something comes to you too easily, it will just be harder later on.”

As if reading her mind, Donial asked, “So you will help us?”

“Do you mean to do him any harm?”

“Would it matter if we did?” Kral asked.

Tarawa hesitated, rubbing a prominent cheekbone with her right index finger. “Not necessarily,” she answered. “I just want to know what I'm agreeing to before I do.”

“We do not plan to hurt him,” Kral said. “But I will do whatever is necessary to get my people's crown back.”

“Oh, the crown? That's what you seek?”

“You've seen it?” Kral inquired, excited.

“No. No one has, yet. But I have heard it discussed. Al Nasir's acolytes have arrived here in Kuthmet with it, and they plan to present it to him in a ceremony this very night.”

“Then there is no time to waste,” Kral said. “If we can get it away before he gets his hands on it, so much the better.”

Tarawa glanced toward one of the windows. Outside, the sky was a deep indigo, shading toward black. “Better, indeed. But night falls. It is not a safe time to be on the streets.”

“Safety is not my chief concern,” Kral said. “The crown is.”

“But Kral, the snakes . . .” Mikelo put in.

“Yes, the snakes,” Tarawa agreed.

Kral remembered the strange smell he had noticed earlier. Still, what harm could a few snakes do anyone? “No matter the snakes,” he insisted. “I will go alone, if need be.”

Alanya shook her head. “We will accompany you, Kral,” she promised.

“As will I,” Tarawa said. “You would never survive in al Nasir's temple without my help.”

“Very well, then,” Kral said. “Gather whatever you need, Tarawa. As for us, we're ready to face whatever waits out there.”

“Or so you think,” Tarawa said. Alanya didn't like the look on her face, a look of concern, close to terror. Didn't like it a bit.

THE ATTACK CAME at dusk. Sharzen was not expecting it. He thought that when it happened, it would be a morning attack—never dreamed the Picts would begin a battle as night shrouded the settlement of Koronaka. So, while he had never really relaxed since the drumming began, when the day drew to a close he was as close to relaxed as he was likely to get.

Then suddenly the drums stopped pounding. Virtually at the same moment, a piercing scream ripped the evening gloom. Sharzen ran outside. By torchlight, he saw one of his soldiers on the ground below the wall's parapet, an arrow in his gullet. Other soldiers were already running about in response, filling the gap in the wall left by their fallen comrade and preparing to return fire.

“I can't see a blasted thing out there!” Sharzen heard one cry. “It's pitch-black in those woods!”

The only response was an arrow that whistled through the dark and slammed through his helm. The soldier spun around on one foot, then he, too, dropped from the parapet. Sharzen was about to call out an order when there was a noise almost like an oncoming flood, and then the air was full of arrows, thick as gnats in the summer. He ducked back into the relative safety of his mansion's arched doorway. Arrows clattered off the walls, bounced on flagstones, stuck quivering in dirt.

They seemed to come from every direction. Soldiers fell right and left, some screaming out horrible death cries, others dropping silently in instantaneous death.

“To arms!” Sharzen managed to shout. “Fill your hands, men, the Picts are upon us!”

Even as he screamed, he saw Gestian running toward the wall, tugging on his helmet as he did. The captain had a shield strapped to his left arm and a broadsword clapping against his hip as he scurried. The expression on his mustached face was a bit more frantic than Sharzen liked seeing on the commander of Koronaka's troops.

He knew that standing here, even protected by the arch over his doorway, he was in danger. He should go inside, don some armor. Or just stay in, defended by his guards. But his men seemed to have abandoned their posts—they were probably on the wall, or on the way to it, each one assuming that other guards would take care of his safety.

Or, he thought, looking about him at the carnage that had already occurred, they were dead, victims of the earliest arrow volleys that had hit the courtyard.

He went inside the residence, slamming the door against the awful sounds from without.

 

 

GESTIAN HAD BEEN on the wall since daybreak. He had spent the day encouraging the men, cajoling them, persuading them to ignore the infernal drumming and keep their eyes on the trees, alert for any potential trouble. He had been moving all day long, from one group of soldiers to the next. Finally, as the sun dipped below the western tree line, he had retired to his quarters and removed his armor. A young woman named Malina would come by in a short while to massage his aching muscles.

He was waiting for her when he heard the first scream, followed by shouts of alarm and a volley of Pictish arrows raining down into the fort. With an angry curse he had grabbed his armor and strapped it back on as quickly as he could, then buckled his sword belt around his middle and dashed back out to the wall.

What he found was a catastrophe.

His troops had taken dozens of casualties, without—as far as he could tell from here—dealing any serious blows in return. The Picts seemed to have the fort surrounded. Arrows flew from every direction. Beyond the walls, the drumming had stopped but now he heard Pictish war cries and other strange noises: birdcalls, animal growls, and so on. He assumed the Picts were using these sounds to communicate. Some kind of code.

He raced across the eastern parapet in a stooped crouch and stopped beside a lieutenant named Alignon. “What news?” he asked, panting for breath from his desperate run.

“I never imagined they would attack at night,” Alignon said. “Or even dusk. In my experience, they always make major assaults in the morning.”

Gestian risked a peek over the wall. In the shadowed forest he thought he saw a pair of dark eyes regarding him from a blue-tinted face. Before he could really focus on it, however, it vanished into the woods. “I never imagined they would band together to attack us,” he said in return.

“You think the Picts have united?”

“The Bear Clan would never have been able to mount an offense like this one,” Gestian pointed out. “I doubt any other individual clan would either. No, there are too many of them now—you can see it just by the sheer number of arrows they have sent our way. This is a united effort.”

Alignon shivered. “I wonder how many they have.”

“Pray to Mitra we never find out.”

 

 

CONOR WAS ALMOST home to Cimmeria, but the journey wasn't working out quite as he had planned. He had hoped to sell the bizarrely huge teeth along the way, as he was certain they would bring a much better price in Aquilonia than at home in Taern. But while many of the people he showed them to remarked upon their immense size and unusual appearance, no one had any interest in buying loose animal teeth, however large. Conor had threatened a couple of them, to no avail, and had resorted to robbing others of what treasure they did have. In this fashion, he financed his meals and lodging for the nights.