Shadow of a Dark Queen (49 page)

Erik lay back on his pallet, arm behind his head. He watched as clouds scurried by overhead in the late afternoon breeze. He would have night watch, so he thought he'd try to get some rest.

But the thought of being the first to attack the wall of a city, that image returned again and again. He'd killed four men so far, on three different occasions, but he'd never been in battle. He worried he would somehow do something wrong.

He was still contemplating the coming campaign when Foster came along and kicked his boots, telling him it was time to get to his post. Erik found himself surprised that it was now night. He had lost himself in contemplations of the coming struggle, and the sun had set without his noticing. He rose and got his sword and shield and moved down toward the river, to spend the next few hours watching for trouble.

He thought it ironic that he was on guard in the midst of an army that would turn on Calis's Crimson Eagles in an instant if they understood their real purpose, and from what he had no idea, as no enemy was closer than fifty miles. Still, he was told to go stand guard, and that he did.

Nakor stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the priest lift up the dead sheep. The Saaur warriors closest to the fire let out a yell of approval, a deep-throated hissing, that echoed through the night like a chorus of enraged dragons. Those humans behind the circle of lizard men watched in fascination, for these rites were unknown to any but the Saaur. Many humans made signs of protection to their own gods and goddesses.

A great celebration was under way and Nakor was wandering freely through the various companies of men. He had seen many things and was both gratified and horrified: gratified that he had uncovered several key elements of the mystery that would help Calis best decide what to do next, and horrified because in his long life he had never met a gathering of evil men so concentrated in both numbers and malignancy.

The heart of this army was the Saaur, and a large company of men who called themselves the Chosen Guard. They wore both the common emerald armband and green scarves tied around their heads. Their malignancy was clearly demonstrated by one of their number who stood a short distance from Nakor, wearing a necklace of human ears. Rumor in the camp had it these were the most violent, dangerous, and depraved men in an army of dark souls. To join their ranks, one must have endured several campaigns and distinguished oneself by deeds black and numerous. It was rumored that the final act of acceptance was ritual cannibalism.

Nakor didn't doubt it. But having visited cannibals in the Skashakan Islands in prior years, he also knew these men indulged in practices that would have revolted most cannibals.

Nakor nodded and grinned at a man covered in tattoos who held a young boy tightly to him. The boy had an iron collar around his neck and his eyes had a drug-induced vacancy in them. The man snarled at Nakor, who merely grinned even more as he moved away.

Nakor was trying to move around the largest clump of celebrators so he could gain a vantage point from which to see the Emerald Queen's pavilion. Strange energies floated on the night wind, and old, familiar echoes of distant magic sounded between the notes of song; and Nakor was coming to a conclusion about who and what he would find there.

But he wasn't certain, and without certainty he couldn't return to find Calis on the other side of the tributary to tell him what he must do next. The only thing of which he was certain was the need to return to Krondor, to warn Nicholas that whatever he had feared was occurring in this distant land, far worse forces were being unleashed. Subtle, behind the ancient magic of the Pantathians, a lingering scent of alien origin hung in the air.

Glancing skyward, Nakor smelled demon essence in the clouds, as if ready to fall like rain. He shook his head. “I'm getting tired,” he muttered to himself as he picked his way among giant Saaur warriors.

One of Nakor's better tricks, as he called his abilities, was the knack of moving in crowds without attracting undue notice, but it didn't always work, and this moment was one such time.

A Saaur warrior looked down and snarled, “Where do you go, human?” Its voice was deep and its accent sounded harsh to Nakor.

Nakor regarded the hooded eyes, deep red irises surrounded by white. “I am insignificant, O mighty
one. I cannot see. I move to a place from which I may better observe this wondrous rite.”

Nakor had been curious about the Saaur when he had first reached the heart of the camp, but now he was anxious to remove himself from them. They were still a mystery to him. They bore as much resemblance to the Pantathians as humans did to elves, which was to say that superficially they looked very similar, but upon close examination they were totally unrelated. Nakor was almost certain they came from another world entirely, and that they were warm-blooded creatures, like men, elves, and, dwarves, while he knew the Pantathians were not.

He would have liked to be able to discuss such theories with an educated Saaur, but all he had encountered were young male warriors with an attitude toward humans that could only be called contemptuous. He had no doubt that should the men in this camp not be servants of this Emerald Queen, the Saaur would have been delighted to murder every human in the camp. They could barely keep their antipathy for humans in check.

The average Saaur stood between nine and ten feet in height. The Saaurs were massive in chest and shoulder, but strangely delicate of neck, and while their legs were strong enough to control their massive horses, they didn't seem to be a race of runners or jumpers. On foot, any good company of humans should prove their match, thought Nakor.

The lizard man grunted, and Nakor didn't know if that was approval or not, but he took it as permission to move on and he did so, judging he would deal with the consequences of being wrong if he turned out to be.

He was not. The warrior returned his attention to the welcoming ritual.

The pavilion of the Emerald Queen was raised up on a giant dais, constructed either of wood or of earth—Nakor couldn't tell which—but six feet higher than the other tents in this part of the camp. The structure was surrounded by a host of Saaur, and for the first time Nakor saw Pantathian priests beyond. Even more, he saw Pantathian warriors as well. Nakor grinned, for this was a new thing to his experience, and he always enjoyed discovering the unfamiliar.

The priest now turned and threw the slaughtered sheep onto a pyre and then cast scented oils after it. The smoke that rose was fragrant and thick, dark and coiling. The priest and the rest of the Saaur watched intently. Then the priest pointed and spoke in an alien language, but the tone was positive, and Nakor guessed he was saying the spirits were pleased with the offering or the portents were good, or some other priestly mumbo-jumbo.

Nakor squinted as a figure emerged from within the depths of the pavilion: a man in green armor, followed by another, who made way for a third, whose green armor was trimmed in gold. This powerful-looking man was General Fadawah, First Commander of the host. Nakor sensed evil hung around the man like smoke around a fire. For a soldier, he fairly reeked of magic.

Then came a woman with emeralds at her neck and wrists, dressed in a green gown cut low in front so that the fall of emeralds at her throat could be better shown. Upon her raven hair she wore a crown of emeralds.

Nakor muttered, “That is a lot of emeralds, even for you.”

The woman moved in a way Nakor found disturbing, and when she came forward to answer the cheers of her army, he became deeply troubled. Something was profoundly wrong!

He studied her and listened as she spoke. “My faithful! I who am Your Lady, who am but a vessel for one much greater, I thank you for your gifts.

“The Sky Horde of the Saaur and the Emerald Queen promise you victory in this life and immortal reward in the next. Our spies return to tell us the unbelievers lie in wait just three days' march to the south. Soon we shall move to crush them, then fall upon the heathen cities and reduce them to cinders. Each victory comes more swiftly than the last, and our numbers grow.”

The woman called the Emerald Queen stepped forward to the very edge of the dais and looked down on the faces of those nearest to her, both Saaur and human. Pointing to one man, she said, “You shall be my messenger to the gods this night!”

The man raised his fist in triumph and ran up the first four steps to the dais. He threw himself across the final two, so his head was on the floor before his mistress. She raised her foot and placed it on the man's head for a moment in ritual, then removed it, turning to move back into the tent. The man rose with a grin, winked back at his comrades who cheered him, and followed the Queen into her pavilion.

“Oh, this is very bad,” whispered Nakor. He glanced around and saw the celebration was building in intensity. Soon men would be drunk and fighting, as much as was allowed, and given the lax discipline
Nakor had seen in this part of the army, he suspected much brawling and even bloodshed were tolerated.

Now he would have to work his way through a company of very drunk, drug-crazed killers, and seek a way across the river to Calis—assuming he could locate Calis's camp.

Nakor was never one to worry, and this certainly wasn't a time to begin. Still, he was anxious that he not delay too long, for now he knew what was behind all the conflict that had been under way for the last twelve years, and what was more, he realized he might be the only man on the world who would fully understand all the different aspects of what he had just seen.

Shaking his head in consternation at the complexities of life, the little man started negotiating his way back away from the edge of the Emerald Queen's pavilion.

A courier rode up and asked, “Are you Captain Calis?”

Calis said, “I am.”

“Orders. You're to take your company and ford the river”—he motioned to some place to the north of him, so Erik, who sat nearby, assumed a ford must be close at hand—“and conduct a sweep along the far bank, for ten miles downstream. Gilani tribesmen were seen by one of our scouts. The generals want to keep the opposite bank free of such pests.”

He turned and rode away as Praji said, “Pests?” Looking after the retreating courier, he shook his head in disbelief. “Obviously that lad has never encountered any of the Gilani.”

“Neither have I,” said Calis. “Who are they?”

Praji spoke while he casually picked up his kit and made ready to ride out. “Barbarians.” He paused and said, “No, savages, really. Tribespeople. No one knows who they are or where they come from. They speak a tongue only a few can master, and they rarely give anyone from outside a chance to learn it. They're tough, and they fight like maniacs. They wander the Plain of Djams or up in the foothills of the Ratn'gary, hunting the big bison herds or chasing elk and deer.”

Picking up his own bedroll, Vaja said, “Most of the trouble folks on this side of the river have with them is over horses. They're the best damn horse thieves in the world. A man's rank is earned by how many enemies he's killed and how many horses he's stolen. They don't ride them; they eat them. So I heard.”

“Will they give us much trouble?” said Calis.

“Hell, we probably won't even see one,” answered Praji. He tossed his bedroll to Erik and said, “Hang on to that for me for a minute.” He bent to get a bag that contained the rest of his personal belongings. “They're tough little guys, about half again the size of dwarves,” and with an evil grin he pointed at Roo: “just like him!”

The men laughed as Praji reclaimed his bedroll from Erik and they started moving toward the picket line of horses. De Loungville and Foster began calling orders to the company to ride. Praji said, “They can vanish into that tall grass across the river like they were spirits. They live in these low huts they put together out of woven grass, and you can be standing ten feet from one and never see it. Difficult folks to figure.”

“But they can fight,” said Vaja.

As they started readying their horses, Praji said, “That, indeed, they can do. There, Captain, now you know as much about the Gilani as just about any man born in these parts.”

Calis said, “Well, if they want to avoid trouble, we should be able to make a swing ten miles to the south and back before sundown.” As if concerned over something, he looked back at the main body of the camp, then said to De Loungville, “Leave a squad to look after things.” Lowering his voice, he said, “And tell them to keep an eye out for Nakor.”

Foster motioned to another squad that was moving to saddle their horses and gave them instructions. Erik glanced back as he lifted his saddle to place it on the back of his own mount. Where
was
Nakor? he wondered.

Nakor grunted as he picked up the plank, silently cursing the fool at the other end who didn't seem to realize something existed called “coordinated effort.” The man, whose name was unknown to Nakor but whom he thought of as “that idiot,” insisted on lifting, moving, and dropping without bothering to mention it to Nakor. As a result, over the last two days, Nakor had accumulated an astonishing collection of splinters, scrapes, and bruises.

Nakor had encountered difficulties returning to Calis's company. The muster had finally halted with the core army to the north of this tributary to the river Vedra, while Calis and other other new mercenary companies were to the south. Passing across the smaller river was now accomplished only by riders with official-looking passes, issued by the generals.
Nakor had three such passes in his bag, having stolen them two nights before, but he didn't want to try to use one until he could study it, and there hadn't been any place to study the documents without attracting attention. Besides the risk of losing such documents, Nakor had a predisposition not to call attention to himself unless there was a reason to do so.

But the generals had ordered a bridge rebuilt across this tributary and a work gang was diligently doing just that. Nakor figured he would pose as a worker and when the bridge reached the opposite shore, he would simply vanish into the crowd on the other bank.