Rathma
Djozen Yelto tightened his grip on Rathma as they neared the gray walls of the sprawling compound. Built to keep outsiders out just as much as to keep its residents in, the walls were an effective deterrent to roving nomads and to those, like him, who were followers of the Traveler.
Rathma said a silent prayer as they approached, knowing he would soon be passing out of the Traveler’s reach and into the clutches of the worshippers of the Holder of the Dead—then, if the trial went how he guessed it would, to the Holder himself.
Darkness had taken hold of the desert; the air around them had cooled, inviting its night dwellers to once again make their way to the surface. The desert wolves, kings in their own right, were free to roam about with no fear of the sun bearing down on them. Rathma hoped the ones he saw skulking around were friends of Kuu.
“I’m surprised you didn’t just send someone after me,” he said casually to Yelto. “The mighty Djozen Yelto leaving the protection of his walls . . . I never thought I’d see the day.”
The words brought a grin to the face of the fat eastern tribesman. “And risk you getting away?” chuckled Yelto. “No, my boy. This was a noose that the hangman himself must tie. It was simply too risky to entrust to someone else.”
The crackling of the dozens of torches planted high on the wall was the only other sound that accompanied their soft footfalls in the sand.
***
Rathma pulled his cloak tighter around him. In the desert, the temperature swings between night and day were not for the weak, and he was eternally grateful that Jinda had left him such a useful gift. It was just a shame that it would most likely be burned along with him and Kuu.
As they approached the walled fortress, he recognized the robes worn by the Priests of the Holder. He could see the blue and the white long before he could see their skeletal faces, still haunted by tendons and muscles. It made them look like burn victims close to death.
Those unblinking eyes, Rathma thought. They look so dead. So lifeless. He shivered at the sight.
“I am pleased you have returned,” said one of the robed figures. His words, directed at Rathma, were raspy and sharp, like the voice of a serpent. “As is the Holder.”
“How go things here, Priest?” asked Yelto. He did not use his name because Priests of the Holder had no names; they gave up their identities when they entered into servitude. It was one of the reasons for their disfigurement: everyone was equal in the sight of the Holder, and none showed that more than the nameless, faceless Priests of the Holder.
“We have secured the Wolfwalker inside, as you asked. He was . . . difficult.” If a skeleton could frown, Rathma thought he was seeing it now.
“I do not doubt that,” Yelto answered. “The southerners spend their whole lives ducking death. I did not expect it to be easy.”
They stood outside a great metal gate that separated the interior of the compound from the endless burning desert. Rathma knew it was well guarded on the inside, which was why he’d chosen to avoid it entirely when he planned his earlier entrance. To be passing through it now came as an unwelcome twist of fate.
Yelto barked an order that sent the gate rumbling open, churning upward on chains that were connected to a wheel manned by four sentries. When it lifted, Rathma’s breath nearly left him.
In the middle of the compound, surrounded by no fewer than fifty of Yelto’s men, was a cage big enough to hold a wolf. But inside was no wolf, as Kuu’s older brothers were always saying. A pathetic-looking gray desert fox was lying on its side, eyes closed, with a long gash running down its rib cage. Its mouth was muzzled, and its left hind leg was chained to the thick iron bars that lined the cage.
“Kuu!” Rathma shouted. Turning to Yelto, he growled through clenched teeth, “What have you done to him?”
The fat Djozen raised his hands in mock distress. “Only what was necessary. If he wasn’t so intent on escape, we wouldn’t have had to deal with him so harshly. You heard the priest: the boy was a handful.”
Rathma yanked at his own restraints while looking Djozen Yelto in the eyes. “If you’ve killed him, I swear by the Traveler . . .” He swallowed his words and tried to replace his anger with rational thought. “He had no part in this plan. Set him free.”
Yelto laughed. “That will be for the tribunal to decide. Now”—he gave Rathma a shove—“inside.”