Duna
Duna gathered herself and marched forth. She pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the dimly lit interior that smelled faintly of granite and smoke. Standing in front of the orange glow of a fireplace, facing away from her, was a red-robed figure with white-gray hair who had his hands clasped behind his back. Duna watched the shadow that stretched out behind him, clawing at her near the entrance.
“Don’t be afraid,” the figure said. “I’m sure my men have told you all kinds of horror stories about me.”
“I’m not afraid,” Duna answered, almost sure that she meant it.
“Good.”
Turning around to face her was the unwelcome sight of a Khyth of the Breaking: nebulous eyes, charred skin, and a palpable emanation of power that pushed her back like a gust of wind.
“I am Yetz,” he said, “as you have no doubt surmised.”
“Duna Cullain,” she answered, gathering herself. “But you knew that already.”
Yetz curled his lips in a smile. “I make it a point to be well informed. Many wars have been won with words just as easily as swords,” he said. “And I will use whichever one suits my needs at the time.” He kept his inscrutable eyes on her for a moment, and Duna could feel him sizing her up. “But before I tell you what I need from you, I have heard whispers that there is something you need from me.”
Duna nodded.
“An army,” she answered plainly.
The High Khyth smiled again.
***
Yetz led them through a series of hallways that seemed to go on forever, lit mostly by candles that barely kept the darkness at bay. The eerie silence that surrounded them only compounded the uncomfortable feeling that penetrated the stony walls of the High Khyth’s spire. Their footsteps on the polished floor echoed throughout.
“I know that Tennech has fled,” Yetz said from up ahead, “and that Durakas has died. And I know that means you have been put in the . . . unenviable position of taking orders from me now.” His hollow voice filled the air between the hallways and seemed to come from all around. “But my work is far from done, and the Hand of the Black Dawn is still the Breaker’s instrument—and, by extension, mine.”
The two of them walked into a room that felt different to Duna: heavy, cold, and damp. It felt like a jail cell, but more open and less inviting. From farther inside she thought she could hear breathing, and it was doubtful that it was human. The sounds of chains moving over a stone floor rattled through the air, and Duna’s composure left her; she was suddenly, and very sharply, afraid.
Before she could speak, though, Yetz reached out his hand toward the hallway they had just come from, and the sound of rippling flames made Duna turn her head. She watched incredulously as a stream of fire came pouring toward them, reckless and bright. She looked back at Yetz, whose face was expressionless.
Panic began to bubble inside of Duna as she remembered how the Khyth dealt with failure. The thought that she was being punished for Tennech’s betrayal struck her like a bolt of lightning. She flailed in the darkness as she tried to avoid the flames.
But their heat never touched her.
The fear left her as quickly as the flames had appeared, snuffed out when she realized what Yetz was doing. He wasn’t trying to execute her; he was pulling the fire from the candles like a rope, and using it to light the room. The High Khyth swirled his hands around swiftly, filling the room with fire and expelling the darkness inside by the light of hundreds of candles that lined the circular walls of the vast and empty chamber.
And there, shown by the light that flooded the room, was a massive pillar of scales and teeth that stared hungrily through Duna right where she stood. White, twisted horns topped a fearsome head that seemed to hang in the air, and the long, serpentine neck that rippled with subtle movement made what she was seeing unmistakable.
The Night Stalker, she thought. The Shaper’s Bane.
“Are you familiar with the Gwarái?” Yetz asked coolly.
Duna caught her breath. She had seen two of them in the battle at Naknamu, but had never been close enough to appreciate just how terrifying they were. The one before her, with its great yellow eyes and endless black scales, did more than enough to help her understand why the Athrani had hunted them to extinction ages ago—or so the world had been told, she corrected.
She managed to compose herself before answering: “I only know of them in passing. Two of them marched under the general’s banner in the Battle for the Tree.”
“Good,” Yetz replied. “Then you know what they are capable of.”
“I do,” Duna replied.
“Then use them for whatever purposes you may have. And now,” he said, “we shall discuss what you owe me.”
***
Duna exited the High Khyth’s quarters, content in her moral victory.
When she had asked Yetz to help her fortify her army, she had honestly not expected him to capitulate. Yet he had done so—and more. Not only was he giving her more Khyth to bolster the Fist, but he would be giving her Gwarái as well.
Never mind what he was asking for in exchange. It would be worth it.
There was a good reason Durakas made me second-in-command, she thought with a smirk; she didn’t often allow herself the luxury of pride.
As she rounded the corner to the barracks, though, she nearly ran over a messenger girl coming her way.
“Oh!” the girl exclaimed in a soft, husky voice. “General Cullain, I’m so sorry, please excuse me.” She backed away, giving them both some room. “I’m so clumsy.”
She had stopped short of running into her—barely—but that wasn’t what caught Duna’s attention. She’s too pretty to be a messenger, she thought as she eyed the girl.
“Not at all,” Duna said, shaking off the thought with a tight-lipped smile. “Were you looking for someone?”
“Yes, General,” she nodded. “You.”
Duna narrowed her eyes. “Is that so?”
She nodded again. “I’m to tell you that Master Khyth Kunas requests to speak with you. He is in his quarters, just outside the—”
“I know where his quarters are,” Duna said, interrupting her. “I will find him. Thank you,” she said curtly, nodding and walking away, but not before giving an appreciative glance at the messenger girl again.
She let her annoyance at being summoned start to burn off, as she knew that she would have to work closely with Kunas in the future. The least she could do was try to keep it under control.
***
“Ah,” came the voice of Kunas from inside his quarters. “General Cullain. So glad to see you.”
His door was open, and Duna could see him seated inside, appearing to be studying something. She didn’t even break stride as she acknowledged him, walking right into the room as he stood.
“Kunas,” she said with a disdainful nod. “That makes one of us.” She didn’t like him, and had no problem letting him know; he had always made her skin crawl. “I ran into your messenger girl,” she added.
The Master Khyth nodded as he rose to greet her, closing his book and flashing a smile that looked like it took more effort than should have been necessary. “Excellent. How was your meeting with the High Khyth?”
“Good,” she replied, caught slightly off guard. “He’s agreed to give us the necessary troops. We may be marching with some more inexperienced Khyth, ones who have yet to undergo their Breaking, but their power will still be welcome. In fact,” she said turning to look at him, “he’s asked you to take one of them under your wing. Something about lines of succession?” she said with uncertainty.
“Ah,” Kunas said, sounding pleased. “With D’kane gone, there is a void, one that I will be ascending to fill. He must have chosen my replacement.”
Duna shrugged. “Anything to add to the fight against the Chovathi will be of use.”
Kunas nodded in agreement. “They will not go down easily. Though they may not be as well trained as the remaining men of the Fist, they make up for it in numbers.”
Duna paused at the mention of this fact. The size of the Chovathi force was something she hadn’t yet fully considered. There would most likely be many more of them than there would be Thurians and Valurians combined—and even Sharians, if they were lucky; there was no way of telling how many Chovathi lay beneath the surface; but if they had emptied out Ghal Thurái as quickly as they had, it was a lot.
“But,” she said quietly, “it is practically the Thurian way to be outnumbered.”
And it was true: the Fist were the best that Ghal Thurái had to offer. They had historically been the best of the best. Yet such selectivity meant having fewer warriors in their ranks than they would have had by taking just anyone.
Their most recent defeat at the hands of the Athrani had been both moral and physical: the retreat of their general and the death of their commander. They would need to do more than just supplement their numbers with Gwarái and Khyth.
“How would you rate our chances of success?” Duna asked in a still-lowered voice.
The Master Khyth took a moment to consider. He looked out a window toward the barracks, where most of the men waited. A few of them were sparring, but most were sitting or standing around in idle conversation.
“Now?” he reflected. “Not good.”
Duna mentally agreed.
“But,” he continued, “I might have an idea that could possibly sway the pendulum of victory in our direction.”
“I’m listening.”
“More Chovathi.”
The burst of laughter that escaped Duna’s lips was both unbidden and unexpected. “More Chovathi?” she asked incredulously, a smile spreading across her face. “So the Khyth do have a sense of humor!”
She couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled, let alone laughed. It made her forget her responsibilities, even if only for a brief moment. That was when she noticed that the Master Khyth wasn’t laughing with her. Her smile faded and she furrowed her brow, perplexed. “You’re serious,” she said.
Kunas nodded, straightening his robes and clearing his throat. “I am,” he said. The look he gave her told her that his pride had been injured.
“Explain,” she said with narrowed eyes.
The Master Khyth got up and walked over to the door, pulling it closed behind him. “The Chovathi that occupy Ghal Thurái are not the only clan of Chovathi,” he said. “While they may be most of them, they are not all of them.”
“What are you saying?” Duna asked, arms crossed over her chest.
“I am saying we give them what they seek. The thing that all men crave, and the thing that ultimately destroys them.”
Duna smiled.
Power.
Of course: it was a concept the Khyth would have been intimately familiar with.
“The Chovathi have been at war with Thurians for generations!” Her voice was still lowered, and came out as a conspiratorial whisper. “A simple offer of power over a rival clan will never sway them.”
“They are the enemies of Ghal Thurái, yes,” Kunas conceded quietly. “But do not even men fight amongst each other? Even Khyth? Even Athrani?”
Duna could only muster a thoughtful grunt. This Khyth was clever, she had to give him that. She wanted to see just how far that cleverness would take him.
“Then I suppose you have a plan,” she said.
The Master Khyth, Kunas, smiled wickedly.