Rylin bowed his head, fist pressed to his mouth to cough even as he dug into the pouch at his side. Would they see him? Would they notice that beneath the cape and hat of this Talkus fellow was a broader Altenerai?
The general was already questioning another officer, but what were the others doing? Would they see him fumbling at his belt rather than carrying out the order to exit?
His hands closed upon his semblance and he sent the image of Talkus into the thing and brought it upon himself as he opened the door.
The guards outside stared at him. What did they see? Had it worked? He closed the door as if everything were normal, and the sentries came to attention.
He frowned at them and stalked past, only then glancing down at his hand to see the sapphire ring absent. The first semblance, though, was likewise very low on power.
He found Dragon Lord Zhintin waiting outside only a few feet beyond the sentries. The man motioned him forward and began walking along the lane in front of the dragons. Rylin worried only a moment that he’d been found out.
“You survived your encounter with the general, then?” Zhintin asked in a low voice. “He must have been in a forgiving mood.”
“He told me to round up prisoners for an olech.”
Zhintin stopped in his tracks. “Did you actually tell him you could repair the wyrm with blood energy?”
“He suggested it; I accepted and departed.”
Zhintin shook his head in sympathy. “That’s going to go poorly for you. How long do you have?”
“Three days.”
“Three days? Zhendek’s balls. You’d need three weeks, at least, unless we could somehow take the beast straight into the Shifting Lands with a whole team of weavers!”
This was all wonderful news to Rylin. So the dragons weren’t easy to heal, either in time or resources. No wonder the Naor had so few.
The dragon lord searched his face, looking honestly troubled for him. Rylin reminded himself that, while the Naor might think less of those who weren’t from their culture, they must be capable of both love and loyalty. “What are you going to do?” Zhintin asked.
“I’m going to get as much blood energy as I can,” Rylin said. “What else can I do? He told me to work with whatever I had, and to make it a priority.”
Zhintin sighed. “Of course he did.” He spoke on as if talking about one of his favorite subjects. “He doesn’t really understand. He’s fine with tried-and-true tactics, but none of them comprehend magic the way Chargan does.”
Rylin said nothing, but recognized the name. This was the one expected to arrive next week with forces for Darassus, apparently another grandchild of Mazakan.
Zhintin continued. “If Chargan were in charge of this he wouldn’t be letting all the tribes carve up different areas. Our takeover of this fae city would be a lot more organized. He’d also have brought a lot more spell casters to start with.”
Chargan sounded uncomfortably capable.
Just as he’d begun to wonder how to gracefully leave Zhintin, Rylin noticed a cart moving along the lane in front of the homes beside the landing field where the dragons rested. As the cart came to a stop, two men hopped down and headed into the nearest home. A moment later they dragged out a pair of bodies. Of course. This was a cleanup crew, diligently collecting more skulls for their pile. And the home where Rylin had left the body of the man he imitated was just a little farther down the block for them.
Zhintin was returning to his original point. “But none of that matters. I just don’t see how an olech can really help you. There aren’t enough Dendressi to sacrifice to fix that dragon in the time you have.” Zhintin’s thin beard waggled as he shook his head. Rylin watched as the men with the corpse cart drew closer to the home where he’d left Talkus’ body. Possibly they wouldn’t recognize it. But wouldn’t they still see it for Naor?
“You should drag out the process,” Zhintin advised. “See if you can last until Chargan arrives. If you can show a little progress repairing the dragon, he’s liable to be a moderating influence. I’ll leave you our two cleverest weavers when we fly out. They don’t have the stamina we’re going to need anyway, and they might be able to help you along with the repairs.”
The officer really did seem to have Talkus’ best interests at heart. “That’s kind of you.”
Zhintin looked at him oddly.
Rylin groaned inwardly. He’d used words too genteel and wondered how the Naor gave thanks. “I meant only to thank you.”
Zhintin grunted. “It may not be enough to save you.” He glanced back at the guard tower. “I must be on with it. I’ll have Tarften begin assembling some Dendressi for you. Fifty, do you think for a start?”
He meant to have far more than fifty. If this worked, everyone that he selected for olech would be walking free with him. “I want to start with a larger number, as the general ordered. I don’t want to arouse suspicion. I’ll only sacrifice them as need dictates.”
“That might work. Very well.” Zhintin frowned, following Rylin’s gaze to the cart, continuing along the lane. The house where he’d killed Talkus lay only three ahead of them. “What is it you keep staring at?” Zhintin asked.
Rylin hesitated only a moment. Perhaps it should have troubled him that lies came so easily to his lips. “There’s something I should probably show you. Come with me.”
Zhintin looked doubtful. “Shouldn’t we—”
“This is important.”
The officer must have trusted Talkus, because after only a brief hesitation he followed Rylin toward the house where Talkus actually lay. Rylin moved into a jog as they neared the dragons, lying now with heads down between their forward claws. They showed no reaction to the presence of either Rylin or Zhintin as they hurried past, and he tried not to marvel over their vast dark bulk.
By the time they were beyond the dragons and approaching the row of dark houses, the corpse cart was drawing to a stop in front of the home where Talkus’ body lay and a bulky Naor was already dragging the dead woman with the arrow out of the doorway.
“That’s all you need to do here,” Rylin commanded the young soldier.
The man swiveled quickly, and the light carried by his companion shone full on Rylin/Talkus and Zhintin. The fellow stiffened and came to attention, releasing his hold on the dead woman so that her hands slipped to the dirt roadway. He was a thick youth with a heavy jaw. His stare was almost comically stupid.
“Stay away from this house,” Rylin said crisply. “This one’s off limits.”
The man with the lantern didn’t seem much brighter. He spoke with a thick, guttural accent that Rylin had a hard time following. “Sir? We’re removing all bodies.”
“This home’s off limits until further notice. Move along, and don’t come back.”
“Yes, sir.” Both turned back to the cart, the larger of the two hefting the woman’s body to his shoulder before hurling it amongst dozens of other corpses. Rylin tried not to focus overmuch on the arms and legs protruding from the cart.
“They don’t breed them very smart in the marshes, do they?” Zhintin asked before turning back to Rylin. “What’s this all about, Talkus?”
“Head on in. It’s best that I show you.”
“I don’t have a light.”
“I do. Give me a moment.”
The dragon lord looked increasingly puzzled, but was still willing to follow Rylin’s request, and so stepped into the dark space beyond the open doorway. Rylin closed the door only a moment after entering the building himself.
“Where’s that light?”
Rylin willed his ring on. “Here.” And he dropped his semblance as he reached for the dragon lord. His intent was to wrap his neck with his arm and put a knife to Zhintin’s throat.
But the dragon lord wasn’t so simple an opponent. He leapt away with stunning speed. Something sparkled in his hand as he tossed it toward Rylin.
There was no way for Rylin to avoid the shards. He shielded his face with one sleeve and was shocked to feel pain. Whatever the dragon lord cast cut straight through the heretofore impenetrable Altenerai cloth. Rylin’s arm stung and, worse, something had jabbed his side.
He had neither the time nor the inclination to inspect his wounds; he advanced with knife ready, light playing across the room as the hand with ring shifted. He saw the dragon lord backstep into the central living room, with its table and chairs and the legs of dead Talkus.
Another stab of pain, this time from a spell that brushed past Rylin; protected as he was by the Altenerai ring, it didn’t leave him completely unscathed. He winced, and his opening thrust at Zhintin was blocked by a swift arm. A second, more forceful blast of pain followed, this time centered on whatever had struck his side, as though Zhintin were twisting a dagger into him.
Rylin faltered, leaving the dragon lord time to draw his own blade. Zhintin stepped back to give himself more room, and that was his undoing, for he bumped into Talkus’ legs and lost his balance.
Rylin leapt forward, swept his opponent’s blade aside with such ferocity that it was knocked from the Naor’s hand. He sent a numbing sleep command at the stumbling Naor.
The dragon lord caught himself against a low cabinet on the back wall, slumping a little. But he shook off the spell and reached once more for a side pocket.
Rylin swiped fast, striking deep into the reaching arm just above the elbow. The dragon lord’s scream of agony was cut short by Rylin’s second blow, which left the man a dying, gurgling, bloody mass on the floor beside the real Talkus.
Rylin stood panting, feeling with his inner sight toward the man’s thoughts. These, though, were scattered and useless and frightened, and Rylin, out of respect for his enemy—even a little regret—withdrew so Zhintin could die without intrusion.
It didn’t take long. Rylin set his knife on the counter and listened for a moment, fearful that the corpse cart men might return. But all he heard were distant shouts from some other part of the city where the Naor advanced and slaughtered. He then shone the ring’s light upon his side and discovered a glittering object the size of an arrowhead piercing armor and skin. Other, smaller flecks stuck in the flexible khalat.
“That’s surprising,” he said aloud. So the Naor had been busy in the years after the war. They hadn’t just developed the dragons, they’d come up with a counter to the vaunted Altenerai armor. The weapon must be rare or difficult to control, or he’d have found it used by other men he’d fought.
Rylin inspected his arm and saw he’d been struck by even more slivers. Though he couldn’t be sure, it seemed none of the wounds was grievous. But each bled steadily through the armor.
“Fabulous.” He’d been overconfident. The trick with the light had been arrogant. If he’d meant to take Zhintin prisoner, he should have managed it without dramatics. The end result had been that both the leader of dragons and his chief adjutant were dead, and that was good. But he’d botched things. Rylin hadn’t managed to get any more information out of Zhintin, he didn’t know how to arrange for the prisoner transfer, and he’d gotten himself wounded.
He discovered, upon touching one of the shards on his arm, that the cursed things were actually sharp all over. The tip of his finger bled freely until he pressed it and lifted it above his head. How the Naor had tossed them at him with such force without hurting himself surely had more to do with magic than skill. Unfortunately, Rylin didn’t have time for long analysis. Right now, if he moved fast, he had an opening to walk out with hundreds of Alantran prisoners. What he’d do then remained to be seen, but he had a few ideas. The first task was cleaning his own wounds.
He wasn’t an accomplished healer by any means. Rylin had no idea how to mend serious chest wounds. But like all Altenerai spell casters, he’d received rudimentary instruction about tending flesh injuries, and one of them was to simply lend energy to accelerate the natural process. Follow the thread, Kalandra had once told him. Just picture what the body was doing before it was interrupted by the injury, and make it whole. Sometimes that simply pushed out the bad, and while it wouldn’t drive out a spear thrust through someone’s shoulder, it might push out dirt or maybe even these metal shards, so long as they weren’t embedded particularly deep.
It took more concentration than he would have liked to focus on his own body. He was too worried about losing himself in inner focus and being surprised by Naor intruders. But he felt the areas and sent little surges of energy through them. One by one the shards dropped away, and the skin scabbed, leaving a tingling afterimage of discomfort. Finally there was only the largest shard, in his side. He stared down at it, panting in exhaustion.
Removing that one proved almost too much. Already stretched a little thin, running low on magical energy, he was seeing black spots by the time he forced it free. It made a dull clatter as it dropped on the floor between the dead men. That, he thought, might be interesting to Varama, so he stuffed it into her satchel after wrapping it carefully in a piece of cloth torn from Zhintin’s cape.
If he’d had more power—say, a third of Cerai’s, or even a little of Kalandra’s—or, better yet, one of the hearthstones Cerai had stolen, he’d have had much less trouble. And he might’ve worked out a way to recharge the semblances.
But that was idle dreaming. He needed a better plan. In the darkness, if he were wearing the dead man’s clothes, he stood a fair chance of getting by, so long as he didn’t speak much. If, however, the semblance were to fade while he was still wearing the Altenerai khalat, he stood no chance at all.
Unlike Zhintin, Talkus was of his approximate height, though he was leaner. Maybe it could work. He quickly stripped the body, alarmed by the amount of thumping that took place as he maneuvered the corpse to leverage him out of pants and shirt. Every motion seemed to ram an elbow or boot or knee into the floor and cabinet.
There was the small matter of the blood all over the front of the dead man’s shirt. He discovered a bucket of water someone had carried into the home. Probably that poor dead woman been planning to do some washing up in the evening, never dreaming the Naor would breach the walls and forever end her plans, even the mundane ones.
He poured the water into a smaller tub he’d spotted in a cupboard, and set to work cleaning the shirt, aided only by the glow from his ring. In the end he’d managed to wring out the worst of the stain.
The pants were fine, although on closer look they were a bit narrow, not to mention a bright green.
As he contemplated the pants that were too tight and the shirt that was wet and probably too tight as well, he wondered if perhaps this weren’t as clever a plan as he’d originally thought. Unfortunately, it was the best he had.
As it turned out, the worst thing wasn’t wriggling into the dead man’s clothes. It was divesting himself of his Altenerai khalat. It wasn’t just that it was superb armor that had been uniquely tailored for him. It was that, like his ring, it was a sacred object, entrusted to him to wear for the safety of the realms. Light and flexible it might be, but it was still armor, and it didn’t roll into any sort of concealable bundle. How to explain carrying a large object with him?
In the end he decided he would wrap it in a blanket. He assumed he had enough rank to do what he wanted without challenge, and if he was questioned by a superior, he’d claim he’d found the armor and was planning to show it to the general.
The other option was to stuff it into the closet where he’d left the bodies, but he’d be damned before he let some Naor lord find his khalat.
With a little luck, of course, everything would be settled before the bodies would be discovered. But then he’d been pressing his luck for hours now. How much longer could it hold?
Please, he thought, whispering to Darassa, patron goddess and founder of the realm of Erymyr, let me get by for just a little while longer. I know I’m far from home, but these people need my help.
Rylin continued the prayer as he emerged into the moonlight and beheld the long line of dragons, still now and apparently sleeping. Naor pennants flapped noisily along the wall. Somewhere in the distance, Naor officers shouted commands.
He sighed and offered thanks at the sight of Rurudan. The big black was standing precisely where he’d left him. He knew his horse was well enough trained to stay where left, but he hadn’t been sure the Naor were well enough trained to leave an officer’s horse alone. He split the too-tight green pants climbing into the saddle and then decided to tear the shirt along the upper arm seams to give himself more range of movement before setting out, cloak and hat obscuring his features.
So far, bold action had proven the best option, so he continued in the same vein and briefly activated the semblance to impersonate Talkus while he asked a passing black-feathered soldier if he knew where the officer in charge of prisoners was to be found.
The man with the power over tens of thousands of innocents turned out to be fat and pig-eyed with a thin mustache and scraggly beard. Rylin found him in a finely appointed Alantran home. He got up from his candle-lit banquet table, struggling to smooth out a sash worn over his armor.
Rylin hadn’t decided how to play the situation until he sensed the man looked a little flustered, so he kept his voice tight and clipped. “I want one thousand prisoners, including children, and mothers with infants—whole families if you can manage it—delivered to the west gate within one hour’s time.”
The man’s face lit with a grin. “That’s a whoppin’ olech, eh?”
Rylin nodded curtly. “The lord general has commanded it. I’m to repair the fallen dragon.”
“I will see that it’s done, Dragon Lord. Do you want pretty ones?”
Rylin couldn’t suppress a frown at the man’s leer. “I want numbers; their appearance doesn’t matter.”
The Naor grinned. “Of course.”
Rylin nodded sharply to keep from driving his sword through the officer, then turned away. “I shall await them at the west gate,” he said over his shoulder.
Still sickened from the encounter, he disengaged the semblance, wondering the while how few moments of it were left him, and rode quickly back to the second level and the temple district, trusting that darkness and his Naor garb would be enough of a disguise.
He headed past the sentries around the temple district and then up around the maze of bushes surrounding the temple of Vedessus, riding his horse up to the porticoed entryway. As he dismounted he was dismayed to see two Naor guards slipping out of the darkness to draw close.
What if they’d seen the Naor bodies just beyond the temple door? “Who posted you here?” Rylin demanded. “How many are with you?”
He heard the scuff of a step behind him and pivoted sharply. The movement saved his life, for a spear jabbed through the space where he’d stood only a moment before. The figure from the darkness lunged with the weapon again. As Rylin stepped aside the man snapped at the others to hurry.
“Get him before he makes any noise,” one on his right said softly.
The speaker didn’t have a Naor accent, and none had beards. The ramifications of that information didn’t occur to him until he blocked another spear thrust. It was only when he had the spear grasped in his off hand and his sword driving toward the man’s throat that he recognized his attacker for one of the citadel archers. He managed to spare him only by a wild contortion that left him off balance. As one of the others leapt at him he threw himself sideways, willing his ring to glow as he rolled to his feet.
The two swordsmen disguised as Naor soldiers came at him anyway. Rylin maneuvered to the left, parried one savage strike with his blade, and said, sharply, “It’s me, Alten Rylin.”
Flush with battle lust, the men stared at him for a moment before realization finally dawned. He had the ring, but not his khalat, and apart from the sapphire light upon his hand the lighting conditions were feeble at best.
“It is him,” the archer bearing the spear said breathlessly. He was a tall, powerful man with long dark hair.
“I’m wearing a Naor disguise.”
“So are we. Praise the gods you alerted us,” the archer said. “We might have killed you!”
More likely he might have killed them, but he let that pass. Rylin was disappointed that he hadn’t thought of disguising some men as guards himself. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you to report in, Alten. Alten Varama set us to watch for you.”
That bode well. It likely meant that Varama’s group had found the other refugees and she had taken charge of the situation here. “Is she doing better?”
“Better than she was, sir. She still seems weak.”
“But she’s speaking clearly?”
“Oh, yes. Did you find anything?”
“I think I’ve got a way out for a whole lot of us. Where’s Varama?”
The archer brightened at the news, then pointed to the main door. “Just down the ladder, sir.”
Leaving those three on guard, he grabbed his khalat and headed inside to the hidden entrance, and even with his ring shining had nearly as much trouble locating the proper stone as he had the first time. He divested himself of the strange hat and the cape, donned his damaged khalat, then pressed upon the stone to open the chamber. The revealed ladder led into darkness illuminated solely by a lamp at the bottom that pooled light against the final few wooden rungs. As an added precaution, he kept his ring lit as he climbed down.
Below he found squires, who greeted him like a long lost friend. Dust-covered lanterns hung in niches every fifty paces or so. Only a few were lit, shining feebly on refugees huddled all along the narrow hallway in both directions. There were far more than he recalled guiding to safety.
“Rylin!”
Before he knew it, a slim woman had thrust herself into his arms. She pulled back far enough to stare at him, as if searching his face to ensure it was really him. Denalia.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” she said.
“Neither was I.” He noted her glad smile and the bright eyes, and remembered again that she thought herself in love with him. He felt guilty that he hadn’t thought about her for hours and that her own enthusiasm for their reunion was far greater than his. “How did you get here?”
“I led a band to the temple for shelter and the guards let me in.”
There was probably more to it than that, but he was in a hurry. “I’m glad you’re safe.” Pleasantries would have to wait. “Where’s Varama?”
“That way. What did you learn while you were out scouting?”
“I found us a way out, but we don’t have much time. I need to see Varama.”
Denalia nodded as if she understood, grabbed his hand, and forced her way past a group of staring youngsters.
Rylin was surprised by how far the tunnel stretched. “How extensive are these tunnels?” he asked. “Who built them?”
She glanced back with a smile. “There are all sorts of tunnels that run under the city: water tunnels and sewage tunnels and even some maintenance tunnels. When Alvor was governor, he abandoned some aqueducts and tore up a bunch of the city to add the canals. Varama says that while he did that he added hidden entry points and connecting tunnels to link it all together, and tie it in with an extensive cave system under the second tier. Apparently, the most hidden sections have been maintained by a select few ever since, under command of the Altenerai.”
And apparently not just any Altenerai, for he’d certainly never heard of them. Rylin was swiftly lost in his own worries and oblivious to the touch of the young woman’s fingers. The more he thought, the more tenuous his planning seemed. Right now the people in these tunnels were free and safe. If he was to lead them out he’d be exposing them to the Naor, and there was a very strong possibility that his plan would fail, in which case they’d be slain, or captured … and then slain. And what of the thousand prisoners he was promised? Could he convince the Naor to let him take the “olech” outside the city, as he’d thought when talking to the officer of prisoners? And even if he could get a group beyond the gates, what would stop the Naor watchers—for they’d surely send guards—from alerting the horde, who would chase after on horse and slaughter them all? Maybe he should just try to get them all into the tunnels, but would they all fit? And how long could they live with the surely limited supplies stored here? He couldn’t see a way to get clear and could only hope Varama would be able to make something more of his efforts.
They passed several people who halted their activities to whisper or nod at him with questioning eyes, but none impeded their progress. Denalia stopped beside another lantern, where there was a door, and pushed it open. Varama sat behind a small, battered desk in a small, square room under an old-fashioned oil lamp, writing something on a piece of parchment paper. Sansyra lingered to one side. Varama saw him and set down the pen. As her long face turned up toward him, he felt a wide smile spread across his own. It was wonderful to see her again, and a delight to see her rising, even if it was slowly. The blue tinge to her skin seemed particularly prominent in the light, lending her an otherworldly cast. She stopped before him and slowly gave him a salute. “Hail, Alten.”
“Hail. Feeling better?”
“I’ve felt worse and better.” She nodded. “It’s good to see you as well. You’re wearing quite an interesting outfit.”
He glanced down at his terrible Naor pants. “I only have one semblance stone left and it’s nearly drained. You’ll have to use it to conceal your appearance when we leave.”
She blinked at him, said nothing. Sansyra looked expectantly between the two of them. Finally, Varama prompted: “Perhaps some of the questions I would ask in the wake of your pronouncement will be answered as you describe for me, precisely, what you’ve seen and done.”
The door opened once more and Governor Feolia entered.
“Shut the door, if you please, Governor. Alten Rylin was about to present his report.” She stared at him expectantly.
It had been such a pleasure to see her alert and normal again that he struggled momentarily to regain his focus. He noticed, too, that he was very, very tired. It took longer than he wanted to organize his thoughts.
He recounted chronologically, trying to include details he thought of most import to Varama. The adoption of Elchin’s identity and the freeing of the prisoners. The killing of Talkus and the assumption of his identity. He conveyed all that he learned at the conference meeting, suddenly aware of the stunned regard of his listeners. He veered from strict recount to synthesize everything he now knew about the Naor leaders, from their names, to their plans, to their capabilities and behaviors. He moved on to the death of Zhintin, showed Varama a sample of the strange weapons the dragon lord had hurled at him, then returned to the subject of prisoners.
Tired or no, he found himself nervously shifting in the silence that followed his report. He concluded, somewhat self-consciously, “So the Naor are going to give me a thousand prisoners. But I’m not sure what to do next.” He groaned inwardly that he should sound so hapless.
Sansyra and Denalia looked stunned.
Governor Feolia’s worry-lined face was lit with determination. “You’ve succeeded beyond expectations, Alten Rylin. Not only did you gain valuable information, you’ve dealt major blows to their command structure and secured the lives of a great number of our people. This may be the providence we’ve needed to mount an effective resistance.”
Rylin shook his head. “But the ones they release to me probably can’t fight and they can’t all live down here, right?” A hope flared as he turned to the still-silent Varama. “You haven’t found a way out through the tunnels, have you?”
“The tunnel network is even more extensive and well stocked than I realized,” Varama said. “But, no”—she looked at the governor before returning to Rylin—“it won’t support a large number of people for long. And only one passage leads out of the city—it’s currently impassable due to wall collapse.” She crossed her arms thoughtfully.
“Then we’ll have to get them out through the main gate.” Rylin sighed. “I need a more plausible excuse to take the prisoners outside of the city.”
A pregnant silence followed, broken by Varama’s high timbre. “There’s a spring with magical resonance a half mile from the city, where any ritual would increase in potency by nearly fifty percent. Tell them you intend to perform it there.”
“I know of no such spring,” Feolia protested.
“That’s because I’m lying,” Varama said. She spoke again to Rylin. “The Naor leaders don’t know magic. They don’t trust magic. They’re likely to believe anything you say about magic if it’s said with conviction.”
He nodded slowly. There were a lot of steps missing—like how to take out the prisoners’ guards—but he could assume Varama’s keen mind had already worked out intermediate actions and he was more interested in the end point. “All right. Assuming we get that far, what then?”
“The village of Rilatrys. Some of the locals should know the way. It’s in the mountains a half day west from here. Remote, accessible through a footpath that’s easily defendable. There’s a mountain lake with plentiful water, and they have storehouses for food because snow, and occasionally a strand of the shifts, precludes travel for months at a time.”
“But the Naor will surely overrun that area soon,” Denalia interrupted, and Rylin was surprised to note the same irritation he was sure Varama would register.
Varama’s answer was clipped. “After Rylin escapes with his group, we’ll be keeping the enemy busy enough that they won’t have time to follow.”
“Wait a moment.” Rylin could scarce believe what he heard. “You’re going to stay?” He didn’t add that the whole reason he’d left the tunnels in the first place was to find Varama a way out. “You’ll be discovered. There must be people out there who know about the tunnels, and the Naor might be questioning them even now. Whatever you intend to do here isn’t worth the risk.”
“On the contrary. Look at how much you have achieved in but a single night.” Varama moved on as if the matter was settled. “I’ll need most of the squires and many of the Alantran soldiers.”
“I’m sure they’ll be eager to fight for their city,” the governor affirmed.
“The remainder will have to accompany Rylin, disguised as Naor, so that he has warriors at the ready. The Naor will assign guards to your prisoners—”
“—Unless we already have our own guards,” Rylin finished. Of course.
“Exactly. We have a small number of Naor uniforms, including those acquired from the soldiers you slew in the temple. Additionally, we can hide weapons among the evacuees here. I wish you to take them with you. You can claim you rounded them up on your own.”
“I will accompany them,” the governor announced.
Varama turned to her. “You’ll put yourself at more risk than if you remain.”
“Yes. Should the gods smile and allow me to survive, I mean to rally help to relieve the city.”
Rylin licked his lips and wondered how he could convince Varama to leave Alantris or if he should even try. He wanted to talk to her alone. “We’re short on time,” he prompted.
“We certainly are. Denalia, I want thirty warriors detailed with Rylin. Except archers. I’ll need all the archers that can be spared.”
“Right.” Denalia nodded agreement and hurried to instruct her soldiers.
“Sansyra, go get the squires prepared for action. Feolia, you might spare a word for the evacuees.”
“I will.”
“Rylin, I want a word with you.”
Feolia bowed shortly to Varama and left. Sansyra filed past him with a nod of approval. Denalia touched him again on the arm, smiling sadly, and then shut the door behind her.
Rylin sank down upon an old bench. It shouldn’t have felt comfortable at all, but the relief was palpable.
Varama sat down across from him and passed over a flask. He took it gratefully, speaking as he uncapped it. “More fruit juice?”
“Only a little. We haven’t much left.”
He sipped, and the sweet pleasure of it was almost as much of a restorative as the cool tingle that spread through his body, for Varama tended to magically fortify juices with aid of a hearthstone. As Cerai had stolen all their hearthstones, it wasn’t surprising the supply was limited.
He capped the now-emptied flask and passed it back.
“I want more specifics about the Naor dragons. It sounds as if they are crafted, living puppets, like Cerai’s horse—powered almost entirely by the will of a pilot.”
“Yes.” Rylin hadn’t thought about Cerai’s disturbingly compliant equine in many hours. He wondered what had happened to the animal. What would the Naor think of it if they found the thing in the stables? He shook his head to clear it of idle thoughts. “If you really mean to stay here, killing the rest of the pilots ought to be a primary objective.” Gods, he was starting to sound like her.
“Better to destroy the dragons, in any case. They could find new pilots. I want to hear about the security details around them.”
He sketched in the information for her. As he concluded, Sansyra returned to report that everything was being readied.
Rylin nodded to himself, struck by an almost paralyzing wave of doubt. Suppose he were as blind to the inherent challenges before him as he had been to his own errors yesterday when he hadn’t noticed the detail on the boots of the dead squire. How much could someone change in just a single day?
He wanted to close his eyes and sit against that wall and let everything stop. He wanted someone else to take the responsibility for these lives.
Varama put a hand to his forearm. That in itself was noteworthy. Then she squeezed it and met his eyes.
“Don’t doubt yourself now, Rylin. You can do this.”
“Before, it was just me. Now my scheme is putting more than a thousand at risk.”
“I used to have faith in what you could be,” she said solemnly. “Now I know that it was justified.”
The day he’d been awarded his ring, he had been both exultant to receive it and torn by doubt that he truly deserved it. Now this remarkable woman told him that he had earned his place, and he felt a sense of satisfaction deeper than any he’d ever known.
She released his arm and he smiled, then shook his head. “You realize this whole thing’s probably going to get us killed.”
“Welcome to the ring,” she said simply.
She went upstairs with him, moving a little stiffly still. Those about to depart assembled in the empty temple above. Compared to the overall population of the city, it was a paltry number. Yet the two hundred and sixty nervously watching his every move were a larger command than he’d yet taken. Among them were numerous children, some small enough to still be in the arms of their mothers. Another three were hunched with age and would be slow moving.
The majority, though, were fit enough, and nearly thirty were actual members of the Alantran guard force. And there were five squires, including two fourth rankers.
He stood before the Alantrans and warned them that they had to pretend they were cowed. That they had to fearfully keep eyes away from their captors. That while they could take their weapons with them they had to be careful to conceal them, and not even to reach for them until he gave a signal.
Time, he knew, was passing fast. The thousand Alantrans he’d requested were probably being marched from various holdings under the watchful eyes of Naor guards to the rendezvous he himself had scheduled before the gate. He’d requested intact families, but would such considerations be given high priority? He didn’t know how much authority his assumed identity actually held. Would those orders be questioned? Was there enough energy left in his semblance to speak with any Naor at length while in full disguise?
Alas, with no hearthstones it was impossible to charge one. Some outcomes simply had to be trusted to luck, for instance that the bodies of Talkus and Zhintin would not be found and identified.
At a signal from Varama, he told them to ready themselves and to practice their expressions, and hurried to her side.
The alten looked wan and tired to Rylin, though she held herself erect. Denalia stood at her left with grim resolve. On sudden impulse, he passed over the used semblance. “In case,” he said. He wasn’t sure in case of what. Maybe she could use a little magic to charge it; even a half minute of assumed identity could be life saving. “I couldn’t have survived without it,” he added.
Varama accepted the tool without comment.
He put hand to heart and let flare his ring. “I can never repay you for your counsel. And your example. Someday, I hope to approach your wisdom.”
A rare smile touched her lips. “Let’s neither of us plan for the future, Rylin. Be not sad. If this be our numbered day, let us meet it smiling.”
“Aye,” he said, though his smile had passed, and he had to tear the words from his throat lest he choke upon them. “Hail, Alten.”
“Hail.”
He discovered that Sansyra and a group of squires had joined Denalia in staring at him and Varama. He motioned them over, for they were just as deserving of his regard as his friend. All but one were those he’d called in from outside the citadel tower late in the day. Saved, only for a later death. He soberly clasped arms with several. “Good luck to you,” he said. “And good hunting.”
“Good luck to you, Alten,” the first whispered, and the others either nodded or repeated similar sentiments.
Sansyra and Denalia, he addressed last. Sansyra was more formal than she’d ever been with him, offering her hand in an arm clasp. Denalia, though, looked as if she expected something more, and when he offered his arms for an embrace, she all but threw herself at him, clasping him so tight it surprised him, something he was sure Sansyra caught as she met his eyes over Denalia’s shoulder.
After a moment, he returned the embrace, and then Denalia took his face in both hands, leaned up, and kissed his forehead. “I shall live to see you,” she told him softly.
“I’ll hold you to that.” He forced a grin.
It was long since time to be on the move, and he left Denalia and Sansyra and Varama and the other volunteers with a last salute. A few of the men grinned at him. Young love, he knew they were thinking.
He found it annoying that they thought he could be so distracted. He had much more important things to concern himself with.
As he rode at the head of his small column of refugees, prodded along by what looked to be grim-faced Naor guards, he thought they appeared convincing. It would never have worked in daylight, when it would be rendered very clear that most of the Naor beards were trimmed hair held in place by helmet chinstraps—Varama had already been making preparations for future events. But it wouldn’t have to. It would either work now, or there was no point in trying.
He halted his procession at the entrance to the cleared market space before the west gate, astounded by the number of dejected Alantran citizens sitting under guard. Dozens of armed Naor paced back and forth around the seated crowd, and a stern-looking man sat his horse beside a lantern at the immense wooden gate that barred their exit from the city. Its three spearlengths of metal-sheathed planks had never looked so formidable before, or so far away. Rylin activated his semblance, silently praying that it would hold out for just a few moments longer.
Rylin had selected one of the fourth rankers as his second in command. He spoke in a hurried whisper to him as he started forward.
“Wait here, Donnis.”
Rylin set Rurudan circling around the larger group of sad-eyed prisoners, most of whom didn’t bother to look his way. Many were able-bodied women and men, with children sprinkled in among them, but a number looked elderly or infirm in some way. He hoped they’d be able to make the journey he planned this night.
There was no sign of the tubby officer of prisoners, whom Rylin had expected to deal with. Instead he faced a mounted and scowling Naor officer who offered only an abbreviated salute as Rylin drew to a halt. Having seen several other officers using the gesture—a hand lifted upright to the helm—he copied it himself.
“There they all are,” the officer said with an encompassing wave of his hand. His face proved pinched and sour, his beard thick and curling. The officer’s dark eyes burned with skepticism. “What do you want with so many good workers? And then you want children, too?”
Rylin spoke with dismissive arrogance. “I need them to gather sorcerous energy to heal a dragon.”
The man’s frown deepened. “Then why do you need any of them related? You just need life force, don’t you? Given those you brought, shouldn’t we keep the good ones back here for better use?”
Rather than justify, Rylin thought it best to go on the attack. He set his mouth in a prim line and was pleased by the whining, superior tone his imitated voice created. “Are you an expert?” He threw his head high and spoke imperiously. “There’s a magical nexus located a mile east of here, and if you had the sorcerous talent of a toad you’d already have sensed it. Between it and the special olech I’m about to perform, I’ll get enough of the right energy. But that’s really none of your concern, is it?”
The officer actually growled. “You need to watch your tone.”
Rylin had little idea whether he outranked the Naor, whose helm featured two yellow feathers, or if the fellow outranked him. “The lord general himself ordered me do this, as I saw fit, with as many as I needed for my olech. You’ve no right to question me.”
The Naor officer’s mouth worked silently for a long moment. Too long, Rylin thought, watching him.
“I will take this up with the High Warlord Zhintin,” he said finally.
That would be hard, since Zhintin’s blood-soaked body was lying in a home near the dragon landing field. Rylin felt an arrogant smirk rising and let it, thinking it played well with his role. “You go right ahead, but if you keep me waiting you’ll have to answer to the general. He wants this done as soon as possible, to please the god king. And he’s not particularly interested in excuses.”
Rylin turned his back as he guided Rurudan past the man, pointed to the trio of soldiers beside the gate, and made a rising motion with his hand. To his surprise, they rushed to open the way to a dark track of road and grasses beyond.
The officer rode close to Rylin and leaned in, his voice cold. “I don’t care who your father is, Talkus, when you’re through with this olech I’m challenging you. We’ll see how a scrawny rump rutter like yourself holds up against a real man.” He turned the horse smartly and left.
Rylin felt his semblance fade. He shouted out to the guards about the prisoners and pitched his voice high, trying to talk through his nose as Talkus had done. “Up, up! We’re driving the prisoners west. Quickly now!”
He had the snap right. He thought he sounded a little too much like a caricature, but the soldiers guarding the Alantran prisoners didn’t seem to notice. Some of the Alantrans helped others to their feet. Rylin led the way through the open gate, his neck hairs erect, for he half expected someone to see through his disguise and call him out or simply hurl a spear into his back. He kept waiting for further Naor objections as he rode under the gate, but none came. Maybe in the dim light they couldn’t see that his beard had vanished.
Rylin kept himself well ahead of the group and didn’t look back until he was a hundred yards from the city itself. Plumes of smoke from burning buildings rose serpentlike to blot the stars. Behind him a mass of mostly slump-shouldered humanity was leaving the dirt road after them, shouted along by almost a hundred Naor guards, most of whom were on foot. A handful of them were his impostors and he carefully marked their positions in his mind. Some of the Alantran prisoners sobbed, thinking they were being marched to their execution. Well, with luck they wouldn’t be tearful long. Some were looking around warily as if hoping for opportunity to attack or escape and he prayed they’d hold off until the time was right.
He wished there were a good excuse to send the real Naor guards away. Men and women were going to die when the time finally came to fight them, but if he ordered the soldiers off it would raise one question too many. Depending upon how successful that sour-faced officer with the yellow feathers was in expressing his displeasure, there could be trouble following them at any moment.
It was all he could do to keep from turning his head again to see whether units were being dispatched from the city. Surely that lone Naor wouldn’t be the only one who thought it strange he was conducting the olech outside Alantris and far from the dragon he was supposed to heal.
Somehow, as they marched into the night, his luck held. It seemed an interminable time, with each pace a thousand year advance, but the walls were eventually more than a half mile off. Rylin rode on, back straight, hoping his arrogance and air of command would discourage any sort of challenge.
None came. From time to time, the Naor shouted for a prisoner not to delay, or to firm up their two column lengths, but there were no objections. He could scarce believe it.
A dense cluster of trees loomed between nearby hilltops just another quarter hour away, and he chose this for his objective. Once within, he’d be out of sight from the wall and the trees could be used as cover by the noncombatants.
As he glanced back to check on his charges, he heard the sound of hoofbeats. Another band of riders was charging at them from the darkness behind and to the left. He cursed. Luck had finally run out. But maybe these weren’t Naor. There’d be no talking his way out of this now, so he raised his ring in slim hope and set it alight at the same moment an arrow slammed through his upper arm. It felt like he’d been jabbed with a hot poker. Altenerai armor had spoiled him, he thought regretfully as he struggled to pull his sword.
Rurudan suddenly collapsed under him, with a piercing scream. He rolled away, just managing to free his left foot before a horseman galloped up. The shouts and clangs and screeches of battle sounded in a darkness full of movement.
He blocked a blow from the slashing rider. It was only as another attack crashed into his chest that he recognized its wielder as someone in squire’s gear.
And then he was down and he knew he was dying. The pain in his chest was overwhelmingly sharp and his breath had left him. His heart beat loudly in his ears, drumming out even the sound of the battle, which seemed now to be waged at slowed speed. Rylin fumbled to find the focus to cast a healing spell, even as he heard his name called out by Donnis.
The scent of the grass was very strong. Not a bad scent to die beside, he thought. He felt as though he might pass right through it and sink into whatever lay below.