6: Broken Fortress (19 page)

The young commander shouted something more and instantly several captains came running.

Kahlil moved back from the group of guards and their commander. He crouched down under a heavy munitions wagon. Hidden in the deep shadows, Kahlil slid out of the Gray Space. He wanted to know what it was that the commander was saying.
 

“—are not to be harmed in any way. We have not yet declared war and until that time you are to treat the civilians here as we would our own people. I want that made perfectly clear to all the men!” The commander’s words seemed jarringly loud after the utter silence of the Gray Space. It was a deep, powerful voice with a strong northern accent.

Kahlil peered out through the wooden spokes of the wagon wheel. Four rashan captains stood alongside their commander. They were older men, well into their forties and fifties.

“No rashan’im, of this or any other army, are to be allowed to pursue or harass any citizen of these lands. I don’t care if they are beggars or whores. They will be treated with respect. Am I understood?”

“Yes sir,” the captains answered in unison.

“Good,” the Bousim commander said. “Dismissed.”

All but one of the captains withdrew. The one remaining stepped closer to the commander.

“That was a Naye’ro tahldi she was riding, Joulen,” the captain said.

“Good for her,” Commander Joulen replied.
 

“If the rashan comes looking for his mount?” the captain asked.

“Have him brought to me and I will personally flog him for looting,” Commander Joulen said. The captain seemed to appreciate this response. He grinned wickedly.
 

Kahlil knew the name Joulen Bousim. He’d never met the man personally, but Alidas had spoken of him on several occasions. He was the youngest son of the Bousim gaunsho. This made him a possible, if unlikely, candidate for Bousim leadership.
 

 
He had been sent into military service when he was only a boy. Despite his youth, he had risen quickly through the ranks. The harsh mountainous lands between the eastern chasm and the Iron Heights had apparently brought out the best in him. Now, as high commander for the Bousim Mountain Forces, Joulen answered only to his uncle Nivoun, the governor of the Northern Territories.

Out of uniform, Joulen probably could have passed as a new recruit. His mere physical presence didn’t radiate power the way Jath’ibaye’s did. Still, Kahlil found himself watching closely as Joulen stiffened slightly and then turned on his heel back towards the open road.

The captain, too, followed Joulen’s sudden motion. His expression was expectant, like a hunter who waited to catch sight of the game his hound had already sensed. Joulen’s eyes narrowed.

“Another tahldi!” Joulen called out to the men guarding the road. “Catch its reins!”

Following Joulen’s gaze, Kahlil could see why the commander looked so troubled. The animal was covered in blood. The lower portion of its rider’s body hung from the saddle; the upper portion lay on the road miles away, but only Kahlil knew that. The tahldi pranced and shied nervously. The Bousim soldiers approached it cautiously, speaking in calm, low tones. At last one of them caught the animal’s reins. The tahldi quieted somewhat.

“Don’t touch the rider’s remains,” Joulen called. “Leave that for the Anyyd captains to see. Take the animal back to their camp.”
  

The men scrambled to follow their commander’s orders. Joulen and the captain moved away from them.

“It’s turning out to be quite a night,” the captain said.

“And this is only Jath’ibaye’s doorstep,” Joulen replied. “If those southern asses think they can raid and rape in Vundomu they’re going to get us all killed.”

“The Milaun men are keeping behind their lines,” the captain said.

Joulen nodded. “The Du’yura and Tushoya as well, but three lesser houses aren’t enough. All the commanders have to control their men or we’re going to end up fighting every single northern villager before we even get to the kahlirash’im.”

“Shall we send men into Mahn’illev to stop the raiding?” the captain asked.

Joulen shook his head. “No Lisam rashan is going to answer to any but his own commander. The same for the Anyyd. After the tahldi has been delivered to the Anyyd camp, I’ll call on their commander and see if he wants to hear me out now.”

Again the captain flashed a quick cruel smile in response to Joulen’s words.

The two of them walked back closer to where Kahlil crouched beneath the wagon. Remembering how sharp Joulen’s eyes were, Kahlil slid deeper into the shadows.

“Do you think it was a natural creature that cut that rashan in half?” the captain asked, his voice a low hush.

“It didn’t look like the work of bones, but who knows what other monstrosities Jath’ibaye breeds in Vundomu.” Joulen’s voice was almost a whisper. “Parfir protect us if this really does come to a war.”

“Indeed.” The captain’s voice was a whisper as well. “There have been reports of yellow fire in the far northern skies again. Do you think he’s creating more of those bones?”

“If he is, then we’d better pray for snow. It’s the only thing that will slow them down.” Joulen stopped a few feet from the wagon. “The Anyyd and Lisam and Naye’ro will be riding south the first time they catch a glimpse of one of those things.”

“Leaving us to fight, no doubt,” the captain grumbled.

“No doubt,” Joulen replied. He sounded tired.

“Do you think it’ll come down to that? To another war?” the captain asked.
 

“I don’t know,” Joulen replied. “Ask me again tomorrow night.”

“Your uncle hasn’t said anything?” the captain asked.

“He’s said plenty. Ourath and Gethlam have too. But it’s easy to talk when you aren’t actually facing Vundomu’s godhammers.”

Both men were quiet for a time. Then Kahlil heard a quick scratch and hiss. The familiar scent of cigarette smoke spread through the air. Joulen gave a quiet laugh.

“There’s a munitions wagon right behind you, Shira,” he said.

“Shit.” Kahlil heard the captain jump away from the wagon. “All this worry about monsters and I get blown up by our own mortars. My wife would never forgive me.”

“If there was anything left to forgive—” The rest of Joulen’s response was cut short by a distant but terrible screaming noise, like metal rending open.

“What the hell is Ourath keeping in his camp?” Joulen growled.

“Doesn’t sound good,” Captain Shira responded.

It wasn’t, Kahlil knew. It was Fikiri.

 
•••

Seconds later Kahlil was moving through the Lisam camp. He raced through tents and tahldi enclosures, searching for traces of Fikiri’s passage. If he were Jath’ibaye, he could have easily picked out the heavy scars Fikiri left in his wake. Then again, if he were Jath’ibaye, he wouldn’t have been down here at all.
 

 
Kahlil swore as a rough area of the Gray Space scraped against his forearm. He stopped, staring at the tiny distortion that had bitten into his skin. It hung in front of Kahlil like a fine scratch on a glass pane. Against the gray forms of the Lisam tents and patrolling guards, the disturbance was tiny.
 

He only managed to follow it a few yards before it faded out completely. But it led him far enough to guess where Fikiri had gone. Even at a distance Kahlil recognized Ourath’s private accommodations. Huge bulls charged across the tent walls. Pale banners billowed from the steepled tent top. Rashan’im in dress uniforms stood guard all around the walls and at the entrance.

Kahlil walked through one of the guards and into the tent. Both Ourath and Fikiri were there. Dressed in ragged, dark robes and nearly motionless, Fikiri resembled an old drop cloth that had been hurled across a finely carved chair. His eyes moved, not following Ourath’s motions but searching the empty air. Ourath stood several feet away, drinking from a goblet. A large table stretched between the two of them. Platters of roasted birds, fish, and dog crowded the table. There were several different loaves of bread and Kahlil imagined that the dark liquid steaming in a little decorative pot was some kind of mulled wine.

Ourath was obviously not a man to deprive himself, not even on the battlefield. A servant entered, and Fikiri’s head snapped to where the cold night wind blew in at the boy’s entrance.
 

Kahlil briefly considered attacking Fikiri right here and now. But appearing in the middle of the gaun’im’s camp wouldn’t be particularly wise. And if Fikiri escaped him, then Kahlil would have caused an uproar for nothing. Doubtless, Jath’ibaye would be blamed for any foreign attack within the gaun’im’s camps. He was already being blamed for the hungry bones.

But if Kahlil could find out what Fikiri and Ourath were planning, then it might aid Jath’ibaye greatly. The only trouble was that he couldn’t hear a thing while he was in the Gray Space. Leaving the Gray Space would require making an opening and releasing one of those cold whispers. And Fikiri would definitely notice that.

There was also the problem of finding a place to hide. Unlike the underside of the Bousim munitions wagon, Ourath’s tent was very well lit. Several perfumed lamps hung from its supports. Their light blazed as it was caught and reflected by the full-length mirrors that had been placed in the corners. Fikiri had seated himself in the darkest corner of the tent. What space remained all seemed to be illuminated to an afternoon glow.
 

Ourath briefly glanced into one of the mirrors, watching the serving boy as he added fresh cutlets of dog to the meat platters. As the boy stepped back from the table and began bowing his way out of the tent, Kahlil made his choice. He rushed behind the far mirror. When the boy opened the tent flaps, Kahlil stepped out of the Gray Space.

Fikiri straightened. His eyes darted from the corner of the tent to the flaps as they fell closed. Kahlil caught his breath as if Fikiri could sense even that small of a movement in the air. Slowly Fikiri slumped back in his chair. He continued to watch the folds and shadows of the tent walls suspiciously.

“A little jumpy, aren’t you?” Ourath commented to Fikiri. His voice was so smooth and low that Kahlil had to strain to hear him. “Are you certain it was the same man? We hardly glimpsed him.”

“It was Ravishan. I would know that arrogant face anywhere. He should be dead twice over now. I saw to that myself,” Fikiri replied. “Still, somehow, he returns.”

“But you said yourself that the yasi’halaun is fatal. It devours the very soul of a man.” Ourath’s eyes lingered on the mirror and for a moment Kahlil was afraid that Ourath had caught a glimpse of him. Then Kahlil realized that Ourath was studying his own reflection. Ourath flicked a bright copper curl of his hair back from his face.

“It does,” Fikiri replied. He frowned, deepening the heavy lines that etched his weathered face. “But it is crafted from a Rifter’s bones. Deep in its essence it is always his to command.”

“I have no idea nor frankly do I have any wish to find out what any of that meant.” Ourath, at last, turned his attention from his reflection to Fikiri. “What do you need me to do tomorrow?”

“You must delay any settlement,” Fikiri replied. “You need to keep the armies here until the weather breaks in the north.”

“That could take months,” Ourath protested. “Not even Gethlam Anyyd can be played for that long.”

“Not true.” Fikiri started as the breeze outside moved the tent wall. “Jath’ibaye can’t afford to wait that long. His people have to plant their taye soon or starve, which means that he must allow the thaw come by the end of this week. Our forces in the north should be ready for an assault within days of the thaw.”

“And the armies here?” Ourath asked.

“I will tell you when to commence your attack,” Fikiri replied. “We need only to capture Jath’ibaye in order to bring down the entirety of Vundomu.”

“And to open your gateway, yes?” Ourath asked.

“Yes.” Fikiri nodded. “The Kingdom of the Night and the Palace of the Day will be ours then.”

Ourath smiled.
 

“You should eat,” Ourath said to Fikiri. He filled a plate with slices of meat and drizzled a fragrant red sauce over it. “Have you tried the doves?”

Fikiri took the food and ate quickly. Ourath refilled his glass with mulled wine.
 

“Your plan still puts me in a difficult position,” Ourath said. “The gaun’im want this all settled as expeditiously as possible.”

“What about Gaunsho Bousim?”
 

“He’s angry, but he’s willing to claim an exclusive contract for Vundomu’s iron as compensation for the loss of Nanvess. After all, he was Nivoun’s son, not the gaunsho’s. And this opens the way for the gaunsho to name one of his own children as heir.”

Fikiri scowled as he chewed his cutlet. “Too easy. They might just agree to that. There must be something else you can do.”
 

“Perhaps. Nanvess wasn’t the only one killed.” Ourath paused to sip his wine. “If Gethlam Anyyd got it into his head that he had as much right to demand iron for Esh’illan’s death as the Bousim have for Nanvess’, then perhaps that would keep things delayed.”