Trial of Kings Page 8

  “Truce?” called out Acharsis. “Till we reach the far side? Then you can call to your friends on the other wagons and butcher me in peace.”

  “Truce,” said one of the guards, panting for breath. “Truce.”

  His desire to fight was gone. All Acharsis could do was watch as the hounds fought to torch the bridge, their figures growing smaller as the wagons rumbled on, descending to the center of the bridge before rising back up to the far side.

  There was an audible twang as a major rope suddenly gave way, and the right side of the bridge sagged violently. Men on the wagons cried out in alarm, and everybody hunkered down and grabbed onto something.

  “Are we going to make it?” asked Elu, voice hushed.

  “I pray to Ekillos we do,” said Acharsis. The wagon ground on, the boards laid over the silk beneath them rumbling. The hounds had stoppered the exit onto the bridge, and in their own torchlight Acharsis could see them falling before the onslaught. They were being smart about destroying the bridge, however, and were concentrating their flames only on one side.

  Acharsis looked ahead. Three of the wagons had already gained the safety of the far side. They were perhaps a score of yards away themselves.

  He wanted to just stand there, to watch in horrified fascination as the hounds destroyed the bridge, but instinct snapped him out of his stupor. “Come on!” He shook Elu; then, carefully picking his steps, ran up between the drivers, placed one foot between them, and leaped.

  He was mid-air when he heard the second support rope snap. He fell between the two oxen, just ahead of their harness, and then the bridge went out from beneath him, twisting and falling away.

  Elu crashed down beside him and began to slide. Acharsis, one hand gripping a broad slat, grabbed hold of Elu’s wrist and, with a straining yell of effort, hauled him back up so that he could grab hold of the boards as well.

  The oxen lost their footing, and the wagon just behind them slid and turned and then fell off the collapsing bridge.

  The wagon before them was sliding as well, the drivers and guards leaping off as it twisted and slewed to the side. Then it too fell away, sucked into the darkness below.

  Acharsis watched, wide-eyed, as the wagon crashed through a multitude of random threads that connected the spider caverns to the far chasm wall, and then heard a distant splash as it smashed into the river below.

  “Go,” he whispered, trying to rouse himself. “Move!”

  Elu needed no further urging. He climbed up to the remaining side of the bridge, rose to a crouch, then reached down to help Acharsis do the same. Together they scrambled along the great threads to the far end, where guards reached out to help them back onto solid ground.

  Acharsis collapsed in relief the moment he touched rock, chest heaving, mind spinning. The past few minutes were a delirious blur. The screams from the other side of the cavern were replaced by furious shouts, but nobody was coming after them. Istrikar had carried out his threat. The bridge was ruined. The chasm was now impassable.

  The wickedly sharp edge of a blade pressed against Acharsis’ throat, and he looked up into the unyielding gaze of a guard.

  “You,” said the man. “Why shouldn’t we just toss you back into the void?”

  “Me?” Acharsis smiled. “You’d not believe me if I told you. But if you give me but one moment with the master of this caravan, I assure you he’ll reward you for bringing such a gift into his hands.”

  The man considered him, lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Look,” said Acharsis. “Your master will take either great satisfaction in killing me, or even greater pleasure in enriching himself at my expense. Either way, you win. One minute. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “All right,” said the guard. “On your feet. Let’s get this over with.”

  “How do you do that?” asked Elu quietly, rising beside him. “How d'you convince everyone to do what you want?”

  “My charm, I guess,” said Acharsis.

  “It’s not your charm. You’re not charming.”

  “My impeccable sense of fashion, then.” Acharsis gave the guard a warm smile. “Now, chin up. Time to go haggle for our lives.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jarek leaned against the Hanging Rock. He felt as old as time, as planted as the arched stone itself.

  Arms crossed, chin dipping as he fought off sleep, he watched the sun rise over the horizon, spilling its burning beams over the distant God’s River crevasse, casting long shadows across the steppe wherever any stunted tree dared lift its head above the grass. The sunlight did nothing to alleviate the cold, but Jarek didn’t mind. He felt as sensitive as the rock beside him. Let his core freeze out. He’d remain standing here, arms crossed, waiting until Acharsis showed his damn face.

  He heard the wagon wheels before he saw the caravan; the steady pace held by dead oxen, the slow, inexorable approach. He wanted to shift off the Hanging Rock, push up to stand ready, but he felt frozen in place. It was all he could do to turn his chin and watch the road as it wound its way up from the canyon below. A minute later, the first caravan churned its way into view.

  Two dead oxen pulled it, skin flaking from their death-hardened muscles, eyes milky-white, purple tongues hanging out the sides of their mouths in a mockery of living exhaustion. The wagon itself was large - a land trader’s equivalent of a river barge. Its load towered up behind the headboard on which sat four men, none of them surprised to see him.

  Good. He relaxed a degree. Their very expectation meant Acharsis had survived. Otherwise they’d be scrambling in anticipation of an ambush.

  “Whoa there,” said the apsu, drawing back on the dead oxen and wresting the beasts to a stop. They did so grudgingly, slowing, slowing, then finally stopping, sagging in place, heads lowering so that they stared at the dirt. “You Jarek?”

  “Might be.” He pushed off the Hanging Rock at last, feeling ornery for having been made to stand out here all night by fate, or the gods, or whatever else might be responsible. “Who’s asking?”

  “See?” Acharsis walked into view from the far side of the wagon, an exhausted Elu stumbling behind him. “Told you he was as pleasant and pliable as a village hussy.”

  Guards followed behind Acharsis, a good dozen of them. They were adequately armored in boiled leather, spears in hand, some of them sharp-eyed, most of them not.

  “Sloppy, having no advance scouts,” said Jarek. “What use is your guard if they’re behind you?”

  The caravan master was evident. Clad in sensible traveling leathers, he sat up on the headboard. His features were slab-like, his eyes recessed, his nose broken repeatedly. A florid mustache fell past either side of a bare chin, and flowing locks spilled down to his shoulders. The man was built like a bush boar, with all the kindness and give of a vulture. He smirked down at Jarek. “My outriders marked you an hour ago as they made their way past. You didn’t see them ‘cause they didn’t have to come into view. Said they heard you snoring from half a mile away.”

  “Well, shit.” Jarek crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back on his heels. “I’m getting too old for this. Acharsis, you square things away?”

  “Yes.” His friend stepped up beside him. “This is Master Guthos, heading by Ekillos’ grace right to the Maganian Gulf. He’s agreed to let us travel with him in exchange for our services. You, Elu, Kish and I are to work as guards. Sisu’s to help with the oxen until we’re too deep into the steppe. In exchange, we get to sleep under the wagons.”

  “Food?”

  “You’ll hunt your own,” said Guthos, voice flat. “I’ve only enough provisions for my men. You can hunt when you’re not on duty.”

  “Interesting, that,” said Acharsis. “When I pointed out that the good Master Guthos here lost two wagons and a dozen men, and thus should have ample stores left in excess, he failed to see my point.” He raised his hands to forestall any protests. “No matter. We’ve secured passage across the Golden Steppe. The others?”


  “Safe.” Jarek studied Acharsis. “Hell of an escape route your friend sent us down.”

  “It got you out, didn’t it?” Acharsis clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s what matters.”

  “We’re moving on,” said Guthos. “If you’ve a mind to call your companions, do so now. Elsewise you’ll be left behind.”

  Jarek didn’t respond. He simply stared up at Guthos, who nodded to the apsu. The man flicked the reins, clucked his tongue, and the oxen started up again, plodding forward so that Jarek was forced to step aside at the last so as not to be trampled.

  “We have to travel across the entirety of the steppes with this bastard?” asked Jarek.

  “I don’t blame you for not liking Guthos,” said Acharsis. “I’m not overly fond of him either. But the bridge was damaged enough that nobody else is coming over, and we’ve no chance of meeting up with the caravan Istrikar intended to introduce us to. So, Guthos it is. His caravan’s large enough to keep the worst of the nomads at bay. I don’t trust him - I don’t like him - but it’s this, or go it alone.”

  Jarek wanted to rumble with displeasure, but sighed instead. “Fine. You talk sense into the kid?”

  Elu was hugging himself and watching the wagons roll by. “I’m not a kid.”

  “I’m working on it,” said Acharsis. “But I got him to come this far at least. We’ll see if we can stop him from doing anything else foolish.”

  “I’m right here,” said Elu. “Stop talking as if I’m not.”

  “Good,” said Jarek. “Where we’re headed, there’s no tolerance for stupidity. I’ll fetch the others.” He turned and began making his way through the rocks towards the gulley in which the others were sleeping, Elu sputtering behind him.

  They headed southwest toward the Maganian mountains. Though the wagons moved slowly, the oxen never needed to rest, and their steady pace ate up the miles in a deceptively gradual manner. The steppe seemed endless; thigh-high grass that blurred into uniformity a mile out, becoming a golden plain across which the wind would blow endless waves, or on which passing clouds would cast their adumbrate forms. Far to the south, the mountain peaks showed a hazy purple.

  Marching alongside the wagons, Jarek fell into a welcome trance. The hours slid by without any change to mark their passage. It seemed as if the world rolled beneath their feet so that they never changed place, a continuous march that would never end. The wagons creaked. The wind whispered. Their nomad outriders would return every few hours to report. They ate their meals on the move. The sun wheeled overhead, a blazing orb whose progress slowly marked the passing of time.

  It was easy to believe they were the only ones out on the vast steppe. The soft undulations of the land were such that occasionally they would reach a subtle ridge that allowed them to gaze out for miles and see not a single living being.

  Jarek avoided Kish as best he could - which was physically impossible while limited to a caravan. But his stony silences and one-word answers soon made his preferences clear; she retreated, baffled and hurt.

  By the second day, he was confident that he’d raised impenetrable walls, but the sight of the dream rhino brought them crashing down.

  “Over there!” came the cry from the kestrel tower. Jarek looked up at the guard and then shaded his eyes as he looked in the direction the man was pointing. Nothing. It was mid-morning, and clouds were scudding overhead, blotting out most of the sunshine and imparting an ethereal tinge upon the air. “Dream rhino!” cried the guard once more, and Jarek found himself moving before he was aware of doing so.

  He grabbed hold of the wagon’s side and hauled himself up, gripping the heavy hemp ropes, toes finding purchase in the slatted sides, up to the top where the scaffolding of the kestrel tower was lashed. Holding on with one hand, he swung out and studied the great swale coming into view below.

  There.

  Even a mile away, it was stunningly huge. A hill of stone on the move, a ponderous force of nature more akin to storms and earthquakes than beasts. The sight of it hit Jarek like a fist to the chest, and he simply hung there, staring.

  The rhino moved with an inevitability that made the dead oxen appear flighty; that made it seem as if it would plow through mountains or cities without breaking stride. Each vast leg was slowly raised, swung some dozen yards, then planted down with earth-shuddering power, but Jarek knew that slowness was deceptive. Knew just how fast the dream rhino could move when provoked.

  “Look at that,” Kish whispered. He hadn't even noticed her climbing up alongside him. “What’s it doing to the grass?”

  She was right. The golden grass was darkening in a circle some twenty yards out all around it, turning gray and brittle and slowly collapsing under its own weight. It left a vast swathe of dead grass behind, an indelible trail that would take years to revive.

  “Feeding,” said Jarek. “You can’t see it from this angle, but its horn will be glowing as it uses its power. Draining the grass of its life essence.”

  “Amazing,” she breathed, her arm pressed against his own. He became supremely aware of the warmth of her skin. “Can it drain us?”

  “No,” said Jarek, shifting away a fraction to break the contact. “It can’t kill us with its aura. But if you got too close, you’d experience something akin to a fever dream instead. Visions of the netherworld that last for hours. It’s why people used to believe the steppe led down to Nekuul’s realm - twisted tales of encounters with the dream rhinos.”

  The creature's progress seemed ponderous, but the sheer length of each stride was already drawing it away from them. Jarek couldn’t hear it from this distance, but he remembered the crackle as the grass dried up and died.

  “How do you know all this?” He could tell Kish was looking at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the distant rhino.

  “I wandered some when I was young.” He sounded gruff, defensive even to his own ears. “Spent some time on the steppe. I tracked one down and stepped into its dream aura on purpose.”

  “I’d like to hear about it,” said Kish. “Maybe later tonight?”

  Jarek could feel the thud of his heart, the dull weight of his pulse in his ears. He clenched his jaw. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Jarek.” Her voice grew tight. “Why won’t you look at me?”

  He scowled, sighed, then turned to face her. “What?”

  “What?” By Alok, she was beautiful. It hurt him to look at her, to meet her bright eyes. “I can understand if you’re hurt by losing your power. By losing your father. But I don’t understand why you’re pushing me away. Talk to me, Jarek.”

  “You don’t know?” He’d hoped she’d figure it out, but no. “Fine. But not here, on the side of a wagon. When we stop for camp. I’ll tell you then.”

  “Good. I look forward to it.” She leaped down, landing lightly, and walked back to her post.

  Jarek looked back to the dream rhino’s retreating form. He was doing the right thing. He was being the mature one here. The wise one. So why did he feel churlish, almost ashamed of himself? It didn’t make any sense.

  The dream rhino was growing ever smaller. He recalled that night as if it had happened only the week before. The stars had been brilliant motes in the endlessly deep sky, sharp pricks that had begun to smear like tears across the heavens as he’d entered the rhino’s aura. The beast’s smell had pervaded the air, dry and musky like sun-baked dung, and he’d tasted something akin to fennel - a sweet, sharp flavor. It hadn’t even noticed him; hadn’t noticed as he’d walked up to it, shaking and fighting for breath, and extended his hand to touch its flank—

  “Jarek!” Acharsis’ voice cut through his recollection. Jarek blinked and saw him approaching, Sisu in tow. “Get down here. I want to win yet another bet with this poor young man.”

  Jarek climbed down carefully and stepped off the rolling wagon. “What?”

  Sisu wasn’t looking good. There were hollows beneath his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights, and his shoulders were round
ed.

  Acharsis slung an arm around the godsblood’s shoulders. “Sisu here doesn’t believe you’ve touched a dream rhino. He says - and I’m really quite offended - that I’m just trying to rile him up with some more blasphemy.”

  “The katakeros exists in both worlds,” said Sisu, voice flat. “It walks through the netherworld and brings that realm to the surface. This is known. You cannot touch it without entering the netherworld yourself.”

  “You all right, Sisu?” Jarek lowered his head slightly to make eye contact with the Nekuulite. “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on?” Sisu’s smile was pained, his expression amazed. “You honestly don’t know?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Being out here is what’s wrong.” Sisu flung out a hand to encompass the steppe. “Do you see any shrines to Nekuul? Hordes of her faithful? No! Just grass. What am I doing out here? Tending oxen while each step takes me further away from my goddess, her power, my power?” He stared down at his hands. “I can feel it slipping away like dust between my fingers. I doubt I could even cause a dead man to twitch right now, much less stand up. The oxen are barely able to walk. And my prayers? What’s the point, when Nekuul isn’t here to hear them?”

  “There may be only two people in this whole world who understand what you’re going through,” said Jarek, “and you’re looking at them.”

  “Yes, perhaps.” Sisu looked away. “But you didn’t lose your power voluntarily. Think about what you went through, then try imagining doing it on purpose.”

  With that, he shrugged off Acharsis’ arm and walked away, head down.

  “He’s not in good shape,” said Jarek.

  “None of us are,” said Acharsis. “Annara’s avoiding me like the black fever. How are you holding up?”

  “Fine,” said Jarek, walking alongside the wagon as it lurched forward once more.

  “You should know better than to lie to me.” Acharsis fell in with him. “I wake every morning expecting you to have disappeared over the course of the night. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t eat. All you do is glower at people to make sure they don’t get too close.”