“A Zamoran wench,” Fyrdan said scornfully. “There are plenty of good Brythunian women eager for a tumble with … .” His words trailed off under Eldran’s glare.
“We will speak no more of the woman,” the gray-eyed man said. “We will talk of other things, things that must be said. We have tracked the beast here to its home ground, and its spoor is on the mountains themselves. The very rocks are baneful, and the air reeks of maleficence. Let no man say he has not felt it as I have.”
“Next you will be claiming second sight,” Haral grumbled, then added with a chuckle, “Unless you’ve changed greatly since last we swam together, you cannot qualify to become a priestess.” No one echoed his jollity; grave eyes watched Eldran, who went on in grim tones.
“I have no need of second sight to scent death. Who follows me from here must resign himself that his bones will go unanointed. I will not think ill of any man who turns back, but let him do it now.”
“Do you turn back?” Haral asked gently. Eldran shook his head. “Then,” the plump man said, “I will not either. I am old enough to choose the place of my dying, an it comes to that.”
“My brother rode with yours, Eldran,” Fyrdan said. “My blood burns as hot for vengeance as yours.” One by one the others made it known that they, too, would go on, and Eldran nodded.
“Very well,” he said simply. “What will come, will come. Let us ride.”
The raven was gone, he saw as he made his way back down to the trail. Birds of ill omen, they were, yet he could not find gladness in him for its absence. It had reminded him of Jondra, and whether she lived or no he could not think he would ever see her again. But then, he thought bleakly, there would be ravens beyond counting deeper in the Kezankians, and bones aplenty for them to pick.
Chapter 14
Basrakan Imalla stalked the floor of his oakenpaneled chamber with head bowed as if his multi-hued turban were too heavy. His blood-red robes swirled with the agitation of his pacing. So many worries weighing on his shoulders, he thought. The path of holiness was not an easy one. There was the matter of another dead raven in the next chamber. Men, it had said before dying. But how many, and where? And to have two of the birds slain in only a few days. Did someone know of the ravens’ function? Someone inimical to him? Another had reported men as well. Not soldiers; the birds could distinguish them. But the inability to count meant there could be ten or a hundred. It might even be the same party seen by the dead raven. He would have to increase his patrols and find these interlopers, however many groups of them there were.
At least the bird that accompanied the men he had sent against the soldiers had reported victory. No, not merely victory. Annihilation. But even with that came burdens. The warriors he had sent forth camped now, so said the raven. Squabbling among themselves over the looting of the dead, no doubt. But they would return. They had to. He had given them a victory, a sign from the old gods.
Unbidden the true source of his worries rushed back to mock him, though he tried as he had so often in days past to force it from him. A sign from the old gods. The sign of the ancient gods’ favor. Seven times, now, he had tried to summon the drake, each attempt carefully hidden from the eyes even of his own acolytes, and seven times he had failed. Unrest grew in the camps for the lack of the showing. And those he had sent after th
e Eyes of Fire had not returned. Could the old gods have withdrawn their grace from him?
Wrapping his arms around him, he rocked back and forth on his heels. “Am I worthy, O gods of my forefathers?” he moaned. “Am I truly worthy?”
“Our question exactly, Imalla,” a voice growled.
Basrakan spun, and blinked to find three hillmen confronting him. He struggled to recover his equilibrium. As he drew himself up, two of the bearded men shrank back. “You dare disturb me?” he rasped. “How did you pass my guards?”
The man who had stood his ground, his mustaches curled like the horns of a bull, spoke. “Even among your guards there are doubts, Imalla.”
“You are called Walid,” Basrakan said, and a flicker of fear appeared in the other’s black eyes.
There were no sorceries involved, though. This Walid had been reported to him as one of the troublemakers, the questioners. It had taken him a moment to remember the man’s description. He had not thought the troublemaking had gone so far as this, however. But he had prepared for every eventuality.
With false calmness he tucked his hands into the long sleeves of his crimson robe. “What doubts do you have, Walid?”
The man’s thick mustache twitched at the repetition of his name, and he half turned his head as if looking for support from his companions. They remained well behind him, meeting neither his eyes nor Basrakan’s. Walid drew a deep breath. “We came here, many of us, because we heard the old gods favored you. Those who came before us speak of a fabulous beast, a sign of that favor, but I have seen no such creature. What I have seen is thousands of hillmen sent to battle Zamoran soldiers, who have ever before slaughtered us when we fought them in numbers. And I have seen none of those warriors return.”
“That is all?” Basrakan asked.
His suddenly mild tone seemed to startle Walid. “Is it not enough?” the mustached man demanded.
“More than enough,” Basrakan replied. Within his sleeves his hands clasped small pouches he had prepared only a day past, when the unrest among the gathered tribes first truly began to worry him. Now he praised his foresight. “Much more than enough, Walid.”
Basrakan’s hands came out of his sleeves, and in a continuous motion he scattered the powder from one pouch across Walid. As the powder struck, the Imalla’s right hand made arcane gestures, and he chanted in a tongue dead a thousand years.
Walid stared down at his chest in horror for a moment as the chilling incantation went on, then, with a shout of rage and fear, he grabbed for his tulwar. Even as his hand touched the hilt, though, fire spurted from his every pore. Flame surrounded him as clothes and hair turned to ash. His roar of anger became a shrill shriek of agony, then the hiss of boiling grease. A plume of oily black smoke rose from the collapsing sack that had been a man.
The other two men had stood, eyes bulging with terror, but now one burst for the door, and the other fell to his knees crying, “Forgiveness, Imalla! Forgiveness!”
In two quick strides Basrakan was on them, throwing the powder over the fleeing man and the kneeling one alike. His long-fingered hands gestured, and the chant rose once more. The running man made it to the door before fire engulfed him. The other fell on his face, wriggling toward Basrakan, then he, too, was a living pyre. Their screams lasted only moments, blending into a shrill whistle as flame consumed their bones.
At last even the black smoke guttered out. Only small heaps of dark, oily ash were left on the floor, and sooty smudges on the ceiling. The fierce-eyed Imalla viewed the residues of his accusers with satisfaction, but it faded quickly to grim anger. These men would have brothers, cousins, and nephews, scores of male relatives who, while they might fear to confront Basrakan openly, would most certainly now be a source of further dissention. Some might even go beyond words. The tribesmen lived and died by the blood feud, and nothing could turn them from it save death.
“So be it,” he pronounced intently.