Upon the Flight of the Queen Page 20

  Ortok nodded his head seriously. “You have my permission.”

  Qirok puffed out his chest. “Ko’aye nest in the direction of where the war god sleeps, but not quite so far—”

  Ortok’s brows knit as he interrupted. “There is no such place here. You mean to send us to nowhere and laugh at our confusion.”

  A gasp of astonishment swept through the ranks of the kobalin, as if those with such wicked and sharp-toothed faces had heard something indecent.

  “No, oh no, mighty Ortok!” Qirok spoke quickly. “Forgive me. It may be you know the place by another name, that of the Round Stone Home. That is what it is sometimes called. By those who are my betters,” he added, anxiously licking thin lips. “If you go to that place you have gone too far. There are several named lands between here and there and these the ko’aye have seized for hunting, for they are swift and have many claws.”

  Their black-furred friend looked as though he were still mulling over whether he believed this information.

  “How many ko’aye are there?” Kyrkenall asked.

  Qirok shook his head. “Who can count so high? I have never tried. There are many more than we have here.”

  “As many as a great mother group?” Ortok asked.

  “I never saw that many at once,” Qirok answered with a bob of his head, “but I am no fool to go to a land with so many claws. But then,” he added quickly, lest his information be deemed an insult, “I am not so mighty as great Ortok. Do you go to battle with them?”

  Ortok grunted. “We go to ask them to battle with us against an even bigger foe, one your feeble mind could not hope to understand. It will be a brave fight, and one for which we shall be long remembered.”

  At that the other kobalin grew eager and begged for details with the fervor of children hoping to stay up past bedtime.

  “I will tell you of brave battles.” Ortok paused to tear off a big hunk of meat. Fat and juices dripped from his teeth as he chewed and swallowed, then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “First, I want you to tell about the lizards with many legs. When last I passed here there were none of those things.”

  The kobalin all tried to answer at once, a confusing blur of information from which Elenai only understood a few phrases: “Much trouble … hungry and cunning … pain when you hurt them … hard to slay…”

  Ortok cut them off with a shout. “Qirok, you answer! How many are there?”

  The wounded leader smiled at those to his right and left, preening a little to be singled out. “There is a pack as many as my fingers. And they are close. Perhaps,” he added slyly, “you are mighty enough to kill them.”

  Ortok dismissed this with a slash of his hand through the air. “Elenai has already destroyed those with sorcery.”

  The kobalin turned as one to stare at her. She had never been regarded with such naked awe, not even in Vedessus, and she felt her cheeks flush.

  This awe was then turned upon Ortok. “Your pets are mighty, too,” Qirok breathed.

  Ortok grunted. “The strong do not keep company with the weak.”

  “Are there more here?” Elenai asked. And then the kobalin fixed her with their strange gazes. Being studied by them was different than being watched by humans, where there was a standard uniformity of distance between eyes and certain givens in shape. Some kobalin eyes were very far apart, or set high upon their head, and some looked in two or more directions at once.

  “There are many of the glowlizards these days,” Qirok said bitterly. “But usually they hunt alone.”

  “Bad enough when they are alone,” lamented a kobalin with four horns atop his scaly head.

  “I don’t have time to hunt the ones that walk alone,” Elenai said, effecting Ortok’s nonchalance. “But if I cross the path of many, I’ll kill them.” Beside her, Kyrkenall chuckled before sipping from his wineskin. “Do they hunt along our route to the land of the ko’aye?”

  The kobalin seemed uncertain about this and debated amongst themselves for a lengthy time.

  “Cease your squabbling,” Ortok growled. He lowered the thigh bone he’d been gnawing so it resembled a club in his fist. “Is there a pack of glowlizards between us and the ko’aye?”

  “We do not think so, oh mighty one,” Qirok answered. “Scattered ones may haunt the path, but packs are more interested in the mother groups, and there are few toward the Round Stone Home.”

  “Where did they come from?” Elenai asked.

  “From the pits,” said one of the kobalin.

  “From the void come all things, good and bad,” answered another.

  Kyrkenall leaned close to her ear. “They won’t know,” he said softly.

  Elenai replied to him just as quietly. “I’d like to know how long they’ve been facing them.”

  “These are kobalin. Their sense of time is pretty vague.” He gestured to the motionless sun. “No way to follow it. No dependable seasons. What would knowing more about it do for you, anyway?”

  She shrugged. “I wondered if they’d been sent deliberately.”

  Kyrkenall eyed her blankly, and she suddenly felt very foolish. “Unlikely,” he said. “Nothing’s in control in the shifts. And there are plenty of surprises even the greatest travelers have never seen. You know the old tales of lost and forgotten realms, lands with lush grasses and rich game and smooth rivers?”

  “You believe them?”

  “Not really. But I’m sure there’s some weird fragments and splinters out there still and these things probably found their way in from some of them.”

  While Elenai and Kyrkenall talked quietly, the kobalin returned their attention to Ortok, pleading with him to tell them about his battles.

  “I shall tell you one story,” he said, and the kobalin fell silent attentively.

  “It was a rainy day. With clouds. And wind. That was when I saw the Naor. There were many of them. On horses. With swords. And helmets.” He looked over toward where Kyrkenall and Elenai sat and winked broadly. “They rode at me. The one in their front was larger than the others. He had on shiny armor, and his beard was yellow.”

  Kyrkenall chuckled softly.

  “What is it?” Elenai asked.

  “He’s giving exactly three descriptions of everything. I should have known he’d take my advice to the letter.”

  As Ortok continued his narrative it grew even more obvious that he’d taken Kyrkenall’s counsel absolutely to heart. If his descriptions had been bland before, they were now tedious. Yet the kobalin stared in rapt fascination, and the story of Ortok’s encounter with Nemrose the Naor King and his bodyguard set them murmuring appreciatively. She leaned close to Kyrkenall. “I guess that if they’re used to hearing tales the way Ortok used to do this must be very impressive.”

  “They do seem to like it,” Kyrkenall agreed. “Turns out I’m a pretty good tutor.”

  She couldn’t keep back from a skeptical snort, at which he chuckled.

  “And how are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Tired. But ready to keep moving. I can’t help worrying that all this effort may come to nothing.”

  “I know,” Kyrkenall admitted glumly. “We don’t have much time to spare, and N’lahr will be reaching The Fragments soon enough to scout out the situation. Assuming I can work a miracle, the ko’aye can fly to him a lot faster than we can ride. But I’m still not sure how I’m going to convince them to trust us.”

  Ortok must have borne their mission in mind too, for when he wrapped up his story—which mostly consisted of drawn out details of his axe cleaving and the wounds inflicted upon his enemies—he told his audience he must be going. Qirok volunteered to guide the way toward the ko’aye lands, suggesting two others. Ortok chose different ones, and Qirok quickly agreed Ortok’s was the superior selection. Elenai couldn’t tell whether their ally was simply being contrary or if he’d actually observed that the other two would be more useful.

  Soon they were packed and on their way. Qirok loudly proclaimed it wou
ld be their joy to witness other great deeds Ortok and his allies might accomplish.

  Those left behind begged Ortok to return and lead them so they would be remembered in his stories. He ignored them, and they stood in a long line watching as the Altenerai and their companions headed into the wilderness.

  Long-armed Qirok ambled alongside Ortok’s stolid horse. With him came a narrow, hunched thing with horned head. It had somewhere acquired a dirty kilt, in imitation, she supposed, of the one worn by Ortok. The other wore old leather armor over its scaly orange skin, a round shield hanging from its right arm.

  “Do you think he’s in danger?” Elenai asked Kyrkenall.

  “Who? Ortok?”

  “They could surround and attack him.”

  “No. They’d lose too much respect. They have to meet him in the open, in a challenge. You see how they work now, don’t you?”

  Elenai did, and even understood now why N’lahr and Kyrkenall had stopped to speak over the body of the mad kobalin who’d fought the archer in The Fragments. “They’re really not so bad, are they?”

  He met her eyes in disbelief. “If they think they’re stronger than you, they’ll take whatever they want. It’s only if they think you’re equal or superior that they act with honor. Don’t forget some of the things they’ve done on the border—killing and looting and setting things on fire for the fun of it is just the start.”

  “They seem less evil than the Naor.”

  “There’s little calculation in their actions,” Kyrkenall agreed, “unless some kobalin lord or elder stirs a bunch of them into action.”

  “They remind me of children.”

  “Murderous children.”

  “Do you think Ortok’s going to build an army with them?”

  “He said he wanted one,” Kyrkenall said. “But I don’t see him trying very hard with them.” He shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe N’lahr convinced him of just how important it was to find the ko’aye and he’s focused on that.”

  They journeyed on through the starkly beautiful land for countless hours. They were nowhere close to a splinter or fragment when the storm built in the sky to their left. A few weeks ago, Kyrkenall’s innate sense about the Shifting Lands had confounded her. Now Elenai didn’t even have to be looking toward the storm’s darkening clouds to feel the change in atmosphere.

  The kobalin pulled themselves away from Ortok to point at the storm. Their champion awkwardly guided his horse in a circle back to Elenai and Kyrkenall.

  “A bad storm is near,” he said.

  “You’d better have all of them gather close.” Elenai turned to Kyrkenall. “Unless you think we ought to keep moving.”

  The archer mulled that over. “Let’s not risk it unless this storm takes a while to move past.”

  “There is a ceremony we must do,” Ortok said.

  “What kind of ceremony?” Elenai asked.

  “A warrior ceremony.” Ortok shook his reins with far more force than was required and guided his mount back to the others.

  “He’s going to hurt that horse,” Kyrkenall muttered.

  “What kind of ceremony is he going to do?” Elenai asked.

  The archer smiled faintly. “Didn’t you ever learn about the kobalin?”

  “I wasn’t sure how much of it was true.”

  “It depends on what you heard.” He nodded toward the little group. “They’re going to pray to the storm goddess to thank her for the coming challenge. They’ll plead with her to make death swift for the fools too slow to change.” He grinned. “They’re crazy, but I can’t help but like them a little.”

  “I thought you didn’t.”

  “I don’t trust them. That’s different from liking them. I respect their outlook, you know? They don’t ask for their god to spare them, they don’t think she’s angry and ready to punish the unjust. They just look on the storm as an opportunity to prove themselves.”

  She looked from the anvil-like front and decided she didn’t feel like trying to break up another storm. Especially one that size.

  Ortok had dismounted to lead the other kobalin in prayer. The four of them genuflected toward the storm and were repeating some phrases after Ortok. The wind, already whistling, carried most of them away from her.

  “If we’d been raised out here,” Kyrkenall said, speaking loud enough that his voice would reach her, “I can’t help wondering how our culture would change. How we’d handle ourselves. And I wonder if I’d be as crazy as they are.”

  “Maybe you already are,” she said, and smiled as he laughed.

  He grinned at her, and went to gather Ortok’s horse.

  She activated the hearthstone, rationalizing the excitement of its proximity by telling herself she was simply keyed up by the storm. I will not lose myself in power this time, she told herself.

  She sent threads of will through the hearthstone and into the inner world. She saw immediately that the storm wasn’t as large as it looked. The changes rippling along behind weren’t severe enough to unmask the void beneath the Shifting Lands. It was almost simple to firm up the little circle of land where they stood, and she calmed the animals with negligent ease, a little astonished that she’d once found both actions challenging. She resisted the impulse to reach deeper into the stone, or to attempt greater manipulation. She would keep to the surface, and not dive deep. Not this time.

  She called to the kobalin to retreat into the protective circle, but they only leapt and shouted and waved their arms as the wind hit them.

  Kyrkenall touched her arm and shook his head. “I thought I explained. They’ll stay where they are.”

  “They could be killed out there.”

  “That’s their choice. Let them be.”

  As she watched them, the light harshened and the dark, rocky soil under their feet transformed into white sand blazing under a tropic haze. The kobalin crooned, then they themselves began to shift. Startlingly, Ortok shed his thick, black fur and his skin rippled into a shorter, light gray hair covering. Elenai had heard kobalin were shape changers but until that moment had thought it exaggeration.

  When the flat terrain was replaced everywhere but their safe circle with mountainous slopes, Qirok’s hands lengthened to claws and the hunched one grew hooves, the better to balance on an impossibly steep slope. The orange one thrust new elbow spikes into the soil. Ortok didn’t change, relying upon his strength to clasp to a rock upon the slope, nor did he alter when the ground leveled into a little river valley, soon flooding into a marsh where he and the others stood hip deep in watery bog.

  Elenai and Kyrkenall and the horses remained dry and secure upon the rocky ground she’d rendered solid.

  Before long, the marsh dried away into a parched desert, blasted now by a furnace-like red sun hanging directly overhead, and Ortok changed once more, for most of his fur sloughed off. He transformed into a creature of gray scales, touched only here and there by light patches of hair. It was disconcerting to see him thus, for he little resembled the person she’d come to know.

  When the storm blew itself out a few moments later, the kobalin turned and spoke to one another, pointing to their bodily changes with pride.

  After, they resumed their journey, under blistering heat, and Kyrkenall warned Elenai to shed her khalat and to cover her head and neck. She copied his example, draping part of a spare shirt over her forehead. They rode with these protections for hours, streaming with sweat. The kobalin drank greedily from their stores.

  And then, finally, in a land where three clawed peaks soared into the sky, they saw the ko’aye.

  11

  Among the Dragons

  When Varama lifted the dead officer’s signet ring close to the lantern light, Sansyra saw her smile. Seeing the alten so pleased was a rare thing, and the squire barely contained the urge to pull out her battered sketchbook. Knowing her superior would find the activity a distraction at best, Sansyra instead strove to memorize the expression on her features. She noted again the sagging and da
rkening of the skin beneath the clever eyes, as though Varama had aged years in the last few days.

  All of them were under pressure, though, even those who never left the tunnels beneath Alantris. They lived under the constant threat that their hiding place would be discovered by the Naor and that their hundred-odd force would be rooted out and destroyed by enemies renowned for their cruelty. The stories reaching them about rapes, dismemberments, beatings, and random slayings alternately disgusted, infuriated, and depressed. Every man and woman in the Resistance longed to aid their people, but immediately dislodging the Naor yoke when they were outnumbered more than eight hundred to one was an impossibility, no matter Varama’s brilliance.

  And if those factors weren’t the source of enough tension, they’d learned a few hours before that the second Naor army was due to arrive in only a matter of days. Accompanying that force was an infamous blood mage—grandson of Mazakan no less—who was sure to order massive organized “sacrifices” of Alantrans to fuel his dark arts.

  Circumstances Varama commented upon with a dry frown as “less than ideal.”

  Yet now she smiled. Seated, Varama’s height wasn’t so readily apparent, but her leanness was, for she was built on rangy lines, rather like the racing hounds of the Storm Coast, save that their fur was usually black, and Varama’s skin held a faint blue cast, even by lantern light.

  The folk of the realms boasted many different skin tones, but a smaller number were truly unique, like the healer in Sansyra’s home village who had rounded horns upon either side of his head, or Kyrkenall the archer, whose eyes had no whites. These few blessed by the Gods with distinctive appearance often carried extraordinary abilities as well and were more often found among magical practitioners and elite warriors. Varama could be mistaken for no other person in all the five realms.

  Her mentor lowered the ring. “This should provide us with some entertainment.” She looked up sharply, and Sansyra wondered if she had guessed her mind was wandering. “Did any of his men get away?”

  “No,” Sansyra answered proudly. She’d led the ambush against the little Naor patrol herself.