Dragon and Phoenix (57 page)

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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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“That it’s what I’d do. I’ll take first watch. The rest of you try to sleep even though it’s still day.”
He left the others unrolling blankets. Again and again as he circled the camp, his mind and heart turned to his soultwin. Was all well with her? He remembered his confident words to Otter earlier; may the gods grant he was right, that the strange “fog” that kept him from sensing Maurynna clearly wouldn’t hide the mind-pain of her death.
But Taren said to take us alive.
It was small consolation, yet it was all he had. He clung to it.
And as he walked, he found that he had forgiven Lleld. He knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t deliberately cruel. She had seized their one chance without hesitation; Gifnu’s hells, he would have done the same in her place. And the restrictions she now laid upon him made good military sense. It did not make them any easier to bear.
He glanced up at the sun, and wondered how Rani and little Lady Mayhem would have gotten along.
Likely very well indeed.
It was a frightening thought.
A couple of candlemarks or so later, he roused Lleld and sought his own blankets.
 
Trot, walk, trot; Yesuin pushed his horse on mercilessly, cursing it when it stumbled from weariness. Yet with every step, it seemed, the drums drew closer. Then came the sound he’d been dreading: a shrieking, eldritch howl that froze his blood.
He’d been seen. Yesuin looked over his shoulder and saw a waking nightmare—riders spilling over a rise, red horsetail banners flying. It wasn’t a large band, but he saw one rider turn back, no doubt to tell the main warband of the prey to be had.
Yesuin lashed his tired mount into a heavy gallop, crouched over its neck as it ran, and prayed.
 
He was mad, flying in such a storm. But there was nowhere Linden could see to land and Change so that he might seek shelter in his human form. The thunder rolled over him, nearly deafening him with its peals, and the turbulent air tossed him about like a butterfly in a gale. Lightning stabbed the air around him. The thunder grew louder and louder … .
Curse it! That wasn’t thunder! Linden shook himself awake and pressed his ear against the ground for an instant, then threw his blanket aside and jumped to his feet. “They’re coming!”
Lleld took only a moment to wake up. Then she was on her feet and lashing her pack together. Otter was only a little slower. Jekkanadar ran back into the camp from his patrol of the perimeter; the Llysanyins followed at a smart trot.
Each worked with grim efficiency and soon they were on their way. Lleld held Miki to a fast trot; Linden approved. It would keep them ahead—but not too far ahead. When the time came for more speed, the Llysanyins would still have it to give. And so they would play with their pursuers until it ended, one way or another.
They had been riding for some time, keeping to the dips in the land as much as possible, when he heard it: the sound of hoofbeats—but in front of them, and close.
How the hell did they circle around us so quickly
? Linden thought in astonishment.
Lleld pulled Miki up. “It’s not possible!” she cried.
The others stopped as well. Then came a sound that raised the hair on the back of Linden’s neck. A ululation like a pack of wolves on a blood trail, a nightmare sound that drew ever closer, riding on a wave of thundering hooves. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He knew that sound—or one very close to it. It was so like the war cry of Bram and Rani’s warband that, for the space of a heartbeat, he was lost in time.
But it was certainly not those he would have welcomed.
Then a single rider crested the rise in front of them, his horse staggering with weariness. It slipped and slid down the shallow slope. When he saw them, the rider cried out in despair.
As if it were a signal, two things happened almost at once. The exhausted horse fell, pitching the man from the saddle. He rolled the rest of the way down the slope, coming to rest almost at the feet of the Llysanyins.
As the stranger got to his knees, a small group of horsemen spilled over the brow of the low hill, the strange, eerie cries echoing from rider to rider. Some carried long staffs with red horsetails streaming from them.
One look, and Linden knew these were not the Jehangli soldiers who chased them. These were much worse.
And the damned dirks were all they had for weapons. Useless as it was, Linden drew his anyway.
 
Haoro entered the temple council room and took his seat. This was the first time the council had met since his recovery. He looked around.
There were many empty seats, not to be filled until priests of a suitable rank
could be brought in. And of those empty seats, most were of those who had agreed to support him in his bid to become
nira.
He didn’t have the time to cultivate more. His uncle’s latest message, destroyed just before coming here, allowed no more time for subtlety.
The words danced in his mind as if written in fire:
I will have the northern creatures soon. Do your part.
He would have to move—and quickly.
 
The riders swirled around them like leaves in a storm. The horsemen rode small, hairy ponies, big in the barrel and heavy-boned, and rode them as if they were part of the ugly little brutes. The galloping circle drew closer and closer until at some unknown signal they stopped, the ponies rolling back on their haunches to face in.
Long, narrow faces with high cheekbones leered at them.
So these are Zharmatians,
Linden guessed, remembering things Taren had let drop.
He looked from them to the man they’d chased. He was dressed somewhat like the Jehangli soldiers that had pursued them, but his face was not like other Jehangli he had seen. This one looked more like the riders. He was young, Linden saw, but haggard with exhaustion.
There were only eight horsemen. And overconfident to boot; Linden read it in their wolflike smiles at the helpless prey they had found.
The poor wretches have no idea what they’re up against, do they? So it’s two-to-one; the Llysanyins alone could take them,
Linden thought, though he still wished for his greatsword, Tsan Rhilin. To the others he said,
Otter—let Nightsong fight for you; just hang on to the saddle. She’ll get you clear first chance she has. Lleld, Jekkanadar, you do the same. Shan and I will follow once I’ve grabbed this poor beggar. Once we’re clear, the Llysanyins can outrun anything they’ve got.
The man opposite Linden yelled a demand as he pointed with his sword and gestured. Although Linden couldn’t understand the language, the meaning was as plain as a sunrise: drop the weapon and get off the horses.
“No,” Linden said in Jehangli. “And get out of our way.”
A surprised babble of rapid speech filled with clicks and trills.
“You speak Jehangli?” the man said in that language. His own version was so heavily accented that Linden could barely understand him.
“Yes,” said Lleld. “We all do. Now do as the big man says. We’ve nothing to do with you or you with us. Let us go our own way and we won’t hurt you.”
Shouts of laughter and derisive hooting. One bold fool spurred forward and snatched at the front of Lleld’s tunic. Before Linden could intervene, she grabbed the fellow’s arm and heaved. He flew through the air over her head.
Linden had seldom seen anyone look so surprised.
Poor wretch; no doubt
the last thing he was expecting was a child-sized woman who’s as strong as he is. I could almost feel sorry for him.
The man landed, tucked, rolled, and sprang to his feet. He picked up the sword that had flown from his hand and rushed at Lleld. Nightsong’s head shot out like a striking snake’s as he passed her; she caught the man’s forearm in teeth that could easily crush through skin and bone.
The man knew it as well. He stood like a stone, his face impassive, but fear writ large in his eyes. Nightsong shook her head gently. Nothing. She shook her head again, harder this time and, judging by the sudden grimace of pain that shot across the man’s face, tightened the viselike grip of her jaws. He dropped the sword. Nightsong put one large hoof squarely atop the blade and released the man; he ran for his horse.
“What goes on here?” a new voice asked in Jehangli.
Linden turned to see a rider approaching at the head of a band of horse archers, a mixed group of men and women. At a signal, the archers fanned out and around so that the Dragonlords, Otter, and the stranger were enclosed within a double ring of Zharmatians for a moment. Then their original captors slipped back through the archers’ ring so that their comrades had a clear field.
Linden’s hopes sank when he saw the archers. Not even a Llysanyin could outrun an arrow. They’d lost their chance for escape.
Heavy scars, newly healed, slashed across the man’s cheeks, straight and deliberate as the blade that had made them. His expression, like the other Zharmatians’, was impassive, but his eyes were full of speculation. The man held up empty hands in token of peace.
In return, Linden rested his dirk across his saddlebow.
The man nodded, and the archers relaxed. “This was an ill-chance for you, to meet this one.” He jerked a thumb at the man standing quietly by Shan. “You’re
baishin,
outlanders,” he said. “More of the northerners the Jehangli bring in, yes?”
Linden nodded.
“I am Dzeduin, foster-brother to Yemal,
temur
of the Zharmatians. This dog is Yesuin, the
temur’s
half brother.”
“Must have been one hell of a family argument,” Lleld murmured.
“Why are you hunting him?” Linden asked.
For the first time the hunted man spoke up. Staring at the ground, he said in a voice heavy with weariness, “Because my brother has hated me since we were children. My mother was our father’s favorite wife, though Yemal’s mother was his First Wife.” Then he looked up at Dzeduin. “And when I was given as hostage to the Jehangli, my father grieved. Grieved, and wished it was Yemal in peril, didn’t he?”
There was no answer. The hunted man bared teeth in a wolfish grin. “I always admired that about you, Dzeduin. You won’t lie.”
The other Zharmatians murmured at that. Dzeduin’s hand clenched on his sword hilt, but that was all.
“Your brother wants you,” Dzeduin said. “You’ll come with us. So,” he added, his gaze taking them in, “will the four of you.”
Linden ground his teeth. There was nothing they could do, not with archers surrounding them. To fight would be suicide. “What would your
temur
want with a stray band of traveling entertainers? Let us be on our way.” He made ready to snatch Yesuin if the ruse worked.
Now Dzeduin smiled, a bare curving of his thin-lipped mouth. “Traveling entertainers who have horses that think for themselves. Traveling entertainers of unusual strength—such as a small woman who can toss a man like a kitten. Traveling entertainers who are so important to Lord Jhanun, one of the most powerful Jehangli lords, that he sends a troop of soldiers under the direction of one of his most favored servants to take them. So Ghulla has Seen.”
Dzeduin’s pony danced backward; he raised a hand. At once a Zharmatian rider swept in and pulled Yesuin up behind him. Then the archers’ bows were up once more, arrows nocked and drawn, each wickedly barbed head pointed at the little band.
“Yemal will see you,” said Dzeduin. “Come.” His pony sat back on its haunches and wheeled around, then sprang into a run.
They had no choice but to follow.
 
Raven stopped ahead of her. “We’re safe. Even if there are any soldiers left, they’ll never catch us now.” He rubbed Stormwind’s nose, and ran a critical eye over both horses. “Look at them! Not even sweating after a run like that!” he said, grinning in delight. Raven slapped Stormwind on the rump and bent to examine his hoof.
Nodding, Maurynna halted by him and sat down, grateful for both the respite and that she was still in one piece. Never before had she ridden the stallion at a flat-out run. Indeed, she’d never ridden any horse at that pace; she thanked the gods that her first try had been on a Llysanyin. Boreal wouldn’t let her fall if he could help it. Even so, the high cantle and pommel of the saddle had been all that saved her when they’d zigged and zagged to avoid little gullies and large rocks in the race to the river. More than once she’d grabbed leather and hung on for dear life.
She lay back on the grass, breathing hard, and realized it was done. She was on her own. Where Linden was right now, she didn’t know, and didn’t dare find out. The effort needed for mindspeech from this distance might be enough to alert the priestmages.
She didn’t even know if he was still alive. Had he and the others been able to elude Taren’s soldiers? And what had that miserable traitor Taren meant,
anyway, by calling her “the key?” More to the point, who was behind the mysterious mindvoice, and the images it had sent?

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