Storms of Destiny (36 page)

The land surrounding him was empty of habitation. The soil was mostly clay, covered with scrub brush and stunted trees. Outcroppings of stone thrust ochre fingers toward the sky. Ravines occasionally split the land, forcing him to de-tour to find a crossing that would accommodate the wagon.

He glanced to his left, gauging the position of the sun. It would be full dark in a handful of hours.

The horses had slowed to a jog. Leaning forward on the narrow seat, he slapped the reins against their backs. “Get up! Hah!” Reluctantly, they lengthened stride, until they were moving at a real trot. They were growing tired; they’d been moving steadily for several hours, with only brief moments to rest. He knew they couldn’t go much farther without water and grazing.

Hearing a faint noise, he turned on the narrow seat to look behind him. The rough gray sacking stirred, then subsided, and he thought he heard a faint moan of distress.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, knowing she probably couldn’t hear him. “I am. But I had to do this. I’m doing it for both of us.”

For a moment he thought about what he must do that very night, after sunset, but then resolutely pushed the thought away.
Concentrate on the task at hand.

He urged the tired horses onward, resisting the urge to glance behind him. He didn’t believe anyone had seen him.

And even if anyone had, why should they concern themselves with the fate of a young woman from a foreign land, friendless and alone?

He glanced at the sun, gauging its position in the sky, and the thought struck him that Thia would never see another sunrise. Resolutely, Varn fought down the thought. He was Boq’urak’s servant, and he was doing as his god bade.

He remembered the first time Boq’urak had spoken to him, in that icy mountain pass south of Verang.
She is Mine.

He’d been on the trail now for months, keeping his eyes open, reverting to his role of being a missionary, bringing the truth to unbelievers in Amavav, Severez, and finally to Kata. Weeks would go by and he would hear nothing, but each time he’d thought the trail was lost forever, someone, somewhere, would remember the quiet girl with the big dark eyes and the unworldly air.

Tracing her to Q’Kal had been easy, compared to locating her inside the city. Just as Varn had considered giving up, wondering if the other priests were right and he was bereft of his sanity, he’d seen her. Just a glimpse. She looked different in secular clothing. He’d never seen her with hair.

Yet he had known her: her walk, the way she tilted her head, the way she held herself. He’d followed her for two days, discovering where she lived, where she worked, memorizing the route she used to go back and forth. And then he’d made his plans.

Another faint moan reached his ears. Resolutely, Master Varn did not look around, only clucked to the team, urging them to even greater speed. Night was drawing nigh. It was nearly time for the god to claim His Chosen One.

Jezzil was sweating, and only part of it was the warmth of the afternoon. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve as they jogged along.
Remember, it’s almost summer. This land is
warmer than home.

He looked about him, studying the landscape, warrior-fashion, forcing himself to concentrate on it, analyzing it as he’d been taught. He couldn’t afford to let himself think about what might be happening to Thia. If he thought about that, he would be no good to her.

This could be a good land for ambushes, rough and barren as it is.
It was certainly very different from his homeland. Ktavao was a land of steppes, mountains, and grassy plains. North and east of Ktavao was, of course, the Great Waste, but it was death to go there for more than just a handful of days. No humans lived there.

He couldn’t imagine people living here, either. It was desolate, though not quite lifeless. Scrub brush dotted the

ground, and there were strange outcroppings of naked stone.

Giant cracks in the ground showed where flood channels ran, though most were dried to scarred mud under the sun’s relentless assault. Jezzil looked up at one of the rocks as they rode past. Red stone, it thrust upward like a giant’s finger pointing at the sky.

For a moment Jezzil found himself thinking about giants, buried in the earth, thrusting their bloody fingers up into the air, unable to break free before suffocating. The thought of suffocation led him to visions of Thia, lying bound in the back of a wagon, heading for who knew what terrible rendezvous …

Stop that,
he ordered himself, wiping sweat from his forehead again.

“Turn here,” Talis, who was riding point, called out. She turned in her saddle to glance back at them, pointing down.

“The wagon tracks are heading northwest now.”

Jezzil squeezed Falar with the muscles of his left leg, and the mare obediently turned right, following Talis’s bay. He was very glad that he’d asked her for help. The wagon tracks were easy to follow now as they led deeper and deeper into the desolate no-man’s-land that lay north of the Katan border, but in the beginning the jumble of tracks leaving the city gates had made their task seem impossible.

Talis and Clo had spent time with the city gatekeepers, showing the bored men the glint of coin and questioning them about who had left the city that day. The coins had caused one of them to stroke his chin, frowning, and then recall a two-horse team pulling a small wagon, driven by a silent man with piercing dark eyes. Although the driver had his hood drawn up, the gatekeeper remembered that his head had been shaven. Like that of a priest. Had he been hauling anything? Well, yes, but not very much. Just a few odds and ends, a big bundle of wood and one old gray sack tossed in the back of the wagon bed.

After they moved away from the gates, Talis had slowly walked among the tracks, looking for one set that matched her criteria: a lightly loaded wagon with a two-horse team.

She’d cast about like a hunting dog as the precious minutes crawled by, while every nerve and sinew in Jezzil’s body screamed to leap into action. Falar caught his tension and began dancing in place, neck arched. It was only when she went up into a low rear, a battle movement designed to protect her rider, that Jezzil had exerted iron control, forcing himself into warrior mode. From that moment on he had sat as quietly as an equestrian statue, watching Talis, only his eyes moving.

Finally Talis examined one set of tracks, and then looked up. “This is our best candidate, and over here is our second best. I think we should follow these for a mile, see what happens.”

Jezzil nodded, and they’d followed the Katan woman’s lead. Nobody was particularly surprised when the wagon tracks quickly diverged from the flow of traffic and headed off to the west. As Talis put it, “I suppose it’s natural that a kidnapper should want privacy.”

It’s certainly private out here,
Jezzil thought, feeling a sick wash of fear for Thia.
Where is he taking her? And
why?

Eregard urged his mount until he caught up and rode beside the Chonao warrior. “We’re heading more to the north now,” he said. “Any idea where he might be taking her?”

Jezzil glanced over at him, thinking that the slave would probably prove a handicap during a chase or a fight. He was an indifferent horseman; instead of sitting up straight, he slouched in the saddle, spine curved, heels bouncing against his mount’s sides. But so far he’d kept up with the others, and his eyes were intent and steady on the trail they followed.

“I think he is heading for Amaran,” Jezzil replied grimly.

“Amaran?” There was a catch in Eregard’s voice. “Why there?”

“That’s where Thia is from. She escaped from there. She didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Eregard said. “But she told me she was running from those who meant her harm.”

Jezzil nodded. “True enough. And now it seems that they’ve found her. She told me once that the priests would

never stop looking for her. The guard at the gate remembered a man whose head was shaven. Sounds like a priest.”

Eregard’s brow furrowed. “But if he’s heading for Amaran, why would he take this route? The caravan road is much faster and more direct. I’ve seen maps of this land.”

Jezzil gave him a quick, surprised glance. “You can read?”

“Yes.”

As Jezzil continued to stare intently at Eregard, the slave hunched his shoulders, as if expecting a blow. The Chonao regarded him, noting a smear of dried blood on the neck of his tunic. “What happened to you?” Jezzil asked. “Your neck. You’re wounded.”

Eregard shook his head, not replying, only tucking his chin down, hunching his shoulders even more. Jezzil tightened the muscles of his right leg slightly, and Falar sidepassed until they were riding so close to each other that their legs brushed.

The Chonao leaned over in his saddle, eyes narrowed, staring at the slave’s neck. “What—” He broke off as he took in the scorings on Eregard’s collar. “File marks,” he said slowly. “Go ahead, sit up straight. You look like a turtle, hunched like that.”

Eregard raised a shaking hand to his abraded neck.

“Please …” he mumbled. “Please don’t tell her—she hasn’t noticed. I’ll wrap something around it.”

“I won’t tell her,” Jezzil said. “But I suspect she’ll notice at some point.”

“Mistress Talis is going to sell me,” Eregard said. “If she does, I’ll lose every chance to be free.”

Jezzil nodded. “I know. Thia asked me if we had saved enough money to buy you. She wanted to set you free. But we don’t have nearly enough saved.”

Eregard gave him a quick, incredulous glance. “She wanted to do that? For me? She’s—” He shook his head. “I can hardly believe it.”

“Thia knows what it is like to be enslaved,” Jezzil said.

Eregard nodded. “You can see it in her eyes.” He took a deep breath. “If we find her—”

“
When,
” Jezzil corrected sharply.

“Yes,
when
we find her, if you and Thia can use your influence with Talis to persuade her to set me free, I could …

I could see that Thia was protected. I could take her home with me. Nobody would dare touch her. I swear it.”

Jezzil gave him a surprised glance. “Where is your home?”

“Pela.”

“I’ll con—” Jezzil broke off as Talis halted her bay. He urged Falar into a faster trot, leaving the slave, on his slower mount, behind.

“What is it?” he asked as he drew rein beside the Katan.

“The tracks …” She shook her head. “It’s almost sunset.

He’s no longer following even a faint trail, because he’s turned and is going west again. He’s walking the horses.

They’re probably tired. I think he’s getting ready to stop for the night. We should be cautious.”

“If we don’t catch them before dark, we’ll lose them,”

Jezzil said. “The Moon won’t rise for over an hour.”

“We can track,” she reassured him. “Though it won’t be easy. Unless we cross rock, the prints will be visible. I have a lantern, and so does Clo. We’ll have to go slowly, though.”

Jezzil nodded. “Let’s water the horses and press on. I don’t like it that he’s changed direction.”

“I don’t like it, either,” Clo said. She dismounted and walked slowly up and down, stretching, then eyeing the tracks. The mercenary’s broad, usually good-natured face was set in harsh lines that revealed her true age. She looked up at Jezzil. “I’ve heard tales about them priests,” she said grimly. “Tales about human sacrifice and such. You hear any such thing, Jezzil?” Almost unconsciously, her hands went out to check her weapons: a pair of flintlock pistols, sword, and dagger.

“No,” Jezzil replied. “But I am not from this country. I came from across the Narrow Sea, from Ktavao.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Talis said. “They say they sacrifice some poor victim every morning, so the sun will rise.”

Clo shook her head. “I don’t like it. This doesn’t make sense. Why push as hard as he can going west, then turn northwest, then west again?” She gestured in the direction the wagon tracks led. “There’s nothing out there but bad-lands, and then the northernmost arm of the sea. Big outcroppings of that reddish rock, dead-end canyons—it’s worthless land, dead land. Nothing lives there except snakes, scorpions, and lizards. Why go there?”

“People do strange things in the name of religion,” Eregard said absently. He was staring west, shading his eyes from the Sun. “I don’t like this, either.”

“Let’s water the horses, then move on,” Jezzil said, letting some of the urgency he felt be reflected in his voice. He reached for one of the loaded waterskins that hung down over Falar’s flank. “Let’s
hurry
.”

Thia lay in the bed of the wagon, bound and gagged, trying hard not to give in to the waves of nausea that swept over her. She knew if she vomited, she’d choke and die. It was struggle enough just to breathe; luckily, the sack that covered her was coarsely woven, and some air came through, but barely enough.

How long had she been lying here, rolling back and forth as the wagon bounced along? Hours, at least. Despite the rough gray material covering her face, she could tell it was still daylight. It was hot in the bed of the wagon, and thirst was a torment. Her hands and feet had long ago gone numb, and that numbness was spreading. Thia knew with a sick certainty that even if her captor stopped and untied her, she wouldn’t be able to run for many minutes.

Her mind continued to torture her with images of pumps spilling gushes of water, of the Narrow Sea down by the docks of Q’Kal, of cold tankards of ale …

Stop that,
she ordered herself.
You’ll drive yourself mad.

You have to think. Plan!
But the stifling air and the heat made her head swim … coherent thought was so difficult.

She forced herself to try and put the pieces together. It had been afternoon, and they’d finished early with a print run.

Denno had told her she could go home early—he was taking his wife and little Damris to the market. Pleased to get away hours before she’d expected to, she was walking back from work, looking forward to spending time with her new friend, Eregard.

He was no ordinary slave, that much was obvious. He was educated, a scholar. He’d been teaching her about the modern world. She’d learned from him just how much history had been repressed or ignored by Boq’urak’s priesthood.