The Emerald Storm (29 page)

The physical appearance of the Tenkin always impressed Hadrian. Staul was a crude example of his kin, and these men were more what he remembered. Lean, bronzed muscles and strong facial features that looked hewn from blocks of stone were the hallmarks of the Tenkin warrior. Like the great cats of the jungle, their bodies were graceful in their strength and simplicity. The women were breathtaking. Long dark hair wreathed sharp cheekbones and almond eyes. Their satin-smooth skin enveloped willowy curves. The
civilized
world never saw Tenkin women. A closely guarded treasure, they never left their villages.

The inhabitants showed neither fear nor concern at the procession of the foreigners. Most observed their arrival with silent curiosity. The women showed more interest, pressing forward to peer and talking amongst themselves.

“I thought Tenkins were grotesque,” Bulard said with the casual manner and volume of a man commenting on animals. “I had heard they were abominations of nature, but these people are beautiful.”

“A common misconception,” Hadrian explained. “People tell tales that Tenkin are the result of interbreeding between Calians and Ghazel but if you ever saw a goblin, you’d understand why that’s not possible.”

“I guess you can’t believe everything you read in books. But don’t spread that around or I’ll be out of a job.”

When they reached the village center, the Vintu went about their work and began unpacking. They moved with stoic familiarity. The party waited, listening to the hiss of rain on the fire and the mummer of the crowd gathering around them. With an expectant expression, Dilladrum struggled to see over their heads. He exchanged looks with Wesley but said nothing. Soon, a small elderly Tenkin entered the circle dressed in a leopard wrap. His skin was like wrinkled leather, and his hair gray steel. He walked with a slow dignity and an upturned chin. Dilladrum smiled, and the two spoke rapidly. Then the elderly Tenkin clapped his hands and shouted. The crowd fell back and he led the crew of the
Emerald Storm
into the largest of the buildings. It had four, tree-sized pillars holding up a latticework of intertwined branches overlaid with thatch. The interior lacked partitions and stood as an open hall lined with tanned skins and pillows made from animal hides.

Waiting inside were four Tenkins. Three men and a woman sat upon a raised mound covered in luxurious cushions. Their leopard-clad guide bowed deeply to the four and then left. Outside the rain increased and poured off the thatched roof.

Dilladrum stepped forward, bowed with his hands clasped before him, and spoke in Tenkin, which was a mix of the old imperial tongue and Ghazel. Hadrian had mastered a working knowledge of the language, but the isolation between villages caused each to develop a slightly different dialect. Even villages separated by only a few miles might speak remarkably different variations. While Hadrian missed a number of Dilladrum’s words, he recognized that formal introductions were being made.

“This is Burandu,” Dilladrum explained to the
Emerald Storm
’s
crew in Apelanese. “He is Elder.” Dilladrum paused to think then added, “Similar to the lord of a manor, but not quite. Beside him is Joqdan, his warlord—chief knight if you will. Zulron is Oudorro’s oberdaza.” He gestured at a stunted, misshapen Tenkin, the only one Hadrian had ever seen. “The closest thing to his office in Avryn might be a chief priest as well as doctor, and next to him is Fan Irlanu. You have no equivalent position for her. She is a seer, a visionary.”

“Velcome peoples of Great Avryn,” Burandu spoke haltingly in Apelanese. Despite his age, betrayed only by a head of startling white hair, he looked as strong and handsome as any man in the village. He sat adorned in a silk waistcloth and kilt, a massive broad necklace of gold, and wore a headdress formed from long, brightly colored feathers. “Vee are pleazed to ’ave you in our ’ome.”

“Thank you, sir, for granting us invitation,” Wesley replied.

“Vee enjoy company of doze Dilladrum brings. Once brothers, in ancient days past—ez good to sit, to listen, to find each other. Come, drink, and remember.”

Zulron cast a fine powder over a brazier of coals. Flames burst forth, illuminating the lodge.

They all sat amid the pillows and hides. Royce found a place within the shadows against the rear wall. As always, Thranic and Defoe kept their distance from the rest of the party. They sat close to the four Tenkins where the sentinel watched Zulron with great interest. Bulard invited Hadrian to sit beside him.

“This explains a great deal,” said the old man, pointing to the decorations in the hut. “These are people lost in time. Do you see those decorated shields hanging from the rafter with the oil lamps? They used to do that in the ancient imperial throne room, and the leaders mirror the imperial body, represented by a king and his two councilors; always a wizard and a warrior. Although the seer is probably an addition of the Ghazel influences. She is lovely.”

Hadrian had to agree, Fan Irlanu was stunning, even by Tenkin standards. Her thin silk gown embraced her body with the intimacy of a liquid.

Food and wine circulated as men carried in jugs and platters. “After eating,” Burandu said to Wesley, “I ask you, Dilladrum, and your second, to meet at my Duro. I discuss recent news on dee road ahead. I fear dee beasts are loose and you must be careful. You tell me of road just traveled.”

Wesley nodded with a mouthful of food, then after swallowing added, “Of course, Your, ah…” He hesitated before simply adding, “sir.”

Bulard looked at the sliced meat set before him with suspicion. Hadrian chuckled watching the old man push it around his plate. “It’s pork. Wild pigs thrive in these jungles and the Tenkin hunt them. You’ll find it a little tougher and gamier than what you’re used to back home, but it’s good—you’ll like it.”

“How do you know so much about them?” the old man asked.

“I lived in Calis for several years.”

“Doing what?”

“You know, I still ask myself that.” Hadrian stuffed a hunk of pork in his mouth and chewed, but Bulard’s expression showed he did not understand. At last, Hadrian gave in. “I was a mercenary. I fought for the highest bidder.”

“You seem ashamed.” Bulard tried a bit of fruit and grimaced. “The mercenary profession has a long and illustrious history. I should know.”

“My father never approved of me using my training for profit. In a way, you might say he thought it sacrilegious. I didn’t understand then, but I do now.”

“So, you were good?”

“A lot of men died.”

“Battles are sometimes necessary and men die in war—it happens. You have nothing to be ashamed of. To be a warrior and alive is a reward Maribor bestows on the virtuous. You should be proud.”

“Except there was no war, just battles. No cause, just money. No virtue, just killing.”

Bulard wrinkled his brows as if trying to decipher this. Hadrian got up and went to sit next to Royce, to escape Bulard’s questions.

“Wanna try the wine?” Hadrian asked.

“It’s not time for drinking yet,” the hood replied.

When the meal was over, three Tenkin boys held large palm branches over the heads of Burandu, Wesley, Dilladrum, and Wyatt as they ventured out into the rain. With the Elder gone, formalities relaxed. The Vintu headed out to resume camp preparations before all daylight was lost. Across the hall, Thranic and Levy spoke quietly with the oberdaza, Zulron, and all three left together. Poe, Derning, and Grady helped themselves to a jug of wine and reclined casually on the pillows.

“How you feeling?” Hadrian asked Royce.

“Not good enough.”

“You need to get the dressing on your wound changed?”

“It can wait.”

“Wait too long and it will fester.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You should at least eat. The pork is good. Best meal you’ll have for a while I think. It’ll help you heal.”

There was no reply. They sat listening to the wind and rain on the grassy roof and low conversations punctuated by the occasional laugh and clink of ceramic cups.

“You are aware you’re being watched?” Royce asked. “The Tenkin on the dais, the one Dilladrum called Joqdan, the warlord. He’s been staring at you since we entered. Do you know him?”

Hadrian looked at the bald, muscular man wreathed in a dozen bone necklaces. “Never seen him before. The woman next to him—she looks oddly familiar.”

“She looks like Gwen.”

“That’s it. You’re right, she does look just like her. Is Gwen from—”

“I don’t know.”

“I just assumed she was from Wesbaden. Everyone in Avryn who’s from Calis is from there, but she could be from a village like this, huh?” Hadrian chuckled. “What an odd pairing you two make. Maybe Gwen’s from this very village. That could be her sister up there, or cousin. You might be meeting the bride’s family before the wedding, just like a proper suitor. You should brush your hair and take a bath. Make a good enough impression, and the two of you could settle down here. You’d look good bare-chested in one of those kilts.”

Hadrian expeced cutting retort. All he heard from his friend was a harsh series of breaths. Looking over he noticed the hood was drooping.

“Hey, you’re really not doing too good, are you?”

The hood shook.

Hadrian placed a hand on Royce’s back. His cloak was soaked and hot. “Damn it. I’ll convince Wesley to extend our stay. In the meantime, let’s get you dry and in a bed.”

With a flaming brand, the oberdaza led Thranic and Levy toward a cliff wall at the edge of the village where the great waterfall thundered. Somehow, even the plunging water felt foul as it splattered against rocks casting a damp mist. Thranic continually wiped the tainted wet from his face. Everything about the village was evil. Everywhere stood signs that these humans had turned their backs on Novron and embraced his enemy—the hideous feathers they wore, the symbolic designs in the pillows, the tattoos on their bodies. They did not whisper, but rather shouted their allegiance to Uberlin. Thranic could not imagine a greater blasphemy, and yet the others were blind to their transgressions. If given the opportunity, Thranic would prefer to burn the whole village to ash and scatter the remains. He had tried to prepare himself for what to expect even before the
Emerald Storm
set sail, but now, surrounded by their poison, he longed to strike a blow for Novron. While he could not safely put a torch to this nest of vipers, there was another profanation he could rectify, one that these worshipers of Uberlin might even assist him with.

The powder the oberdaza used to ignite the braziers had caught his attention. The Tenkin witchdoctor was also an alchemist. Zulron was not like the rest of the heathens. He lacked their illusionary facade, their glimmer of false beauty. One leg was shorter than its partner, causing Zulron to shuffle with a noticeable limp. One shoulder rode up, hugging his chin, while the other slipped low, dangling a weak and withered arm. Singular in his wretched appearance, this honest display of his evil made him more trustworthy than the rest.

As they reached the waterfall, Zulron led them along a narrow path around the frothing pool to a crack in the cliff face. Within the fissure was a cave, its ceiling teamed with chattering bats and its floor was laden with guano.

“This is my store room and workshop,” Zulron explained as he pushed deeper into the cavern. “It stays cooler here and is well protected from wind and rain.”

“And what prying eyes can’t see…” Thranic added guessing at the truth of the matter. Years of dealing with tainted souls left him with an understanding of evil’s true nature.

Zulron paused only briefly, to cast a glance over his low-slung shoulder at the sentinel. “You see more clearly than the rest of your brethren.”

“And you speak Apelanese better than yours.”

“I’m not built for hunting. I rely on study and have learned much about your world.”

“This is disgusting.” Levy grimaced, carefully picking his path.

“Yes,” the oberdaza agreed. He walked through the guano as if it were a field of spring grass. “But these bats are my gatekeepers, and their soil, my moat.”

Soon the cave grew wide and the floor cleared of filth. Here in the center of the cavern was a domed oven built of carefully piled stones. Surrounding it were dozens of huge clay pots, bundles of browned leaves, and a vast pile of poorly stacked wood. On shelves carved from the stone walls rested hundreds of smaller ceramic jars and a variety of stones, crystals, and bowls.

Zulron reached into one of the pots and threw a handful of dust into the mouth of the oven. Thrusting his torch at the base, fire roared to life, which he fed with wood. When the oven was sated and he had finished lighting a number of oil lamps, he turned to Levy. “Let me see it.”

The doctor set his pack on the floor and withdrew the bundle of bloody rags. He took th bandages and studied each, even holding them to his nose and sniffing. “And you say these belong to the hooded one among you? It is his blood?”

“Yes.”

“How was he wounded?”

“I shot him with a crossbow.”

Zulron showed no surprise. “Did you not wish him dead? Or are you a poor hunter?”

“He moved.”

Zulron raised a dark brow. “He is quick?”

“Yes.”

“Sees in the dark?”

“Yes.”

“And you came by ship, yes? How did he fare on the water?”

“Poorly—very sick for the first four days I hear.”

“And his ears, are they pointed?”

“No. He has no elven features. This is why we need you to test the blood. You know the method?”

The oberdaza nodded.

Thranic felt a twinge of regret that this creature was so unworthy to Novron. He sensed a kinship of minds. “How long?”

Zulron rubbed the crusted bandages between his fingers. “Days with this. It is too old. If we had a fresh sample—it could be quick.”

“Getting blood from him is nearly impossible,” Levy grumbled.

“I will start the test with these, but I’ll also see what I can do to get fresh blood. He will need treatment soon.”

“Treatment?”

“The jungle does not abide the weak or the wounded for long. He will summon me or die.”