Rhune Shadow Page 12

  Smoky torches crackled around the chamber. Warriors of all ranks milled about, watching the proceedings.

  Himilco passed the four warriors who had guarded him on the Great Altar. They stood before the dais. Behind them, other warriors waited in a grim line, butcher cleavers thrust through their sashes.

  Thirmida stayed seated on the chair, situated at the side of the room. She kept her hands in her lap and her head demurely down. She had arrested many eyes and elicited countless comments because of the amazing robe of peacock feathers she was wearing. Himilco had found it for her in the temple. He had suggested that a hyena robe was wrong for her. Each Prophetess should make her own peculiar mark. Thirmida had agreed. Several attendants stood behind her chair. They had brushed her freshly washed hair until it shone. They, too, now bowed their heads, awaiting her pleasure. A high window admitted sunlight. It was near noon.

  “Mab is dead because she disobeyed me,” the war-chieftain said in a tired voice. “One of my warriors is dead. I think you’re responsible.”

  Despite his maturing plans, Himilco was weary. Everything had begun yesterday at about this time with his ordered attack on Zarius Magonid. Since yesterday, Himilco’s emotions had ranged too high and too low in too many cycles within too short a time. A strange blankness of soul now lodged in his chest. He glanced at Dabar, who crouched with other youths wearing green sashes. The nomad rubbed the glass ornament against his cheek.

  “I am a priest,” Himilco told the war-chieftain. “The…things of this world mean less to me than serving Bel Ruk. I thought I had found the true Bel Ruk here in Karchedon. Then I heard the Prophetess’s words. They were like whips on my soul. I realized that for years I had followed a false god. Thus, I sought an audience with your Prophetess. She told me to open Karchedon’s gates and win the true Lord of Dragons’ favor. This I did. As a reward, she chose me out of all the people in Karchedon, out of all the people in the Nasamon Horde. She chose me to go with her into the inner sanctum. In return for that wonderful favor, I would gladly run any risk. Yes, I convinced Mab to hurry to the Prophetess. Because of your niece’s dream—for whom Bel Ruk has shown his favor as the new Prophetess—we raced to the altar.”

  “I heard what happened there,” the war-chieftain said with a sneer.

  “Ask your warriors if I did all I could for the Prophetess,” Himilco said.

  “The warriors you speak of are dead men,” the war-chieftain said. “Their words mean nothing to me.”

  The four behind Himilco shifted nervously, Javan among them. A baleful glance from the war-chieftain stilled their movements.

  “You are a great warrior and leader,” Himilco said. “I am only a Karchedonian. Yet even I know that sometimes a warrior must obey his god before he obeys his war-leader.”

  The war-chieftain’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  Behind the chieftain, sheiks stirred. Several glanced at the peacock-robed Thirmida. The one holding the wine flagon said, “The outlander is right.”

  “Your niece had a dream—” Himilco began.

  “Thirmida,” the war-chieftain said, interrupting Himilco.

  She raised her head.

  “Come before us,” the war-chieftain said.

  Her chin lifted higher. “I am the Prophetess,” she declared.

  The war-chieftain straightened. A second passed, two. A crooked smile twisted his seamed face. “Can there be two Prophetesses?” he asked.

  “The first will marry Bel Ruk,” Thirmida said.

  The war-chieftain scowled. He motioned to an older warrior with gray strands in his beard. The elder sat directly behind him. The war-chieftain whispered to the elder. The elder thought for a moment and whispered back.

  “If what you say is true,” the war-chieftain soon told Thirmida, “Ert should have returned with the dream knife. Instead, he has ridden back to tell us that the Tyrant’s soldiers board the galleys. If we lack a dream-knife, can Bel Ruk have sent the dream?”

  Himilco recognized Thirmida’s confusion. She might be too young for her cunning uncle. It was time to jump down and touch the lion, as it were.

  “I crave your pardon, war-chieftain,” Himilco said with a bow. “I interpreted the dream. That has always been my special skill. Sometimes, however, first dreams demand a more careful scrutiny.”

  The elder whispered into the war-chieftain’s ear. The war-chieftain nodded, and regarded Himilco.

  “Speak plainly, priest. You lied to my niece. Isn’t that so?”

  Himilco’s throat tightened. “If I have lied may Bel Ruk strike me dead before you this very moment.”

  Many looked up with expectancy. Dabar stared at his stolen ornament, then at Himilco and then at the ornament again. Thirmida grew pale. As Himilco remained standing, whispering began. The sheiks threw their heads together. Dabar appeared crestfallen. The whispering grew louder.

  The war-chieftain drew his knife and banged the pommel against the dais until there was silence. The entire time, the elder whispered into the war-chieftain’s ear.

  “Tell us, Interpreter of Dreams,” the war-chieftain said. “What does the magic dream-knife mean?”

  “Mab died because Bel Ruk was angry,” Himilco said.

  “She died because she picked up the Prophetess’s scepter,” the war-chieftain said. “Everyone in the horde knows such an act is blasphemy.”

  “What caused her to forget?” Himilco asked.

  “Love,” Thirmida said.

  “Love?” the war-chieftain asked, surprised.

  “Love for the Prophetess,” Himilco agreed. “But that only made it worse. Bel Ruk is a jealous husband. Tell me, my sheiks, what is the penalty if a man sleeps with one of your wives.”

  “Death!” roared a drunken sheik.

  Himilco spread his hands and cast his gaze around the room.

  The war-chieftain slammed the knife pommel against the dais. “What about the dream-blade? What does it mean?”

  “Magic blades, magic blades,” Himilco scoffed. “The horde is in danger until Bel Ruk receives his bride.”

  The elder whispered into the war-chieftain’s ear. The war-chieftain scratched his cheek. He grinned evilly and leaned toward Himilco. “Are you saying that Thirmida must pick up the scepter that slew Mab? That by this she shows us she is the new Prophetess?”

  “Bel Ruk will instruct us,” Himilco said.

  “How?” the war-chieftain asked.

  Himilco bowed his head, thinking.

  “I will pick up the scepter,” Thirmida said. “I will pick it up after sending our Prophetess to the Lord of Dragons. I am not afraid.”

  Himilco barely kept from turning toward her and shaking his head. Did she want to ruin everything? If she touched the scepter, she would shrivel and die. He had recognized the protective spell employed. It wouldn’t change at the first Prophetess’s death. Everything was working. Thirmida and he—

  “Hold the scepter and every Nasamon will know that you are the new Prophetess,” the war-chieftain said. “When will the marriage occur?”

  Himilco’s throat refused to work. He saw misery and ruin ahead for him.

  “In three hours,” Thirmida said. She rose and scanned the assembled throng. “Suffete, attend me.”

  Himilco glanced at the war-chieftain, alarmed at the predatory way the old man watched him. Himilco locked his knees and moved in Thirmida’s direction.

  “Warriors,” Thirmida said. “Come.”

  The war-chieftain opened his mouth. The elder behind him whispered furiously. The war-chieftain closed his mouth. With a nod, he released the four warriors. His hooded eyes spoke of a temporary reprieve.

  Himilco understood. Thirmida had given herself a death sentence. He was back to escaping Karchedon, for he knew how the war-chieftain would re-assert his authority after the new Prophetess was dead. He had to find the Gray Wolf, get to his hidden galley and head onto the open seas.

  -12-

  With feverish eyes, Elissa stared at creaking pl
anks inches above her face. Thumps had startled her. A wicked stench—she bit her lip and swallowed a groan. She was in a quinquereme. She remembered that. Yes. She was lying on sand.

  Thinking became too difficult. She closed her eyes and tugged at her garment, opening buttons. Why was it so hot in here?

  Waves slapped against the galley. She recognized the sloshing sounds. They were at sea.

  At sea?

  That was impossible. She licked the inside of her mouth. She needed water.

  I’m sick.

  She felt her forehead. Hot. She tugged at—she winced in pain as her forearm brushed against sand. Gingerly, she brought her arm near. Where the knife had cut yesterday, it was swollen and red. She touched the swelling. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead.

  The blade was poisoned. She had to get out of here, off the soiled sand. She had to lance this wound, but not with the dagger. The blade likely had other harmful properties best saved for an enemy.

  She shifted her shoulders and tried to concentrate. Men filled the hold above. The thumps, clunks, shuffling feet, the whispers, the cattle-like breathing—a mass of men were up there. The rowing slaves, mainly.

  They dragged the galley into the water without my knowing it.

  She gave a loopy smile. Could even a master-assassin slip out of something like this, while ill? Probably. Knowing that increased her aches. No matter how hard she tried, everything seemed to work against her.

  Pity is for the pitiful, the troubadour seemed to say in her mind.

  Elissa snorted.

  Thus, I pity you.

  “You’re not here,” she whispered. “And I’m not pitiful. I’m sick.”

  A pity, he said.

  In her memory, she could see his sneer in the shadows of his cowl. She wanted to scream. He’d always acted superior.

  I am superior. I am Rhune.

  Elissa sagged and coughed. She listened to a hundred slaves on the other side of the planks above her head.

  What are you? he whispered in her mind.

  Elissa blinked several times. Then, she felt through her garments, found a hidden pocket and withdrew a razor. She lifted her injured forearm and stared at it with feverish eyes. With a deft slice, she nicked the swollen skin to reopen the wound and then pressed gently. Pus oozed, a lot of it. She wanted to groan. Instead, she clamped down on such barbarian instincts. She continued to press harder until she had squeezed out all the pus. Then she wiped the razor on her garment. No. Her clothes were soiled. From an inner pocket, she took out a rag and wiped the razor before secreting it away again.

  She rolled onto her side and began slipping off the pack. When it rested in front of her, she searched for ointment.

  You’re forgetting something.

  She spat on the wound. Her mouth was so dry, but she kept spitting. When she couldn’t produce enough saliva, she imagined lemons. That helped for a few more spits. After washing the wound, she squeezed ointment on it and smeared it around with a spit-cleaned finger. Finally, she took out a cotton wad. She pressed that against the wound, tied silk around it and knotted it with her hand and teeth.

  Even though her face blazed with heat, she grinned. She repackaged the ointment, found a capsule, studied it carefully and swallowed it. It would take swift effect. Now, however, she needed water more than ever.

  With a trembling hand, she took out a capsule of cluthe. She weighed it, and temporized by putting it in a niche in her garment. By degrees, she re-shouldered the pack. When it was ready, her head had cleared minutely from the effect of the first capsule. She had little knowledge of the situation above or outside. Imperfectly fitted planks and chinks of sunshine told her it was daytime. That was a strike against her. But if they were at sea, she could jump overboard and float away. She could float again in the light.

  Do you fear the dark? the troubadour asked in her mind.

  “Did you enjoy a night swim?” she whispered. The voice in her head said nothing. She thought as much.

  As she wriggled toward the hatch, she realized she might be delirious. The troubadour spoke too easily in her mind. That was one giveaway. The others were the heat pouring off her, the bone-dry mouth, how lightheaded she felt—chills struck. Her teeth chattered. She wriggled faster and moved off a patch of wet sand. Sweat pooled all over her body.

  You can ignore the pain, the troubadour said.

  Elissa blinked sweat out of her eyes. The troubadour had sounded worried. She’d never heard that before. He’d just encouraged her instead of insulting her.

  “Are you feeling well?” she asked him, and she giggled because it was such a funny joke.

  The chills struck again, and the giggles ceased.

  Maybe she should wait. No one knew she was here. As if in answer, a foul liquid dripped from the planks several feet over. It nauseated her when she realized a slave had just relieved himself where he sat. That steeled her resolve. She was Rhune. She was not going to let a rowing hold of slaves crap and piss on her.

  She turned from the dripping planks and took a deep breath. It was time to act. In this sort of situation where you didn’t know what exactly to expect but went anyway, there wasn’t time to ponder the correct course. You acted fast because even a bad choice was better than dithering in a room full of strangers. Move, keep moving, and cut down anyone in your way.

  She pushed against the hatch and only at the last moment realized she could peek first. She’d pushed harder than she would have normally and opened the hatch faster and higher than was wise. She scrambled to her knees and poked her head to just below the hatch. None of the wretches chained to the benches had noticed her error. They hunched like cattle in the rain.

  Then someone yanked the hatch higher, obviously someone behind her line of vision.

  “What kind of rat do we have here?” a gruff man asked.

  Elissa peered up into a coarse face. It had a tattoo on its cheek, a coiled whip. The man was lean and wore a leather vest. He had muscles in bunches. He reached down, and she saw that he wore a half-glove on his large hand. He grasped her by the hair and hauled up. She pushed up and felt the roots of her hair threaten to tear loose from her scalp. The lean man was strong. He kicked the hatch shut as her feet touched the gangway between the sunken rowing pits on either side. She felt everyone watching. There was a startled sound somewhere, but no outcry yet.

  She rejected gutting him with the dagger. That was too bloody and it might make the others angry.

  It will frighten others, the troubadour said in her mind.

  Elissa scowled. The troubadour knew better than to interrupt her thoughts at this critical moment. The anger gave her impetus. She twisted her face away from the lean man. She reached up with both hands and gripped the thick wrist attached to the fingers in her hair. She knelt sharply as she bent her head and pulled with all her strength.

  The lean man shouted in alarm. His knees struck her crouched body and he tripped over her. He flailed as he flew and crashed into slaves on a lower bench.

  “Hold him!” Elissa shouted.

  She should have sprung up and dashed across the gangway. Instead, she stood, swayed with lightheadedness and began to stumble for the stairs leading to the outer hatch outside.

  “Push me up,” the lean man snarled.

  Elissa looked back. The slaves catapulted him back onto the gangway. The man staggered, surprised perhaps by their strength. He stumbled over something, maybe his own feet, and then shot into the other bank of slaves.

  Some slaves laughed. A few jeered.

  Elissa heard the tramp of shod feet. She whipped her attention forward. Three men bore down the gangway at her. One was wearing a bronze breastplate. Another clutched a dagger. The last held a whip.

  She jumped off the gangway and into a rowing pit to circle around the three blocking her way.

  “Excuse me,” she said. She put her hand on a shoulder as she stepped onto a bench between two slaves. She ran from bench to bench or used the massive oars. The ba
reback and sometimes naked slaves gawked at her in astonishment.

  This was a quinquereme, which meant four men to an oar and thus four men to a bench. The oars were massive, bigger in diameter than a man could grasp. Rowing cleats were stapled to the oars, and counterweighting lead had been slotted into the ends. That ensured the slave-rowers used their strength to move the oars back and forth instead of lifting the longer length out of the water. Because oars supplied the motive power, the shipwrights had crammed as many benches into the hold as possible. When slaves rowed, each placed his right foot on the bench before him to help him push back hard enough. If all the slaves ahead didn’t lean forward at the same time the oars behind would mow them over. Rowing a quinquereme took trained, synchronized work. This also meant the benches and oars were near enough for Elissa to easily use them as stepping stones.

  “Grab her,” the armored man shouted.

  “Let them do their own dirty work,” Elissa shouted back.

  Slaves grabbed at her, but slowly, likely pretending.

  “Don’t let her reach the stairs,” the armored man said.

  The guard with the whip uncoiled his cat—what sailors called the whip with its four straps, each embedded with bits of tin and lead.

  The man with the knife jumped into the rowing pit and lunged for her. Elissa proved more nimble, and once behind him, she darted for the stairs.

  The grinning guard with the whip waited for her on the gangway. She had no alternative. Yes. The man was stronger than she was. But she wasn’t going to fight, just get past him. She charged head on.

  “Run to papa.” He playfully flicked his whip.

  He didn’t take her seriously. Good. Elissa lowered her head and tightened her shoulders. The stinging slashes of the whip bit her neck and snagged her hair. She cut with the dagger. She had kept it out of sight. He cried out at the pain and flung himself backward, and she dashed up the steep stairs.