Rhune Shadow Read online

  “I’ll tell him you said that.”

  “Do I get a knife?”

  The soldier reached under the thwart and pitched a belt, scabbard and blade at her.

  Elissa buckled it around her greasy waist. This was never going to work.

  “That’s far enough,” the soldier shouted at the rowers.

  They rested oars.

  The pearl divers lunged overboard with hardly a splash.

  “Go,” the soldier said.

  Elissa glanced at the soldier. The dark circles around her eyes made her look like a lemur. “Does the Tyrant really want me to go?” she asked.

  “You’re a Rhune,” the soldier said, “and the Tyrant wants that chain down.”

  “Look at my bruises, my eyes. I’m feverish.”

  “The Tyrant might be odd to some, but he always uses the best tools at hand. That’s why he always wins. Who better for skulking around than a Rhune assassin?”

  “That’s good. ‘Odd to some.’ Are you going to describe that little phrase to him, too?” Elissa asked.

  The soldier’s grin widened, and he slowly shook his head.

  Elissa grasped the gunwale and heaved herself into the hateful sea.

  -16-

  Sweat trickled down Himilco’s sides as he clutched his little idol of good luck and his horse’s mane. He clamped his thighs around the creature’s barrel body. He had foreseen everything but coming upon Dabar the messenger.

  On the horse, Himilco worked down the Temple Mount. The Processional Way had never seemed steeper than from the back of a desert stallion.

  A perfectly faked pass with the war-chieftain’s seal dangled from a cord around his neck. Himilco had accosted messengers earlier. He’d shouted orders at them like an impatient noble, had bandied the pass under their hawk-like noses and had forced them to provide escort. There was no other way to move freely on the acropolis, and likely in most parts of the city, than in the company of conquering Nasamons. Then, Dabar had barged through. The youth with the dangling lock of greasy hair had one leg cocked on his horse’s back. He’d ridden right up to Himilco and stared him in the face.

  “Where have I seen you before?” Dabar asked.

  “I fought on the plains of Oran,” Himilco said, pitching his voice low.

  “Do I look like a graybeard to you? The plains of Oran happened many years ago.”

  Himilco had lifted his pass.

  Dabar’s gaze flickered from it to Himilco with his black-bearded, actor’s-clay disguise. A twitching grin had grown. Dabar nodded, and announced, “I will guide you myself.”

  Now, Himilco not only dreaded Dabar but also falling off his mount. These worthless desert horses lacked a civilized saddle with gripping horns for his thighs. The leopard-cloth lacked a cantle to hang onto or a backrest to lean against, and the horses lacked bridles. Nasamons guided their horses through speech and by knee-pressure and stayed on because of superior balance. Inhuman balance, Himilco was beginning to believe. It left the desert sons with both hands free for weapons and battle.

  Likely upset with him, the horse nickered and shook its head.

  “You’re a beautiful creature,” Himilco whispered. “I adore you and will buy you wagons full of oats when this is over.”

  He dared pry one hand from its mane and attempted to stroke its neck. The horse nickered again, but it seemed fractionally mollified.

  Himilco heard laughter from behind. Dabar was the loudest. There were five Nasamons with him. Dabar had ordered Zama clan riders to join them. Himilco prayed to his fat little idol. He prayed that Dabar hadn’t recognized him, and he prayed the others retained their customary arrogance. He knew these desert sons considered themselves the greatest horsemen alive. Maybe they were. Maybe these murdering savages had that meager redeeming quality. He hoped they were sneering at an Utica cavalier’s inability to ride instead of realizing that a cavalier ought to ride better than this.

  “I thought you were in a hurry, Noble Zorn!” Dabar shouted at him.

  “Yes, yes,” Himilco said.

  “I’m a messenger. I’m used to galloping down the hill. Should we race?”

  “I’ve a boil in the worst place!” Himilco shouted back, never daring to turn around. He would lose his balance and fall off if he turned.

  “He has a boil on his arse!” Dabar shouted.

  The others laughed. One even slapped his thigh.

  Himilco wished lightning would strike the plaguing youth. He wished he could gallop to the quay. Time was running out. He grasped the horse’s mane with both hands and dared lift his gaze.

  Smoke drifted as if from an oven. There were an amazing number of charred houses in the city below. Some had burnt to the ground. Horsemen herded masses of stumbling, weeping people. Many of those people clutched blankets, some bundles of clothes, or breadbaskets or sacks. Children stared wide-eyed as they clung to their mothers’ hands. Other people had been massed onto boulevards. They sat in their hundreds. On the highest towers along the wall, Karchedonian banners still flew arrogantly. Sunlight reflected off polished spear-points and swords there. Not all of the city was in Nasamon hands. The sheer number of desert sons, however, was unbelievable.

  What would happen to all these people?

  Himilco averted his gaze from them. He concentrated on remaining mounted. The nomads would have broken into the city sooner or later. Because he’d let them in, the Nasamons would act leniently rather than savagely. Besiegers always sacked and slaughtered a city that resisted to the bitter end. It was a law of war. Through his so-called treachery, he had won Karchedon a better peace. Few could understand that. None would now, certainly. Yet, that was the lot of a superior man, of the clear thinker. He had acted from his convictions. Did it matter that he could have won a higher place for himself with the victors? No. It was only right that a clear thinker first helped himself. Did the lion forgo his meal so the antelope could live? What nonsense.

  Dabar cantered even with him. The youth grinned, and he fingered a glass ornament. “Where was it the war-chieftain sent you?”

  Himilco stared at the barracks at the bottom of the hill. It was impossible to see from here, but his Gepids had nailed dried heads under the eaves and over the doors. The barracks looked deserted. Therefore, the Gray Wolf and his tribe were not there.

  “Noble Zorn?” Dabar asked.

  “It is a thieves den,” Himilco said.

  “What is?”

  “The Red Lion Tavern.”

  “And what might possibly lie there?”

  “Hidden treasure,” Himilco said.

  “Coins?”

  “Carazian rubies and bags of frankincense,” Himilco said.

  “Why would the war-chieftain send you, hmm?”

  Sweat stung Himilco’s eyes. He almost brushed them. He barely stopped himself at the last second. He might rub away his actor’s clay if he did that. His sweat could possibly make the clay run. Did this snake know it was him? Was Dabar toying with him?

  “There is a map,” Himilco whispered.

  “Of even greater treasure?” Dabar asked.

  Himilco nodded.

  “And the war-chieftain doesn’t trust any of his men to fetch this map for him, is that it?” asked Dabar.

  “As to that, Lord, I cannot say.”

  “I’m just a messenger,” Dabar said. “I’m not a lord.”

  Himilco couldn’t cast any spells while clinging to this wretched horse. He began to loathe Dabar. He was almost certain that the younger man knew who he was. He prayed that Dabar thought himself clever enough to outwit a priest.

  “You seem nervous, Noble Zorn.”

  “It’s an important map. I fear others may find it before I can bring it before the war-chieftain.”

  “We must hurry then,” Dabar said.

  “My boil, I cannot gallop until we’re off this steep hill.”

  Dabar rubbed the glass ornament along his cheek. He straightened and shouted at the others, “These cavaliers
ride like dirt fighters. No wonder our elders beat them on the plains of Oran.”

  The others laughed.

  Himilco’s smile stretched across his face. He envisioned Dabar’s fate if the Gray Wolf had holed up in their favorite drinking pit. The thought helped him endure their mockery.

  -17-

  The Tyrant’s fiery draught was losing power. Elissa shivered, her teeth chattering as the fever resurfaced. She floundered in the sea, gulping salt water. She gagged, rose up in a swell and saw that the harbor entrance was still too far away. She had no idea what had happened to the pearl divers. They must have dived down like otters and kicked all the way underwater to Karchedon.

  The soldiers who had clubbed her earlier must have taken her dagger and pack. She hadn’t seen them on the Tyrant’s galley. She’d stripped off her garment with its hidden pockets and thus had lost her razors, capsules and garroting wire. She had her bruised self and a stiletto, a backstreet Delium favorite. Oh, and her undergarment. She mustn’t forget that.

  She kicked her feet. It cost her more shivering and lightheaded weakness.

  The giant galleys were farther away than the harbor, although in the opposite direction. Swimming back to them was out of the question. What was the point of that anyway? The Tyrant would accept her failure with poor grace. She frowned. Without the vial’s contents, she doubted she could still move. Between her clubbed flesh and fever—what substance had the Tyrant given her anyway?

  His possession of it implied alchemy of a high order. The troubadour had never spoken about such a potent drug.

  She kicked from the bottom of a swell. Had the swells grown since she’d jumped overboard? She needed her float. She wanted to rest. She wanted to close her eyes and—

  She screamed. It wasn’t loud and long, but it was a scream. One of the pearl divers surfaced two feet before her. He wore strange lenses over his eyes. Shells circled the lenses and cords tied them around his head and held them in place.

  “You must swim,” the pearl diver said. He seemed strong and tireless.

  “I can’t swim,” Elissa said. “I’m sick.”

  He stared at her through his strange lenses. Then he did an odd thing. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply.

  “That’s not going to help me,” she said.

  He eased closer. “The Tyrant will kill us if you do not return to his galley. I and my brothers wish to live.”

  “Swim home,” she said.

  “You must swim,” he said. “The harbor is near.”

  She took a shuddering breath and floundered for several strokes.

  “No!” the pearl diver shouted. “That way.” He pointed ninety degrees from the direction she had swum.

  Elissa nodded and swam that way. She was so tired. Her muscles felt flaccid. Then she grew aware of the three pearl divers swimming beside her. Each by turn disappeared. Then she felt hands, fingers, pushing her toward the harbor.

  “You must live,” a pearl diver told her.

  “Yes,” she said. The bloody Tyrant wanted her alive. Her heart went out to the three divers. No one else had helped her except for her father, and he was dead. She had to make it there and back again so the pearl divers didn’t die uselessly. They were helping her out of self-interest, but they were still helping her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Thank us by living, and thank us by showing us how to lower the chain.”

  “Yes,” she said. Despite the fever, despite the bruises and aches and drugged thoughts, a fierce light shined in her dark eyes. The survival of the three pearl divers suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world to her.

  -18-

  “There?” Dabar asked.

  Himilco slid off his horse and staggered several steps. The dangling, rattling sword at his hip almost tripped up his legs.

  Eyes had peered through subtly rippling curtains that covered the tavern’s windows. The tavern was three levels high, tucked here in a narrow street. One building nearby smoldered. The other buildings felt deserted, as did the nearby stables and inns. Strangely, no Nasamons or fleeing Karchedonians were anywhere in evidence on the street.

  “The Red Lion,” Himilco announced.

  He took off the shako and slapped his chest. He stared at the windows, wanting whoever was in there to get a good look at him. He almost yanked off the beard, but caution stayed his hand. He half-turned to keep an eye on Dabar and his companions.

  From their horses, the five Nasamons glanced about nervously. Three held javelins. The fourth clutched an evil-looking dagger. Dabar still kept the elephant-hide shield strapped to his left forearm.

  “Is this the place?” Dabar asked.

  “You deserve a drink,” Himilco said.

  “We are Zama clan,” Dabar said. “We’ll drink after the conquest.”

  “There are gems hidden here,” Himilco said.

  “Find your map,” Dabar said.

  “I need help moving furniture,” Himilco said.

  Dabar snapped his fingers. The three with javelins slid off their steeds and sauntered toward Himilco. They stopped short and grew pale.

  Himilco heard a creak of wood. He turned toward the building.

  The Gray Wolf had opened the door. The giant Gepid had stepped onto the veranda. He clutched his two-handed sword in a fist. Behind him in the tavern’s gloom waited uncounted Gepids.

  “Who are you?” shouted the horseback Nasamon with the knife.

  The Gray Wolf moved a muscled arm behind his head. When the arm snapped forward, a knife blurred and wetly smacked into a Nasamon’s throat. With a gurgle, the rider beside Dabar toppled from his horse. The four riderless horses anxiously pranced about until a word from Dabar quieted them.

  The three Nasamons near Himilco stared in blank-eyed wonder. Then, their yipping war cries sounded. Two jumped forward. No doubt, they meant to flank the Gray Wolf. He had already moved—his legendary sword describing an arc of death. A Nasamon spun away, his body a mangled ruin. The second one nimbly leaped over the hissing sword as the last heaved his javelin. The javelin point mashed harmlessly against the Gray Wolf’s heavy mail links, and the leaping desert man catapulted backward as the Gray Wolf’s lowered shoulder connected with his chest.

  The graying giant’s sword dance became a thing of beauty, balance and jingling mail. He twirled the massive sword in an arc around his head and lunged. The sword sprouted out of the third Nasamon’s back, a gruesome flower that showered blood and bone. The Gray Wolf yanked his sword free, pivoted and kicked his iron-toed boot against the fallen Nasamon’s head. The nomad twitched spasmodically.

  Dabar, the sole survivor of the five, wheeled his desert steed. He also hurled a knife at Himilco. It tangled in the false beard, ripping it away. Meanwhile, Dabar clucked his tongue and urged his mount. The stallion’s flanks bunched with muscled urgency. It broke away, attempting to gallop. The other desert horses turned to follow.

  “Stop him!” Himilco shouted.

  Dabar glanced back. “You!” he shouted. “I knew I recognized that weasel face.”

  A Gepid bounded out of the tavern. He held a Nasamon javelin, which he heaved. The springy javelin quivered with energy and sped toward Dabar.

  In an uncanny display of horsemanship, Dabar hugged the stallion’s neck and slipped down along the far side, using the barrel body as a shield. The javelin hissed through the space where Dabar had just been. Instantly, Dabar sat upright again and leaned low, shouting into his stallion’s ears. The nimble steed raced away down the street, its four companions galloping behind.

  “Stop him!” Himilco shouted.

  “He is gone,” the Gray Wolf rumbled, “you are here. What is your wish?”

  Himilco looked up at the huge barbarian. The warrior breathed heavily but tried not to show it. Himilco shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He glanced at the dead Nasamons. Dabar would race straight to the war-chieftain.

  “We must march for the quays,” Himilco s
aid.

  The Gray Wolf studied him. More Gepids began coming outside. They looked grim.

  Himilco’s throat became dry. “I have a ship,” he said. “It is loaded with treasure. I also have a castle many leagues from here. More treasures are stored there. I will need an army. I will hire thousands of mercenaries. Believe me. I have planned for this.”

  The Gray Wolf became thoughtful.

  “I will need champions,” Himilco added.

  The Gray Wolf nodded, and before Himilco could say more, the legendary chief of the Gepids began ordering his men.

  -19-

  “Did you see how he did it?”

  “Sorry,” Elissa said. “I must have closed my eyes.”

  She rose with a swell that was dangerously near slimy boulders. Water crashed against rocks and sent up spume and spray. A sheer wall rose above the rocks. The wall belonged to the battlement that guarded Karchedon’s harbor. One of the pearl divers scrambled monkey-like up the wet rocks until he rested against the base of the mighty wall.

  The other two pearl divers flanked Elissa, each in turn helping her tread water. She wanted to close her eyes, had been closing them. Without the pearl divers, she would have sunk a while ago, too exhausted to care anymore.

  “You must watch,” a pearl diver said.

  “She can’t do it,” the other one said.

  “She is a Rhune.”

  “She is untrained.”

  “Rhunes can climb like baboons.”

  “She is a frightened young girl, brother. We must swim to the chain and crawl up there.”

  “Guards wait there. We must climb up here.”

  “You can’t expect her to do this.”

  “She is a Rhune.” The pearl diver shook her shoulder. “Watch how he rides the wave to its crest. That is the trick. Think of it like a helping hand. It’s giving you a push.”

  Elissa recalled the lean man in the rowing hold, the one the slaves had catapulted back onto his feet. They had pushed too hard. She wanted to ask what if the wave pushed her too hard against the rock, but she didn’t have the energy.