Rhune Shadow Read online

  What a big ship, she told herself, concentrating on it instead of the two men.

  “Well?” the soldier asked.

  “I thought—” the servant said.

  “Yes or no?” the soldier demanded.

  The servant glanced at the impatient soldier. “No master. I saw nothing.”

  “Then let’s get another torch. Yours is almost out. We’ll serve ourselves several squirts of wine while we’re at it.”

  The two marched toward an inland fire in the direction of the palisade.

  Elissa grinned tiredly. Until someone spotted her, the initiative always belonged to her. Clearly, the soldier resented marching up and down the beach at night. Just as clearly, his servant understood that. The servant must have seen something in the waves, but not enough of something to risk angering his master.

  Elissa shoved the sealskin bladder underwater and squeezed out the last bubbles. Then she rolled it, shrugged off her pack and stashed the inflatable in place. Only once the pack was snug on her shoulders again, did she wade toward shore.

  This was the tricky part. An amateur would crouch on the beach, wait until no one was looking and sprint for the nearest quinquereme. If anyone saw even a flash of such quick movement, he would give an outcry.

  As Elissa waded ashore, she crouched lower and lower until she was like a human rock. She halted as men trudged near. The waves rolled up and boiled froth and foam around her, and the receding water dug sand out from under the tips of her boots. All the while, she kept perfectly still.

  The searchers never noticed her, although they came within forty feet of her hiding place. As they trudged away, Elissa rose and walked onto the beach, keeping on the wet sand. She yearned to sprint inland. Instead, almost casually, she walked along shore as if she were just another searcher. She finally left the wet sand and lengthened her stride, stepping in other people’s footprints. She used prints that drifted toward the quinqueremes until she neared one of the beached giants.

  The quinquereme lay half on its side. It was almost two hundred feet long. Even in the dark, she spied barnacles on the galley bottom, and places where sea-grass had sprouted. She also saw where slaves must have scraped the hull.

  The footprints moved past the quinquereme, never going closer. Elissa hesitated. If only she were rested. If only she were in the right frame of mind. She would paper walk across the sand. Paper walking was a Rhune technique for walking over snow, sand or grass without leaving tracks. She had just begun learning the art when the troubadour had left Karchedon. She was too exhausted to attempt something so exacting now.

  They’ll find my tracks later.

  “Let tomorrow worry about tomorrow,” she whispered once more.

  She glanced around. Searchers were scattered about the beach. More of the men stood around the various fires passing wine to one another.

  Elissa stepped out of the previous footprints and slid her boots upon the sand in order to create a bigger track than her foot would otherwise make. It would fool some, but not a real tracker or hunter.

  She reached the nearest quinquereme. The leaning hull towered twelve feet above her. She tried to imagine the hundred-man teams of slaves that had dragged the behemoth out of the sea. The barnacles on the galley bottom were part of the reason for doing that. She hated the sea, but because she’d lived in Karchedon her entire life, she’d heard a thousand passing comments about ships and shipping. Worms in the wood, barnacles, salt rusting iron nails, thick growths of sea-grass: all destroyed a galley’s efficiency. In winter, owners ordered galleys dragged ashore or put into dry dock. There slaves scraped the hulls, replaced worm-eaten planks and rusty nails, re-caulked the seams.

  Elissa wrinkled her nose. Tired as she was, the quinquereme still stank. It stank of the sea, of tar, human sweat and even worse, of human waste. The rowers of this monstrous vessel were slaves, normally chained in place. During a voyage, they urinated and defecated from their rowing benches. That was another reason to let the quinquereme thoroughly dry out.

  Elissa walked around the massive galley to the other side. She rummaged in her pack, grabbing climbing spikes, and thus equipped she scaled the quinquereme. The spikes left telltale marks in the wood for those who knew what to look for. But she wouldn’t hide in this galley. There were over a hundred ships on shore, many of them with only about twelve feet between one and the next.

  Elissa took off her boots and poured out the water. Then, as men searched along the beach, she ran and leaped onto the next ship. She stumbled in the dark, but rolled quietly on the creaking deck. She was dead tired. She held her breath and listened. There was no outcry, no alarm.

  She flexed her arms, rubbed her thighs and soon ran and jumped onto another ship. She was Rhune. The night belonged to her. It would be during the day when trouble began. She didn’t know that from experience, but from a hundred tales the troubadour had told her.

  Elissa picked the twelfth galley. She lifted a squeaky hatch and slipped into the vast and empty rowing hold. There she found another hatch that led to the bilge and the ballast. Galleys lacked a true keel and were nearly flat-bottomed. That’s what allowed the men to drag the quinqueremes onto a beach. The ballast—sand, in this ship’s case—helped keep the quinquereme upright while in the water. Ballasts made certain the ship didn’t lie on its side. Unfortunately, everything ran down into the bilge and thus into the ballast. Rats infested every ship, and they often burrowed in the bilge’s sand.

  There was barely room to crawl down here, but the sand was dry. Elissa heard a rat rustle nearby, but it hardly mattered to her. Likely, there were more. But she couldn’t keep awake much longer.

  If men came onto the galley looking for her, this would be the last place they would search. She would hear them long before that, which was the reason she had chosen this repulsive location.

  Deadening exhaustion made it impossible for her to worry any more. She’d found her bolthole. Tomorrow would bring new problems. For tonight, she would sleep.

  -5-

  “Am I interrupting you?” Thirmida asked. Although still untested, the former attendant had been elevated to her new position as Prophetess of the Nasamon Horde.

  Himilco Nara turned around as the door to the chamber opened. There were bags under his eyes. Weariness tugged at his limbs and his long red robe was crumpled. Because he wore new shoes, heeled like his ruined ones, his left foot was pinched. Despite these things, anxiety had driven him to pace back and forth before the sanctum basin. It was a huge copper dish, eight feet in diameter and heavy as sin, perched on a solid gold tripod worth a merchant-captain’s ransom.

  Three candles dimly lit the long room. Mab slumped on a chair, with her hands folded on her lap and her chin on her chest. Her mouth hung open, and she snored softly. Five guards crouched at the end of the chamber farthest from Mab. Their javelins lay around them as they cast bone dice on a piece of felt that muffled the sound. Each one tied knots in a string so he knew how much he had won or lost.

  For the past several hours, Himilco had wrestled with his anxieties. The old Prophetess might awaken from the blood-bird bite before the others could sacrifice her. The war-chieftain clearly hated him. What if a whim changed the old man’s mind and he ordered the Nasamons to kill the new suffete? The Gray Wolf might decide the Nasamons meant to slay all foreigners, and thus the Wolf would slip out of Karchedon, taking his precious Gepids with him. Himilco had plans for those warriors.

  These worries had kept Himilco awake, even though he realized he needed sleep to keep his wits sharp. And there were other worries, not as immediate but still troubling. He was supposed to become the chief butcher for Bel Ruk. He was supposed to rip out Karchedonian hearts on the god’s altar. The prospect—he hadn’t stopped to consider the implication before this.

  The idea that he would wield the dagger and cut into pulsating flesh as sacrificial Karchedonians screamed was revolting. He had questioned Mab about it. The bloodthirsty old hag had sensed his unease.
She’d gone into grisly detail, relishing what she’d surely considered as his squeamishness. With a serrated dagger, he would have to saw through flesh and muscle and dig down past the ribs, pushing them apart until he found the beating heart. With swift, slashing cuts, he would rip out the heart, lift it high and squeeze so blood rained on the thrashing victim.

  It was strange how he’d never considered that outcome of the Nasamon victory before.

  Himilco had few illusions about himself. He would kill rather than allow himself to be killed. He could scheme with the best of them. Yet, his conscience was clear on one point: he lied, killed and plotted for an advantage, never to indulge a bloody deity or to water a murderous old cult from ancient times back into life. Maybe he objected to the cold-bloodedness of the killing. Maybe if they wanted him to butcher old slaves or foreigners so hideously different from him that they didn’t even seem like people, his conscience wouldn’t prick him. For instance, he could rip out the Prophetess’s heart. He would do that because if he didn’t she would kill him if she awoke. That was a matter of survival. And by the Lord of Dragons, he would wade through oceans of blood to keep his own hide intact. Any sane person would do the same.

  Himilco had one last gnawing fear. Did any of his mercenaries, the Gray Wolf or a priestly associate know about his secreted hoard of rubies and double-weight Cyrenean gold owls, or the bags of frankincense? Did they know about the hidden galley and his castle on the western coast?

  As she entered the chamber, Thirmida shut the door. She wore golden slippers, a long white gown and a white cap. The strands of hair sticking out from under the cap showed Himilco that her hair was a mess. He also noticed the puffiness of her face.

  “Could I speak with you?” she asked.

  Himilco slid a warm smile into place. If he had one friend among these nomads, it was this innocent-looking girl. He kept from glancing at Mab. He prayed she remained asleep. The guards had looked up briefly at Thirmida and then returned to their dicing.

  “You honor me.” Himilco now glanced at Mab to show Thirmida they shouldn’t disturb the sleeping old hag.

  As Thirmida nodded, they moved away from Mab and toward the guards.

  “Something troubles you?” Himilco whispered.

  A tentative smile touched Thirmida’s face. “You’re perceptive,” she whispered. “That’s why I wish to speak with you.”

  “And?” he said.

  “You’ve stood closer to Bel Ruk than any of us.”

  “The honor of that still awes me,” Himilco said.

  “A Nasamon would boast about it. He would be puffed up with importance. But you see things more truly and humbly.”

  “You speak too well of me, Prophetess. I have been in error for so many years—”

  She touched his wrist. “I am young, but I understand how bullheaded people are. Most can never admit their wrongs. Even fewer can admit these if they hold high rank. How much harder for a priest to realize and admit he served a false conception of his god.”

  “Bel Ruk choose wisely in you.”

  Thirmida blushed.

  Himilco waited, knowing she would reveal her concerns more quickly this way.

  “I had a dream,” Thirmida said.

  Himilco smothered his surprise. “Did Bel Ruk appear to you?” he asked.

  “I’ve never had such a vivid dream. I felt the god all around me.”

  An icicle of fear stabbed Himilco. “Perhaps if you told me the dream,” he said.

  “I slept on the sand,” she whispered.

  “Sand?” asked Himilco.

  “In the dream I slept on sand.”

  “Ah.”

  “I lay as if in a coffin and I heard rats rustling around me. Then, I realized it was not me there, but a darker-skinned woman. She was wearing wet garments, shivering, and she slept as if she were dead. In the distance, I heard muffled shouts. The only words I caught were ‘Karchedon’, ‘Alexon’ and ‘Rhune assassin.’”

  Himilco’s head lifted sharply.

  “You understand the dream’s meaning,” Thirmida murmured. “Please, tell me.”

  Because he was so tired, Himilco almost blurted out his thoughts. His cunning came to his rescue. He stroked his chin and scowled at the floor.

  Thirmida waited in respectful silence.

  “You must tell me the rest of the dream,” he said.

  She touched his wrist once more, this time in awe. “You say Bel Ruk chose well in me. I now know that he chose well with you.”

  “Only mortals are flawed,” Himilco said. “Therefore, it comes as no surprise that Bel Ruk did well.”

  Thirmida nodded. “The darker-skinned woman turned on the sand as she slept, revealing a dagger with a bone-handle. The dagger seemed magical, although I have no idea how I knew that.”

  Once more, Himilco stroked his chin, and this time he allowed himself a slow nod.

  Thirmida grasped his wrist. There was urgency in her voice. “Tell me what the dream means?”

  “It has to do with the Prophetess lying on the Great Altar,” he said.

  “The Night Owl save us,” Thirmida said in a rush.

  Himilco lifted an eyebrow. “You and I must go at once and check on the Prophetess.”

  “Is she in danger?”

  “There is danger, yes. I must study her hand.”

  “Why?” Thirmida asked.

  “I will know when I see her hand.”

  Thirmida became thoughtful. “My uncle said you must remain here.”

  Himilco snorted. “Did the war-chieftain give the old Prophetess orders?”

  Thirmida shuffled her feet. “Mab is here. Let me ask her advice.”

  “Prophetess,” Himilco said.

  Thirmida faced him.

  “It isn’t my place to instruct one chosen by the Lord of Dragons…”

  A nearly imperceptible coolness touched Thirmida’s eyes. It gave Himilco pause.

  “Instruct was an ill-chosen word,” he said. “I would never presume to instruct you in anything. In fact, I have spoken hastily. Please, Prophetess, forgive an old man—”

  “My uncle is a skilled and wary fighter,” Thirmida said, interrupting him. “It is a hard world on the upper plains of the desert. His cunning has saved our tribe more than once. I trust him. He told me to beware of your sly tricks. I objected. He said to watch you as if you were a jackal. In the presence of lions, a jackal will show great deference. Among mice, the jackal’s teeth will run as red as any killer’s.”

  “Who among the Nasamons is a mouse?” Himilco asked.

  “I am young,” Thirmida said.

  “You are the Prophetess.”

  “What are your instructions for me, Suffete?”

  Himilco thought furiously, and he said slowly, “I was going to say to trust your instincts. Your gentle rebuke has shown me that you already do so. Let us wake Mab and ask her opinion.”

  Himilco gestured toward the old crone. As they walked together, he slowed his step so Thirmida reached Mab first.

  Thirmida glanced back at him. He smiled and nodded. Thirmida shook Mab’s shoulder.

  With Thirmida’s back to him, Himilco’s smile froze. He had to get out of here, get word to the Gray Wolf and tell him to gather his warriors. If the real Prophetess awoke… Himilco wanted the Gray Wolf ready. Aided by his spells, the Gepids could surely cut their way to the quays and his ready galley.

  “Mab,” Thirmida whispered.

  The old crone smacked her lips and wiped drool from her chin. Her eyes were dull and her wrinkled skin slack.

  “Thirmida needs to see the Prophetess,” Himilco whispered, speaking before the girl could.

  Mab blinked at him, nodded, mumbling something, and let her chin droop back onto her shriveled breasts.

  “I’ll tell the guards we’re leaving,” Himilco told Thirmida.

  “Mab,” Thirmida said, shaking the old crone’s shoulder.

  “Let me sleep,” Mab muttered.

  “I need adv
ice,” Thirmida said.

  “Go away.”

  “I’m taking the suffete with me,” Thirmida said. “I wanted you to know.”

  Himilco crossed his fingers.

  Mab mumbled something more. Then her eyes opened. Instead of dullness, intelligence sparked there. She squeezed her eyelids together and opened them wide. She gripped the sides of her chair and pushed herself upright. After a moment, she grinned at Himilco like a marmot eyeing a rat.

  “The suffete stays here,” Mab said.

  “He must study the Prophetess’s hand,” Thirmida said.

  “Why?” asked Mab.

  “Because of my dream,” Thirmida said.

  A cross look filled the old woman’s face. “You silly girl, don’t you realize why you’re the new Prophetess?”

  “Because Bel Ruk has spoken to her,” Himilco said.

  “Still your serpent’s tongue, Karchedonian,” Mab told him.

  Himilco expanded his chest. “I’m a Karchedonian and a traitor. That’s what you think. But I’ll not remain silent while you besmirch Bel Ruk’s chosen vessel.”

  Mab smacked her lips as she shouted, “Warriors!”

  The five dicers sprang to their feet. They grabbed their javelins and rushed across the room. Three of them surrounded Himilco with their whetted points.

  “Mab,” Thirmida protested.

  “Get me something to drink,” Mab said.

  The leader of the warriors rushed to the sanctum basin with a tin cup in his hand.

  “Not from there, you donkey,” Mab said. “I need wine.”

  The warrior hurried to the dicing felt, snatched a flagon and rushed it to Mab.

  She drank several swallows and closed her eyes, perhaps savoring the wine’s warmth. Her smile became predatory as she glanced at Himilco.

  “You put this idea into her mind, eh?” Mab asked.

  “Bel Ruk gave her a vision,” Himilco said.