The Sons of Hull (6 page)

Corfe started at the sudden accusation. “But—”

Telenar shook his head. “Do not waste your time on protests. I knew your colors from the moment you walked in the door. The only reason I have kept you is to ask you this: who sent you?”

Corfe swallowed. None of the training had prepared him for this, but he suspected that revealing his employer’s identity would be a fatal disclosure. Telenar noticed his panic and guessed accurately the cause of it. Rising, he stepped around his desk and seated himself beside the young imposter. His tone was compassionate.

“Are you so terrified of Zyreio’s servant that you would gamble the wrath of Kynell?”

No response. Telenar raised his hands. “I would expel you as an impostor, only I can guess the price of failure from such a master. You should stay here, where you will be safe.”

The gentle suggestion jerked Corfe into action. He rose hastily, knocking over his chair, then stumbled toward the door. It was bad enough that he had failed. All the worse if the Dark One found him hiding under the wings of a priest.

__________

They seemed to walk for an eternity. Corfe was not bound by chains, nor did he have any intention of escaping. To attempt it would be to foreshorten a life already ending. Not a word was spoken and the prisoner was told nothing of their destination.

The night around them was bitter. The cold winds off the sea seemed intent on attending their every step. Corfe wrapped his heavy jacket tighter around him, looked appealingly at the stars, and shivered. Never was there a lonelier time than late breach season night. The whole world seemed waiting to die in its embrace, forsaking all that was living and beautiful for snow and ice. Well, at least this would be the last bitter night he would know.

The man seemed to know his thoughts. “You are expecting death.”

Chafing his cold hands, Corfe nodded. “Yes.”

Still looking forward, the man continued. “Why are you expecting to die?”

“I have failed you and then I tried to escape you. Everyone knows you have no mercy.”

If Corfe had been watching, he would have seen the man smile. His voice, however, showed no change. “You are right. I show no mercy.”

They continued walking, the captor lost in his thoughts and the captive kicking himself for not playing his cards a little better for his last conversation. They were, by now, far outside of the small town and walking perilously close to the coastal bluffs. Corfe could not see the crashing waves at the bottom, but the sound of their attacks issued most ominously from the darkness. He swallowed and summoned his courage.

“You asked why I expected death. Is there another way?”

The man stopped, allowing the wind to stir his dark hair and add ice to his voice. “Do you know who I am?”

“You are a servant of Zyreio.”

The man’s eyes glinted in morbid pride. “
The
servant of Zyreio. I am Amarian, Obsidian’s Advocate.”

“
You
are the Advocate?” Corfe repeated, clinging to conversation as his only hope.

“You forget your lessons already.”

“So the time of battle has truly come again.”

“How quickly you remember. I underestimated Telenar, but I did not underestimate my student. Your performance was pitiful.”

As terrified as Corfe was, the blow to his pride stung. “I had no chance to give a performance. He suspected me as soon as I entered. The greatest of actors would have failed.”

“You failed because you were empty of any qualities similar to my brother. I was a fool to think Telenar would be so easily misled.”

Corfe fell silent, amazed at the amount of information the man had offered. Brother—yes, the Advocates were brothers. He had read that in the Ages. So there must be another power equal to this man’s. He looked again into Amarian’s face and decided otherwise. No power could equal that of Zyreio’s.

Amarian glared at the invisible sea. Perhaps he would spare this one’s life, since some assistance may be necessary for what he was planning. He looked again at the boy and read not only fear, but awe that could be transformed into devotion. Yes, he would do.

“You ask if there is another way?”

“I do.”

“There is. But it requires silence.”

Before Corfe could cry out, Amarian clasped his throat in an iron grasp. Whispering strange words that sounded like a prayer, he looked up into the night sky and Corfe had the unpleasant sensation of his voice departing from his body. When Amarian released him, he could no more utter words than the silent cliffs on which they stood.

CHAPTER THREE

The desert orbs were rising as Vancien stared dully at his handiwork: three fresh piles of sandy clay, under which lay his three companions. Various lizards and dust rats scurried around his feet, unconscious of his great pain. He sat for an eternity thus, until his half-blinded vision began blurring the graves into one large mass. The mound began to pulsate until out of the dirt shot three arms, each one belonging to one of his dead friends. Vancien was paralyzed by shock as he watched the three limbs grope the dust, trying to dig the rest of their bodies out. From somewhere inside the mound, he heard the united voices of his friends crying for release. He jumped to their aid, but the sand turned hard as rock as he, too, became trapped in sandy grave. Shaking furiously, he succeeded in only lodging himself further until even his mouth was sealed.

“You’re in trouble, yes?”

Vancien snapped out of his delirium. The desert orbs were indeed rising after a long, fitful night, but the graves were quiet. The dream had been powerful, but not powerful enough to force itself into reality. Nevertheless, sweat poured from his brow as he squinted to see his visitor. The creature was standing against the orbs’ light, so he could only make out a shadow at first.

“Excuse me?” he whispered, his voice hoarse from lack of water.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” his visitor insisted, stepping to the side and pointing a finger at the graves.

Vancien could see more clearly now, and made out a small, fuzzy animal as high as his waist, were he standing. The creature was covered in short gray fur, except for its face, which held curious red eyes, a small nose, and a small mouth. It stood on two legs and its arms looked as if they could be used more for climbing than for pointing out gravesites. It was dressed in an elegant lizard-skin traveling tunic. Except for its expensive clothes, it reminded Vancien of the cheeky creatures swinging from the trees in regions he had read about as a child.

It spoke again and Vancien jumped to his feet, away from the eerie little beast. But its voice was deep and aristocratic—hardly what one expected.

“By the Plains, man!” it sounded again, taken aback by the movement. A munkke-trophe, Vancien finally decided: a remarkable breed of primate known for its nomadic tendencies and its ability to comprehend various languages. Slightly ashamed, he held up his hands in submission.

“Sorry. You scared me.”

The munkke-trophe was indignant. “I scared you? How do you think I felt, young man, when I rounded this bend here and stumbled upon three fresh graves and a living corpse?”

“Is this your territory?”

“This is the path I have chosen, yes.” It stooped to pick up a short cane, which it had dropped when Vancien had so abruptly arisen. “And now, if you will excuse me, I shall be on my way.”

“No, wait! You asked me if I was in trouble.”

The munkke-trophe did not stop but called back over his shoulder. “Yes, I did. And I have my answer.”

The past hours had evaporated Vancien’s good humor. Before he could stop himself, he sent a sharp stone hurling toward the creature. The aim was true and the cane was knocked out of its owner’s hands. A surprised oath accompanied the munkke-trophe to the ground.

“Well, I say,” it snarled, casting about for its cane and brushing itself off. Vancien stood over it, watching silently.

“See here, young man, could you give an old ‘trophe a hand up?”

“Yes, I could.”

“Well then, by the orbs, do so!” The creature had found its support, but was unable to see for the sand in its eyes. The next few seconds were spent rubbing and blinking with great energy. “What, boy, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Did you just pull that evil trick of knocking out my cane?”

“I did.”

“Humph. Just as I thought. Dratted human youths thinking they can run all over other creatures.”

Vancien could only laugh at its antics, forgetting his anger. He reached down and helped it to its feet.

“There you are. Can you see all right?”

“Well enough to see that you are not in any sort of trouble.”

Vancien sighed as the tragedy came racing back to him. “I am in every sort of trouble. My friends are buried under those mounds, my food and water are spoiled, and I think Kynell has abandoned me.”

The munkke-trophe gave him a brisk pat on the back. “But you have your health.”

“A health I would sooner give up to join the others.”

“Bah! Don’t say that! The Prysm god spared you for a reason.” It eyed Vancien’s torn clothes and bloodied skin. “I assume.”

“I doubt it. But what of you? What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

“Vancien pa Hull.”

“So it is. I am Sirin”

Vancien extended his hand, which was received by an aging paw. “Well met, Sirin.”

“Right. Lovely. A pleasure to meet you, Vancien pa Hull.” Then he, for it was a he, turned to go.

“You’re leaving?”

“That would be the general idea, yes.”

The creature was insufferable. “Then you’re a demonic little rodent!”

This caught Sirin’s attention. His beady crimson eyes narrowed in hostility. “Now see here, young man. I did not pass this way to entertain a human bratling who was foolish enough to get his friends killed. Perhaps it has not crossed your mind that I have important business to attend to? I have no time to dawdle with impertinent youths!” He continued indignantly under his breath. “Demonic! I never—”

Vancien was not so easily intimidated. “Listen, rodent. You’re a shame to your species if you leave me out here like this without any help at all.”

“Stop calling me a rodent! I come from a long tradition of noble blood, great heroes, fearless warriors—”

“And you’re all there is to show for it?”

“Now you’ve gone too far, bratling!” His voice took on an animalistic squeal. “When I get to Lascombe, I’ll report you to the civic—”

Vancien caught his breath. “Lascombe? You’re going to Lascombe?”

The munkke-trophe was immediately wary. “Yes, although it matters little to you.”

“Then I must accompany you.”

“Ha!”

“If you don’t accept me as company, I’ll follow you anyway. You’ll never lose me and never know when I’ll show up next.”

“Your threats are impotent. I know this desert like the back of my paw.”

“And my father was a great tracker who taught me his trade.” Vancien winced inwardly at the lie, but reassured himself with the knowledge that Hull had been pretty good at tracking cattle, at any rate.

“Bah!” Sirin exclaimed, unhappy with the arrangement but unable to see a way out of it. “Fine then. You have thirty seconds to gather your things and then I’m leaving.”

It took less time than that for Vancien to scoop up his pack, collect all the money pouches, and bid a quick, sorrowful farewell to his friends. When he rejoined Sirin, the munkke-trophe’s mood had not improved.

“Bratling.”

“Rodent.”

And so they marched into the rising orbs.

__________

The day in the desert passed quickly and with little conversation. They had to cut sharply west, for although the desert was not wide at this point, it was long, piercing between the Duvarian Range and the flatlands to the south like the tip of a spear. They were north of the Glade now, but the Glade was a day’s walk east of the only pass through the Range. Thus, they marched diagonally and hastily in order to get to the opening of the pass by nightfall.

Sirin was not accustomed to talking and walking at the same time, which was just as well, since Vancien was absorbed in morose thoughts. Where were N’vonne, Naffinar, and Revor now? Were they with Kynell? Or were they just sleeping? Kynellian Lore—or the account, as he liked to call it—stated that the faithful dead slept until the next great battle. Then their spirits would awaken and aid the Advocate. When this task was finished, they would rise to Kynell’s side, and remain there for all eternity. He was aware enough of the ten thousand score timetable to realize his friends would not rest for long. The cyclical battle of Prysm and Obsidian was coming soon; Vancien had only envy for the man who would receive N’vonne and Naffinar’s companionship.

Eventually, after a seemingly endless march, the sand under their feet gradually began to turn to patchy grass. The Duvarian Range had been in their sights all day, and now they were finally in the foothills. He gazed around him, struck by the majesty. On his right, the mountains loomed like great slumbering giants. Perhaps there were gigantic men and women curled up under those snow-encrusted peaks, waiting for the time of their awakening. And the foothills would be their children, snuggled in bunches here and there, the green grass covering them like so many blankets.

Soon, he could see a split in the rocky wall. They were not too far now from the pass. As they stopped their westward progress and turned wholly to the north, he could see that some invisible hand had cleft the mountain in twain, leaving empty air where a peak should have been and a sheltering path to pass through. It was the only way through the range; the intact mountains were virtually impossible to traverse—sharp rocks and dangerous cliffs were everywhere and sudden blizzards often swallowed the entire face. Many a traveler had also been lost to the treacherous sheetrock, where the seemingly solid surface was in reality only a handbreadth thick. Under the concentrated weight of a man, the sheetrock would break and plunge the offender into the hidden depths of the mountain.