Nothing had been said. Valko could not imagine Hirea hadn’t seen the kill, for nothing escaped the old warrior’s sight. Yet he had done nothing. Valko had expected Seeleth to be chastised, even killed, by the old teacher for breaking the rules of combat, but Hirea had merely turned his back as if he had seen nothing.
Valko was troubled, but not enough to ask a question. Questions when they were not expected were dangerous; too many questions meant a warrior was unsure of himself. Lack of certainty was weakness. Weakness was death.
Still, he remained troubled; rules were not followed, yet no punishment was forthcoming. What could be the lesson here? Valko wondered. That victory negated rules?
Hirea stood up in the stirrups on the back of an old male, as veteran and battle-scarred as he was. He signaled and the riders left the stabling area and reined in at the portal of the stabling yard. Hirea held up his hand for order and then spoke. “A warrior must be ready to answer the call at any moment of the day or night. Now we ride!”
The young warriors followed their instructor as he led them down the long winding road from the old fortress that was now their training home. In ages past the fortress had belonged to a chieftain of an ancient tribe, its name now known only to archivists. The shifting sands that were the foundations of Dasati society had swallowed up another family. Perhaps a group of families had switched allegiances, abandoning an allied family to a harsh fate while seeking a more powerful patron. Perhaps a patron had been deserted by clients who sought more power by forming new alliances.
Valko realized he would never know unless he took the time to seek out an archivist, something for which he had little time and even less inclination. Valko let his senses attune to the night. He preferred the night: the lack of visible light was more than compensated for by his ability to see heat and, to a lesser degree, sense motion. Like all his race he could easily adapt to most environments; even deep, cold tunnels and caves. As he had spent most of his days of Hiding in such, Valko had developed an exceptional knack for judging distances and shapes, no matter how faint, by echoes.
He drank in the landscape as they rode down the trail—the blank, rolling fields, the distant hills almost imperceptible save for being slightly darker than the surrounding air. All was a panorama of gloom, except where tiny hot spots revealed vermin and their predators. A distant pack of zarkis could be seen chasing a swift prey animal, perhaps a loper or darter, across a distant field. Dangerous for one man, the zarkis pack would give eleven riders a wide berth. Years of being killed by the Dasati had bred a healthy fear of armed riders into them. But there were other night predators to be wary of: keskash, the two-legged ambush-hunter of the woodlands that would rush from concealment and snap a rider off his mount with jaws strong enough to shred armor. Its hide secreted a film of moisture that evaporated rapidly, hiding its heat form until it was almost upon its prey.
In the air the night-pouncers circled, their tiny intellect turned completely to calculating chances of survival as they struck down various prey, for nothing on this world surrendered its life without a struggle. Their heat images were hazy, for their large membrane wings dissipated heat quickly, hiding them from detection, both from those they sought to consume and from the flying claws, the powerful flyers who drifted high above them. The claws soared in the upper atmosphere, at times miles above the surface, until they expelled the gases from their bowels that gave them buoyancy; then they would swoop down on unsuspecting targets in the sky or on the surface. Their large wings would snap open with a crack like thunder as they turned their stoop into a sudden glide, their hollow pointed claws seizing their prey. Their powerful wings would beat as they climbed higher into the sky while they sucked fluids from the bodies of those they clutched in their talons. Before they reached their soaring altitude, they’d let go of a dried carcass that would tumble slowly back to the surface. The claws were powerful enough to seize a varnin and lift it, and those talons could punch through a breast plate. It was rare, but not unheard of, for a rider to be snatched from the saddle and carried off.
Valko reveled in the night. Like most of those on this ride, he had slept days most of his Hiding, venturing out after sunset to steal what he needed. His mother had told him that once he had sought out and won his place at his father’s right hand, he would come to appreciate the daylight. He never doubted his mother; she was a woman of powerful intellect and keen perception, and he had yet to discover that she was wrong on any subject, but he wondered if he would ever feel completely comfortable in the harsh day after the concealing night.
He wondered why they were making this sudden night ride, but knew better than to voice any question. Hirea would tell them what they needed to know when they needed to know it. The Dasati way was predicated on a complex set of relationships, and when it was time for blind obedience, any question would almost certainly get a young warrior killed.
His varnin was huffing as they crested another hill, for these creatures were bred to charge over short distances at high speed, not for endurance rides. But no draft varnins had been stabled at the old castle. Each youth knew the more sedate creature was a poor steed in battle, but they were preferable for longer rides. Valko concluded that either dire circumstances had led Hirea to call out the young riders or he just didn’t care if the animals were incapacitated. Valko didn’t care if his mount suffered; he just didn’t like the inefficiency of seeing a good war mount ruined and had no desire to walk back to the castle if it should fail.
As they started down the hill, Hirea motioned for a halt. Several varnins were huffing with flaring nostrils and trembling as they fought to catch their breath. Idly Valko wondered if the varnins and draft varnins could somehow be crossbred, resulting in a steed with both endurance and the requisites needed for ferocity in battle. He took a moment to save the question to ask a breeder at his father’s demesne. Such a steed would gain the Camareen power, raising their status in the Sadharin, and perhaps even bringing them closer to the Karenna’s court, for such a beast would be of great value to the Empire.
Then Valko sensed it. Familiar as his mother’s voice, the sense of being near a Hiding. His mind struggled with conflicting thoughts and feelings. He saw other young riders also looking agitated and confused.
Mere weeks ago he would have been among those seeking shelter from the night riders, trying to blend in with the shielding countryside.
He forced himself to think. Why would there be a Hiding here, in low farmland hills running with zarkis, keskash, and other dangers? He willed his mind to be free from the conflicting desires to hide and to hunt. There! He saw it. A stream that had cut deeply enough into the wash below that it was not visible from the road. It would be leading down from the hills to the east. Whoever was concealed nearby had been driven down from the mountains above; perhaps a local lord had caught wind of the Hiding on his land and had been clumsy in hunting down the fugitives. Or perhaps the fugitives were relocating as a matter of practice, as his mother had done many times during his childhood—though his mother never would have led him and the other children into any position this exposed.
There was a natural wish in Dasati warriors to destroy any potential young male rivals or females too young or too old to breed. As his mother had taught him, if warriors were too successful, the race would perish. Yet if they did not earnestly try to purge the weak, the fate of the race would eventually be obliteration. His mother was a remarkable teacher, always giving Valko subjects to ponder. On more than one occasion she had observed that intelligence had not been a useful gift from the Dark One and that animals who are more in balance with the natural order survive at better rates than the Dasati. Only one child in five survived into adulthood, which is why breeding young had been such a drive.
Even abstract thinking about breeding while in the middle of a hunt made Valko’s body start to ache. If there was a suitable breeding female nearby he would take her this night, even if she was a Lesser! It had been those first such yea
rnings that had forced his mother to send him to his father, for once he was able to breed, he was ready for the testing; moreover, he was a deadly danger to every immature Dasati in the Hiding. Valko wondered where his mother might be. He knew that as soon as he had departed, she and the other mothers in Hiding would have moved to another safe location, perhaps to one of the villages of Lessers in the high peaks.
Valko shook his head to clear it. This was madness, dwelling on the past while a purging was commencing! He saw Hirea watching him, for he, alone among the riders, had regained his perspective. He didn’t hesitate, but spurred his still-breathless varnin down the bank toward the stream. As he suspected, there was someone hunkered below the sheltering overhang of rocks there. As soon as his varnin’s hooves struck the water, they were off.
He couldn’t see features clearly in the dark, but as they moved the concealing wet mud started to fall off their upper bodies and was washed off legs and thighs by the water in the stream. There were half a dozen young and three adult females. He drew his sword and charged. One female ushered the young ahead of herself while two turned to challenge him. Suddenly he wished it was day, for he could not tell from their heat-shape if they were armed. He knew the desperate females would defend the young with nails and teeth against armor if they must, and two adult Dasati females were not to be taken lightly by a young warrior.
He was anxious to kill. The demand for blood on his sword pounded in his ears like an ancient chant, and he realized it was the sound of his own heart he was hearing.
It would be rash to go straight in, either attacking the first female with his varnin, while striking at the second with his sword. But he also knew that whichever one he attacked, the other would almost certainly leap at him, attempting to pull him from the saddle.
As if coordinating by thought alone, the two females spaced themselves evenly, forcing him to choose one over another. At the last instant, Valko took his varnin to the edge of the bank, away from one female and beyond the reach of the second. He didn’t waste a second trying to cut at her from below, for he knew she would most certainly try to duck under the sword blow, and might grab his boot and unseat him.
He feigned with his sword and, as she started to stoop, kicked her in the face. Then he leapt down from his mount, landing with his boot heel on her throat, crushing it. He was close enough to hear the deadly snarl of the second female who almost certainly knew she was about to die, but who would do so willingly to save her young. She crouched, and in her right hand she held a blade.
Valko could hear other riders finally coming down the bank, and he knew that in a moment they would be past him, attempting to overtake the other female and the young. His anger at not being in on the killing of the children fueled his already considerable bloodlust, so he looped a lazy blow toward her head, as if he had no regard for how dangerous she could be with a large dagger. As he expected she ducked easily underneath it and thrust her dagger at the spot where his neck was unprotected by his breast plate; but he had only feigned the blow. At the last moment he turned his blade down, catching the female across the shoulder, and rather than trying to use force to sever her head from her neck, he just pulled back hard on the blade, opening up a deep wound in her neck that started a fountain of blood. She took a staggering step toward him, then collapsed to her knees.
Without waiting to see her fall forward, he dodged around her. Other riders sped past him. He reached his varnin, mounted it, and was about to put his heels to its sides when Hirea’s voice shouted, “Valko! Wait here!”
The young fighter reined his mount around, the need to kill still pounding in his chest. He sat trembling, but obeyed as Hirea said, “Hold.”
Hirea came to his side, their mounts facing in opposite directions so they could speak face-to-face. “How did you know?”
Valko couldn’t catch his breath.
“Deep slow breaths, and turn your mind away from killing. You are not an animal. You are Dasati.”
Valko found it difficult. He wanted nothing more than to ride after the others, finding those in Hiding and slash and hack until the stream ran orange with their blood. He gritted his teeth.
“Think!” shouted Hirea, one of the rare times he had raised his voice. “Do not let any part of you overwhelm your mind! Your mind, Valko! Always the mind first. You are not an animal. Now, think!”
Valko forced his attention to his hand, the one holding the reins of his varnin. He then concentrated on the trembling he felt in the reins, as the animal waited for his next command, ready to answer the call to hunt, excited by the smell of blood in the air. He felt his mind expand from the attention he paid to the animal, the stream, their surroundings, to Hirea himself. Finally, he slowly sheathed his sword.
“We had received a message from a trader that he had seen smoke on the wind at sunset. I was guessing as to the most likely place they might hide from that tiny piece of information. But you found their exact location. We should have ridden past and they should have reached that distant woodland. How did you know?”
Valko spoke slowly, his voice thick with emotion. “I knew they were down there.”
“But how? I didn’t smell them, for the mud masked the scent, and I couldn’t see them.”
“It is where I would have hidden,” said Valko. “It is what I would have done.”
Hirea’s old eyes studied the young face, not seeing the features clearly, but sensing the pattern of blood as it pulsed under the skin. Valko knew his face must have looked like a burning mask in the night when Hirea had come to his side.
“You were overwhelmed by the conflict between your training to hide and your desire to kill, yet you regained control faster than any youth I have trained.”
Valko shrugged. “I just did.”
“Ah,” said Hirea. He leaned over and said, “Listen, young lord of the Camareen. The Scourge have little concern for the youth of the Sadharin, but you have…potential. It is not in your best interest or that of your family to make that potential too widely known too early in life. You must learn to walk the thin line between strength and weakness, the balance that will keep you alive until you find your own place in the order of the Dasati.
“You have two kills tonight, both adult females in their prime. This is not an insignificant achievement for a youth. It earns you merit.
“But for you to have overtaken the others and killed more this night…that would have been…remarkable. And being remarked upon is something you do not wish right now.” Hirea turned his mount slightly, motioning for Valko to bring his varnin alongside. “Come, let us see how the others are doing.”
Valko fell in beside his teacher.
“I can smell the blood and breeding lust in you, young Camareen. If I’m a judge of such things you will soon be back at your father’s castle.” He leaned over and again dropped his voice. “But not too soon, as that would also be remarkable.” He pointed. “The others are over there. If any of those children escaped, I will have them walk back to the keep, leading their mounts, and if they have to fight a pack of zarkis, so be it.
“I am rewarding you,” said Hirea. “I will send a female Lesser to your room when we return. You reek of breeding need. I will have her teach you the Games of Tongues and Hands, but do not couple: you would displease your father should you begin breeding, even with unacknowledged Lessers, before I judge you ready to establish your place in his house.
“But you deserve acknowledgment for being the first to find the Hiding, and for the first kill. Share the female with your brother or not as you wish, but remember, what you did this night was remarkable.”
Valko nodded, realizing that soon he might have to kill this old man.
ELEVEN
DELECORDIA
The vista was amazing.
Pug, Nakor, Magnus, and Bek had exited a doorway from the Hall of Worlds, after following detailed instructions by Vordam, and were now standing upon a peak overlooking the city of Shusar, on the world of Delecordi
a. As he had warned them, the doorway used was the less traveled of the three doors known to connect Delecordia to the Hall, and it was the least used for an obvious reason; for it exited onto a windswept ledge with barely enough room for the four men to stand, and only a single narrow pathway down to safety.
Pug didn’t worry about falling; he had enough magical skill to protect himself and the others, though none of them would likely need his help. Magnus was better able to levitate and fly than any student in the history of Sorcerer’s Island, Nakor always had a “trick” at hand, and while Bek couldn’t fly, everything he had revealed about himself gave Pug the distinct impression it would take more than a tumble down a small mountain to kill the young warrior.
“Look at that,” whispered Bek. “That’s interesting.”
Nakor was forced to agree. “Yes, very interesting.”
The sky contained colors they had never experienced, scintillating rushes of hues across the spectrum that pulsed and glowed for brief instants, never staying still long quite enough for the eye to apprehend them. It seemed that every gust of breeze or movement of a cloud above was outlined in these alien colors. Pug was quiet for a moment then said, “I’ve seen colors like that once before.”
Magnus glanced at the steep mountainside sweeping downward from where they stood. “When was that, Father?”
“When I was a boy. During the ride with Lord Borric, when Tomas and I were traveling with him to warn the Prince of Krondor of the Tsurani invasion. Beneath the dwarves’ mountains we encountered a waterfall with colors like those. The rocks bled minerals that were made luminescent from the churning energy of the water, and the light from our lanterns. I’ve not seen those colors since, and never this vivid.”
“I like it!” shouted Ralan Bek, as if the point needed to be emphasized by volume.
Nakor said, “Really?” Nothing in his experience with the young man had prepared him to consider he possessed any aesthetic appreciation.