Heirs of the Fallen: Book 02 - Crown of the Setting Sun Read online

  “Perhaps one day we will make the attempt anyway,” she said quietly, making it sound like a promise. Whether or not there was truth in her words, or merely some suppressed hope, Leitos breathed easier now that her attention had turned from him.

  “No one will ever stand against the Faceless One,” the Hunter said firmly. “He is too strong.”

  “Not to mention,” Pathil said with a mirthless smirk, “he has plenty of Hunters and spies to make sure the seeds of such a rebellion never land in fertile soil.”

  At this change in the conversation, Zera avoided looking at either man, and seemed to struggle with some retort.

  Pathil pulled a small, round table near the fire, then set about carefully unwrapping layers of thin cloth from two fist-sized rounds of some pale white substance marbled with darker streaks. Using a wicked looking dagger, he sliced the rounds into wedges, releasing a pleasing aroma. Leitos hoped whatever it was Pathil was preparing was food.

  Zera tore the loaf into four pieces and passed them around. Leitos was surprised that she gave him the largest portion, and thought to thank her. But then she was moving away with such indifference that he guessed there had been more happenstance in her gift than compassion. Pathil plopped into his chair and proceeded to fling the pale wedges to the others.

  Leitos caught his, momentarily juggling it with his share of bread. He sniffed at the firm but yielding substance, and saliva filled his mouth. He looked up, found the others eyeing him, and his eyebrows raised in question.

  “Cheese, boy,” the Hunter grumbled. “You eat it.”

  Leitos took a tentative bite. It was smooth on his tongue, and the sharp flavor nearly overwhelmed him. He took a nibble of bread to keep from drooling. In moments, he had gobbled both handfuls.

  “You have never tasted cheese?” Zera asked, then shook her head and answered her own question. “Of course not. You are a slave.”

  Instead of eating her share, she handed it to Leitos. He mumbled a thanks, unable to hold her gaze. Not that she seemed to care. She wheeled away, snatched up another wedge of cheese, and sat down. Even watching Zera eat with small, dainty bites drove Leitos into a baffling state of pleasurable unease. He concentrated on making his second course disappear.

  He avoided licking his fingers, but only because Zera was looking at him again, even as she pulled the cork stopper from the fat skin Leitos had seen earlier. She directed a stream of dark red liquid past her parted lips. A little dribbled over the rounded point of her chin, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. The Hunter took the offered skin with a cautious gleam in his eyes.

  “Even if the wine is poisoned,” she laughed, “I am sure you took the proper measures to survive.”

  The Hunter grunted, took a long drink, and sighed with pleasure. He handed the skin to Leitos, but as he took it, Zera gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head.

  What do I do? He thought in alarm, holding the skin halfway to his lips. As his hesitation grew, so did his nervousness.

  “Well, don’t just sit there, drink up,” the Hunter chided.

  “It won’t hurt you,” Pathil said, his tone lighter but no less biting.

  Leitos darted a look at Zera, but she sat motionless across the fire from him, its flames dancing in her placid gaze. Had she sent him a message of caution, or had he imagined it?

  He swallowed, brought the wineskin to his lips, then jerked back, nose wrinkling. His reaction was partly an act, true, but for some reason he had expected a sweet aroma. He all but flung the skin at Pathil, who caught it with an oath condemning Leitos’s clumsiness, then proceeded to drain half the contents into his mouth. Zera’s eyes narrowed briefly at Leitos, then her face cleared, and she laughed with the men.

  Leitos reclined in his chair, glad his belly was full of something besides the usual lizards, snakes, and scrawny desert hares the Hunter had provided on their southward trek. He feigned sleepiness, but he puzzled over Zera’s subtle warning.

  Finding no answers, he eventually became drowsy, and the others spoke in low tones. On the morrow or the next, he thought, slipping into a welcome slumber, they will go their way, and I will be able to kill the Hunter….

  His eyes flew open seemingly moments later at the pressure of a hand clamped over his mouth. Zera’s face loomed before his, her emerald gaze bright with urgency. “Time to go, boy,” she whispered harshly.

  Chapter 13

  When Leitos nodded, Zera moved away. The fire had died down, proving he had been asleep at least an hour or two.

  Eyes slitted, Pathil sprawled half-in, half-out of his chair, a line of spittle hanging from his bottom lip to his chest. He seemed all too aware of what was happening, but was unable to control his limbs. Sandros fared a little better. One arm slowly stretched out, fingers clutching as if to catch hold of Zera’s throat. He mumbled unintelligibly, but Leitos heard the venom in his voice. The Hunter swallowed audibly, then managed, “Treacherous … whore.”

  Zera laughed caustically. “By this time tomorrow or the next day, the effects of the poison I put in the wine will wear off, and you two will be as hale as ever.”

  She dismissed Sandros and faced Leitos. No kindness shone in her stare. “You will stay at my side, boy. Fail that, and I will leash you. Understood?”

  Leitos nodded slowly, having barely heard her. All he could think about was that he had to kill his captor to gain his freedom … and now that meant killing Zera. He had been able to envision crushing Sandros’s head with a rock, just barely, but not Zera. He wanted to scream in outrage at the unfairness.

  “Carry this,” Zera said, thrusting the Hunter’s satchel into Leitos’s arms. Like her own, it was filled to bursting with supplies.

  Sandros rasped, “I … will … find you.”

  Before he could say more, Zera turned and smashed her fist against the big man’s jaw. He flew out of his chair and sprawled in the dust. Anything else he might have said was lost amid a sighing groan. Leitos stared, incredulous that she could have so easily crushed the consciousness from a veritable mountain of a man.

  Zera pulled a length of cord from her satchel and tied Sandros’s hands behind his back tight enough to deeply crease his skin, then bound his ankles to his wrists. She did the same to an unresisting Pathil, then caught Leitos by the back of the neck and shoved him ahead of her. Pathil’s groggy laughter chased them from the decaying palace.

  Out of doors, a faint gray line brightened the eastern sky above shattered rooftops, but stubborn shadows pressed down upon the ruins of the bone-town, refusing to surrender their dominion. Zera struck out to the south at a brisk pace. Imagining a short tether tight about his neck, Leitos stayed no more than a pace behind her, frantically wondering how he was going to get away from her.

  “Why did you spare them?” Leitos asked abruptly, thinking to learn all he could about her convictions in as short a time as possible—anything that might aid his escape. She glared at him, and for a moment he was certain she meant to crack his skull.

  “Hunters do not slay Hunters,” she said, her voice filled more with anxiety than anger. A moment later she amended that claim. “Except Sandros who, some say, has killed many of his brethren. Such may be lies, but he has never denied it. That is why the Alon’mahk’lar favor him. Another reason is because he hates men even more than the Sons of the Fallen. The stalking wolves of the Faceless One reward and nurture such hatred among their servants,” she finished, as if she herself was not a stalking wolf of the Alon’mahk’lar.

  Leitos waited for her to add anything, but she kept quiet. With his mind awhirl at the sudden change of events, he could not think of anything else to ask. They strode along in silence until passing the southern gate. Zera halted there, looked in all directions, then took a thick bundle of cloth from her satchel.

  “Wear this,” she said, tossing him a cloak. “It will keep the coming sun off your northern skin better than those rags Sandros gave you.”

  He drew on the hooded cloak. It f
it his small frame like a long robe. “Pathil will not miss it,” Zera said, running a critical eye over his attire. Locking on his bare feet, she dug through her satchel again and produced another bundle. “They are mine, but should fit you well enough.”

  One after the other, Leitos pulled on a pair of leather, calf-high boots. They squeezed his toes, but not enough to trouble him. He had never worn footwear, and he rejoiced at the feel of soft leather encasing his feet. He walked a small circle. The tough soles were thin enough that he lost almost no sensation of the ground underfoot.

  “Good,” Zera said with a brisk nod. “Now we can make better time.”

  Leitos’s reflexive thanks withered on his tongue. “If you mean to return me to the Alon’mahk’lar, then you might as well kill me.”

  Zera grinned. “You can go where you will. However, if you wish to hold to your freedom and your life, you will stay with me.”

  Leitos blinked uncertainly. “All that about leashes—”

  “A farce,” Zera interrupted, her grin widening. “Something to ensure Sandros and Pathil keep believing I am a proper Hunter—the same as them. They will be angry with my apparent treachery, but such deceptions are not uncommon among Hunters, and are expected besides. For the most part, they will be angry with themselves for underestimating me.”

  Past voices filled Leitos’s mind. Trust no one, save those of whom I’ve spoken … All men are liars. “If you are not a Hunter, then who are you?”

  “A friend.”

  “How can I believe you?” he insisted.

  She laughed, a low and enticing sound. “If you have any wish to become an old man, you can ill afford to fully trust me, or anyone else, ever. But know that in safeguarding your freedom, I stand on your side.” Unless I decide to become your enemy, she did not add, though it seemed implied.

  Dawn’s soft pink light overtook the gray in the east, as Leitos mulled his choices: leave her and go alone, or stay with her and blindly hope she did not betray him, as she had Sandros and Pathil. Zera did not demand his immediate decision, but she fidgeted, eager to move on. He chose to let her answer to his next question decide whether he would stay with her, or set off on his own. “Where will we go?”

  “In time, we will go west, boy, beyond the Mountains of Fire, then to the Crown of the Setting Sun. That is where you will find those you seek.”

  “How could you know—” he blurted, stopping himself too late.

  “Where else would you go?” Zera said impatiently. “That you are a slave in Geldain marks you as Izutarian.”

  “Why does that matter?” Leitos asked.

  “Long has there been an alliance between Izutar and those in Geldain who are faithful to the memory of the age before the Upheaval, and the rise of the Faceless One. Although the faithful are few, they never cease trying to counter him at every turn. He has succeeded in hiding this opposition, but he has failed to destroy it.”

  “You are speaking of the Brothers of the Crimson Shield,” Leitos said cautiously, wondering why Adham had never mentioned any alliance. If not for Zera’s accuracy about his destination, he would have kept silent … or perhaps not. Even after all he had experienced since fleeing the mines, he found it almost impossible not to reveal his secrets to her. In truth, he wanted to trust her with everything.

  “Yes,” Zera said. “And I masquerade as a Hunter in order to serve the brotherhood.”

  Leitos thought about the Hunters, all who served the Alon’mahk’lar, and found it unimaginable that anyone could achieve such ends without detection. “How do you know that Sandros and Pathil have not guessed what you are about and won’t track us into the west?”

  “We do not have time for this,” Zera cautioned, looking back toward the bone-town.

  “If I am to go with you, then I must be able to trust you.”

  “I cannot know the minds of Sandros and Pathil,” Zera said reluctantly. She motioned him to walk with her. “I will explain what I can on the way.”

  Leitos strode along, waiting for her to gather her thoughts.

  “Soon after the Faceless One made it known that he sought to enslave all Izutarians,” she began, “the last king of Izutar raised his banners in rebellion. The Faceless One crushed all resistance, and sent the enslaved to Geldain. The northern king retreated, still fighting, but he also made a pact with the Brothers of the Crimson Shield—rather, the father of the brotherhood, a man who rode with the king in the days before he gained his throne.”

  “What pact?”

  “You really do not know?” Zera said, arching an eyebrow at him. Leitos shook his head. She sighed. “The brotherhood agreed to do all they could to free any northern-born slaves in Geldain, in honor of past loyalties.”

  “That pact must not have been very strong. There have been few if any slaves ever freed from bondage in Geldain.”

  “True,” Zera agreed, “but that has nothing to do with any weakness in the fellowship between the King of the North and the Brothers of the Crimson Shield. You must understand, the Alon’mahk’lar hold Geldain with unflinching brutality. Even where it seems that men walk free, they are, in truth, as much slaves as any who wear chains. Freeing anyone in Geldain is no small matter.

  “Now, in answer to your earlier question: I thwart the control of the Alon’mahk’lar whenever I can by posing as one of their agents. If it is ever found out that I serve the brotherhood, I will be tortured to discover all that I know, then killed.”

  “So,” he said slowly, “did you become a Hunter before or after you joined this … this secret struggle?”

  “After,” Zera said without hesitation. “So, boy, do we stay together, or do you wish to test your wits against Sandros and Pathil?”

  “I will stay with you,” he said, seeing little choice in the matter. In his heart, he hoped she spoke the truth. Not just because it would be good to have an ally, but because he knew he would never be able to kill this woman. “My name is Leitos.”

  Zera studied him a moment. “Leitos,” she said slowly. “I like that.” She offered him another those secretive grins, cracking her mask of hard, cruel beauty, and making her into a pretty young woman.

  That smile will be the death of me. Even as this idea drifted through his consciousness, a garbled shout echoed from deep within the ruins of the bone-town.

  Zera’s head whipped around. “Sandros,” she hissed in disbelief. “He is stronger than I imagined. He will be weak for days, but he will soon follow. Come, Leitos, it is time to run.”

  Chapter 14

  They ran until Leitos began to lag. Zera halted long enough to take his satchel, then they set out again. “We must reach Zuladah as soon as possible,” she said, scanning the brightening emptiness at their backs.

  “Why not just flee into the west?” Leitos panted.

  “Long has the Faceless One known of the Brothers of the Crimson Shield,” she said, breathing easily, “yet he has never been able to crush them. I cannot allow Sandros, or any other Hunter, to suspect that I am part of that order. To ensure that, Sandros must believe I am taking you to Zuladah … which, of course, I am.”

  Leitos rubbed sweat from his eyes, thinking that made no sense. “Won’t there be Alon’mahk’lar in Zuladah?”

  “Yes,” Zera said. “We go into the very heart of the adder’s nest, just where Sandros would expect a fellow Hunter to take a slave captured this side of the River Ul’aman. When he gives chase, he will think I mean to give you over to the slavemasters. Out of fear of losing his status among them, he dare not ask the Faceless One’s lackeys if I handed you over. In time, he and the Alon’mahk’lar will begin to hear rumors of your unfortunate death—a common fate of escaped slaves. It is a dangerous game we play, one that may be found out, and so I will also use Zuladah’s populace to cover our escape.”

  “If you mean to spread word of my death,” Leitos said, “then I still do not understand why we go to Zuladah.”

  “If you need another reason,” Zera said, impa
tience tightening her voice, “it is because we require supplies to make the journey, which I can only get in Zuladah.”

  Leitos had no head for such scheming, and decided to leave it to her.

  The day passed, a seemingly endless flight under scorching heat and blinding sunlight, across a dead land filled with sand and dust and scrub. The only good Leitos could count was that the Hunter’s furious cry had not come again, suggesting that Zera’s poison had done its work. But Sandros would follow at some point, of that Leitos had no doubt.

  By the time they reached the second bone-town two days later, all Leitos really cared about was water. Zera had doled out sips from a waterskin along the way, always giving him a greater measure than she herself took. In addition, she occasionally fed him hard strips of leathery, salty meat. “It is not much,” she said once, “but it will keep up your strength.”

  On the rare occasions Zera bothered to say anything, she usually sounded like that—distant, as if talking to herself. The Hunter had also spoken to himself. But then, who else do they usually have to speak with, other than themselves? In a strange way, he suspected the Hunters were as much slaves as he had been.

  The second bone-town resembled the first, a forsaken habitation of crumbled buildings and smashed palaces, all surrounded by a fallen warding wall. The only true difference was the size. With nightfall coming swiftly, he judged that the first bone-town had been a mere village next to the second. Leitos imagined the city as it had been before the Upheaval, a thriving capital of some lost kingdom, filled not with thousands of people, but tens of thousands. For the barest moment the illusion held, the grandeur of life made all the more believable by the golden glow cast by the dwindling sunlight….

  Then the sun sank below the horizon, and the inviting city of gold and light transformed into a vast and open crypt bathed in blood. The false allure withdrew, revealing a haunt of jackals and carrion birds, lost spirits and lurking shadows. Jagged and misshapen, the bones of what forgotten men had built rose toward the coming night, as if in supplication for an unattainable mercy.