City of the Lost

22 The Brute Camp

You don’t have to go with me. You hurt your leg yesterday. It needs to heal.”

Linsha crouched at the foot of a large outcropping outside the mouth of Scorpion Wadi. Crucible lay behind her, his long body flattened against the ground. They had bypassed the sentries in the canyon and now waited for Varia to return and tell them all was clear.

“Someone has to keep you out of trouble,” he whispered. “Just what do you intend to do?”

Linsha hesitated. While she felt determined to do something and strong enough to do it, she hadn’t really considered exactly what she should do.

“I gave my word to Iyesta that I would protect her eggs,” she said after a while. “We need to find them. But first, I want to look for the weapon Thunder used to kill Iyesta. It’s possible the enemy has not yet found the back entrance to the labyrinth—the one in the palace grounds. We could go there and look for—”

Crucible cut her off with a sharp sound. “Quiet! I hear hoofbeats.”

They froze, listening to the staccato rhythm of a horse approaching at a fast trot. An almost silent flutter of wings brought Varia to land on the rocks by Linsha’s head. “It is the young centaur,” she hooted.

“Leonidas?” Linsha’s voice warmed with pleasure. She stepped out into the open where he could see her and called his name softly.

There was a clatter of hooves on stone, then silence. “Lady Linsha?” The relief in his voice almost overwhelmed the wariness of the question. He moved forward until he could see her in the starlight. “What are you doing out here?”

She heard something heavy move behind her and saw the glow of golden light illuminate the rocks around her and gleam on the centaur’s pale hide, then it flashed out leaving nothing but spots dancing in her night vision. The centaur’s eyes grew huge. He reared up, his hand reaching for a weapon behind his back. “No, no it’s all right,” she reassured him. “It’s just a friend of mine.”

Leonidas pranced back several steps and shook his mane. “You keep interesting friends, Lady Knight. What was that light?”

“A shapechanger. We were going to go on patrol.”

“Then I am glad to find you. Once again we meet in darkness and need.”

“It does seem to be a habit of ours,” she agreed with a dry laugh. “Were you looking for me?”

“I came to find the militia and to tell someone what we have found.”

“Who is this ‘we’?”

The life seemed to drain out of him. His shoulders sagged and his hands fell to his sides. “We are all that is left of my troop—three of us, the younger ones who got thrust to the back during the heat of the fighting to help the wounded, retrieve arrows, and run messages. We were running errands for our lord when our lines were overwhelmed. We found each other but no one else. We tried to go back to our position and were cut off. It wasn’t until late last night that the Brutes moved on and we were able to get into the barricades to see… they were all dead. Uncle Caphiathus… everyone. The wounded, too. All killed. The Brutes left no one.”

His voice sounded so grief-stricken that Linsha moved beside him and put a hand on his wither. His hide was grimy and wet with sweat, and he smelled of smoke, blood, and sweaty horse.

“No one but you three. Caphiathus would be pleased you survived.”

Leonidas did not seem to hear her. “Since then we have been hiding. Watching.”

Linsha’s ears pricked up. “Watching what?”

“Those painted warriors mostly.” He shuddered. “They are brutally efficient.” He paused and looked up the trail to the Wadi. “Is anyone else still alive? Where is General Dockett? A scout found us and told us some soldiers were coming here.”

“He was right. They’re in the Wadi. The General and Falaius are planning a counterattack. We must try to destroy Thunder’s totem.”

“You mean that horrible pile of skulls?”

Linsha grabbed his arm in excitement. “Yes! Where is it?”

“In the palace. We were in the gardens this afternoon trailing the Brute general. He came to talk to Thunder and was there when the dragon brought in the first few skulls.”

The Rose Knight heard an insistent meow and felt the tomcat twine around her ankles. She picked him up. “Thank you, Leonidas,” she said and strode purposefully toward the feeble glow of light to the south that marked the Missing City.

Her sudden move took the centaur by surprise. “Wait! Where are you going?”

“To the palace.”

“But what about the militia?”

“They are busy. They have much to do before they can attack an unarmed camp, not to mention a conquered city. What they need is information.”

He swung around in front of her and offered a hand. “Then get on. I’ll take you.”

She took it and, clutching the cat, mounted his strong back once more. “Crucible, this is Leonidas. He has helped me several times these past ten days. Leonidas, this is Crucible. Remember what he looks like. It may be important. And don’t be deceived by his size.”

“Are you talking to me or him?” the centaur asked as he moved smoothly into a canter.

“Both of you.”

Behind the centaur and his rider, a small shape detached from the rock outcropping and flew noiselessly after them.

The ancient elven palace was ablaze with the light of hundreds of torches and watchfires as if the images of Gal Tra’kalas had returned and were holding a gala in the gardens and courts of the long dead prince. Soldiers—mercenaries and Brutes alike—camped in the courtyard, guarded the walls, marched along the paths, and stood sentry at every observation point.

Leonidas gave the palace a wide berth and plunged into the shadows of the gardens. He found his companions on the south edge of the ruins, keeping a watch on the road from the city. After a quick introduction, the two told Linsha what they had learned so far. Their tale impressed her. These three centaurs barely out of colt-hood had survived the battle and managed to avoid capture while spying on the dragonlord and his minions.

Phoulos, a bay with a black mane and beard of sorts, continued. “Thunder is collecting these skulls from his lair on the Plains. We think he’s putting them in the throne room, but we can’t get close enough to look.”

“Did he bring them all in one trip?” Linsha asked.

“No,” answered the third stallion, a lighter bay named Azurale. “He won’t trust anyone else to do it.”

Phoulos snorted. “Or he doesn’t have anyone else to do it for him. Even his own kind avoids him.”

“Right. So, he’s made two trips so far, and he left again just a short time ago.”

Linsha rubbed her face, careful to avoid the bruise by her eye. “So the palace is empty?”

Azurale nodded. “Of him. There’s guards everywhere. His journey usually takes about four hours.”

“That’s plenty of time. If we can get through the tunnels, we can get into the lower levels of the place and take a look at these skulls.” Linsha swung her leg over Leonidas and slid to the ground where she gently put the cat down. “Let’s check the door first.”

She led the way to the tumbled building she knew well now. The entrance was there behind the vines and ferns and undergrowth, unguarded and still open.

The centaurs stared suspiciously at the black doorway. “Don’t worry.” Linsha smiled. “You don’t have to go down there. I will. I just want one of you to guard the door for me.”

But the orange cat hissed at her and blocked the way. No. I will go down there. I can pass through ways you cannot and remain unseen.

Linsha started at the words in her head. “Are you sure?”

The centaurs looked surprised. They hadn’t heard the cat. For an answer, the tomcat flicked his tail and limped into the doorway. In a blink he moved out of sight.

“Interesting cat,” observed Leonidas.

Linsha and the centaurs stood about the doorway in an awkward silence while they tried to decide what to do next. Around them a few insects buzzed in the grass, and a cool breeze swept through the trees. A waning moon gleamed yellow over the hills to the east.

Linsha couldn’t stand the quiet. She had come here to do something, not wait around for Crucible. “Leonidas, you said the Brute general came to talk to Thunder. Is he still here?”

Phoulos answered, “Actually, yes. The Brutes set up a command headquarters in one of the other buildings. The general goes back and forth between here and the city.”

“Hmm. I wonder if he knows—”

“Knows what?” Leonidas said eagerly. “What are you thinking, Lady?”

She studied the centaurs, her expression tight with concentration. “I think we’ll take a look around. Would you be willing to help me?”

All three centaurs nodded vigorously. They had not planned to avenge their kin by running away.

“Good. Then listen.” Talking softly, she told them what she wanted to do.

Finding a mercenary alone proved harder than Linsha expected. All the ones they found still awake and on guard either moved about in patrols or stayed at their posts with their companions. It was a long frustrating time before she and the centaurs saw a mercenary stagger out of one of the buildings and make his way into the woods to relieve himself. Fortunately for them, he had had more than his share to drink and he wandered farther into the groves than he intended. It took only a matter of moments to snatch him, break his neck, and drag him into the undergrowth. Linsha quickly pulled off his tunic with the crude blue emblem on the sleeve, his pants, which were a little too big for her but cleaner than her own filthy clothes, and his boots. He wore leather gauntlets, a broad studded belt, and a padded vest, too, which she added to her disguise. The only thing he did not have was a helmet or a hat, but Phoulos had a leather cap he gave to her to hide her curls. When she was finished dressing, Leonidas declared she looked every bit a mercenary.

Although the man had not been carrying a sword when he wandered to his death, he was armed with a dagger, several throwing knives, and a stiletto in his boot. Linsha kept the dagger and the stiletto, but she gave the slim throwing knives to the centaurs.

“You never know when a knife might come in handy,” she said.

Leaving Azurale to watch the tunnel entrance for Crucible, Linsha and the other two centaurs worked their way over to the southern edge of the gardens not far from the road that led to the palace. They found the Brutes had built a strong encampment fortified with a log palisade and guarded by sentries. Within the ring sat the crumbled foundations of an old building that now supported a large and spacious tent decorated with banners and hung with lamps. Smaller tents clustered around it, leaving a clearing directly in front of the tent where the barbarians had placed a ring of spears, each holding the severed head of some hapless enemy. Guards stood at the gate, at the main tent, and all around the perimeter.

Linsha and the two centaurs looked at the encampment, impressed in spite of themselves.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Phoulos whispered. “You might get in, but I don’t see how you’ll get out.”

Linsha was sure. She had a strong suspicion that this general was intelligent enough to know a great deal about the dragonlord’s activities. There was a good chance they could find some useful information in his tent. But was the chance of information worth the risk? She took a second look with a more discerning eye. If those guards over there had been drunk, asleep, inattentive, or fewer, her scheme might work. But they were alert and heavily armed and left not a scrap of ground within the camp unobserved from some angle. There was no way she could see to get into the general’s tent and out again without being apprehended or killed. Linsha had participated in enough undercover activities to know a bad risk when she saw one.

“Maybe we’d better rethink this,” she said softly.

There was a chorus of ominous creaks and a voice said in coarse Common, “That would be a good idea.”

The companions froze in frightened surprise. All three knew the sound of bow strings being stretched.

“That’s good,” continued the voice. “You are completely covered, so don’t try anything heroic. Just step out onto the path.”

Linsha felt sick. She wanted to kick herself for falling so easily into their hands. She looked up at the two centaurs and gave them a nod. “Don’t,” she whispered.

Ever so carefully Leonidas, Phoulos, and Linsha raised their hands in plain view and walked out of the line of trees onto the path. Half a dozen Brute warriors stepped out of their hiding places, their bows drawn and arrows ready.

From a pine tree nearby, the hunting cry of an owl pierced the night. Linsha pretended not to hear it.

The leader of the Brute patrol said something in his own tongue, and the other five warriors swiftly disarmed the captives and urged them at spearpoint toward the encampment. They were taken to the open space before the large tent and forced to wait under the gruesome trophies on the spears.

Linsha refused to look at the heads for fear she might see someone she knew. She stayed close between the centaurs, keeping in their shadows so she could study the men around her without being too obvious.

The leader went into the tent and, after what seemed a lifetime to Linsha, came out again with the Brute general.

The Rose Knight pulled the leather cap further down over her face, but she needn’t have bothered. The patrol leader hauled her out from between the centaurs and pushed her in front of the general. She drew herself up and stared defiantly up at the impassive gold mask. The general was a tall man, taller than Lanther, and built proportionately with wide shoulders and a chest she could crack rocks on. He wore nothing more than a kilted skirt of fine linen and leather sandals, and all of his exposed skin had been painted blue. His long hair had been plaited into dozens of small braids and twisted with white bird feathers. Dark eyes glittered through the eye holes of the gold mask as he studied her. He reached out and yanked her cap off.

“A woman. Reddish hair in curls. Green eyes like gems. Slender nose with freckles. A large bruise on her face. The description was a good one. You are the Solamnic Knight Linsha Majere.” Ignoring her gasp of surprise, he turned to his warriors. “Good work. Take those two to the slave pens. Bind this one and bring her to my tent.”

Linsha stiffened. Her muscles tensed, and her weight shifted as if she were preparing to run. But powerful hands clamped around her arms and pulled them behind her back. She was marched into the tent and tied with leather strips to one of the strong supporting poles in the center. The thongs bit into the raw skin and scabs around her wrists from the last time she had been bound.

“Tie her feet, too,” the general ordered. “She is trained in the ways of the warrior.”

The men complied and left the tent. Linsha could move nothing more than her head. She looked around and realized she and the general were alone. Gods, she wondered, who has been telling him so much about me?

The Brute moved with athletic ease to a low couch carved from black wood and cushioned with animal pelts. On his left stood a small camp table with writing implements and scrolls. To his right was a matching table with a stoneware bottle and several small cups. Behind him hung an ornate banner decorated with geometric designs surrounding a magnificent lion. A sword stood on a rack close to his hand. Hanging from the tent’s roof, Linsha noticed a long, black-shafted lance, but it was muffled in shadows and she could not see it clearly.

She turned her attention back to the general. He sat on his couch and poured a dark red liquid into a cup. He held it up in a mock salute, but he did not drink.

When he said nothing, she glared at him. “Don’t you ever take off that mask?”

“Not in the presence of outsiders,” he growled. “Now tell me where the bronze dragon is. Tell me about this Scorpion Wadi. Tell me about the militia and its general. Who survived and what do they plan to do?”

“Who are you people?” she countered. “Why did you come here? Do you seriously believe Thunder will allow you to stay?”

The general swirled the drink around in his cup and laughed. “Of course he won’t. He is greedy, envious, vicious, and hates anything that gets in the way of what he wants. He will kill the bronze, increase his totem, and drive us out as soon as he grows weary of our help. We, however, have other plans.” He rose and strode to her, the cup still in his hand. “We are the people of Tarmak, the sons of Amarrel. We have crossed the ocean to claim this city for our own.”

“But it’s not your own. This city was built by the Legion, by Iyesta, and by people who came seeking peace.”

“And now they are dead. The city is ours and we intend to keep it. Now, where is the dragon? What does the militia plan to do?”

Linsha pressed her back into the pole to keep away from him. The paint on his body smelled foul, and the menace in his voice sent her heart racing. His words sent her mind racing, too. She had wondered from the beginning how a dragon like Thunder had organized and planned a complicated and thorough invasion of the Missing City. Now she suspected she knew who had really planned it. From the intonation in his voice, she suspected he had not yet completed his plan. Could it be possible that he was also responsible for the death of the brass dragons?

“The bronze went back to Sanction,” she said, trying not to breathe too much in his proximity.

He shook his head and held the cup closer to her face. “He is injured and cannot fly. Now, where is he?”

“How do you know all this?” she demanded. “How do you know me?”

“You are not the only one who can gather information, Lady Knight. We have had spies in this city for several years. Unfortunately, they are unavailable at this moment, and you conveniently placed yourself in my hands.” He raised his other hand and placed his fingers across her face so his fingertips gripped the sides of her head. His touch felt like steel.

“How did you kill Iyesta?” she snapped.

The general’s mask stared down at her, but she heard the slightest intake of breath as if her question had taken him by surprise. “You are stubborn—and as passionate as any dragon. I helped Thunder kill Iyesta and the three young ones with a gift my father received from the Highlord Ariakas himself—an Abyssal Lance.” He nodded toward the blackshafted lance. “Now, I have lost patience. It is time to give me answers.”

His fingers closed on her skull and a brilliant light flashed through her head, as hot and excruciating as a heated poker. Her jaws were forced open, and he poured the contents of the cup between her lips. The liquid tasted vaguely of wine and herbs, but it burned her mouth and the back of her throat. Terrified, she gagged and tried to spit it out, but she succeeded only in choking on the fiery liquid. What was it? Had he poisoned her?

“Where is the bronze dragon?” he repeated.

Linsha’s body went numb and sagged in the straps holding her to the pole. Only her head remained sensitive to the pain that bore into her skull. She stifled a groan as her vision blurred and her thoughts began to run together. Inside her head, memories of dark rain and pounding thunder mingled with blurry images of the tent. She tried to force an image—any image—into focus, only to see it fade and blend and slip out of her reach.

Then the world turned black and wet. She heard the strange voices again, and this time she recognized the language they spoke. Black silhouettes swam into her vision. She saw the figure with the sword come toward her, and she saw her dagger. Clear and brilliant as a flash of lightning, a piece of her memory floated into place. Her dagger. She had stabbed the black figure in the chest. Sir Morrec had died of a knife wound to the back. As the black figure faded out of focus, the second black silhouette swam into her vision. A blow exploded behind her ear. The rainy night abruptly vanished and the tent slipped back into sight. But the steely touch of the hand on her temples was the same. The colored explosion of pain and the acrid aftertaste of magic was the same.

“The dragon,” demanded the voice.

“You… attacked us. You killed Sir Morrec,” she managed to say. She let her chin drop to her chest. Her hair was wet and her face bathed in sweat. She shook as if from a fever.

The general pressed his fingers harder. The pain grew worse. “Answer me, woman. Where do we find the bronze?”

Linsha screamed but she would not answer. Her father Palin had held out for months against the horrible tortures of the Dark Knight mystics. His daughter was made of the same stern stubbornness. She could not betray Crucible.

After a while, the Tarmak general pulled back from the Lady Knight and eyed her unconscious form. A second Tarmak officer stepped into the tent.

“Is she dead?” the man inquired in their rough, guttural language.

The general tossed the cup to the ground. “Of course not. It would take more than I gave her to kill her. She is strong.”

“Will she take the bait?”

“If she is as clever as I have been told, she will take it.”

“And if not?”

“Then I will give her to your men. They can kill her as they wish.” He turned away from his prisoner. “Has Thunder returned from his lair?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

“Good. Then let us go make our preparations.”

Together the two men walked out of the tent, leaving Linsha hanging on the pole.