Dawn of the Ice Bear Read online

  “He is inside,” Tarawa said. “If he were out, I would know of it. Anyway, for the past month or more he has almost never ventured beyond his walls. Most of his time is spent inside the temple, there in the center of the compound.”

  “Do we know if the Teeth has been delivered yet?” Kral asked.

  Tarawa shook her head. “I think we need to go inside to find out.”

  “Then why do we stand here?”

  “Shh!” Alanya grabbed Kral’s arm. “Listen.”

  The group hushed immediately, and in the silence, Donial heard the sound that had alerted his sister. The unmistakable scuff of feet on the road. Many of them. Men trying to walk quietly, Donial guessed.

  “Coming this way,” Kral whispered. “Where can we hide?”

  Tarawa pointed toward an arched gateway—one of the entrances to al Nasir’s vast compound, but unguarded, it seemed. “In there!”

  They hurried across the narrow street into the shadows. Here, standing so close to al Nasir’s home turf, Donial felt a chill. It wasn’t possible that the sorcerer could know they were here—was it? Could the people coming their way be guards sent out to fetch them?

  In less than a minute he knew the truth. It was Gorian and his mercenaries, having arrived from the camp they had made the night before. They approached al Nasir’s campground with all due stealth, but there were too many of them to remain completely silent. Their feet chafed the earth, their weapons and armor jingling softly with their progress.

  Donial watched them approach. He didn’t know what to do about their presence, if anything. Nor was there opportunity to confer with his comrades. Any word uttered now, no matter in how low a whisper, would alert their competitors to their presence. He stood, still and silent, willing them to just pass by. But then Sullas glanced their way, as if his eye had been drawn by some hidden magnet.

  “There!” he said, glaring into the shadowed archway. Pointing.

  He stood there still when the snake shot from an alley and caught him in its enormous mouth.

  KRAL DREW HIS sword from its scabbard for the second time since they had left Tarawa’s house. This time, he fully expected to use it—but on men, not on some horrific beast. That was before the creature exploded into the midst of the mercenaries, though. Its gaping maw clamped across Sullas’s middle, splitting the man virtually in two. With a single, horrible bite, it swallowed Sullas’s lower half. The hardened mercenaries screamed with panic. Among them, the snake—even bigger than the last one they’d seen—writhed and bucked, fangs flashing in moonlight as it lunged at another of the soldiers.

  Other soldiers tried to fight the thing, their blades hacking and slashing at it. But the snake whipped its massive tail and smashed six of them against the compound’s wall. The cuts of the others didn’t seem to slow the thing at all.

  Kral felt Mikelo’s hand on his arm, holding him back. “If it kills them, so much the better,” the boy said.

  “If it kills them, we’re next,” Kral countered. He pulled free of Mikelo’s hand and charged into the fray.

  The snake exuded a foul, fetid odor, as if it had only just crawled out from the depths of hell itself. Its skin was pebbled, gray-black. It moved with a grace that Kral found at once repulsive and strangely beautiful. That didn’t keep him from slashing at it with the keen edge of his blade. But the snake ignored the blow. It crushed a soldier underneath it, then turned its attention to the newcomer.

  Kral was almost hypnotized by the eyes locked on his. They were golden in color, penetrating, with pupils like dark, bottomless slits. They stared unblinkingly at him, and he thought he could easily fall into them and never come out. A strange, awful intelligence seemed to inhabit those eyes, as if the creature might begin speaking in its own odd and sibilant tongue, sharing all the knowledge its kind had amassed over the eons. Perhaps this was why some worshiped snakes, why they let them roam the streets freely. Kral shut his eyes tightly and struck out with the sword just before the snake lunged at him, its fangs dripping liquid poison. When he dared look, the tip of his sword had become embedded in the snake’s forehead, just above the right eye. Thick green blood welled up around the wound. When Kral yanked his blade free, it jetted toward him as if from a fountain, splashing him with a hot, acidic stream.

  The snake jerked away from him, writhing in pain. As it did, its coils wrapped around some of the mercenaries, who hacked and stabbed at it with their own weapons. Even wounded, the thing was supremely powerful, and one of the men dropped his sword as his shoulders and head turned red, then purple. Others started trying to slash their way to him, to free him, but before they could do so, he slumped over onto the snake’s back, dead.

  After wiping off as much of the snake’s burning blood as he could, Kral turned his full attentions back to it. He approached its head again, dodging its snapping jaws. The head lunged toward Kral, and he swatted it with the flat of his blade. It retreated, then came again from a different angle. This time, Kral stabbed upward when the head neared him. His sword cut up through the beast’s chin, shattering teeth. As it tried to back away, Kral held the sword still, and the snake ripped a huge gash in its own lower jaw.

  It let out a kind of keening wail, a sound unlike any Kral had ever dreamed snakes could make. Its acidic blood splashed everywhere. Its writhing sped up, as if in a panic, and Kral heard several of the men cry out in pain.

  Finally, the snake slumped to the ground as if all its muscles relaxed in sequence, tail to head. The head twitched a couple more times, the horrible golden eyes staring at him with their own weird intelligence, even in death.

  Kral shuddered, glad the confrontation was over. His flesh burned where the blood had spattered him, and his ribs ached where the stab wound he’d gotten from the pirate captain Kunios had been aggravated by the struggle. He bent at the waist, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. As he did, Alanya, Donial, and Mikelo came over to him.

  “Good job, Kral!” Donial enthused. “Had it not been for your efforts that monster would likely have defeated all of those mercenaries.”

  Kral nodded wearily, and when he raised his head, Gorian stood before him.

  “The boy is correct,” Gorian said. “We owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  “I did it for us, not for you,” Kral said. “The lot of you would likely not have sated the appetite of so great a creature.”

  Gorian smiled. “Nonetheless, you and my men battled together, side by side. Since I can only assume that our objectives here in Kuthmet are similar—else why lurk outside the compound of the sorcerer Shehkmi al Nasir?—perhaps we should consider continuing the partnership begun here.”

  “I doubt that our objectives are the same,” Kral answered. “I seek to save the Pictish people from certain destruction. Is your cause as clear or worthwhile?”

  Gorian hesitated for only a moment. “I know nothing of a threat to the Picts, or any other people,” he admitted. “I know only that I seek, on behalf of one I serve, a Pictish crown that has come into the possession of the Stygian.”

  “Then our immediate goal is the same,” Kral said. “I also seek the crown. But it is after the gaining of it that our intentions surely differ.”

  “True enough,” Gorian said. His arms were crossed casually over his chest. “Why not ally our efforts, until such time as we have seized it? Mitra knows we’ll have a fight on our hands with al Nasir.”

  “And when we have it, what then?” Donial asked. “We fight each other?”

  “Depending on who is left alive at that time, the issue may have settled itself,” Gorian said. “Or perhaps there’s a way we can both achieve our ends. Whatever you plan to do with the crown may not conflict with what my master desires. It just seems foolish not to combine our forces in order to give ourselves the best chance against the sorcerer.”

  “I agree,” Alanya put in. “We know not what we face inside, and even Tarawa can only provide so much assistance. The lot of us working together have a better chance
at success than just a few. And if we’re competing with one another for it, our chances are lessened even more.”

  Kral found himself swayed by these arguments. If both groups tried, independently of the other, to get the crown, they would only get in each other’s way. Chances were Shehkmi al Nasir would be able to play them against each other and retain the Teeth for himself. Working together would increase their chances.

  And he had no doubt that, when they had the crown, he would be able to defeat Gorian in combat. The number of mercenaries at his disposal had been severely depleted by one fight after another, and some had not survived the battle with the snake. He counted but six remaining, Gorian included. Most were wounded, a couple bleeding seriously, though they bound their wounds with strips of fabric cut from their clothing.

  Team up now, fight whoever was left for possession of the Teeth. That was a plan Kral could live with.

  9

  INSIDE THE COMPOUND of Shehkmi al Nasir, three acolytes walked torchlit passageways, their slippered feet almost silent on the worn stone floors. Two led the way, one carrying a censer that filled their way with strong incense and the other a small chime that gave soft musical tones with every step. Behind them, the third held an ornately carved wooden box, inlaid with precious gems and tiled designs of indescribable beauty. Inside the box, nestled in a bed of black velvet, was the Pictish crown they had acquired in Tarantia. The three chanted quietly, repeating a tune whose words had long since lost their meaning to all but the most dedicated scholars of ancient days.

  The acolyte who carried the box allowed himself a quick smile. He knew this was a solemn occasion and that his master was not a man who appreciated humor or moments of self-congratulation. But the acolyte was young. He had only been in the service of al Nasir for a little more than two years. In that time, he had worked hard to gain his master’s favor. Al Nasir demonstrated that favor in only small ways, but each time he did the acolyte felt an inner thrill that he had pleased the powerful sorcerer. Having achieved this, having brought the crown that al Nasir claimed would help increase his power, could not fail to raise his status in the master’s eyes.

  Al Nasir had not said precisely that he would—or could—challenge Thoth Amon for position as the most powerful servant of Set in the land. Nonetheless, the acolyte thought that might be the case. There could only be two outcomes, he knew, to such a challenge. The likeliest was that Thoth Amon would smite Shehkmi al Nasir with every weapon at his disposal and render the whole compound smoking rubble. In that case, the acolyte would die in his master’s service, which would ensure him safe passage down the River Styx to the land of the dead. But the other possibility was that al Nasir would win the struggle. In that case, he would doubtless bestow great favor and blessings on the ones who had brought him the crown that had made his victory possible.

  So the acolyte allowed himself a momentary sense of accomplishment, and thought about the rewards that would follow, in this world or the next. He and his partners had been assigned a difficult task, and they had prevailed. Soon he would deliver the inlaid box into his master’s waiting hands, and his world would change forever.

  TARAWA LED THE way into al Nasir’s huge complex of buildings. Within, silence reigned; silence and darkness seemed to fill the space inside the walls like liquid would fill a barrel. Alanya could tell that structures hulked around them, because their black shapes blotted out the stars from the sky. But she could get no sense of detail from the buildings themselves—they might have been adobe and wood, like Tarawa’s house, or they might have been gilded palaces.

  With each one they passed, Alanya’s sensation of dread grew. Surely someone must be inside these quiet buildings. Watching their progress. Measuring the threat they posed, if any. Waiting for the right moment to unleash horrible Stygian magics at them.

  But Tarawa paid the structures no mind. She had a destination, and she led the group directly there without hesitation. They came to a narrow doorway. Tarawa threw back the bolt with practiced familiarity. “This is a slaves’ entrance,” she whispered as she did so. “No one else uses it, and few even know of its existence. Often Shehkmi likes to have one or more of us visit privately, without taking the chance of running into his acolytes or other household servants.”

  “Where will it take us?” Kral asked.

  “Directly to the innermost chambers of his temple,” Tarawa answered. Inside the doorway, a torch flickered in a sconce on the wall. She reached up and took it down. “Which is where he is most likely to receive the delivery of the object you seek.”

  “Is there any way to intercept those bringing it?” he asked. “If we are not too late for that.”

  “Perhaps,” Tarawa replied. “These corridors pass by the more commonly used ones, and there are secret panels of which none but we slaves, and Shehkmi himself, know. I have heard that the sorcerer who built it, long before Shehkmi al Nasir’s time, had the architects and builders put to death once the compound was finished, though I know not if those stories are true.”

  Once they had passed inside, Tarawa led with her torch held high, through a corridor barely more than three feet wide. The floor was noticeably slanted, and Alanya could tell they descended rapidly beneath the surface. Conversation ceased. The eleven of them moved as quietly as they could, although the mercenaries’ mail shirts jangled as they walked, and their boots scuffed on the smooth stone floor. Alanya feared someone would hear them in spite of their attempts at stealth. The more time she spent in the Stygian sorcerer’s compound, the more she came to believe that this whole quest was a horrifically bad idea.

  Her fear was confirmed a few minutes later.

  The group neared an intersection illuminated by a quartet of torches set into wall sconces at the corners. Tarawa had explained, in a low whisper, that these torches were mystically fueled and never went out, bringing constant light to otherwise pitch-black passageways. Above the sconces were carved snake heads, staring out into the intersection from every corner.

  The walls, Alanya noted as they went, were unadorned but worn smooth, as the floor was, by the passage of time and many people. About hand high there was an indentation, as if people over the eons had walked by, rubbing their hands along that one spot.

  As they entered the intersection, Alanya saw that here, the walls were decorated with hundreds of drawings, overlaying each other as if they had been applied over the centuries. A common theme was snakes, of course, but there were other things depicted as well—including, much to Alanya’s dismay, a scene showing rank after rank of headless women, presumably sacrificed to Set for some unclean purpose.

  She shivered. A hand on her shoulder startled her, but she managed not to scream. Gorian stood behind her, and she realized she had halted in her tracks, blocking the way of the others. With a false smile, Gorian and a couple of his men pushed past her and deeper into the intersection.

  “You could look at these for hours,” Tarawa whispered, standing close beside Alanya. “But I believe we are in a greater hurry than that.”

  “I know,” Alanya said. She started to turn away from the weird images. As she did, she heard a strange puffing noise from farther ahead, in the center of the intersection.

  She looked past Tarawa and saw blurs dart out from the mouth of one of the snake sculptures, which had seemingly come to life and spat something. Gorian slapped a hand to his neck, surprised, as if he’d been stung by an insect. But in less than a second, his expression changed, his mouth falling slack, eyes rolling up into his head. Then his knees gave out, and he plunged to the floor. When he hit, his hand fell away from his neck and a hole was revealed there. It looked to Alanya like an arrow hole, of which she had seen a few back in Koronaka. But no arrow jutted from it, just a thin line of blood flowing onto the floor. The small stone that always hung on a leather thong around his neck had fallen out of his shirt and landed in the stream of blood. Kral had speculated that the stone was the source of Gorian’s magic, but it had done nothing
to save him this time.

  The worst of it was not over, however. As she watched, a tiny snake’s head, no bigger around than her smallest finger, poked out from the wound. It wriggled out of the hole, then writhed quickly away down the cross corridor, disappearing into the darkness. On the wall, the stone snake shifted almost imperceptibly, once more taking on the appearance of nothing but a simple sculpture. She wondered if her eyes were playing tricks.

  “Mitra!” the mercenary named Dalthus exclaimed. Another let out a loud gasp of horror.

  “Quiet!” Kral reminded them. “We know not who might be about!”

  The mercenaries looked upon their fallen leader with terror—which Alanya shared. In the uneven light, Mikelo looked pale and terrified. Donial had a look of strange fascination on his face. Only Kral seemed relatively unaffected by what they had seen.

  “A trap,” he said. “Meant to strike down the first into the intersection.”

  “But we slaves use this passageway all the time,” Tarawa protested. “And it has never attacked us.”

  “You are meant to be here. Somehow, al Nasir’s trap can distinguish those who should be here from intruders.” So saying, Kral stepped into the center of the intersection, across Gorian’s corpse. Alanya could tell that he was keeping a close eye on the remaining snake sculptures, but they were still.

  A couple of the mercenaries watched every step he took with increasing terror. “A simple trap I can understand,” Galados said, his voice trembling. “But that . . . that snake—it was not a snake when it hit Gorian.”

  “Some kind of dart,” another agreed. His voice was too loud, Alanya thought, his fear trumping caution. “This is sorcery of the worst kind.”

  “We’re in the compound of a fearsome Stygian mage,” Donial pointed out. “What do you expect?”

  “It is exactly what I do expect that I fear,” Galados said. His eyes were wide with horror, and spittle flecked the corners of his mouth. “I fully expect more magical attacks. But now the man who was supposed to pay us is dead.”