He pulled his cloak over his head, snapping the cord that
fastened at the neck. He cast it to the ground as he turned and surveyed the
group of soldiers that had appeared in the great hall behind him.
More than four-fifths of the men with the long jagged scars
down the left side of their faces had made it back with him.
Most of them had wounds that, thanks to the power of the
Iezo, would heal quickly.
All of them would be ready for battle within a week.
All of them were brainless fools.
The fabric tore under his boot as he ground the cloak into
the stone. He’d failed. Again. Any other kingdom he’d gone against, the city
had crumbled within days. But now he had been forced to flee, and not by a
king, but by a mere scrap of a lad.
“Your bones will feed my dogs yet, whelp,” he muttered.
He should have brought more power, drove these soldiers
harder. It wore them out faster, but they could recover. If these pathetic
creatures could actually think for themselves, instead of merely being mounds
of fleshy pawns, they would have spotted and attacked the minstrel themselves.
He smiled. But maybe the defeat was worth it this time. After
all, he’d finally caught her. After Foaie had been trying to for so many years.
Even Naircre hadn’t been able to find the girl. “They will be pleased,” he
murmured, waving his hand behind him. “To your guard posts. Bar any intruders.”
He didn’t need to look behind him to know the soldiers moved
as one. He could tell from the tramp of their boots that they turned and headed
to the doors in unison, working their way through like water through a narrow
stream. They would surround the wall, stopping intruders from entering. The
captains would watch them from there. It was convenient that these brainless
creatures didn’t need the same rest and nourishment those not under the Iezo’s
power did.
He strode through the hall to the doors in the back. He
shoved them open. The room behind was really more like a wide corridor than a
room. Doors stood directly across from the ones he had just passed through,
leading into Foaie’s private chambers. The walls here were shelves piled with
scrolls. A small, lean man, his head shiny and hairless, sat behind a desk
scratching letters onto parchment with a goose quill pen. Siboma stomped up to
him, slamming both hands down on the wood. “Where’s Foaie?”
The man looked up, and raised an eyebrow, his green eyes
smirking. “In quite a temper, aren’t we? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather see
him when you’ve figured out an excuse for this failure?”
He scowled. If there was someone he hated more than the
idiot who sat on Miagulow’s throne, it was Jekgaul. “I asked where he was,
scribe. I don’t need your nonsense.”
Jekgaul’s lip curled. “Very well. He is in there. Don’t
expect him to be happy with your news though.”
Siboma ignored him, giving the desk a vicious shove and
almost upsetting the ink bottle as he strode toward the doors. He knocked, his
fist making the doors sound hollow.
“Enter.”
Even though he’d expected it, something still ran a cold
knife through him when he heard the voice. He eased the door open, and scowled
at Jekgaul’s smirk as he stepped inside.
The room itself wasn’t out of place in an old castle. Tapestries
hung over the walls, depicting some old legends about the Beolkins. Some he
recognized from the stories his sister used to tell him and his brother, hiding
under the covers in her bed, trying not to hear the wails of his mother. Others
he had slowly learned as he went through Beolki, destroying city after city. The
furniture was all old and carved from mahogany and oak, good solid wood that can
last a lifetime after the carvers are dust in the earth.
It was the cloaked figure staring out the window that caused
another shiver to run through his belly.
He fell to one knee, and bowed his head. “Lord Foaie, I am
here.”
“Excellent,” the cloak rustled, as Foaie turned around. Siboma
swallowed, and forced himself to look up into those red eyes.
Foaie smiled, his almost-transparent skin stretching around
almost transparent teeth. His white hair fell to his waist, partly falling over
his left cheek, the cheek Siboma knew bore the burn scar of a paw print. “Now,
my general,” with a wave of his hand he motioned him to rise, “what news of
Mokayi?”
Siboma got to his feet, a scowl taking over his face. “My
lord, we were driven from the city. That accursed brat prince has gotten better
in the game of war. Even with the dark hawks, we were powerless against the
song.”
“Song?” Foaie raised a pure white eyebrow. “Mokayi had no
minstrel. Our spy made sure of that. Didn’t you attack unawares?”
Siboma scowled. “Yes, my lord. But somehow they sent word to
the castle. A messenger was spotted by my men. The idiots must’ve let him
escape.”
Foaie turned to the window. Siboma bit his lip hard to keep
from shouting. To keep it from quivering. The strange Friiakan was always the
eeriest when he was angry. Unlike others, unlike his own father, Foaie would
never explode. His anger was more like a cobra…swift, silent.
Dangerous.
“It’s disappointing,” Foaie finally said, looking back at
him. “I didn’t think you of all people would fail me so many times.”
Siboma dropped to one knee, his head bowed. “It won’t happen
again, Sire. Next time the prince and I meet, he’ll rue it to his grave.”
“If he doesn’t then meet it, if I know you correctly, Siboma,”
Foaie smiled at him.
Siboma looked up, and grinned. “My lord knows the ways of
his servant very well.”
The Friiakan was right. If he had his way, there wouldn’t be
enough left of the prince to feed the valley vultures.
“But, my lord, to make up for my blunder, I caught the girl.”
Foaie started, and then smiled. “Where is she?” he beckoned
him to rise.
Siboma did so, allowing himself a smile. Skey’s capture
would more than make up for his blunders. “In your dungeons. Brainless thing
walked right into my camp.”
Foaie smiled. “Guards.” Two soldiers, long scars running
down their faces, entered. Foaie waved at them. “Fetch me the prisoner.”
The soldiers bowed, and went out. Foaie looked at Siboma,
interest in his eyes. “How did you manage to catch her? I admit, she managed to
escape me only days ago.”
Siboma smirked. “My Maenian father may have been a worthless
cur, but at least he taught me something.”
“Ah, yes,” Foaie almost purred. “I remember. The man who
used to beat you, and starve you. The one Naircre saved you from.”
The bitter taste filled his mouth again. He could still feel
the clammy coldness of his sister’s hands, see the glassy sheen of his mother’s
glazed-over eyes… “Aye. He got what he deserved.”
A knock sounded. The taste faded, as Siboma smiled. The
guards were back with Skey. Foaie turned to the door, the tips of his canine
teeth showing through his colorless lips. “Enter.”
The soldiers entered. One held a cloak in his hand. There
was no sign of Skey.
Siboma bit his lip. Either the Iezo was weakening, or
something was terribly wrong.
Foaie frowned. “Well? Where is she?”
Siboma snatched the cloak away. Orange glimmered on it, and
a few sparkling flecks fell to the floor. “Confound it. She wiped the seal off.
This is her cloak.”
Foaie folded his arms, and tapped his fingers against his
arm. “Well, my general, it appears even with Naircre’s strength your magic is
not omnipotent. Where do you suppose she is?”
Siboma threw the cloak on the ground, and stomped on it. “The
brat could be anywhere by now. With that skill of hers, she could have gone all
the way to Friiakan or Mekai.”
“No, she couldn’t have. Not yet, anyway.”
Siboma looked back at him. Why was Foaie smiling? Uneasiness
pricked at his stomach again. “My lord?”
“Don’t think you were the only one working, Siboma. I too
have seen our elusive little friend. She is wounded, and her Arilian habits won’t
let her survive in Beolki’s cold. She’ll be looking for a nice warm castle to
hide away in until spring. And we both know what she’ll be posing as.”
Siboma smiled slowly. Foaie returned it. “Yes, my general. I
will send out my spies. Tell Reko he will lead the army in your absence. Ready
yourself. It’s time you did some treasure hunting. Starting with a visit to our
dear friend Prince Kotua.”
