Heirs of the Fallen: Book 02 - Crown of the Setting Sun (11 page)

The two dark shapes halted. “How did you know it was us and not mere rogues, or greedy treasure seekers on the prowl?” the man on the left said. Friendly sounding or not, the man did not drop the tip of his sword. If anything, there was an almost imperceptible firming of his stance.

“He knew,” the other figure said dryly, “because only Hunters could possibly catch a Hunter off his guard. Isn’t that so, Sandros?”

Upon hearing the second figure speak, Leitos’s mouth dropped open, and a strange tingling rippled over his skin. Though he had never heard a woman’s voice, his grandfather had frequently spoken of their attributes—at least as often as he talked of freedom—and held them in high regard. But those wistful musings had in no way prepared Leitos for the stirrings he felt in his middle at the songlike tones of female speech. He imagined he could sit in the sand and let her run that sword of hers through his heart, if only she kept talking.

“Why are you here?” the Hunter demanded. “If I do not like your answer, I will string your guts from the eaves of this city.”

Unlike Leitos, he seemed unmoved by the man’s pleasantness or the woman’s voice. If anything, he too seemed more on edge. For Leitos, that last shattered the spell of hearing a woman speak for the first time, and he backed a careful step behind Sandros. Distractedly, he thought he would never be able to apply that name to the man he knew only as the
Hunter
.

“Sandros,” the woman said, feigning shock even as she sauntered closer, “are threats anyway to meet old friends?”

“You are no friend, Zera,” the Hunter said, pivoting a little in her direction. “And neither, Pathil, are you. That you have come together troubles me all the more.”

“Oh, come now!” Pathil said, jamming his sword into the scabbard hanging at his waist. “Enough posturing. Let us spend this night under a common roof, and take pleasure in our company.”

“As I remember it,” the Hunter said, “the last time we shared a roof, I awoke with you trying to poke that sword of yours through my heart.”

“A youthful blunder. Surely you do not still hold that against me—it is not as though I succeeded in marring even a single hair on your head.”

“Only because I broke your arm,” the Hunter said.

“And his nose,” Zera laughed, sheathing her own blade. “And nearly his neck.”

“See there?” Pathil said, his good humor sounding forced at the reminder. “You have nothing to fear. Besides, we all know you are and have ever been the best of us … maybe even the greatest Hunter ever to stride Geldain. Even against me and Zera, were we of a mind to attack you, I dare say you would shame us.”

Leitos listened to the odd banter, but suspected that what he was hearing was secondary to what was truly going on.
“All men are liars,”
the Hunter had said, and from another conversation,
“They sent word to all their spies and Hunters to keep an eye out for a fleeing slave boy, and offered a fair reward to anyone who captured you.”

Zera glanced at Leitos, a bare shifting of her hooded head. Though he could not see them, he felt her eyes on him, a prolonged, invasive study. “Is this the boy the
Alon’mahk’lar
seek?” she purred. “Do not bother denying it,” she added, before the Hunter could do just that.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Pathil edged closer, coming abreast of Zera and passing her by, before halting no more than five paces from the Hunter. Like Zera, he moved with an unnerving grace.

Unaccountably, the Hunter seemed to take no notice, and went so far as to tuck his knife away. “Very well,” he said, visibly relaxing. He dropped a heavy hand on Leitos’s shoulder “It appears we will have guests this night.” He eyed Pathil and Zera. “I trust you have something to eat?”

Zera nodded. “The best fare to be had in Zuladah.”

“Which,” Pathil snorted, “is not so grand, but surely better than those boney, sun-cooked lizards we all ate together south of Loe-Sati.”

The Hunter’s abrupt laughter startled Leitos. In the next moment, the foursome were walking together, all outward hints of danger fading like water sinking into burning sand. Where the three Hunters chatted, Leitos coiled within himself, forced to accept that no matter what happened, he would not gain his freedom this night. Killing Sandros now, with the presence of two other Hunters, would be impossible.

It took little time to reach a large, domed building with a columned portico set upon the highest point in the center of the bone-town. Leitos suspected the decrepit palace had not been the Hunter’s original destination, as his previous hideaways had been uninviting and nearly undetectable. The place they entered stood out, an obvious beacon to anyone seeking shelter.

With unvoiced caution, they crept into the halls of the palace, passing a dozen or more partial skeletons, most of which had been scattered by scavengers many years gone by. They came to a vast and shadowed inner chamber, over which curved the palace’s cracked dome. Through a large gap, Leitos made out the light of a few stars, and wished he was out on the open desert, instead of trapped within the confines of what amounted to a massive tomb.

The Hunter laid a fire from previously gathered barrel staves, broken crates, and smashed furnishings. Whether the palace had been his destination or not, the Hunter’s familiarity of the place and its stores suggested he had been there before.

While the fire labored to push back the gloom and the night’s coming chill, the foursome dragged once plush chairs near the flames. Zera and Pathil shrugged off their hooded cloaks, hued in the same drab, desert tones as the Hunter’s garb, and Leitos momentarily forgot all his anxieties.

Rooting through a satchel similar to the Hunter’s, Pathil’s easy grin was made all the whiter by his smooth, sable skin. Black, close-cropped hair capped his head in small, tight curls. Where the Hunter was a large man, Pathil was slender. His corded arms poking out of his close-fitting, sleeveless tunic spoke of a quick, deadly strength. Leitos had a rough understanding of Pathil’s ancestry from Adham’s favorable stories of the races of southern Geldain who, before the Upheaval, had commonly produced companies of skilled mercenaries called Asra a’Shah.

As interesting as Leitos found Pathil, he considered Zera all the more so. Where her voice had stirred something unfamiliar and dangerously exciting within him, her olive-toned features held him captive. Of course, he had never seen a woman, but judging by Pathil’s and the Hunter’s frequent, admiring glances in her direction, he supposed Zera must be counted as attractive.

Like Pathil, Zera’s lithe arms held an uncommon strength, but they moved with far more natural and lethal grace as she drew a large round loaf of bread from her satchel, followed by a skin bloated by some sloshing liquid. Completely indifferent to the furtive looks of the other three, she turned away. Where Pathil wore a simple tunic and loose trousers, Zera’s clothing, a mix of cloth and leather, snugged against her body like a second skin. Besides her hands, neck, and face, no other part of her was uncovered. Leitos did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

He focused on her hair to avoid looking at the rest of her, noting that she had woven it into a long, glossy black braid. In a deft movement he nearly missed, she brought her palm to her lips, as if sneaking a bite of food, then spun around, catching Pathil and the Hunter off guard. They hastily looked away, avoiding her eyes, which flashed and glimmered in the firelight. She placed the loaf and the skin on her chair, then went back to digging in her satchel.

Leitos barely noticed her movements now. He stared into the flames, his mind fixated on the vision of her eyes. He had never seen such color, a liquid, shimmering green flecked with gold around the pupils….

All at once Leitos felt a lingering pressure upon him, and he glanced up to find the Hunter and Pathil looking his way. At his blush, they laughed aloud. Zera’s attention locked on Leitos. His lower jaw, dangling loosely, sprang shut hard enough that his teeth clicked. For the barest moment, her eyes narrowed. In the next, they softened. Her lips parted in an open, inviting smile. It was then that he realized she could be no more than a handful of years older than he, if that. Leitos fell into a state of near panic under her prolonged scrutiny, but in the back of his mind he wondered how such a young woman could have become a Hunter.

“Were your people not so few and far-flung, Zera,” Pathil said with a rueful shake of his head, “I dare say they could compel the hearts of men the world over to join in battle against the Faceless One.”

“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.

W
hen 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.