He could not say if luck alone had cast him upon the spoor. That it had happened on the fifth and final turn of their quest was—at the very least—strange circumstance.
He fitted his hand over the depression. His night vision was acute, a genetically enhanced trait passed down to him from his forebears—a long line of huntsmen serving the House of Sid. He stretched his fingers out-splayed over the sign. It was a large imprint and deep. As he moved along close to the ground, he could see the line of others, widely spaced and stretching out straight and true. The man had been traveling at great speed and was certain of his direction: eastward toward the rising sun.
As he was alone for the moment, Garth allowed himself to brood over the possibilities. A lone man, barefoot, traveling in the warren at the approach of night. What kind of fool did this? The thought made him smile, for he was just such a fool.
He knew he must rejoin the others and inform the rigan of his findings. He had been gone over-long as it was, yet after four turns in the company of those ill-suited to the desert he had reveled in the chance to escape—if only for a brief interval.
Even though they had the latest drone information to aid their search, the company had found sign of the tharfi only twice. Both had been so cold they were useless. Garth had used every trick he had learned over the cycles to get within striking distance, but it was as though the elusive animal were a wraith. Even the land conspired against them. The temperature was far higher than normal, and the last waterhole had been nothing but caked mud. The rigan’s mood had grown worse and his health with it. This final attempt looked as though it would be no more fruitful than the others.
He returned the way he had come, following his trail by sense rather than sight in the blackness. There was no fear in him, even though he was armed only with a broad-tipped spear and a hunting knife. He was comfortable with the night and its native sounds. Some he recognized, while others were alien to his memory.
It was not long before he saw the gleam of the fire, and the flickering beacon guided his last steps.
He answered the myrmidon lookout’s challenge but did not pause as he entered the camp. He made his way to the large tent at the center, well-lit with multi-colored lamps of teklume. He was forced to stop as he saw the solid form of the Adept barring his way.
“What is your haste, Huntsman?”
Garth held his reply long enough to even his breathing. “Lord Marshal…I bear news for the rigan. I have located spoor not far from this place.”
The tent flap was flung open and it was the rigan himself who stepped out. Excitement had brought a flush to his face, yet Garth could not help but notice the wasted state of his lord, Odrim of Sid, one that worsened with each passing turn. The once muscular frame was now emaciated, making the ruler little more than a walking stick. His once jet-black hair was streaked with thickened bands of white, yet his eyes danced wild and eager as he came into the light.
“Is it tharfi? Garth, please tell us it is so.”
Garth shook his head in shame. “It is not, my lord. The spoor was a man’s.”
“A man? A lone man?” Odrim Sid’s voice was a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. “But how is such a thing possible? We were guaranteed ours would be the only party allowed in the warren.”
Garth shrugged. “That is true, Majesty. Yet these were the tracks of a man...a large man moving swiftly toward the East.”
“How fortunate for us,” Odrim replied with scorn. “Perhaps you will find the task of following this man easier than the one we brought you here for…to track and capture a tharfi!”
Garth was forced to bite his lip in suffered silence. His failure was not strictly of his making. Of all the company, only the Adept might have withstood the pace needed to find such a powerful and cunning animal as the tharfi. The others—even the ablest veterans among the myrmidon—were unequal to the challenge. Yet he could not very well defend himself against the Rigan of Faerwyn-Joss, a man who was both his liege-lord and Pentarch of the Solarian Empire.
“You are being both unkind and unjust, Father!”
The harsh words were accompanied by the soft brush of the tent flap, and Ashara Sid, Rianna of Faerwyn-Joss stood before them. Tall and regal, with the smooth line of her jaw thrust forward, she locked her wide-set, violet eyes with those of her father. “It is we who are to blame; we with our slowness, our clumsy ineptitude and lack of experience. The name of Garth the Huntsman is known throughout the Pentarchy. If this quest should fail—as it now seems certain—it will not be from his lack of skill, or his lack of devotion to our House. To dishonor him so is unworthy of the man I know to be Odrim Sid, Rigan of Faerwyn-Joss.”
Garth felt the hot blood rush to his face and was thankful he stood protected in shadow. That she should champion him so was a tribute not only to her courage but to her sense of justice, which was every bit the equal of her beauty.
Hardships of the hunt had taken their toll on all the overlarge company, not least of which had been the lack of water. Though she was a princess of Faerwyn-Joss, she had chosen to follow the example set by Garth and the most experienced of the myrmidon. She allowed herself only a meager ration, which barely supplied bodily needs and left no room for personal hygiene. Her skin and clothing showed obvious patches of soil where dust and grit had collected. Though she was weary, she fairly glowed with health and her bearing remained proud.
Her hair was a light chestnut and normally billowed in a cloud around her face. For the rigors of the trip, she had braided it into a long, thick rope hanging down her back. She had donned cloak, for the night air in the desert was chill. It masked but did not hide the perfection of her form, which was nothing short of sensual.
She bore no jewelry or adornments of her caste. Yet throughout the five realms of the Pentarchy she was praised in poem and song as the embodiment of grace and beauty. She had not yet reached twenty cycles—her maturity—and as such had not yet taken the Serum of Longevity. Yet already she had been promised. She was the betrothed of Zel, only son and heir of House Mondragon, the first and greatest House in the empire.
They waited in breathless silence while Odrim stood unmoving. Anger had darkened his face and his eyes bore a look that now dominated more oft than not. It was a look they had come to recognize as something short of complete sanity.
The Pentarchy had formed in the two hundred and nineteenth cycle of post-Cloister, and Faerwyn-Joss, the Earth-twin, had been named one of the Ruling Five. As a gesture of goodwill, the Serum had been offered to the ruling House of Sid: the first time in history such a gesture had been made to those not of Earth.
Odrim Sid had then been a man almost forty, old for the initial imbibing of the Serum. In truth, none knew all the answers. The Serum had been more a discovery of luck than skill. Even the Genetic Engineers, who alone dealt with such matters, were uncertain of the exact life expectancy of its recipients. Since its inception, none had succumbed from old age.
Yet the rumors had begun and then persisted as Odrim showed signs of deterioration in his eight hundred and twentieth cycle. The progression had been shockingly swift. Even the great Daedalus Falken—rumored to have been a part of the original Cloister over a millennium past—knew neither the reason nor the cure.
The truth had begun to entwine icy tentacles of fear around the hearts of all recipients of the Serum: the rigan was dying. Both his body and his mind were withering away before their eyes. They had begun to call it the Gloaming, the word itself like the dry, cackling whisper of Death.
Odrim’s mouth gradually slipped into a smile as his grim features softened. He shook his head like a man warding off sleep and moved toward his daughter. Drawing himself to his full height, he reached out and clasped Ashara gently by the shoulders.
“As always, Daughter, I may rely upon you to point out my not inconsiderable faults.” He turned and regarded his huntsman with an expression of sad acceptance. “It is a painful but obvious truth that our quarry is lost to us. It is time we listened to your valued counsel. Garth, greatest huntsman of Faerwyn-Joss…what now should we do?”
Garth’s voice shook with emotion as he knelt before his ruler and bowed his head. “Majesty, it weighs heavy upon my heart that I have failed in this task you set for me. Yet fail you, I have.” He raised his head but remained kneeling. “I fear our supply of water may not be enough to survive the morrow’s sun. We must return to the eastern gate with all speed, traveling this very night in the cool of darkness. With luck and haste, we may reach it by dawn’s light.”
Odrim frowned and cocked his head. His attention had already begun to waver, and the rianna was quick to add her voice.
“He is right, Father. We are ill-suited to this land. Many of our retainers are dying on their feet. We must move out now before the heat of the new turn catches us.”
At the soothing, persuasive sound of her voice, Odrim nodded in agreement. Yet when he spoke, his voice lacked the certainty of only moments before. “Oh…I suppose you are right. But what of my tharfi? And what of this strange man who travels alone?”
Argus now spoke, a rare occurrence during the entire journey. Few there were who sought out the company of the Swordkind. An aura of mystery surrounded both the Gift and those who wielded its power via the Twin Metals. As a breed, they upheld this outlook. Their grave and taciturn natures approached the forbidding, and the Lord Marshal’s was greater than most.
“Majesty, the tharfi will remain captive of the warren. The opportunity to seek him would be best put aside for another and more fitting time. As for the stranger: should he survive, and should he be found to be an intruder, the Judicata will deal with him accordingly.”
“His path deviates from ours,” Garth added, then continued self-consciously as all eyes turned to him, “though it may re-cross at some point. And there is one other thing I must say. I have not seen the tharfi. There has been no fresh sign, yet I am certain he is close by. I cannot explain how I know this, for I possess none of the Gift. Perhaps it is nothing more than the hunter’s sense. And while it is unlikely he would attack a party of our size and strength, he would have no fear of the stranger.” His eyes flicked to Argus. “Though we must cease our hunt, it would be a mistake to let down our guard for even a moment.”
The Adept said nothing, but his slight nod showed he understood the warning.
With the harsh voice of the Lord Marshal to spur them on, the retainers broke camp and were ready to move in less than an hour. Garth set myrmidon on their flanks bearing glowing torches of teklume. All eyes would constantly search the darkness. The column would move as swiftly as safety would permit and with a great volume of noise.
The huntsman knew that many creatures of a poisonous nature inhabited the night warren…and he had no wish to flush one by accident.
***
From the moment they set out, Ashara found herself in company with the Lord Marshal. He had never been more than a few paces from her during the entire hunt, yet he had always made his presence unobtrusive. It was not an easy thing for one of the Swordkind to be inconspicuous, especially the Lord Marshal of the Gardai. He made no such effort this night but strode within arm’s length, his eyes watchful.
She studied him covertly. The Gift and all its mysteries had fascinated her since childhood. It helped somewhat that her brother, Shaan, was an Adept, so she’d had plenty of opportunities to delve into its secrets.
Argus was both an enigma and a legend. It was common knowledge that he had fought four times in the Korda. The massive amphitheater stood on the Sacred Isle of Faer-Alon and was the home-hearth of the Great Moot. Every five cycles the Swordkind gathered upon its hallowed sands, competing in fierce contest for the right to bear the title of Riark: First among the Sword Brethren. He who remained victorious for five successive Moots could bear the Kryll—the mystical union of the metals Ryl and Kirlin.
Only one man since the inception of the Swordkind had managed this feat: Fortunatus, Pat’Riark of Swords and leader of the Magi. And yet Argus had been so close, achieving victory four times only to forfeit the fifth and final contest. He had chosen not to fight, an action that had astounded the entire Pentarchy. But why? This was a question none had ever answered with certainty. The Lord Marshal had never divulged his reason. Yet without a doubt, it must have taken incredible courage to face such bitter disappointment.
Ashara was no stranger to such feelings. But even more hurtful was the longing that teased her like the unending prick of a needle. She knew that she possessed the Gift. Shaan had told her that he had sensed it strong within her. Yet her father refused to let her test to determine whether she had it in sufficient quantity to become an Initiate. Perhaps it was because she was a woman. This was a factor, certainly, since only one other woman in history had followed the path: Lady Niobe, sister to the archduke. And she was not of the sword but the Magi. Ashara admitted that this distinction was hard to define.
More probable was her impending union with Zel. They considered her too valuable to risk in such pursuits. The thought caused her to bite her lip in anger. Not that she hated Zel…
She paused, examining her thoughts as though she stood in front of a mirror. How did she feel about Zel? Her surprise almost made her utter a sound and she glanced sideways. Argus strode on, unconcerned.
She had known the heir of the Mondragon line since childhood when he had towered over her like a god, yet from the beginning, he had always made her laugh. So when had this changed? She tried to remember but could not. Yet for a goodly while now, she had begun to feel uncomfortable with him.
It was something in his eyes, a shadow of wrongness that was undefined for it lay deep and beyond her reckoning. Yet its existence was becoming more and more apparent as the Gift developed within her.
It had now been several moons since she had last seen him. That last time, it had been even more evident. He had looked at her with a naked and burning desire that he no longer tried to disguise. She was not that naïve about such things. She knew that she possessed beauty of a rare kind. It was natural for her betrothed and soon-to-be spouse to regard her that way…
She felt the heat flush her face. Such thoughts made her so uncomfortable that she reached beneath her robe and grasped the tiny sack that hung from her neck. She stroked the hardness inside and at once felt better. Zel was an Adept. And not just any Adept but the reigning Riark of Swords. Like Argus, he had now been champion of the Korda four times in succession. If he were to win a fifth time…
A sudden possibility tickled her mind. After the ceremony, she would speak to Zel. With luck and a little coaxing, he might permit her…
“Her Highness should learn to guard her thoughts.”
She was so startled by the sound of the Lord Marshall’s voice that she missed her footing and stumbled in the darkness. She almost choked as she yanked on the cord around her neck. The strong fingers of his hand found her arm and held her up as though she were a feather.
“You possess a portion of the Gift. It is as plain as a footprint, magnified by what you wear around your neck.”
Confusion and fear competed to the extent that she would have stopped. Once again, she felt his hand urging her on.
Those with the Gift could sense another’s thoughts, she reasoned. It was well known that they could even influence another’s actions. Yet the Code strictly forbade this. Of course, he is an Adept of the First Rank, she chided herself. He would sense that I bear a portion of Ryl. Does he also know that Lady Niobe gave it to me? Will I be forced to relinquish it?
“Her Highness should have no fear,” Argus interjected smoothly. “I did not intrude upon her mind. Yet there are certain times with the untrained when unguarded thoughts of enough intensity may creep out into the open. Those with enough ability and skill may then see them.”
She saw him turn his head and realized he was offering her his canteen.
“Please, my lady…quench your thirst. I have no need of so much.”
She took the proffered canteen and swallowed some of the liquid, not so much because of her thirst but to hide her nervousness. “I have had some small training in meditation,” she confessed, wiping her lips on her sleeve. “My brother shows me things when time permits. I suppose he finds it amusing.”
“But you wish more.”
As Ashara handed him back the canteen, she used the opportunity to study him closer. Argus was not a handsome man. She would have described him as brutish if she were inclined to be cruel. His upper body was large and heavily muscled, quite out of proportion to his short legs. The long robe masked this somewhat, but the diversity was so great she could tell. Though facial hair was a popular trait among men, even the Swordkind, he chose to be clean-shaven. His lower lip was pendulous and tended to droop, giving his expression a sour caste. No one looked upon the Lord Marshal with less than the utmost respect, yet she was not surprised that few people regarded him with affection.
“The wishes of a woman—even though she be the Rianna of Faerwyn-Joss—are scarcely heard when it comes to matters of the Gift,” she replied.
Argus uttered what could only be described as a grunt. “You will find that your voice grows in power when you complete your vows to the heir-apparent.”
It was rather crudely put, but she supposed it was true. And it was along similar lines to her own thinking. Yet she was still not sure she favored this union, even if it were a trade-off for her greatest desire. “You did not approve of this hunt, did you, Lord Marshal?”
“It is not my office to approve or disapprove, Highness. I follow the dictates of the council. In this particular case, those of the archduke.”
She could see the dim glow of his aura in the darkness. The shield-glow of an Adept was always active, even when his power was held in a quiescent state. They walked on, their strides matching. “And what if those dictates should conflict with the Code?”
She surprised even herself with the boldness of the question. For the first time, he looked at her directly. The sudden intensity of his gaze made her uneasy.
“The answer to that question is self-evident for there is only one: Honor above all else.”
The column traveled on through the first and second hours of the morning, each member growing wearier. Yet all were driven by the knowledge that the coming turn would be far worse. Garth led them, traveling twice their distance as he moved back and forth along the line, urging and scolding, berating or dropping a word of encouragement as he saw fit. The wind shifted and then strengthened until the sand blew in their faces. It stung like the repeated slap of a hand, as though the desert was deriding them, bidding them begone.
In the middle of the third hour, the signal came down the line to halt. Garth had once again found spoor.
Ashara hurried forward with Argus since they had been traveling in the middle—the place of greatest safety. Her father was already there, resting on his haunches and scrutinizing the trail as he tried to see the tracks. She was even more conscious of his thinness as the clothing bunched against his meager flesh. Others had also grouped around, struggling to see, but Garth waved them away as he studied the ground.
“Tharfi…”
The word was low and intense, causing the throng to mutter. Some looked about nervously as if expecting the great beast to materialize in front of them.
Garth sifted some of the sand in his fingers and sniffed it. Even Ashara could smell the strong and pungent odor of urine.
“He follows the man. Look!”
Myrmidon had come up and their torches lit the ground. Garth pointed to where the tracks had crossed. Two individual sets, one unmistakable as the imprint of a human foot. The other was much larger and rounder, with deep holes where the claws had set.
“It was an hour ago, the time of the wind-shift. He crossed here to keep his scent clear. He will attack at or before dawn.” The huntsman looked up and shook his head. “May the old gods have mercy on this stranger, whoever he is.”
In the sudden silence, Ashara thought of him. One man alone against the most feared predator in the five realms. What chance did he have?
“His fate must be his own, whether good or ill,” Argus intoned gravely. “We cannot afford to follow further.” As if to amplify his words, he shook the canteen that was now almost empty. “We must continue to reach east for the gate.”
“Yes,” agreed Garth. “His course bends away from us. We cannot follow.”
They waited, expecting some argument from the rigan, but Odrim had fallen back onto his buttocks. He lay there with his head drooping almost to the ground. It was clear that he had reached the end of his endurance. His voice betrayed his weariness and was little more than a whisper.
“Yes…let us be away from this place. Even a pentarch cannot fight this cursed desert any longer.”
It was a decree that all favored. They continued onward with steps that were swifter now, fed by an infusion of fear.
As Ashara passed, she took a final look at the track of the stranger and paid silent homage, wondering at his fate.