woodcraft.”
Kylara muttered a curt, rude word and marched off.
Great Islands, he thought, he had better think twice about any attraction he imagined between himself and the Warlord. As warriors of Naphtha Cluster liked to say, she had the character of a leopard–as graceful as the dawn, and an expert at unexpected ambushes.
There, something remembered at last. Let the man called Ardan be warned.
* * * *
In the glow of twilight’s dying embers, Ardan finished digging out the collapsed culvert which had robbed the village of its water. He stretched his back and regarded the flow of water with a firm nod. Life. Life flowing into the village, bringing wholeness and sweeping away the filth. The chuckling of water had never sounded so agreeable. Setting the shovel to one side, he bent his head beneath the water and let the coolness bathe his aching head. That was good.
As Kylara and her comrades rode uphill to their position near the spring above the village, Ardan pointed with his chin and said to Mardia, his guard, “What’s bitten them? Hornets?”
“Shut up and wash, slave. You reek.” But Mardia was as curious as he was.
Rocia smacked her breastplate to emphasize a point as they moved into hearing range. “One conqueror’s the same as another, Kylara.”
“If those Immadians come here, we’ll show them our scimitars just the same as we showed the Sylakians,” growled the Warlord.
“What’s that, slave?” asked Mardia. “What’re they saying?”
“An Immadian invasion,” Ardan puzzled. “We called him the Immadian Fox–now, what was his name–aye, Beran of Immadia. His was the last Island conquered north of the Rift. What’s he doing in the Western Isles?”
That was exactly the question making Kylara scratch her head. “Sounds nothing like Immadia to me, Rocia,” she said. “Twelve summers they defied Sylakia. I heard his little Princess got locked in the Tower of Sylakia. Now he’s attacking our Western Isles? For what? Besides, the Warlords would never have it. Who wants another Supreme Commander?”
“We’ll ask him together,” grunted Rocia. “Ya girls hold ‘im, I’ll tickle his tummy until he begs to tell us everything.”
Ardan’s grin faded. That was nasty euphemism for torture by pulling out the intestines and burning them on a fire while the victim watched.
Rocia added, “An’ his little Princess, bet the Sylakians made her grow up fast. Freakin’ Tower. Just a playpen for them War-Hammers. She come here, she’d be scrubbing pots. Smutty white-skinned Northern scum.”
A clamour of coarse laughter rose from the warriors.
“Take water,” said Kylara. “Quick. We’ve a long march ahead. Slave–quit dirtying the stream and hold our ponies while we drink.”
Ardan turned to Kylara, who regarded him with her usual acid-bitten sneer. He said, “We heard the Princess of Immadia was executed for treason, Kylara. What’s this rumour blowing on the wind?”
The dark eyes narrowed. “You remember something, boy? Who’s ‘we’?”
“I don’t remember.”
Kylara’s knuckles turned white on the hilt of her dagger. But she replied evenly, “Last we heard, Sylakia’s Northern Dragonship fleet was bound for Immadia Island to burn it to cinders, like they did Naphtha Cluster. Now King Beran’s in the Western Isles. Either he’s running like a cur kicked in the teeth, or he defeated Sylakia. Which do you believe?”
She was asking him a military opinion? Ardan was so surprised that his mouth fished for flies. Kylara’s handsome face hardened as she waited on a reply.
“Dragons.” The word popped out of his mouth.
“Dragons? What a load of fresh pony-manure,” said Rocia.
Ardan cudgelled his memory. “Some rumour I heard. A Dragon down in Remoy–a new Dragon, not the old rumour.”
Kylara knelt beside the flow of water and drank deeply, before splashing water liberally over her upper body. She rose with a graceful flexion of her thighs, her cheeks
Kylara muttered a curt, rude word and marched off.
Great Islands, he thought, he had better think twice about any attraction he imagined between himself and the Warlord. As warriors of Naphtha Cluster liked to say, she had the character of a leopard–as graceful as the dawn, and an expert at unexpected ambushes.
There, something remembered at last. Let the man called Ardan be warned.
* * * *
In the glow of twilight’s dying embers, Ardan finished digging out the collapsed culvert which had robbed the village of its water. He stretched his back and regarded the flow of water with a firm nod. Life. Life flowing into the village, bringing wholeness and sweeping away the filth. The chuckling of water had never sounded so agreeable. Setting the shovel to one side, he bent his head beneath the water and let the coolness bathe his aching head. That was good.
As Kylara and her comrades rode uphill to their position near the spring above the village, Ardan pointed with his chin and said to Mardia, his guard, “What’s bitten them? Hornets?”
“Shut up and wash, slave. You reek.” But Mardia was as curious as he was.
Rocia smacked her breastplate to emphasize a point as they moved into hearing range. “One conqueror’s the same as another, Kylara.”
“If those Immadians come here, we’ll show them our scimitars just the same as we showed the Sylakians,” growled the Warlord.
“What’s that, slave?” asked Mardia. “What’re they saying?”
“An Immadian invasion,” Ardan puzzled. “We called him the Immadian Fox–now, what was his name–aye, Beran of Immadia. His was the last Island conquered north of the Rift. What’s he doing in the Western Isles?”
That was exactly the question making Kylara scratch her head. “Sounds nothing like Immadia to me, Rocia,” she said. “Twelve summers they defied Sylakia. I heard his little Princess got locked in the Tower of Sylakia. Now he’s attacking our Western Isles? For what? Besides, the Warlords would never have it. Who wants another Supreme Commander?”
“We’ll ask him together,” grunted Rocia. “Ya girls hold ‘im, I’ll tickle his tummy until he begs to tell us everything.”
Ardan’s grin faded. That was nasty euphemism for torture by pulling out the intestines and burning them on a fire while the victim watched.
Rocia added, “An’ his little Princess, bet the Sylakians made her grow up fast. Freakin’ Tower. Just a playpen for them War-Hammers. She come here, she’d be scrubbing pots. Smutty white-skinned Northern scum.”
A clamour of coarse laughter rose from the warriors.
“Take water,” said Kylara. “Quick. We’ve a long march ahead. Slave–quit dirtying the stream and hold our ponies while we drink.”
Ardan turned to Kylara, who regarded him with her usual acid-bitten sneer. He said, “We heard the Princess of Immadia was executed for treason, Kylara. What’s this rumour blowing on the wind?”
The dark eyes narrowed. “You remember something, boy? Who’s ‘we’?”
“I don’t remember.”
Kylara’s knuckles turned white on the hilt of her dagger. But she replied evenly, “Last we heard, Sylakia’s Northern Dragonship fleet was bound for Immadia Island to burn it to cinders, like they did Naphtha Cluster. Now King Beran’s in the Western Isles. Either he’s running like a cur kicked in the teeth, or he defeated Sylakia. Which do you believe?”
She was asking him a military opinion? Ardan was so surprised that his mouth fished for flies. Kylara’s handsome face hardened as she waited on a reply.
“Dragons.” The word popped out of his mouth.
“Dragons? What a load of fresh pony-manure,” said Rocia.
Ardan cudgelled his memory. “Some rumour I heard. A Dragon down in Remoy–a new Dragon, not the old rumour.”
Kylara knelt beside the flow of water and drank deeply, before splashing water liberally over her upper body. She rose with a graceful flexion of her thighs, her cheeks
Similar Books
