death in battle many times. He’d killed men before, in battle and in magical sacrifice. Still his head reeled if he looked beyond the path.
At the bottom of the cliff, some three hundred feet below Hanassa’s plateau, the land leveled out and showed signs of a little more rainfall than on the desert plateau. Scrawny shrubs and a few fistfuls of grass clung to precious bits of dirt beside the path. Indeed, the path became a road broad enough for men to walk two and three abreast with pack steeds. Two miles farther on, an inn perched precariously atop another cliff beside a thundering waterfall. Caravans and their beasts camped across the river from the inn. A wobbly bridge strung together with odd bits of rope and mismatched planks spanned the rushing stream.
Lanciar’s head spun at the thought of crashing through the bridge into the river and then plummeting over the cataract onto the broken rocks one hundred feet below. He gulped and turned his eyes and attention away from such thoughts.
Three pairs of men wrestled in the inn’s forecourt, exchanging blows. The pointless brawl spread to several of the spectators. Lanciar spat in the dust in disgust. “Waste of energy and discipline. If you were part of my army, I’d have all of you flogged.”
Rejiia might aspire to the title of Kaalipha of Hanassa, but she didn’t have the discipline to organize the city, only to terrorize it. Lanciar could do it. If he wanted to. The people of Coronnan, SeLenicca, and Rossemeyer would rise up in rebellion against her tyranny. She’d not last long as queen of any place. Lanciar had to retrieve his son before Rejiia put the boy in the way of vengeful assassins.
Lanciar walked a little way past the inn. He paused, drinking in the colors of the place and the clean smell of the air. Green grass beside the river, red tile roof, bright yellow mud walls, a shrub or two, and bright tents in a variety of colors—red, purple, green, and blue. But mostly the tents were the red and purple with black trim of Zolltarn’s clan. A dozen or more dark-haired men and women, dressed in the same colors as the tents, worked hard to rig the tents and start cooking fires.
Indeed, the Rovers had not gone far.
How to approach them undetected? And how to find his son among the numerous babies he’d seen in packs on the backs of the clan women?
He went into the inn and ordered an ale. The first one slid down his throat in welcome relief. He needed to replenish his bodily reserves after the long levitation down the mountain with only a faint and spindly ley line to fuel his talent. Another ale and a meal sent the magic humming through his body once more.
He took his third ale outside while he watched the Rover camp. A pleasant buzz accompanied him. A placid smile spread through him as he sought a place to sit.
“This is too nice a day to do more than watch other people work.” He settled onto a bench at the back of the inn beside the corral, beneath a spreading hardwood tree. He didn’t know the variety and frankly did not care since it bore plain blue/green leaves rather than the pink-veined, thick and oily foliage of a Tambootie tree.
He could eat a few leaves of the Tambootie to enhance his magic. No. He wasn’t that desperate yet. King Simeon’s insanity near the end had been caused by addiction to the leaves. He suspected Rejiia’s instability stemmed from an overuse of Tambootie as well.
But where the Tambootie grew, dragons flew. Tambootie provided essential nutrients to the huge, winged beasts. Those nutrients allowed them to emit magical energy magicians could gather.
Lanciar opened himself to the air, as if drinking in the power contained within the ley lines that crisscrossed the planet. Nothing.
He’d try again later, deeper into Coronnan where dragons might fly once more.
At first the tents and activity across the rapid stream seemed all a jumble. He might have dozed a bit, lulled by the buzz of insects, the warm air, and
At the bottom of the cliff, some three hundred feet below Hanassa’s plateau, the land leveled out and showed signs of a little more rainfall than on the desert plateau. Scrawny shrubs and a few fistfuls of grass clung to precious bits of dirt beside the path. Indeed, the path became a road broad enough for men to walk two and three abreast with pack steeds. Two miles farther on, an inn perched precariously atop another cliff beside a thundering waterfall. Caravans and their beasts camped across the river from the inn. A wobbly bridge strung together with odd bits of rope and mismatched planks spanned the rushing stream.
Lanciar’s head spun at the thought of crashing through the bridge into the river and then plummeting over the cataract onto the broken rocks one hundred feet below. He gulped and turned his eyes and attention away from such thoughts.
Three pairs of men wrestled in the inn’s forecourt, exchanging blows. The pointless brawl spread to several of the spectators. Lanciar spat in the dust in disgust. “Waste of energy and discipline. If you were part of my army, I’d have all of you flogged.”
Rejiia might aspire to the title of Kaalipha of Hanassa, but she didn’t have the discipline to organize the city, only to terrorize it. Lanciar could do it. If he wanted to. The people of Coronnan, SeLenicca, and Rossemeyer would rise up in rebellion against her tyranny. She’d not last long as queen of any place. Lanciar had to retrieve his son before Rejiia put the boy in the way of vengeful assassins.
Lanciar walked a little way past the inn. He paused, drinking in the colors of the place and the clean smell of the air. Green grass beside the river, red tile roof, bright yellow mud walls, a shrub or two, and bright tents in a variety of colors—red, purple, green, and blue. But mostly the tents were the red and purple with black trim of Zolltarn’s clan. A dozen or more dark-haired men and women, dressed in the same colors as the tents, worked hard to rig the tents and start cooking fires.
Indeed, the Rovers had not gone far.
How to approach them undetected? And how to find his son among the numerous babies he’d seen in packs on the backs of the clan women?
He went into the inn and ordered an ale. The first one slid down his throat in welcome relief. He needed to replenish his bodily reserves after the long levitation down the mountain with only a faint and spindly ley line to fuel his talent. Another ale and a meal sent the magic humming through his body once more.
He took his third ale outside while he watched the Rover camp. A pleasant buzz accompanied him. A placid smile spread through him as he sought a place to sit.
“This is too nice a day to do more than watch other people work.” He settled onto a bench at the back of the inn beside the corral, beneath a spreading hardwood tree. He didn’t know the variety and frankly did not care since it bore plain blue/green leaves rather than the pink-veined, thick and oily foliage of a Tambootie tree.
He could eat a few leaves of the Tambootie to enhance his magic. No. He wasn’t that desperate yet. King Simeon’s insanity near the end had been caused by addiction to the leaves. He suspected Rejiia’s instability stemmed from an overuse of Tambootie as well.
But where the Tambootie grew, dragons flew. Tambootie provided essential nutrients to the huge, winged beasts. Those nutrients allowed them to emit magical energy magicians could gather.
Lanciar opened himself to the air, as if drinking in the power contained within the ley lines that crisscrossed the planet. Nothing.
He’d try again later, deeper into Coronnan where dragons might fly once more.
At first the tents and activity across the rapid stream seemed all a jumble. He might have dozed a bit, lulled by the buzz of insects, the warm air, and
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