she really did know him. “Dal Grehb is one of the worst men in history,” she said, heavily. “And now he has Tir, he has access to the Eastlands. He has crossed the Sand Seas.”
“But he has what he wants…” Vekal tried to say, not letting on just what it was that the War Chief had wanted, which was his daughter healed.
“A man like him never has what they want. It is ridiculous to think that they ever will be happy, unless everyone else is at their feet. No. This is very grave news indeed, and must be taken to the Council of Fuldoon.”
“The Council of Fuldoon?” Vekal wondered. The name rang a bell, but he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Wasn’t it the next city over, or thereabouts?
“By the Gods, do any of you dust drinkers ever lift your head out of the books and the sands once in a while?” Suriyen growled. “Fuldoon is the closest port to Tir. It sits just over the scrublands, past the desert and the river. It’s the gateway to the rest of the world!”
“Oh,” Vekal said, feeling stupid. He thought that, actually, he had spent the last few decades just practicing, exercising, and reading ancient scrolls, and not traveling at all.
“And it is there that the rumors of Dal Grehb have spread, making people panic. It is from there that the reinforcements and the troops to fight back will come,” Suriyen said, confidently.
“But why do you care so much?” Vekal asked. “Why not flee with the rest of the refugees from Tir?”
A tut from behind him. Jab. Sharp pain. “Dal Grehb slaughtered my family as I watched, before selling me to slavers. That was some fifteen years ago, at a place called the Iron Pass. Heard of it?”
Vekal had, both the battle and the place. The Iron Pass sat to the far north, the other side of the desert, and was a narrow gap in the rocky cliffs that allowed access to the richer, more fertile northern lands. People had fought for it and in it for centuries, or so the old sagas had said, but Dal Grehb was the most recent.
Unlike previous warlords, he had managed to maintain control over the vital trading route for the last fifteen years, building up his resources and his coffers until he was obviously strong enough to march south across the desert itself. If he controlled the Iron Pass and the desert, then he had a choke hold on half of the known world.
“The battle of the Iron Pass was the last alliance against the Menaali,” Suriyen said. “I was only a teenager. I didn’t know any better than to follow my parents and help out with the baggage trains. I was there, at base camp, watching as Dal Grehb burnt the cliff-top towers and sent his war-wolves charging through the gap itself, decimating our forces. We ran, of course, all of us children and old people, trying to flee north. But how can anyone outrun a wolf? I killed one with a spear before the Menaali captured me and sold me to the slavers on the inner sea.” The woman ended her sad story with an oddly expressionless tone, as if it had all happened to someone else.
“Then, if you were a galley-slave, how on earth did you get out here?” Vekal asked.
“It was fifteen years ago, and even slaves grow up. I grew stronger,” Suriyen said. “Strong enough to fight alongside the slavers when the pirates attacked. That was when I took my chances, strangling the captain who had brought me, and using his head to buy my passage with the pirates to Fuldoon Port.” She finished her story brightly. “I thought that I had put a desert, sea, and fifteen years between me and Dal Grehb. And what does he do? He crosses the desert!”
“You can still flee,” Vekal pointed out.
“No.” Her answer was swift, and final. “Not this time. Not now. I cannot.” A moment of silence, and then more jabbing at his back. “So, Sin Eater, that is my story. Now yours. You managed to avoid telling me why you were under the desert, and how you managed to rescue Talon back there.”
Vekal opened and closed his
“But he has what he wants…” Vekal tried to say, not letting on just what it was that the War Chief had wanted, which was his daughter healed.
“A man like him never has what they want. It is ridiculous to think that they ever will be happy, unless everyone else is at their feet. No. This is very grave news indeed, and must be taken to the Council of Fuldoon.”
“The Council of Fuldoon?” Vekal wondered. The name rang a bell, but he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Wasn’t it the next city over, or thereabouts?
“By the Gods, do any of you dust drinkers ever lift your head out of the books and the sands once in a while?” Suriyen growled. “Fuldoon is the closest port to Tir. It sits just over the scrublands, past the desert and the river. It’s the gateway to the rest of the world!”
“Oh,” Vekal said, feeling stupid. He thought that, actually, he had spent the last few decades just practicing, exercising, and reading ancient scrolls, and not traveling at all.
“And it is there that the rumors of Dal Grehb have spread, making people panic. It is from there that the reinforcements and the troops to fight back will come,” Suriyen said, confidently.
“But why do you care so much?” Vekal asked. “Why not flee with the rest of the refugees from Tir?”
A tut from behind him. Jab. Sharp pain. “Dal Grehb slaughtered my family as I watched, before selling me to slavers. That was some fifteen years ago, at a place called the Iron Pass. Heard of it?”
Vekal had, both the battle and the place. The Iron Pass sat to the far north, the other side of the desert, and was a narrow gap in the rocky cliffs that allowed access to the richer, more fertile northern lands. People had fought for it and in it for centuries, or so the old sagas had said, but Dal Grehb was the most recent.
Unlike previous warlords, he had managed to maintain control over the vital trading route for the last fifteen years, building up his resources and his coffers until he was obviously strong enough to march south across the desert itself. If he controlled the Iron Pass and the desert, then he had a choke hold on half of the known world.
“The battle of the Iron Pass was the last alliance against the Menaali,” Suriyen said. “I was only a teenager. I didn’t know any better than to follow my parents and help out with the baggage trains. I was there, at base camp, watching as Dal Grehb burnt the cliff-top towers and sent his war-wolves charging through the gap itself, decimating our forces. We ran, of course, all of us children and old people, trying to flee north. But how can anyone outrun a wolf? I killed one with a spear before the Menaali captured me and sold me to the slavers on the inner sea.” The woman ended her sad story with an oddly expressionless tone, as if it had all happened to someone else.
“Then, if you were a galley-slave, how on earth did you get out here?” Vekal asked.
“It was fifteen years ago, and even slaves grow up. I grew stronger,” Suriyen said. “Strong enough to fight alongside the slavers when the pirates attacked. That was when I took my chances, strangling the captain who had brought me, and using his head to buy my passage with the pirates to Fuldoon Port.” She finished her story brightly. “I thought that I had put a desert, sea, and fifteen years between me and Dal Grehb. And what does he do? He crosses the desert!”
“You can still flee,” Vekal pointed out.
“No.” Her answer was swift, and final. “Not this time. Not now. I cannot.” A moment of silence, and then more jabbing at his back. “So, Sin Eater, that is my story. Now yours. You managed to avoid telling me why you were under the desert, and how you managed to rescue Talon back there.”
Vekal opened and closed his
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