“We keep these quite warm to incubate them,” the Akkad-Ur informed him. “We have fourteen left. We had more, but we have used them for various things. I find the inherent power of magic in the embryos to be most useful.”
The Akkad-Ur pulled out a large dagger. In front of Crucible’s horrified gaze, he stabbed the blade into the top of the egg, pulled it out, and stabbed again. He paid no attention to the albumen and blood that trickled out from the break. Carefully measuring and stabbing, he cut a circular hole in the egg and pried off the top. An attendant brought a large cauldron.
Grief stricken, Crucible could only stare as the Akkad-Ur tipped the egg over and poured out the contents into the cauldron. He choked back a cry as a bloodied, half-formed embryo slid out and fell with a splat into the ruined contents of its egg.
“There are thirteen more,” the Akkad-Ur said. “We will kill each one before your eyes if you do not obey my every command.”
Crucible glared at him, hate in his glowing eyes.
“Do we understand each other?”
The dragon forced a nod. What he had just seen left him speechless.
The Tarmak turned his back on the dragon and raised his dripping dagger over his head. “The feast of dragon blood will be prepared tonight! Who will partake of the offering?”
A roar answered him as every warrior around him raised his weapon and shouted.
The two Keena collected the heavy cauldron and carried it to a large fire. While Crucible watched, grim and shaking, they chopped the embryo to bits, mixed its body back into the egg, and added powders and liquids until they had made a foul looking soup. Other priests gathered and began chanting and beating drums while the ghastly soup cooked. The call of the drums sounded through the huge camp and brought the Tarmaks crowding around the clearing. When the potion was cooked to everyone’s satisfaction, the head priest pulled out the small, underdeveloped dragonet’s skull, filled the brain pan with liquid, and gave it to the Akkad-Ur.
Bathed in torchlight, the Akkad-Ur faced the east and raised the skull in salute. “To the godson, Amarrel, Keeper of Dragons, Champion of the White Flame, beloved of the goddess, we who are about to fight in your name, salute you!” So saying, he brought the skull to his lips and drank the contents in one long swallow. The Tarmaks howled their approval in time to the beating of the drums.
Crucible turned away. He heard the warriors rush forward to get their smaller shares of the potion, but he could not watch it. He didn’t know why they cooked and ate the baby dragon or what purpose it served for them. All he knew was the baby had been killed because of him, because he had been greedy for water and lost his temper. If Iyesta had been alive, she would never have forgiven him.
His thoughts went back to iron box. It was heavy and rather large. Where would the Tarmaks store thirteen of those things? And how did they keep them warm? He tried to dredge out of his memory everything he had seen in the massive column of Tarmaks, wagons, beasts of burden, horses, chariots, and the slave train, but he could not remember seeing anything large enough to haul thirteen of those big iron boxes. Maybe they were scattered throughout the column on various baggage wagons. He didn’t know. Maybe the Akkad-Ur was bluffing and only a had a few while the remaining eggs stayed safely in Missing City. It did seem rather ridiculous to bring fourteen dragon eggs on an invasion. But how could he know for sure? Did he want to risk any more of the eggs?
Linsha and the dragon eggs. Two invisible lengths of chain far stronger than anything the Tarmaks could forge from steel.
Growling deep in his throat, Crucible curled up in the shallows of the river and brooded on revenge.
21
The Tree’s Gift
“Excuse me, Lady Linsha, my name is Danian. I have been asked to see you.”
The Rose Knight looked up from her plate into two pairs of captivating eyes, one pair human and clouded beyond use, the other pair avian, beady black, and sparkling with intelligence. She felt Varia lean forward on her shoulder to stare at the other bird. The bird was a kestrel, a sleek and lovely predator.
The sight of the kestrel tweaked her memory, and she remembered. Leonidas had said something about a healer with a kestrel. He hadn’t mentioned the man was blind. Intrigued, Linsha set aside her plate and climbed carefully to her feet. To her surprise she looked down on the healer. He was somewhat short for a Plainsman with a build that was slender and ropey like a pine tree toughened and stunted by the desert wind. His dark hair was cut short and his skin was deeply tanned.
The evening meal was almost over and the tribal bards and clan storytellers were preparing for the evening’s entertainment. The feast had not been fancy, but the two tribes who had hosted it had worked hard to prepare a satisfying and hearty meal for the day’s newcomers. It was tribal custom to start any gathering with a feast and songs that lasted far into the night before a large meeting was called. Linsha appreciated the food, and she knew the storytellers and singers would regale the crowd with war songs and tales of great bravery to excite their minds for coming battle. In truth, she didn’t want to hear them. Perhaps she was getting too old for battles, but she had long ago given up looking for glory among the hacked and maimed bodies on the field.
“Healer,” she said to Danian, “I don’t know what you can do to help my ankle. The injury is several days old. But if you would like to leave this crowded place and come to our camp, I would be pleased to talk to you.”
He cocked his head as if listening to something then nodded. “I will tell Wanderer I am leaving and we will go.”
She watched him with interest as he wove his way unerring through the busy, crowded space under the tree set aside for feasting. If she hadn’t seen the milky fog that obscured his eyes, she would never have guessed he was blind.
“The kestrel helps him see,” a stranger said beside her.
Startled, she looked at the people around her and realized a taller, much younger man was waiting close by. By his unkempt red hair and paler skin, she knew without asking this boy was an outlander, a stranger like herself to the Plains.
“Who are you?” she asked, her astonishment making her question more abrupt than she meant.
He offered her a bashful grin. “My name is Tancred. I am not from around here. I am Danian’s apprentice.”
She gave him a smile back. “You sound as if you’ve had to repeat that a few times.”
“A few. I ended up here by accident a few weeks ago, and I am still trying to explain myself.”
Her brows lowered in confusion. “A few weeks ago? And you are an apprentice with a tribal healer? Already?”
“He is a healer and a shaman. And yes, I am his apprentice. It was all rather unexpected.”
Linsha looked back to watch Danian. “He knows animism, as well. Or does his bird talk?”
“His bird does not talk,” Varia replied in her ear with only the slightest hint of condescension in her tone.
They watched the healer talk to a tall, powerful looking man near the back of the crowd. The Plainsman nodded once and glanced Linsha’s way. She caught his eye and made a bow as best she could with a walking staff and an owl on her shoulder. She had not had a chance to talk to Wanderer that evening, but she hoped to sometime before the confrontation with the Tarmak.
Danian came back, as unerringly as before, and with Tancred by his side, he followed Linsha out of the feasting grounds to the militia’s camp. She could only hobble very slowly, even with the help the staff, but the two men made no complaint or comment. When they reached the camp, Linsha saw the site was empty at the moment, for everyone else was enjoying the food and the music on the distant side of the tree. The small fire had burned down to orange embers but was still hot enough to keep the pot of kefre warm for anyone who wanted some.