But a few salient facts had penetrated and remained lodged in his brain.
The item he had was a fortune-telling talisman of some sort, a card in what the Nain explorer had described merely as the Deck. The Deck had belonged to an Ancient Seren seer named Sharra, and so on occasion Ven Polypheme referred to it as Sharra’s Deck. The seer, according to the explorer, was able to draw upon some elemental power with which to manipulate the cards to bring about significant events, though what that power was, or what those manipulations led to, had been lost to Time and the sea.
The symbols on some of the other cards in the deck had been crudely sketched in the book; indeed, if he had not recognized the throne symbol on one of the more intact pages he might have missed the connection altogether. But miraculously that drawing was intact in the exhibit, the inscription below it clear enough to be recognized.
He had struggled to remain blase as he gestured absently to the runes below the sketch of the throne, runes he had committed to memory, even though he could not read them.
“What language is this?” he had asked the young duke casually.
“Ancient Serenne,” Stephen had replied, his blue-green eyes snapping with excitement. “It’s really more a magical code or musical notation than a language. Here; I have a small volume that is a folio of sorts on Ancient Serenne, if you would like to see it.”
He had searched feverishly through the slim book, writing the words and symbols with trembling hands, until a single phrase stared back at him, the translation of the runes he had struggled for so many years to decode.
The New Beginning, it said.
The only other information of note that he had discovered in the scant remains of The Book of All Human Knowledge regarding the Deck was that Ven Polypheme believed the cards were formed from dragon scales, though he acknowledged he had never seen their like in any of the many dragons he had apparently been privileged to meet in the course of his travels.
And since dragons were the race formed of elemental earth, he had a suspicion he knew what might help power the scale.
The time was almost right to test his theory.
He had already put the steps in motion; the Scales of Yarim had weighed in his favor. From the moment he had placed the totem of Living Stone on one plate and the violet scale of the New Beginning on the other and they had balanced, he had felt it, a blood-deep power coursing through his veins, an entitlement that transcended any other.
As the sun rose in the firmament, and the thick mist of the Skeleton Coast swallowed him into invisibility once more, the man knew that the time was at hand to see if he could wield it.
10
The sweet morning air rang with the sound of a glorious bass, slightly flat, echoing off the Teeth beyond.
A score or so of raspy Bolgish voices picked up the chorus to the cadence:
Achmed was only half-listening to Grunthor and his troops extolling the praises of the Sergeant’s favorite bedwench in song; he was watching instead for the approach of the Yarimese guards. He suspected that Ihrman Karsrick, paranoid old goat that the duke was, would do whatever he could to contain the presence of the Bolg in his province, escorting them grudgingly into the work zone, perhaps under cover of darkness, to avoid exposing his subjects to the cannibals, as Bolg were frequently referred to by humans.
He didn’t need to wait long to be proven correct.
Just as the Bolg chorus had arrived at the place in the tune where Grunthor’s wench’s nose ring was being compared favorably to that of a local prize-winning bull, a thin line of horsemen appeared in the distance.
The melody choked off, swallowed with precision.
“Ah, ’ere comes the welcoming committee,” the Sergeant said, smirking. “Was wonderin’ when the royal treatment was gonna begin.” He turned to the two dozen Firbolg workers and signaled the caravan to slow to half speed. “Ya all remember ta use yer napkins and fingerbowls like I taught ya. Now set to.”
The Bolg guard that was riding escort, numbering a dozen more, nonchalantly aimed their crossbows, targeting the forelegs of the Yarimese guards’ mounts as the Sergeant and the Bolg king rode slowly out to meet the soldiers of Yarim.
A single rider, a dusky-skinned man with light eyes, separated from the contingent in turn and urged his mount forward gently.
“Well met, sire,” the officer from Yarim said when he was within earshot, addressing the Bolg in the Orlandan vernacular. “Welcome to Yarim; I am Tariz, and am to be your escort and aide while you are here in the province.”
Achmed did not favor the man with a glance. “Lead.”
The soldier reined his horse around, and rode back toward the Yarimese contingent, his shoulders twitching as if he expected a crossbow quarrel to be planted between them at any moment.
In all seasons save for summer, Yarim Paar was a cold, dry place, a flat wasteland nestled between the fertile fields of Canderre to the west and the towering peaks of the Teeth to the east. It was an older city than most others on the continent, and the most ancient of all the provincial capitals, having preceded the Cymrian era in its building by more than a thousand years. Exactly how long it had been standing was lost to Time and the wind that blew the red clay around in spiraling clouds across the wide, arid plain.
In summer, the current season, the dry red clay clotted the air, making it difficult to breathe in the heat. The parched ground had baked at the surface and cracked, sending forth spirals of red clay dust with the tramping of the horses’ hooves, stinging the eyes along with the glare of the sun.
Achmed had seen the bright white cloth of the construction tents that had been erected around Entudenin long before any of the rest of the decaying buildings in the center of the capital could be discerned. In the massive expanse of what had once been the jewel of the cold desert, the gleaming fabric of the site glowed against the backdrop of blood-red clay. He inclined his head toward it, and Grunthor nodded.
Tariz noticed their exchange. Nervously he shifted the reins into his right hand and pointed with his left.
“That is the site, sire,” he said awkwardly.
“Then why are we riding away from it?” Achmed asked, already knowing the answer. The sensation was similar to being a cat playing with a bird it had caught. His head hurt with the game, and it annoyed him.
“Er—we, ah, well, I have specific orders from the Duke of Yarim to first take you and your contingent to the barracks complex that has been set up for you outside the city to the northeast. You will be most comfortable there; we have arranged for housing for the men and animals, as well as for the machinery.”
“The men too?” asked Grunthor in mock amazement. “Oh, goody! Ya mean we don’t have ta sleep in the rocks amongst the snakes? You truly are a gentleman, sir.”
“The duke intends to see to your every need while you are his guests,” stammered the aide.
“I presume that includes our need for constant guard,” Achmed said.
“Yes, yes indeed.” Tariz looked relieved.
The Bolg king reined his mount to a halt and gestured for the aide to stop alongside him. He leaned nearer, locking eyes with the man.
“Let me make one thing undeniably clear from the outset, Tariz,” he said quietly. “Whatever your orders, my men and I are not your prisoners. For practicality’s sake I will tolerate your presence, your needless vigilance, your standing guard over us while we work, for as long as it suits me. But bear in mind always that it is the ignorant fools in your own province you are watching for and holding arms against, whose curiosity is injurious in some way in the mind of your duke, not the Bolg artisans he has hired. If for one moment I feel a shift in that understanding, if any of my workers are harassed or made to feel like anything less than the hired experts that they are, come to save your province from dying of thirst, we will be gone before you draw a second breath, leaving you to wither and desiccate in the sun. Do you understand my words?”