“Where be you from?” the voice called out.
“The southwest and Zodiako,” Widsith called back. “Who art thou?”
“Once a fellow of some import,” the voice replied. “Shall I show myself, or are you a danger and heavily armed?”
“Two swords,” Widsith said. “Both sheathed.”
A figure appeared from behind the rumpled mass, perhaps a hundred yards away, and walked unsteadily toward them. “Have you any food? Drink? Strong drink?”
Widsith held aloft his pouch, which contained some small pieces of stale bread. Kaiholo raised his water sack.
“That is all?” the man asked as he drew near.
“That is all,” Widsith said.
“I know you!” the man said to the Pilgrim. “I have worked on your journeys. You are Manuel, no? Yet not so old!”
“Restored, but once Manuel,” Widsith said. “Now I am called—”
“Widsith! Of course you would revive upon each return—that was the tale the Crafters launched generations ago. You are one who bringeth word of our labors!”
“Whose labors?” Kaiholo asked.
“Mine own, and many who once lived here! And the Crafters, of course. And be this the Sea Traveler Kaiholo, favored by those just beneath the sky? Where is the boy?” The old man halted four paces off. He wore shreds of what might have once been a grand gown, still belted by a golden cord and a great jeweled buckle. Across his shoulders rested two shining silver epaulets connected by more golden cord. His face was thin and bony, his cheeks wrinkled and sunken, and his neck seemed barely able to hold up his great bald head. His fingers, playing about the buckle but also rising to the epaulets, as if indicating his rank, were thin as bone themselves. “Know you the King of Troy? Our island’s magician of that name?”
“We knew him,” Widsith said.
“One of his sweven was here,” the thin, decorated man said. “It warned us the boy would be coming, and would need protection until his next stop.”
“Have you control here?” Widsith asked.
“I carried out orders delivered to the quarries, that is all, and perhaps chose thy faces or gave thee other features in times past. Features, not histories. I know my mandate, and my limits.”
“What is that in the krater?” Kaiholo asked, pointing at the dark mass.
“Oh, it is dead, alas,” the man said. “Died many a month ago, but before it died, covered itself, as the Old Ones do, to shield its visage from those who must carry it to the plain of jars—but also not to offend Hel. It was once a great and noble Crafter. Fear of it has kept the eastern armies away from this krater, but not for long, I think.”
“I am looking at it,” Kaiholo said, squinting sideways. “Will I go mad?”
“Not whilst it is cloaked,” the old man said. “Nor will you ever comprehend its power. Look upon your tales, your histories, and give thanks to this one—and of course to Queen Hel.”
“Where are the armies now?” Widsith asked.
“Likely not far,” the old man said. “Did you send the drakes to harry them?”
“No,” Widsith said. “Our drakes have yet to join us.”
“Well, they should come soon. The armies of the Sister Queens, what is left of them, may their stories curl and burn, are trying to camp a few miles away.”
From the other side of the krater cut the twang of a crossbow, and a sharp hum all too familiar to Widsith. The old man was shoved forward and blew the breath from his lungs. He dropped to his knees, and then collapsed, a bolt buried deep in his back.
A double handful of men in rusted armor ran from behind the cloaked shape in the krater, bolder by far than any from this land, Widsith thought. They were followed by two mounted on horses also in armor. Together, they warily ascended the curve of the krater toward Kaiholo and Widsith, and one removed his helmet and cowl to show his face.
“I know thee!” the grizzle-bearded man growled at Widsith. Five of the soldiers surrounded them, and the other five moved around the dead krater garden behind them, silent as cats, vanished into the dry foliage, and then returned with Reynard and Valdis. It appeared they thought they had taken only one prisoner, for Valdis was little more than a wisp, sticking close to the boy.
“This one was on the other side, spying,” the eldest soldier said in Spanish, delivering Reynard to his master.
“I know thee as well,” the bearded man said to Reynard. “But do not remember thy name. Dost thou remember Cardoza, boy? And thou, old sailor! Art thou amazed I still live?”
“I had so hoped,” Widsith said. “I served long with thee, and know thy mettle.”
“Thy face I would know through the ages! Where are the others?” Cardoza asked. “Where are those who command drakes?”
Two more caballeros rode up, lances raised, and addressed Cardoza in Spanish. Widsith translated. “They say they returned to the town of the old church and looked for others, but found no one. The town is empty.”
The High Tent
THE JOURNEY TO the camp of the Sister Queens, set up within the woods and pastures bordering the chafing waste, took less than an hour. Reynard saw that no cultivation had been done here for many a year, nor were the woods harvested. Did the krater city’s inhabitants need to eat or build?
Daylight was bright and the sky still clear, and the smoke from the camp’s fires rose and spread gray and brown, hazing the sky ahead. The Sister Queens still fielded thousands of soldiers, and likely there were servants from the cities near as well—captives, informants, slaves.
As the Spanish and Cardoza prodded their captives along and through the camp, men and a few women emerged from the tents, all carrying swords, many wearing resin-soaked cloth plates, sheets of raw iron, armlets of bronze: a style of armor other than that worn by Cardoza’s men.
And beyond their tents and fires rose line after line of great machines, machines designed to fling rocks and fire and to erect fighting towers—to lay siege and destroy.
None appeared to have been used.
Widsith walked beside Reynard and said, “Look at their faces! This land doth not play by their rules or their tools.” His eyes seemed to seek Valdis, but could not find her. “Thy shadow plays with other shadows. What is her plan?”
“I wish she would flee and save the others,” Reynard said. “The old servant at the krater—” he began, but Widsith held up his hand and looked down as if in prayer.
“The one who laid out my life, thou mean’st? Who worked with the Crafters to spin a long and varied history, to judge our souls, and to make the worlds I would be interested in seeing?”
“The one who died,” Reynard said.
Cardoza was riding far ahead, stopping to consult with other soldiers, some dressed in colorful robes, others carrying longswords and bows, along with crossbows of Spanish design. All were weary, hoping to gather their strength as they rested.
But strength to fight what, or whom?
“If he was my story master,” Widsith said, “and I have no reason to doubt his word, then my history is soon at an end. One doth not with impunity meet one’s own smith, not on this island.”
A great gray and white tent rose into the dusk, lit from inside like a paper lantern filled with fireflies. Outside the tent, cots had been made and arranged to care for hundreds of wounded, and another stretch of ground took as many dead tied into their shrouds. Many soldiers and guards formed rings around the tent, a few fires scattered among the lines, and servants in rags, of all ages, sharing out food and water.
“Did the blunters get away with Nikolias and Calafi?” Reynard whispered to Widsith.
“I doubt they moved far,” Widsith said. “They have yet to receive their drakes. This battle is far from over.”