The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

Shadowy figures carried torches within the thick weave of the jungle. Slowly they climbed out of the brush and into the clearing around the riverbank. Twenty approached from all sides at once. At first they appeared to be strange monstrous beasts, until they fully entered the clearing revealing themselves as men; stocky, bull-necked brutes with white painted faces, bone armor, and headdresses of long feathers. They moved with ease through the dense brush. In their hands were crude clubs, axes, and spears. They circled in silence, creeping forward.

“We come in peace!” Hadrian heard Dilladrum shout in Tenkin, his voice sounding weak. “We have come to see Warlord Erandabon. We bear a message for him.”

As they grew nearer, they began hooting and howling, shaking their weapons. Some brandished teeth, while others beat their chests or stomped naked feet.

Dilladrum repeated his statement.

One of the larger men, who carried a decorated war axe, stepped forward and approached Dilladrum. “What message?” the Tenkin asked in a harsh, shallow voice.

“It is a sealed letter,” Dilladrum replied. “To be given only to the warlord.”

The man eyed each of them carefully. He grinned and then nodded. “Follow.”

It was clearly the best they could expect, although Dilladrum mopped his forehead with his sleeve as he explained the situation.

The Tenkin howled orders. Torches went out and the rest melted back into the jungle. The leader remained as they quickly broke camp. Then with a motion for them to follow, he ran back into the trees, his torch lighting the way. He led them at a brisk rate that had everyone panting for breath and Bulard near collapse. Dilladrum shouted forward for a rest, or at least a slower pace. The only response was laughter.

“Our new friends aren’t terribly considerate of an old man.” Bulard panted in between wheezing inhales.

“That’s enough!” Wesley shouted, and raised a hand for them to stop. The crew of the Emerald Storm needed little persuasion to take a break. The Tenkin and his torch continued forward, disappearing into the trees. “If he wants to keep jogging on without us, let him!”

“He’s not,” Royce commented. “He’s hiding in the trees up ahead with his torch out. There are also several on either side of us with more than a few to our rear.”

Wesley looked around then said, “I don’t see anything at all.”

Royce smiled. “What good is it having an elf in your crew if you can’t make use of him?”

Wesley raised an eyebrow, looked back out into the trees, then gave up altogether. He pulled the cork from his water bag, took a swig, and passed it around. Turning his attention to the historian, who sat in the dirt doubled over, he asked, “How you doing, Mister Bulard?”

Bulard’s red face came up. He was sweating badly, his thin hair matted to his head. He said nothing, his mouth preoccupied with the effort of sucking in air, but he managed to offer a smile and a reassuring nod.

“Good,” Wesley said, “let’s proceed, but we will set the pace. Let’s not have them exhausting us.”

“Aye,” Derning agreed, wiping his mouth after his turn at the water. “It would be just the thing for them to run us in circles until we collapse, then fall on us and slit our throats before we can catch our breaths.”

“Maybe that’s what happened to the others we spotted. Perhaps it was these blokes,” Grady speculated.

“We’re going somewhere,” Royce replied. “I can smell the sea.”

It was true. Hadrian had not noticed it until that moment, but he could taste the salt in the air. What he assumed was wind in the trees, he now realized, was the voice of he sea.

“Let’s continue, shall we, gentlemen?” Wesley said and moved them out. As they did, the Tenkin’s torch appeared once more and moved on ahead. Wesley refused to chase it, keeping them at a comfortable pace. The torch returned and after a few more tries to coax them, gave up and matched their stride.

Travel progressed sharply downward. The route soon became a rocky trail that plummeted to the face of a cliff. Below they could hear the crashing of waves. As dawn approached, they could see their destination. A stone fortress rose high on a rocky promontory that jutted into the ocean and guarded a natural harbor hundreds of feet below the rocky edge. The Palace of the Four Winds looked ancient, weathered by wind and rain until it matched the stained and pitted face of the dark granite upon which it sat. Built of massive blocks, it was inconceivable that men could have placed such large stones. Displaying the same austerity as the Tenkins, it lacked ornamentation. Ships filled the large sheltered bay on the lee side of the point. There were hundreds, all with reefed black sails.

When they approached the great gate, their guide stopped. “Weapons are not allowed past this point.”

Wesley scowled as Dilladrum translated, but was not surprised. This was the custom even in Avryn. One did not expect to walk armed into a lord’s castle. They presented their weapons, and Hadrian noted that neither Thranic nor Royce surrendered any.

Thranic had been acting oddly ever since stumbling into camp. He had not said a word and his eyes never left Royce.

They entered the fortress where a dozen well-equipped guards looked down from ramparts while another dozen lined their route. The exterior looked nearly ruined. Stone blocks had fallen left broken on the ground.

Inside the castle, the decor was no more cheerful. Here, too, the withering decay of centuries of neglect left the once great edifice little more than a primordial cave. Roots and fungi grew along the corridor crevices, dead leaves clustered in corners where the swirl of drafts deposited them. Dust, dirt, and cobwebs obscured the ancient decorative carvings, sculptures, and chiseled writings.

The Tenkins had strung crude banners over the walls, long pennants that depicted a white Tenkin-style axe on a black field. Just as in Oudorro, row upon row of shields hung from the ceiling like bats in a cavern. A massive fireplace occupied one whole side of the great chamber, a massive gaping maw of a hearth in which an entire tree trunk smoldered. Upon the floor lay the skin of a tiger whose head stared with gleaming emerald eyes and yellowing fangs. A stone throne stood at the far end of the hall. The base of the chair had cracked where a vine intertwined the legs making it list to one side, its seat draped in a thick piling of animal skins.

A wild-eyed man sat upon the throne. His head sported a tempest of hair jutting in all directions, long and black with streaks of white. Deep cuts and burns scarred his face. Thick brows overshadowed bright, explosive eyes that darted about rapidly, rolling in his skull like marbles struggling to free themselves from the confines of his head. He was bare-chested except for an elaborate vest of small-laced bones. His long fingers absently toyed with a large, bloodstained axe lying across his lap.