“Slowhand.”
Clay turned and found himself eye to eye with Maladan Pike, the First Shield of Kaskar. Pike had been a mercenary once, the frontman of a band called the Raiders. He’d had a pair of older brothers—twins—destined to rival each other for the right to inherit their father’s throne, but both had died at the hands of an especially mean (and prodigiously ugly) ogre chieftain named Ikko Umpa. Pike had begged his father for the opportunity to avenge his fallen siblings, but the northern king, unwilling to risk the life of his only remaining heir, refused and hired Saga to kill the ogre instead. They’d done so, and ever since, the reluctant prince of Kaskar had treated Clay and his bandmates with an admixture of mild resentment and grudging respect.
“Pike,” Clay said by way of greeting.
“Heard you were dead.”
“Close. Married.”
The First Shield snorted. “Kids?”
“One. You?”
“Seven.” Pike’s chest swelled a little. “The oldest is near tall as me already and could strangle a yethik with his bare hands. And yours? I’ll bet my horse he’s a stone-cold killer, same as his father.”
Clay stifled a shudder while plastering on a smile of his own. “A girl, actually. She collects frogs.”
“Oh.” The northman looked troubled as he smoothed his grey-shot beard against the six-fingered bear-claw embossed on his studded leather cuirass. “I was just kidding about betting my horse, obviously.”
“Obviously,” said Clay.
The First Shield’s gaffe was overshadowed—literally—by the arrival of a rapidly descending skyship.
Clay tried to hide his astonishment from those around him as the galleon dropped out of the grey sky. He and the band had discovered the wreckage of many such vessels during their touring years—most often amidst the ruin of Dominion cities—but those had been derelict, their sails torn and their hulls reduced to splinters. He’d heard rumours these past few years of skyships being found more or less intact, but had dismissed them as false until the day he’d glimpsed one sailing the clouds above Coverdale. Even still, Clay had never thought to see one up close.
“The Second Sun,” said Moog, sidling up beside him. “The flagship of the Sultana herself.”
It looked to Clay like any other ship, except the sails were shaped a bit like leaves and braced with spanning metal struts that crackled with blue electricity. Also, it was flying.
“Flagship?” he asked. “You mean Narmeer has a whole fleet of those?”
The wizard laughed. “Well, no. They might have one or two more, actually, but I’d be surprised if there were thirty skyships in the whole world that are actually airworthy. The Second Sun was found buried in the sand near Xanses. The Salt Queen of Phantra has one as well, I hear. All the really cool monarchs have them.”
“I can hear you, you know,” said Matrick. He was gazing covetously at the hovering galleon, which had cast a pair of huge anchors to the ground. Narmeeri soldiers scrambled deftly down nets draping the hull, and there was a curtained palanquin being lowered over one rail.
Clay’s eyes were nailed to the ship as well. “How?” was all he managed to say.
Moog scratched the bald crown of his head. “How does it fly, you mean? You see those metal-looking orbs on either side?”
Clay nodded. There were two near the prow of the ship, and two near the stern, each one surrounded by a haze of fine mist. “Sure.”
“Tidal engines,” said the wizard. “They’re actually a series of spinning gyres made of pure duramantium and powered by static electricity trapped by the sails.”
Clay had never heard of tidal engines, and he sure as shit didn’t know what a “gyre” was supposed to be. As for duramantium, he’d always half-believed the metal was a myth devised by merchants to sell you a sword for ten times its worth. “So basically magic,” he mumbled.
Another chuckle from Moog. “Not magic exactly, but close.”
The palanquin the Narmeeri had unloaded from the ship was borne to the hilltop by eight hulking Kaskars in bronze-plated lamellar skirts and calf-strapped sandals. Northmen, especially those with blond hair and bright eyes, were paid a princely sum to serve as elite bodyguards to Narmeeri nobles. Most who did so were criminals or outcasts, and Clay noted that the Sultana’s guardsmen were careful to avoid the First Shield’s gaze as they lowered their burden and took up places on either side. Their mistress, the enigmatic ruler of the southernmost court, remained ensconced within the palanquin while a trio of ministers with plaited beards and patterned robes conferred with one another in hushed voices.
It was late afternoon before the Carteans turned up at last, plodding across the ancient battleground on sturdy steppe ponies. The yellow-and-blue pennants of the High Han drifted limply down below, but by the time they reached the summit they streamed and snapped in the crisp autumn breeze.
“My Queen!” The lead horseman, who Clay assumed was Obolon Han, called out to Lilith from the back of his mount. “See how my banner stiffens when you are near!” His remark drew a round of guttural laughter from the men around him and brought an oddly gratified smirk to the queen’s lips. Clay glanced between Matrick and her bodyguard—the one she’d called Lokan at breakfast—and couldn’t decide which of the two looked more affronted.
The Han dismounted with the practised ease of a man getting out of a chair and advanced at a saunter. He was flanked by two of the Ravenguard, denoted by the wings tattooed beneath their collarbones. All three men bore a black stripe painted over their eyes and the bridges of their broad noses, and each shouldered a horn bow and carried a naked sabre on his hip.
Obolon was a short man but sturdily built, with broad shoulders and muscles packed beneath a meaty frame that bespoke a man who loved eating and drinking just a little bit less than he loved riding and fighting. His battle-scarred arms, like those of the men behind him, were browned by long days beneath the sun. His head and cheeks were shorn clean, though he wore a wispy beard on his chin that Clay thought looked pretty stupid, all things considered.
The Han’s narrow, heavy-lidded eyes were hauntingly familiar, and Clay was trying to decide whether or not he’d met the man before when Gabriel, standing on his right, sucked in a breath.
“Holy shit”—his whisper carried a note of disbelief over Clay’s shoulder—“the fat one.”
Clay frowned. He didn’t …Sweet Maiden’s Mercy. He tried to keep his jaw from hinging open as Gabriel’s words clicked into place. This man, the warlord who ruled the Cartean tribes, was very obviously the true father of Matty’s son, Kerrick. Little wonder Matrick loathes the man, he thought. Let’s just hope the two of them can stay civil long enough to get this council over with.
Obolon stopped before the king and spread his beefy arms like a man expecting a hug. “Old King Matrick! Long time, no see. How’s my boy doing?”
Clay sighed. Or not.
To his left, Moog’s bushy eyebrows climbed halfway to the back of his head.
A few of the king’s guards exchanged furtive glances, but Matrick did nothing but clamp his lips and force a smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The Han kept on, undeterred. “Hungry little bastard, ain’t he? Runs in the family. Is that why you can’t afford to defend your borders against my raids? Have you emptied your coffers feeding that brat o’ mine?”
Matrick pretended to ignore him, but Clay saw the king’s fingers twitch, itching for the pommels of knives he wasn’t carrying, at least not visibly. After all, if the king wanted someone full of holes there were a dozen guards around him happy to oblige.
“And who is this stallion?” The Han’s shit-eating grin grew wider as he took stock of Lilith’s bristling bodyguard. “Looks like it won’t be long before we welcome another little warrior into our happy family!”
Lokan, being possessed of more pride and less sense than Matrick, drew his sword.