“Your men won’t be able to resist Kakzim,” Cerk said without a trace of fear or doubt. “You won’t be able to resist him. Or, if you do, he’ll string you up with the others, slit your veins, and feed your blood to the Black-Tree to placate it and consolidate his dominance over it.”
It had the sound of an unpleasant death worthy of Hamanu himself, and an equally worthy, unpleasant ambition. For those reasons alone, although there were others, Pavek was inclined to believe the battered little man—but not to agree to his terms.
“We’ll take our chances together. You’ll lead us there. And, Cerk, what others? What friends of mine have you been talking to?”
“Hamanu’s mercy!” Javed erupted before Cerk could answer. “With him leading us, we’ll need two days to get anywhere.”
“Then we’ll still be there in time, Commandant,” Pavek snarled, surprising himself and Javed with his vehemence. “Now, Cerk, again—what others?”
“The others—I don’t know their names. The ones that were with you on the killing ground. They followed us—same as you did—we assumed you were with them, but obviously we were wrong. Kakzim was waiting for them when they crossed the mountains. He brought them to the Black-Tree. I don’t know what time you’re thinking of, Pavek, but there’s no time for your friends. I’m certain Kakzim will sacrifice them tonight when the moons converge: the blood of Urik to atone for his failures in Urik. I heard him say so many, many times. He’d hoped it would be your blood, of course, but he still needs to make a sacrifice and the best time will be tonight.”
“Tomorrow night!” Pavek protested. “The thirteenth night. I have the Lion-King’s word—”
“Tonight,” Cerk insisted. “Halflings have forgotten more than the dragons will ever know. Hamanu’s calculations are founded in myth; ours in fact: The convergence will be tonight. We’re too late for them, but Kakzim will be drunk and bloated. Tomorrow will be a good time to confront him—”
“Tonight! We’ll get there tonight, if I have to carry you. Start walking!”
Chapter Fifteen
Another night, another day in shades of darkness beneath the black tree. Orekel’s ankle had swelled up to the size of a cabra fruit. It was hot—not warm—to the touch; Mahtra had heard Zvain say so more than once. And painful. The dwarf couldn’t move without moaning, couldn’t move much at all. Zvain took Orekel’s share of the slops the halflings dumped into their pit and carried it to him in his hands. The boy collected water from the ground seeps the same way.
His behavior made no sense to Mahtra. The dwarf didn’t need food or water; he needed relief from his suffering. She didn’t understand suffering. Father and Mika had died, but they’d died quickly. They hadn’t suffered. Pavek had taken longer to die, but not as long as Orekel was taking. She’d asked Zvain, “What is wrong with the dwarf that he hasn’t died?”
Zvain had gotten angry at her. He’d called her the names the street children had shouted when she’d walked from the templar quarter to the cavern in what seemed, now, to have been another life. Mahtra was hurt by the names, but not the way Orekel was hurt. She didn’t die; she just crouched in the little place she’d claimed as her own.
Darkness thickened again; another night was coming. Mahtra thought it was the fourth night. She’d lost track of days and nights while she sat outside House Escrissar because they were the same while she lived them and fell one on top of the other in her memory. She didn’t want to lose track of days again; it seemed somehow important to know how long she stayed in a particular place, even if the only events to remember were Orekel’s groans and the slops falling from above.
Still thinking about time, Mahtra tried to make four marks that would help her keep the days and nights in order. The roots that intruded into their prison seemed an ideal place to carve her counting lines, but they were too tough for her fingernails; she broke two trying. Her nails were the color of cinnabar and tasted faintly of the bright red stone. She scratched along the dirt floor, searching for the broken-off pieces and had found one when she heard scratching sounds through the dirt beside her.
“Zvain—?” she whispered.
“Shsssh!” came the whispered reply. “I can hear it.”
An animal digging through the dirt, drawn, perhaps, by the sounds she’d made?