Chapter 2

Hill of Lost Voices, the Tamire

A lone hawk circled high above the plains, riding the dawn breeze as it searched for prey. The Tamire grasslands made for rich hunting, and before long the hawk dived, tucking in its wings and flashing downward like a spear. There was a soft squeal, then the bird was flapping up again, the limp form of a young hare clasped in its beak. It wheeled once and soared away toward a thicket of ash trees.

"A good omen," said Chovuk Tegin, shading his eyes against the light. The sun was just cresting the eastern horizon, bloodying the distant Ilquar Mountains behind him. "May our own hunt go as well as Mother Hawk's, tenach."

Standing just downhill of Chovuk—who, as chief of his tribe, deserved the higher ground—Hult, son of Holar, nodded. He had learned early in life that it was best not to speak unless there was something to say. That was one of the first lessons a boy of the Uigan people learned, even before he mounted his first horse. Standing with the Tegin, he stared across the plains until the bird was out of sight.

Chovuk and Hult looked enough alike to be brothers. Both were tall for their people, with the lean, stone-hard frames of men who spend much of their waking lives in the saddle. Yet Chovuk was approaching old age, already past forty, while Hult, at nineteen, had only become a man five summers ago. Still, their brown faces were both weathered, and they sported identical thin, black beards, untouched by gray. They shaved their heads in the manner of their people, leaving only one long braid to hang down their backs, and both sported blue tattoos on their cheeks, markings that identified them as members of the White Sky clan. Only in their clothing did they differ especially. Chovuk's leather vest was dyed crimson, the bright color denoting his rank, while Hult's was plain brown. The chief wore bracers of steel, plundered by his ancestors long ago, while the younger man's were hammered bronze. Both sported the same necklace, however: strings of white scales, talons, and fangs, taken from the bodies of dragons they had slain as part of their initiation into adulthood. Chovuk toyed with his, turning a claw between his fingers as he gazed across the plains.

In truth, they were not even kin—at least, not by blood. Hult was tenach to Chovuk, an honored position for one so young. In the Uigan tongue, the word meant many things: protector, enforcer, and friend. Hult had sworn an oath, more than a year ago, to serve the Tegin with every drop of his blood, even if it meant his own death. A tenach did not question; a tenach only acted. In return, he shared the chiefs yurt, and second choice of everything else—meat, loot, horses—after Chovuk himself. Everything except women, for the tenach did not marry, nor take anyone to his bed. That was hard, but it was a good life, even if for most tenachai it was a short one as well.

"The Boyla comes," said Chovuk, laying a hand on :he hilt of his shuk, the long, curved saber favored by the Uigan. "He rides with the wind, down from the north. Go, tenach. Climb, and keep watch."

He pointed to his left, where wind and rain had stripped the soil from the hill's crown. There was an outcropping of ruddy stone, carved by time and the hands of men to resemble an inhuman face: a long, gaunt-cheeked visage with empty eyes and a mouth that gaped wide and deep into the rock, a ghastly rendering of a scream. There were seven of these things carved into the flanks of the Hill of Lost Voices, by whom and for what purpose not even the old ones could say. When the wind blew into those hideously yawning maws, it made a sort of music—a low, mournful keening that Uigan tradition claimed were the cries of those who had been betrayed unto death. Hult tried not to shudder at the thought.

"I will be at camp," Chovuk said. "Call when you see his horses."

Hult bowed, pressing the knuckles of his right hand to his lips. "As you bid, Tegin," he said, then walked up the slope.

It was thirty steps from the base of the stone face to the top. Hult climbed with ease, his callused fingers skilled at finding cracks and ridges. The elders had named him Jasho—"Monkey"—when he was a boy, for he had always loved to climb. That name was gone now that he was an adult, but he still enjoyed the thrill of pulling himself up trees or cliffs with nothing but air beneath.

The wind was strong up high, whipping grit into his eyes. It was cold still, for this was only the first day of spring. The grass of the Tamire, stretching out for miles upon miles all around him, was ghost-pale from winter's frost, with patches of green where the streams ran. The hill—the White Sky's wintering ground—was the highest ground between here and the Ilquar peaks to the west, three days' ride away. There was no better vantage from which to watch for their guest's approach.

A thrill ran through Hult at the thought that Krogan Boyla would soon be there. He had never seen the man, who ruled all the tribes of the Uigan people, but he had heard many tales. Krogan had fought in the great battles of the Godless Night, when the elven clans had come down from the north to make war on men. Legend had it he'd slain a hundred of the vile creatures in one terrible day, and that the elves had retreated, greatly terrified. That had been thirty years ago, when Hult's own father (dead before Hult's birth and dwelling in the halls of the god Jijin with his ancestors) was but a boy, but the old ones still spoke of it like it were yesterday. That Krogan still lived, let alone ruled, was a testament to both his ferocity and the love of his people.

By tradition, the Boyla visited a different tribe every spring to lead the First Hunt. There were many tribes on the Tamire, however, and it had been nearly a century since a Boyla had hunted beneath the banners of White Sky. Though his face remained calm and blank, as a warrior's must, inside, Hult rejoiced that he would soon ride out with the legendary Krogan, bending his bow alongside the lord of the plains.

He glanced back the way he'd come. Chovuk was already gone, descending to the cluster of skin yurts that were his people's home during the fallow months. Ringed by a fence of pointed stakes, fire-hardened to ward off enemy riders, the village of Undermouth huddled about a pool at the foot of a waterfall, fed by a spring within the hill's rock. Fires smoldered among the tents where old women cooked the morning meal for the rest of the tribe: red tea, flavored with salt and butter, and cakes made from millet flour, mixed with wild snowberries gathered the day before by the children. Strips of antelope meat were drying around smokefires nearby. Hult watched as one of the camp dogs, a scrawny yellow beast with a brown patch over one ear, stole a cake from a griddle, narrowly escaping the foot of a cursing old crone before it skulked away with its prize. He allowed himself a snort of laughter at the crafty animal, though one day it would likely end up in the stewpot for its thieving.

Beyond the camp, he spied movement amidst the sea of swaying grass, and he straightened, his eyes narrowing as he tried to focus. A tenach needed perfect vision, and Chovuk bragged to all who would hear that Hult could see a snake move through tall grass a league away. An exaggeration, yes, but Hult could still see farther than nearly any other man of the White Sky. Half his fellow riders wouldn't have even noticed the indistinct shapes, moving several miles away across the plains.

There were too many for it to be Krogan. The Boyla traveled with a small band, again by tradition—seven of the mightiest warriors in all the Tamire, recruited from the tribes as his personal bodyguard. The mass Hult saw was perhaps five times that many. He held his breath, worried it might be enemies. The elves hadn't come south of the Turgan Oasis, some twenty days from the Hill, since the Godless Night ended, and the goblins of the Ilquars almost never came down to the plains, but there were other enemies who dwelled on the plains. The Kazar, the Uigan's ancient foe, lived only five days' ride away. But there did not appear to be any riders on the backs of the animals Hult saw—nor did the animals seem to be horses.

Ajaghai, he thought, making them out at last. He felt a momentary thrill. The ajaghai were a type of large antelope, hunted by the Uigan since the first riders took saddle on the plains. Their meat was rich, and their hides made matchless tents. They were also quite rare—Chovuk would be glad for the news that a herd had strayed so close to the village. So would Krogan, when he came. The Tegin had been right: it was a good hunting-day.

So intent was Hult's gaze upon the ajaghai he nearly missed what else moved across the plains. Less than two miles from Undermouth, a lone rider traveled at a reckless gallop. A rider moving that fast should have thrown up a plume of dust, but winter's memory was fresh, and the first rains of the year had kept the ground soft and muddy.

Watching the lone rider, Hult felt like an adder had crawled into his stomach. The man was too far away to make out his face, but on his head was a helm crowned with spiral horns. Hult recognized those at once: only the Boyla's retinue wore such helmets. Where there should have been eight horsemen, however, there was only one, and the one carried himself oddly, listing to one side and leaning forward against his bay stallion's neck. Where were the Boyla and his other men?

The answer came a moment later, when the rider reached to his saddle and pulled out a staff. Raising it high, he let a long banner unfurl to stream behind him: a flapping pennant of blood-red silk. Seeing it, Hult took a step back in shock.

Then he clambered as quickly as he could down the rock, shouting as loud as he could, "Aki! Aki bo tumagi!"

Woe! Woe and great pain!

He jumped down the last few paces, landed in a crouch, then sprang up and ran on down toward the camp, yelling all the way. Behind him, the howling faces stared out at the distance, uncaring, their groans rising with the morning breeze.

Chovuk was already in the saddle when Hult reached the village and was waving his shuk above his head, calling to his warriors. Looking past the stake-fence, Hult could see the Boyla's sentinel crest the nearest swelling of the plains. By now he had dropped the banner, which writhed across the grasslands like a crimson serpent, and was sagging farther and farther sideways in the saddle. Hult called his mount to him—Nightsedge was a fine black stallion with white fetlocks, second among the tribe's herds only to Chovuk's own gray, Dragonbone. The animal came, without tack or harness. He didn't care, vaulting up and digging his heels into its flanks. A Uigan rider learned to handle a horse bareback before his eighth summer, if he wanted to avoid shame.

At last, the Boyla's man stopped. He tried to look up, but his strength was gone, and he toppled from the saddle.

"Tenach, with me!" Chovuk yelled, gesturing to the crowd of riders that had gathered around him. He had slammed a steel helm, crowned with a red horsetail, onto his head, but wore no other armor. "The rest of you, watch the surround. This could be a trick. If the Kazar dogs appear, feather their breasts."

Casting jealous eyes at Hult, the other men reached for their bows. Some nocked arrows, while others yelled for the women and children to hide in their yurts. Undermouth hadn't been attacked for a long time, but they were still ready. The unprotected throat cries to be cut, the old ones said.

A boy of twelve summers ran to the gate without being asked and hauled it open. A breath later Chovuk galloped out, with Hult at his right hand, sending clods of damp earth flying. Both men held their sabers, wary for signs of ambush. There was no one there, though. Even the ajaghai had bolted from the commotion and were vanishing in the distance.

The warrior lay on his side, groaning in pain. His horse remained nearby, cropping grass. Chovuk hauled on his reins and sheathed his saber. "Be my eyes, tenach," he bade.

"And your shield, Tegin," Hult replied.

It was the ritual promise he'd made when Chovuk chose him. He would safeguard his chief, even if it meant throwing himself onto an enemy's lance. He stayed on his horse, shuk gleaming in the morning light as he looked around for trouble.

The chief, meanwhile, jumped down from his saddle and knelt beside the fallen warrior. A curse pushed past his lips. Risking a quick glance, Hult saw the man had two arrows in him—one in the meat of his shoulder and another in his hip. Neither wound looked mortal, but he'd lost a lot of blood. How far had he ridden with these wounds?

"Kazar," Chovuk said. "Those dogs must have ambushed the Boyla."

Hult looked closer. Rather than feathers, the Kazar tribes used strips of leather, stiffened with slivers of bone, to fletch their arrows. That was what quivered in the man's flesh with every shaky breath. He wondered if the shafts were poisoned too.

The Tegin wasted no more time, hoisting the warrior up and throwing him back across his horse's saddle. The warrior grunted with pain, then went limp. Senseless or dead, Hult couldn't tell.

Chovuk swung up to his saddle again. "Ride!" he barked, handing Hult the fallen rider's reins. "We don't have much time if we want to find Krogan."

He galloped back toward Undermouth, yelling for the gate to open. His heart thundering, Hult followed, the injured warrior jostling behind him.

Healers among the Uigan belonged to no particular tribe. Those who practiced the mysteries of the goddess Mislaxa were wanderers, moving from one camp to the next, dwelling on the fringes and living off the charity of the riders. Sometimes, a month or more might pass when a clan had no one to tend its sick and wounded, for though the Godless Night was well past, there were still too few servants of the gods in the Tamire.

There was a Mislaxan in Undermouth that day, though—a small, frail woman who never spoke and could have been thirty or sixty summers old. She was waiting in the middle of the camp when Chovuk and Hult returned, standing in her plain brown robes by the communal fire, where the men gathered at night to drink fermented mare's milk and boast about battles and women.

She gave the Tegin a disapproving glance as he dismounted. He glared back, laying a hand on his shuk.

"If he dies," Chovuk said, "you will live but one breath longer."

Most of the White Sky had gathered round. They murmured to one another at the open threat. Mislaxans traveled the Tamire freely, for the tribes knew that if they harmed a healer, the whole order would revoke their gifts for three generations. It had happened before, though not in most folk's memory. Chovuk swept his people with a furious glower, showing his threat was serious.

The healer shrugged as if none of it mattered, and set to work. "Water," she spoke, kneeling beside the warrior—her first word since coming to Undermouth, two weeks before. Then she spoke a second. "Cloth."

Someone ran to fetch them as she inspected the warrior's wounds, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. When her supplies came, she handed them to Hult without a word. Feeling awkward, he bent down beside her. Some feared the Mislaxans, but Hult did not. His sister had left home to join the order when he was just a boy. He had not seen her since, but hoped one day she would come to Undermouth—or Three Brooks, the tribe's encampment during the warmer months.

The healer nodded to herself, reaching with thin fingers to touch one of the arrows. The Boyla's man groaned, but did not wake. The healer nodded again. Then, without pause, she seized the shaft and pulled it out.

A great deal of blood poured forth, and the tribesfolk cried out at the sight of it. Chovuk even half-drew his shuk, but the healer didn't flinch. Instead, she yanked free the second arrow, then held out a hand to Hult. He offered her the waterskin, but she made a sour face, so he gave her the cloth instead. She pressed it over the wounds. It soaked through, turning bright red.

"Difficult," she said, lifting the blood-drenched cloth away.

"What are you doing, woman?" Chovuk demanded. "He's going to bleed to death!"

It was true, as anyone could see, but the healer seemed preoccupied. She rose from the dying man's side and, pushing past the chief, walked to the fire and began to chant. The sound made Hult's skin prickle—her low singing seemed to come from the earth beneath her. As she raised the cloth, her voice split in two. A second, whistling sound rose above the main chant, almost too high to hear. He watched in awe as she sang, then stopped and threw the bloody cloth into the fire.

At once the flames changed, leaping high and taking on the color of blood. Ruddy smoke billowed skyward. Hult stumbled to his knees, amazed, as the tribesfolk edged back. Usually the Mislaxans performed their magic in secret, away from the eyes and ears of common folk—and ordinarily, it wasn't magic at all, but herb-lore and simple medicine. Few in the camp had ever seen a proper healing rite. The flames leaped higher, carrying the iron tang of blood and beneath it, a deep, fetid stink. The stink of death, Hult thought, biting the heel of his hand to ward off evil. She is sacrificing the man's blood to keep death at bay.

The Mislaxan stood before the flames, cackling—a shrill noise, not at all like the booming song she had sung to bring forth her goddess's power. She threw back her hood, letting her long, white hair blow in the wind. Black smoke billowed high. Then, with a shout, she stepped right into the middle of the blaze.

Hult leaped forward, expecting the whoosh of flames catching cloth and the sweet smell of burning flesh. But none of it happened. The Mislaxan stopped in the middle of the scarlet fire and stayed there, immersed but unharmed. Not even her hair was singed. She was still laughing several breaths later, when she emerged again without a single smudge of soot on the hem of her robes.

When the unnatural fire died back to its normal, golden color, someone cried out and pointed. The White Sky People stared at the Boyla's warrior in amazement. His wounds were gone, and his face—which had been nearly as pale as a southerner's—had adopted a healthy tan.

The healer smiled to herself, bowed, turned, and walked away.

Chovuk watched her go, then bent down by the healed rider and motioned to Hult. "The water," he said.

Hult brought it, and Chovuk splashed some on the unconscious warrior's face. The man moaned, then his eyes opened. Hult could tell he still felt great pain and was confused as well. Chovuk held the waterskin to the man's lips and let him drink. Even after he'd quenched himself, his voice came only as a croak.

"Where is this?" he asked.

"Undermouth," Chovuk said, his eyes burning like stars. He pointed to the carven faces, moaning above. "You found us. Now tell us… what happened to your master?"

They rode off almost right away, Hult with a saddle now between him and his horse, and with two dozen other men following him and Chovuk across the plains. The Boyla's man stayed behind, still too weak from his ordeal to make the ride. But he had spoken clearly enough for all the White Sky to know what had befallen Krogan, Lord of the Tamire.

A canyon. Three leagues east of here. They fell on us like jackals.

Who? Who attacked you?

Kazar.

Hult's skin burned at the name. Like all Uigan, he hated the Kazar—though they were also human and looked like his people, the tribes of the eastern Tamire were true savages. Their men grew their hair long, rather than shaving their heads. They did not mark their faces when they came of age. They wore the skins of bears, a sacred animal, and drank millet beer instead of mare's milk. Hult gripped his bow tightly, hoping for the chance to put arrows in Kazar hearts.

Seven miles from Undermouth, the grassy ground grew rocky, giving way to steppes as it rose toward the Ilquars. The riders' eyes went to the tops of the craggy cliffs, to clumps of grimbarb bushes… to anywhere an archer might hide. There was nothing—only blood on the stones and here and there a broken arrow.

Chovuk dismounted and plucked a shaft from the rocky ground. This one was intact; its leather vanes gave its former owner away. He spat in the dust, then got back into his saddle, the arrow still clutched in his hand. They rode on, and a mile later found the first body.

It was a Kazar—the filthy hair gave it away. He had been cut from left shoulder to right hip, a horrible wound around which flies gathered. Hult stared at the dead man as they rode by, loathing darkening his heart. The second corpse, a short way farther on, was Kazar too, but the third was different. Lying faceup, a leather-fletched arrow lodged in his eye, was a man in a horned helmet. One of the Boyla's. He still held his shuk: a true warrior, he had fallen with his sword in hand.

They found more and more remains, most Kazar, but here and there a Uigan as well. Surveying the carnage, Hult could see how the ambush had played out. A quick strike from cover, then the enemy had closed in to fight, picking off Krogan's men one by one—all but one rider, who had escaped and ridden to Undermouth to sound the alarm.

"We are too late," Chovuk said. "It is over. The dogs have already gone, and left the Boyla for the crows."

The other riders looked down, agreeing. So did Hult.

The Kazar must have retreated right after the fight, or they would not have left their slain fellows. The people of the Tamire revered the dead, particularly those who fell in battle. Later, Chovuk would cut up the dead Kazar and feed the pieces to the dogs.

"What shall we do, Tegin?" asked a man.

Chovuk waved his arm. "Gather the bodies. Do them honor," he replied. "Everyone—except you, tenach. You will come help me find Krogan."

They left the rest behind, winding on into the steppes, following the trail of blood. There were horses too, though not many—the thieving Kazar had stolen those that still lived. The canyon grew deeper, until its rusty walls towered overhead, drenching them in shadow. The day was young, and this place only saw light when the sun was high. Hult put away his bow and drew his shuk—then stopped, bringing the blade up.

"Something's there," he said, pointing with the blade. Ahead, a dark form stood out against the gloom.

Chovuk nodded. "It is him."

Hult's eyes adjusted to the darkness. A spur of rock like a crooked finger jutted from the canyon wall. >Sprawled against it, propped up, lay Krogan Boyla. He had an arrow lodged in his side and a gash across his face that had ruined one eye and laid bare his cheekbone. Another cut ran across his left knee, splitting the cap and crippling him. Despite the ghastly wounds, he retained the regal air of a great lord. At nearly seventy he was ancient for a Uigan, and his braid and beard were the color of snow. He wore a knee-length coat of chainmail interspersed with bronze plates sculpted to look like dragon scales. The antlers of an ajagh crowned his helm. The tattoos on his face were the most elaborate Hult had ever seen, blue and black and vivid green, telling the tales of battles uncounted. He still held his shuk, wet to the hilt with the blood of his foes. He did not move, made no sound.

Chovuk stared at the Boyla, who lay perfectly still. His voice was soft, but Hult knew his master well enough to sense his rage. "O, my lord," he said. "If you could see what they have done to you."

"I still have one eye."

Tegin and tenach both fell back in shock. The body on the rock wasn't dead, though it had every right to be. The Boyla sat up, a ghastly, red-toothed smile lighting his face. Hult thought of evil magic and fought back the urge to bite his hand. This was Krogan, he reminded himself. There was no tougher old wolf beneath the sun.

"Chovuk," rasped the Boyla. "My man found you?"

Hult's master shook his head. "You should be dead."

"Maybe," Krogan said, chuckling. "But the gods know better than to let some Kazar dog slay me! I hope you have an extra horse, my friend. I seem to have lost mine." He reached out, offering a dragon-gauntleted hand.

Chovuk stared at the old Boyla and did not move.

Hult looked from one to the other, his brow furrowing. What was the Tegin waiting for?

He was just about to step in and help Krogan up when Chovuk finally responded—by raising his bow. The Boyla's eyes narrowed, then understanding lit his face. Hult followed his gaze to Chovuk's arrow. It was the one he'd picked up, back down the canyon.

Fletched with leather.

"Wait—" Krogan began.

"I'm sorry," Chovuk replied, and loosed.