beneath the low dunes in seconds.
Rotapan envied them their concealment. He sat on the white beach, exhausted and powerless to fend off Riolla's digs. He had also forgotten the coral snake around his head until it sensed a lack of movement, unwound lazily, and fell about his narrow shoulders in bright loops. Remembering that he had no immunity to its bite now, Rotapan sat terribly still, puckering his face in disgust and trying not to breath until the snake had completely departed its perch. He cast an irritated eye upward, where Riolla stood fanning herself in the humid heat and listening to the cicadas choiring in the pines.
'What do you want of me?' He sighed, beginning to smell like dead seaweed. Riolla breathed through her mouth.
'Oh, first I think you might want to repay me for the heads your war party took from my assassins. I wasn't nearly finished with them yet, you know. And they are so expensive. Drufalden seems to want more and more for less and less these days,' she replied.
'How? The staff and its stone are gone-back in the hands of the songmage. What can I do now? And what of my Lord Chelydrus? The ajada helped me to talk with him. The magic is departed, and so my cabinet will not be able to advise me; the heads of my enemies are surely good only as gargoyles now. And venom-venom will be very hard to come by without the staff… How will I ever know when Chelydrus demands an offering?' Rotapan moaned.
'Yes. I know. I am quite sure he will be very displeased with you now. But I would let you have the red stone again if you help with a certain task I have in mind,' she lied. 'And you do owe me.'
Rotapan's shoulders straightened. 'Perhaps I can be of further service after all.' He smiled, his little blue eyes distant and strange.
'I need a small force of fighting men, Rotapan. Swift of mind, fleet of foot, and tough. So no ores, understand? I need soldiers I can count on, who will obey me.
We'll take the path that veers toward Drufalden's mountain. She will supply us with more Ninnite loyals.'
'Well, yes, she certainly has enough of them. But there are the slaves. The slaves are a different matter. What if they see me?'
'It's been ten years, but it's true they probably haven't forgotten you. But they're slaves, you spineless vermin. You are the Rex Serpens! So remember: loyal Ninnites only. My best men have come from Drufalden's training grounds, the two most recent of which are spending eternity as gargoyles on your temple. Well, until the top half fell. That reminds me- Saelin? Where are you?' she called loudly.
She shook white sand from the toe of her dainty boot, dabbed at her hair, searching for something to secure a fallen curl with. She finally settled on Rotapan's now useless bone key, which still hung dripping from the sash at his tunic. He gave it over reluctantly.
'For the glory of Lord Chelydrus, I can do this,' he said, staring at the ruin of his temple. He couldn't be sure from this distance, but it looked like it had stopped falling. Perhaps the old parts were still standing-the prophecy hadn't yet come true. He could rebuild… 'Where do you want them and when?' he snarled.
'Have them assembled at the Borderlands. As soon as they can get there. You will tell them to wait for my orders when I arrive.'
'The Borderlands?' Rotapan twitched his mustache with a grimace of unbelief. 'You can't get there from here. The elves- How am I supposed to-' He fell silent when he saw her expression. 'Right. The Borderlands.'
'We must hurry. We'll take the old caravan road toward Drufalden; I suppose you can go with us until we reach her mountain. This business must be concluded forthwith. I have a wedding to attend. Where is Saelin…?' she muttered.
12
Far down the beach, near the mouth of a small river, Yob came to consciousness, stinging bluewinged flies buzzing at his ample ears. He raised his waterlogged head, blew his nose, the resulting honk scattering several curious shorebirds, and sat up. He looked seaward, remembering he had come with a company, and tried to discern if any of his warriors might have made it to shore. But the waves and the beach were empty but for debris and washed-up clothing; he was alone.
Well, not quite.
When he turned to look in the other direction, standing in the shallow water where the inland sea and the little river met was a large furry creature, sunlight glinting off something shiny at its ear, holding a clam in one paw and a rock in the other.
Yob made a startled sound deep in his throat. The creature did not twitch a whisker. After a moment of regarding the ore, it lay back in the water, bashed the long, thin clam on the rock, oddly discarding the meat but saving the shell.
Yob suddenly became overpoweringly hungry. It had been a hard day.
Drooling, he lunged into the brackish waves after the creature. The otter playfully slipped through Yob's claws, tossed its stone aside, and bellied up to the shore. Yob made another swipe at it, but this time he found himself with an eyeful of sand and armful of rock hard muscle. The razor-sharp clamshell pricked at his throat.
'Be nice.' A woman's deep, sultry voice breathed into his ear. 'Let me go, or the sharks will be gathering for an early dinner when the riptide takes your body out to sea, and you'll never see that daughter of yours again.' Yob relaxed his grip on the woman's arm. She slithered behind him. 'Thank you. Now don't turn around until I tell you.'
Yob was in no condition to argue. Half-drowned and suddenly very lonesome, he did as he was told. The hunger had subsided, too. He gingerly touched the little cut on his neck. Hardly more than an orcish lovebite, but the pain was growing intolerable. He wondered if the shell had been poisoned. There was a rustle of fabric at his back. He craned his head as far as he could without causing more pain, but could see nothing of the woman.
'All right. I'm dressed now. Turn around slowly. What's your story?' the sultry voice demanded.
Yob scooted around in the sand to face a small woman clad in iridescent brown ghoma skin, razor-clam shell still in hand. She blinked slowly at him, her eyes silver and huge, her face and body dark as night. Her hair lay in slick curls down her neck and danced at her broad forehead. Yob couldn't quite place what was so very strange about her until he noticed her ears: tiny, flat against her head, and pointed like a mouse's. Or like an otter's. At the lobe of the left one, affixed to a golden earring, there dangled a glittering gem the colors of fresh, deep water.
'I am Yob,' he said. 'I don't remember my story. Who are you?'
'Can you not guess? I thought you greenskins were always good for a game.' She smiled, the blue-and- purple gem flashing.
Yob shook his head, making himself dizzy; he hadn't guessed right all day. The woman chuckled and gave him a mock curtsy. 'I am Frijan, daughter of Wiggulf the Riverking. And you are my prisoner, ore. Get yourself up and march. We have a long way to go on land, since I know your kind cannot swim.'
Yob stood up. As he towered over the woman, he remembered how big he was and began to laugh. 'Your prisoner? I am Yob! A Wyrvi! overking. You are a little selkie. It is funny that you say this thing.'
'The cut on your neck will kill you inside three days if you do not come with me. My father is the only one who can reverse the effects of the poison. Still funny, ore?'
Yob's yellow eyes widened with amazement and he clutched his neck, the pain growing more intense as he thought about it. After a moment or so, Frijan pointed the way, and they began to walk into the pine forest, following the river.
'I need some fresh water to rinse my clothes and this salt off my skin,' muttered Claria as she led Cheyne and Og ever deeper into the wood. 'It's been a long time since I've heard anyone behind us. The old maps showed a river running through this forest, and I can even smell it. Could we please stop and wash?'
'Not yet. I want to make a couple of more miles before we camp,' said Cheyne, looking over his shoulder.
