with blinding suddenness. Zeb cringed and blinked until the chaos around him began to settle into identifiable shapes.
The big blonde acolyte was across the room from Zeb, dressed in skivvies but with his shield raised and his mace held aloft, a nimbus of white light shining from the head of the weapon. John Deskata’s tower shield was in a corner, dark hair and darting eyes visible above the rim and the blade of his Legion short sword poking around the right side. Uriako Shikashe was sitting upright in his bedroll, holding the longer of his two swords by the scabbard with his right hand ready to draw the blade. The samurai’s hair was loose of its top-knot and hanging to his shoulders, and his head was tilted to one side as he listened intently.
It had apparently been Tilda who had run in and tripped over Zeb. She had then sailed halfway across the room and crash-landed on top of Nesha-tari, who was kicking and spitting furiously in her own bedding. Tilda stumbled backwards and her heel hit a pack on the floor. She fell on her back but rolled up to her feet even as she snatched a heavy dagger out of either boot, standing in a crouch in the center of the room with her blades before her. She snapped her head and wild eyes around the room so rapidly that her long braid jerked in the air.
“Everybody heard that, right?” John’s voice asked from behind his shield.
Amatesu walked in through the open door next to Zeb and he barely stopped himself from braining her with the crossbow he was holding over his head. Amatesu shut the door behind her and put her back to it. Her face was set, but pale, and Zeb could hear her breathing through her nose.
Shikashe said something that sounded like “ Loong?” The shukenja nodded. There were beads of sweat on her forehead.
Nesha-tari finally shook herself free of her bedding and stood with her feet apart, hands balled into fists at her side and looking rather fetching in the knee-shorts and heavy shirt in which she slept. Zeb tried not to notice, and turned to Amatesu. He began to ask a question in Minaun Danoric, then for some reason in Antersian, before finally finding his way to Codian.
“What the hells was that?”
“A dragon,” Amatesu answered, probably in Codian though it really didn’t matter as dragon was the one word that was the same in every language spoken on the continent of Noroth. Some said it was the first word Man had been taught to speak.
Nesha-tari barked a question at Amatesu. Zeb waited for an answer until Amatesu turned to him and lifted an eyebrow.
“Zebulon?”
“What?”
“I still do not speak Zantish.”
“Oh. Right. What color was the, the…thing?”
“I do not know. I could see nothing of it against the darkness, but I heard the great wings as it flew to the south.”
Zeb managed to turn most of that into Zantish. Nesha-tari growled and stomped a bare foot.
“An evil place, surely,” Heggenauer muttered.
Something approaching sanity was returning to Tilda’s eyes, though she was still panting and holding her two daggers level in front of her, ready to attack with either. She turned toward Zeb and met his eyes, blinked, and her open mouth turned up at the side. She laughed, almost giggled.
“What?” Zeb looked around, and noticed that the helmet on his head had long cheek guards extending down from the steel dome, with a thick leather face mask hanging unbuckled at one side. Zeb was wearing Shikashe’s ornate helmet, along with only a long shirt and drawers of Doonish linen. He still had his crossbow raised over his head. The samurai stared at him, then joined Tilda in a hearty laugh.
“You think that’s bad,” Deskata said. “The Exlander’s dingus is hanging out.”
Zeb glanced across the room and Tilda spun around rather quickly, but Heggenauer had moved his shield modestly over his groin. He blushed, and Zeb had to chuckle as well.
“I thought Jobe’s priests did not carry swords, Brother,” Deskata added.
The quivering fear caused by the dragon’s earsplitting flyover had begun to recede, and the laughter banished the last of it. It was replaced by the general anxiety of being in Vod’Adia. No one returned to the roof and the door outside was wedged shut. Deskata and Shikashe moved to the adjoining corner room to watch over the streets.
Nesha-tari alone returned to her bedding and curled up within it. Zeb and Heggenauer dressed and remained awake with Tilda and Amatesu, sitting in a circle in the middle of the gallery, facing out in the darkness and not talking, with their weapons at their sides. With the worst of the fear gone the exhaustion of the last two days returned, and at some point people started nodding off, either hunched over or half-stretched out backward on the floor.
Zeb slept that way, sprawled on his back but with his legs still crossed and his axe lying beside him. A few hours later when the gray light of dawn began to pierce the room from the tall arrow slits on the outer wall, the first thing Zeb became aware of on waking was the painful stiffness in his knees. The second was Matilda Lanai.
The Miilarkian had been sitting on Zeb’s right, and at some point after he had leaned back and dozed-off she had succumbed to her own fatigue and slid down against him. She was still asleep with her head pillowed on Zeb’s belly, with the coil of her braided hair lying on his chest like a small snake. Her face was turned up, mouth slightly open, and soft breath passed steadily between her lips. Her tan skin was smudged with the gray dust that was everywhere in Vod’Adia, but it did not detract at all from her appearance.
The door down to the courtyard was open and Zeb heard quiet voices from below, but he was in no particular hurry this morning. In all likelihood he would be killed today, and he saw no point in hurrying to meet that fate. He slowly pushed himself up to his elbows, but otherwise remained still. Tilda murmured but settled, and Zeb watched her sleep for another few minutes, noting the smoothness of her skin and the thickness of her eyelashes, and the curve of her slightly pursed lips.
The light from the arrow slits across the room was interrupted as John Deskata walked in, brawny in the Legion armor of steel and chain breastplate, with heavy greaves on his shins flaring up to cover his knees.
From what Zeb had understood of the conversation between Tilda and Deskata in the inn across from the ruins of the Dead Possum, their relationship was, to say the least, complicated. Something about John traveling incognito until that very moment, a dead Captain named Block, Miilarkian Houses, lies and exiles and assassinations. Zeb felt like he had witnessed the end of Tilda and Deskata’s friendship that morning, but he was unclear just how close that friendship had been. He knew for sure that no woman whom he had not slept with at some point had ever ended up glaring at Zeb with the same fierce rage that Tilda had leveled on John.
Deskata looked across the room and stopped as he saw Zeb’s open eyes and Tilda curled up beside him. Though from that same conversation Zeb had the sense that Deskata was a born Miilarkian as well, the man looked nothing like it with his lighter complexion and a dark beard, short but thick. Zeb did know however that a lot of Miilarkians did not look much like typical Islanders. Something about Varanchian lineage, and “Ship People.”
Zeb shrugged his shoulders at Deskata and Matilda’s head rocked gently on his belly. She gave a small irritated moan and put a hand on his chest. Deskata rolled his eyes and shook his head, which was something of a relief to Zeb. The ex-legionnaire walked on to where his pack and bedroll still lay, but swerved over to give Tilda’s foot a passing poke with the toe of his marching sandal.
Tilda’s warm, nut-brown eyes fluttered before they settled on Zeb’s. He watched the surprise and confusion wash over her expressive face, and smiled at her broadly.
“Good morning, Miss Matilda,” he said. Tilda lifted her head, drawing her long braid rather pleasantly over Zeb’s belly, and blinked around the room. John was gathering his things and Nesha-tari was just sitting upright and stretching her arms with a toothy yawn. Through the open door to the room on the corner, Heggenauer was visible kneeling on the floor as though in prayer. Tilda turned back to Zeb.
“Good morning, Mr. Zebulon,” she said, not seeming to be troubled by their proximity. Zeb chose to take that as a good sign.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked. “After the dragon flew by, I mean.”
Tilda had noticed her braid lying across Zeb’s stomach and she gave her head a little toss to pull it off of him. He was sorry to feel it go.
