Murder in Tarsis (Classics Series) by John Maddox Roberts

Author:John Maddox Roberts [Roberts, John Maddox]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786964192
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2012-11-06T00:00:00+00:00

* * * * *

They parted company at the East Gate. Captain Karst would allow through the postern only those who bore the lord’s seal.

“We shall rejoin you this evening,” Nistur told Stunbog and Myrsa. “Or not, as the case may be.”

“I think,” said Stunbog, “that we should all ponder Granny Toadflower’s words. There was far more in them than seems apparent.”

“At the moment,” Nistur confessed, “I am so confused that even the obvious is daunting to me, let alone the obscure. Let us learn what we can, and perhaps all will become apparent in time.”

“Perhaps so,” said Stunbog. “Good fortune to you, my friends.”

A pair of guards swung the small but heavy postern gate aside, and the three passed through, their seals prominently displayed. Behind them the postern swung shut, and there was a metallic clash as the bolts were shot home. Before them, a long bowshot away, the enemy host stood glaring at the unwelcome visitors.

“Kyaga said they’d respect these seals,” Shellring said with sudden trepidation in her voice. “Do you think they’ll obey him?”

“Let us hope so,” said Nistur.

“If they don’t,” Ironwood said with a sardonic smile, “we probably won’t suffer long.”

Shoulders squared, heads high, the three strode toward the nomad army, displaying far more confidence than they actually felt. Ironwood and Nistur, wise in the ways of the world, knew that the discipline of barbarians was a chancy thing at best. Shellring, so self-confident amid the savagery of her home city, was in an alien land the moment she set foot outside its walls. Here, every blade of grass seemed threatening to her.

As they neared the host, some of the nomads stared at them sullenly, but none tried to bar their way. Some spared them a passing glance; most ignored them entirely. As they walked through the camp they saw that the host, which appeared so homogeneous from a distance, was actually made up of many distinct peoples. Some resembled Myrsa: large, fierce-looking folk dressed in skins and furs, many of them wearing hats of wolf or fox pelt. Others favored extravagantly long robes of colorful cloth, and these wore close-wrapped turbans, their faces veiled to the eyes. Besides these two types were many others, distinguished by their own styles of clothing, paint, and tattoos. Among the colorful warriors were many persons wearing simple clothing, unarmed, their hair cropped close to their scalps.

“Does short hair mean a slave among these people?” Nistur asked.

“It does,” Ironwood affirmed. “Captives from the towns near the wasteland, I’ll warrant. I don’t see a single, genuine barbarian among these slaves.”

“Where are we going?” Shellring asked, her confidence returning as the barbarians showed no interest in killing her.

“The big tent,” Ironwood said. “I want to talk with this Kyaga Strongbow face-to-face.”

“As it so happens, I think that is a sound course of action,” Nistur agreed, seeming slightly put out that Ironwood was assuming the lead.

Before the immense tent in the center of the camp, an honor guard took their ease. Some rested on the ground before the tent, others were mounted, surrounding the chief’s standard.

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