‘Exactly my plan,’ said Karis drily.
She kicked earth over the fire, extinguishing it, then they saddled their horses and rode north. The boy, Goran,
heeled his mount alongside Warain. ‘Do you think my father is still alive?’ he asked Karis.
‘There is no way to know,’ she said, ‘but let us pray so. You are a brave lad. You deserve to find him.’
‘Father says we don’t always get what we deserve,’ he pointed out.
‘He is a wise man,’ said Karis.
They rode on for more than two hours, cresting the low hills before the mountains and heading down through a narrow pass on to the broad grasslands. From here they could see the distant city. There were no walls around it, and the buildings were round, squat and ugly to the human eye.
‘Like a huge mound of horse droppings,’ observed Forin.
Karis heeled Warain forward and the small troop cantered on.
As they approached the city, a line of twenty horsemen rode from it to intercept them. Karis felt a tightness in her belly. The horses upon which they rode were huge, eighteen hands, dwarfing even the giant Warain. She felt Warain tense beneath her. ‘Steady, now,’ she said, patting his sleek grey neck.
The leading Daroth warrior drew his long serrated sword and rode at Karis. Untying the pouch at her belt, she rode to meet him with hand outstretched. His sword was raised, his oval jet-black eyes staring hard at her as she came abreast of him. Smoothly she extended her arm and offered him the pouch. Letting go of the reins, he took it from her and clumsily opened it. Salt spilled out. Placing a large finger into his beaked mouth, his swollen purple tongue licked out, wetting the tip. He dipped it into the salt pouch and tasted it.
Re-tying the pouch, he slipped it into a pocket in his
black jerkin, then returned his gaze to Karis. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked, his voice cold, sepulchral.
‘We come to speak with your leader,’ she told him.
‘He can hear you. All Daroth can hear you.’
‘It is our custom to speak face to face.’
‘You have more salt?’
‘Much more. And we can deliver many convoys of it, fresh from the sea.’
‘Follow me,’ said the rider, sheathing his sword.
The city was unlike anything Tarantio had ever seen. The buildings were all spherical and black, unadorned and dull to the eye, built in a seemingly haphazard manner, yet all linked and joined by covered walkways. There were many levels of them, one atop the other.
‘It’s like a huge bunch of grapes,’ said Forin. ‘How do they live in them?’
Tarantio did not answer. As they rode on every building disgorged more Daroth, who stood silently watching the small cavalcade. The road was paved and smooth, the sound of the horses’ hooves loud in the silence.
‘They are an ugly people,’ said Dace.
‘Perhaps we look ugly to them,’ observed Tarantio.
Ahead were two tall spires. Black smoke drifted lazily from the top of both, forming a pall above the city. Tarantio sniffed the air. There was an odd smell about the place, sweet, sickly and unpleasant.
The roadway widened and the group rode between two black pillars, heading towards a huge grey dome; the smoking spires were situated behind it. The Daroth riders peeled away, leaving only the leader, who dismounted before the round open entrance to the dome.
‘Stay with the horses,’ Karis told Goran, as the group dismounted.
‘I want to find my father,’ objected the boy.
‘If he is here, I will find him,’ she promised.
The Daroth entered the dome; Karis and the others followed. The councillor Pooris kept close to the warrior woman; his face was pale, his hands trembling. Tarantio and Forin were just behind them, followed by Vint and Brune.
The huge building was lit by globed lanterns set into the walls, and Karis was amazed to find that no pillars supported the colossal domed ceiling. There were no statues or adornments. At the far end of the circular hall was an enormous table shaped like a sickle blade. Around it were some fifty Daroth warriors, kneeling on the weirdly carved chairs Tarantio had first seen in the Daroth tomb.