Kyembe and Wurhi broke into the dark, slipping through the shadowed rivulets between the fires, skirting the poles lest one of the captives spot them and cry out. The captured masses spread endlessly.

Most looked of hardy Garumnan stock, but there were also olive-complexioned Olphoenians and Olubrians whispering curses against their captors, dour-faced Cymorillians brooding in silence, round-bodied Laexondaelic merchants groaning in misery and a group of bearded, fair-braided Skjernans who watched their captors with lupine wariness.

“There.” Wurhi drew up to an unoccupied pole and pointed ahead, interrupting his thoughts. “That could be something.”

A pavilion of animal skins and timber loomed thirty paces ahead, belching smoke through a ragged hole in its centre. The furs were too thick to see what shadows lay within, but four brutes guarded the entrance with demonic faces painted across their shields. There must have been something of value within.

Kyembe’s eyes narrowed. “Look there.”

A band of silhouettes approached the pavilion, broad-shouldered and sure-footed. Their lead was tallest and walked as though his steps scorned the earth. Fire-coloured hair flowed down his broad shoulders, and a chiseled jaw sported the stubbly beginnings of a beard. His garb was barbaric, but fine: furs of ermine and fox formed his kilt and cloak, and a jewelled medallion hung heavy from his neck. At his waist he’d belted a bronze cudgel weighty enough to burst a man’s head like a fruit. He had a bundle slung over his shoulder.

The figures following him also moved with arrogance, and Kyembe caught the clink of weapon and chain. A pair of lean figures were being dragged in their wake.

Wurhi hissed through gritted teeth. “I threw dice with those two!”

As the line entered the firelight, Kyembe recognized the pair of Vestulai warriors from Ku-Hassandra’s party. Their great height was compromised by their posture, bent like old men from their bonds. Purple-blue bruises marred their olive skin, but the scarlet eyes of their people glared with simmering hatred.

“Little brother!” A bald giant of a man stooped through the exit of the tent and greeted the leader, his wide belly supported by a fortress-like frame. He gripped a rope in one ham-sized hand, which led to muscular arms like oaken logs, a chest that would suit as a mountain’s cliff-face and corded legs that reminded Kyembe of the Vedskrit jungle’s giant pythons.

The scarred, sneering face behind the fire-coloured moustache must have risen a full head higher than the tall Sengezian; Kyembe did not fancy his chances were that beast to catch him in his grip. Curiously, one of those powerful arms hung before him in a sling, and something glinted about his neck. Something that caught Kyembe’s eye.

“Bastard!” he swore.

“What is it?” Wurhi looked at him in alarm.

“My ring hangs from that oxen’s throat!”

“What?” She squinted as the men clasped forearms in greeting.

“Eppon!” The smaller man clapped the hulk on the shoulder. “You’re still fat!”

“And your beard still looks like a day’s growth of mould.”

“Ass! What in all hells happened to your arm?”

“What, this little bruise?” The one called Eppon lightly patted his sling. “Arm-wrestling.” He grinned, revealing missing teeth. “Got it snapped like rotten wood.”

“How?” The younger man roared in laughter. “You find an ogre to grapple?”

“No, Agisil.” Eppon’s grin widened. “One of those knights of Traemea.”

The younger twin son of Avernix took a step backward. “Do they knight ogres in Traemea?”

“Oh no, brother.” Eppon licked his lips. “This was a woman.”

“…so they knight ogresses?” Kyembe muttered beneath his breath.

“Shhh!” Wurhi hissed.

Agisil folded at the waist, his mirth contorting his body until it poured freely from his mouth. His face had turned as red as his hair. “My elder twin - The Bear-Breaker; who burst Queen Oligara’s head with his bare hands, bronze helm and all - had his arm broken by a woman!? By the Three!” he swore.

“Laugh now, brother, but I’ll laugh greatest: I’ve a mind to make her my wife! Never met a woman so sturdy.”

Agisil’s mirth grew. “She’s bewitched you! You should be avenging a slight, not wedding a she-bear! Uncle Lukotor’s promised us wives and consorts that sparkle like the caverns on the Road of Ice!”

Now it was Eppon that laughed. “What she-bear? You’ll curse your words when you see her: a beauty to be sure and by the Three!” he swore, groping the air before his chest as if touching great, rounded things. “The udders on her! She could whelp ten for me and none would go hungry!”

Agisil ran a hand through his downy beard. “Now you have me interested. Maybe I’ll make a go for her too.”

“Hold now!” Eppon jabbed a finger toward the smaller man. “This one’s mine!”

Agisil shrugged easily. “Two men may hunt the same rabbit; it’s whose arrow flies first and truest that decides the winner.” He peered interestedly at the flap of the pavilion. “Did you bring her with you? Will she be part of tonight’s entertainment?”

“I let her go for a while.” The hulking man smirked. “I’ll give my arm a chance to heal up before I go for her.”

“Fool, she could be anywhere by then.”

Eppon shrugged. “Then Uncle Lukotor can find her with that pot of his. She’ll not get far!”

Agisil’s look became that of a child stealing from their mother’s larder. “On Uncle Lukotor. Is that wizardress in there with you?”

Eppon made a noise of disgust and waved the rope. “She’s as vicious as a she-lynx with three cubs.”

“These two are no softer.” Agisil jerked his thumbs at the glaring Vestulai. “Did you choose some men too?”

“Oh, yes! Strong ones. Well suited for wrestles and betting. They’re inside.”

“Good.” Agisil pondered, looking to the Vestulai’s red eyes. “Your warriors spoke of some strange red-eyed imp you found on the wizard’s boat? Is it of any use?”

Eppon pointed south. “Not likely, he’s far too scrawny for sport. He’s secured over there somewhere. Knowing Uncle, I’ve no doubt he and his demons would find such a creature amusing.”

Kyembe had his own thoughts about their uncle’s ‘amusements’.

“Right, I have a surprise.” Agisil laughed. Looking self-satisfied, he unravelled his bundle, revealing a set of thin clay tablets. “What say we get that little wizardress to do some translating for us?” Kyembe could see the shadows of some spidery script etched into the tablets.

Eppon gasped, his eyes growing wide. “Brother! You didn’t!”

Agisil laughed smugly. “I most assuredly did! Took them right from Uncle Lukotor’s tent. I saw opportunity the moment you grabbed that wizard woman. If she can read what old uncle’s been rambling to himself all this time, perhaps we might gain some of his secrets for ourselves!”

The large man regarded the tablets as though they were hissing cobras. “That bodes ill fortune, brother.” He nervously made a sign for protection before his chest. “Best leave magic to wizards and put that away.”

“Don’t be a child.” Agisil patted the tablets and pushed past his brother into the tent. Shaking his head, Eppon followed.

Kyembe and Wurhi circled around the pavilion to get closer from the other end. They passed between surrounding tents as quickly as they could. Wurhi’s nostrils flared. “I smell fur.” Her nose wrinkled. “Fur and bad shit.”

Kyembe cocked his ear to the air. “There are dogs close. Big ones. Hold for a moment.”

He peered around a tent flap to find another set of poles driven into the ground.

A pack of hounds were tied below, their breath steaming and eyes shining. Kyembe stifled a gasp. He’d been hunted by hyena and wild dog in the southern wilds of Mabatia. He’d avoided ravening wolves in the Twinspire Forest, and great mastiffs in Cas’ gardens. Yet all had been but little lapdogs compared to the beasts now before him. He wondered what trick of nature or cruel husbandry had reared such horrors.

Each was the size of a leopard, with heavily muscled bodies twice the weight of a grown man. Massive heads extended from thick necks, terminating in powerful muzzles of a leonine shape. The closest yawned, revealing monstrous fangs, which seized a heavy thigh bone laying between its paws.

Crunch!

A swift compression of its jaws broke the marrow loose while it studied its surroundings with cruel eyes. Great nostrils flared, and its ears reared above its head, twitching with alertness. A low, rumbling growl resonated from its throat.

Kyembe heard a gasp. Wurhi had followed him, her face pale. “Away from here! Quick! Quick!” she whispered.

With one final glance at the beasts, they slipped off, the skin crawling on Kyembe’s back. Malice boiled in those fiendish eyes beyond that of any natural beast he had encountered. The quicker they were away, the better.

They slipped off, falling into a crawl as they reached the back end of the great pavilion. A din sounded from within.

“Bastard! Bastard child!” a voice snapped in heavily accented Garric. “Let both leave!”

Kyembe’s jaw clenched. “Ku-Hassandra!”

“That wizard,” Wurhi whispered, her beady eyes narrowing.

“Scream your lungs bloody, but no one is leaving,” the voice of Agisil boomed in tones of one used to their whim being law. “Forget what you were before: warriors, wizards, farmers, queens…you’re none of that now. You are my father’s, which means, woman…you belong to my brother and me.”

One of the wizard’s bodyguards spit something vicious in Vestul, but she spoke too quickly for Kyembe to catch the meaning.

Thump!

Something struck flesh.

“Quiet!” Eppon’s voice rumbled.

“Try that again, and my brother will burst your head like a pumpkin. Wait. No,” Agisil’s voice continued, filled with low cunning. “He will burst your charge’s head like a pumpkin.”

A chain tinkled and Ku-Hassandra grunted. A body was dragged to its feet.

“Or I will,” Agisil’s voice finished. “And your honour is forfeit if your charge is slain, that’s how it works, isn’t it? Even a ‘bastard son of a goat’ knows that.”

Silence.

“Surprised? Our own wizard taught me the Vestul tongue, and I listen well to his lessons. See these men here? They’re clever enough to already be on their knees.” A moment passed. Bodies shuffled. “Better. Now, wizardress. Do you have a name?”

“Bastard child!” she growled, but her voice had less aggression in it.

“A strange name,” came the amused reply.

“You! Had I my object of power-”

“-you’d, what, turn me into a toad? Burst my eyes? Maybe, but you don’t have it, do you?” The chain tinkled and his voice lowered dangerously. “So you’re just a little woman with skinny arms and empty hands who would do better to not waste my time with useless threats. Tonight’s a night to celebrate, and I’ll not spend it dealing with you. You will entertain my father’s advisor, Lukotor the Wise-”

Kyembe had to stifle a gasp. Wurhi looked at him in alarm. “What?”

“I did not think they talked of that Lukotor.”

“Is he bad?”

“Terrible. And very clever,” Kyembe whispered. “A marauder and thief.”

“Sounds like you.”

He gave her a look. “He is also a wizard, and more than enough reason for us to be away quickly.”

“Then let’s stop talking about it and start moving.” Wurhi crawled to the side of the tent and peered about. “The guards are facing forward. No armour. Daggers in their belts.”

The Sengezian looked around the other side. “Two to each side. We will have to kill them before they raise the alarm.”

The tiny Zabyallan looked at him incredulously. “Four of them? Without weapons?”

“We will take their daggers and use them on them.”

“Four of them?”

Kyembe fixed her with his crimson eyes. “Can you kill one?”

“Of course! Of course!”

“Then I shall take the other three.”

The little thief grimaced. “Why don’t we wait until they’re all drunk and asleep, then we can slip into the big one’s tent and steal the ring?”

“Because-” Kyembe paused. “Because…” he paused again. “Because nothing. That is a much better idea.”

Their whispers were interrupted with a cry of alarm from Ku-Hassandra.

“What?” Agisil asked. “Read something you didn’t like?”

“You…you found Gergorix’s Egg?” she stammered.

“That’s what it says?” Agisil sounded disappointed. “We already know that.”

“Better what we already know, brother. It’s safer,” Eppon continued. “Yes woman, we found it, and with it, Uncle Lukotor will bring everything north of the Sea of Gods to its knees. We’ll drown in gold and wine by the time the snows fall. Think on that. You’re a little skinny for me, but maybe if you serve my uncle well, he’ll give you his favour.”

“The Egg of Gergorix…” Kyembe murmured.

“The what?” Wurhi asked.

“Come, I will tell you as we move,” he gestured southward with his head.

“What are you talking about?” She followed him into the dark. “What egg? What’s a Gerg…gerg…whatever. What is it? What is it?”

Kyembe grinned at her. “If my master’s stories were true: it is a stone of marble and jade the size of a man’s fist, wrapped in gold and weeping with jewels.”

“Gold? Jewels? Weeping?” She looked at him sharply. “Lots?”

“A fortune’s worth. And it is said to contain a power that can make wonders,” he murmured in unclothed greed.

“So a wizard would pay much for it?” Wurhi grinned, revealing her overbite.

“Pay?” Kyembe chuckled quietly. “With that egg, even I could make all the gold you wished for…if the stories are true.”

The small Zabyallan seemed to vibrate with excitement. “This ‘Lukotor the Wise’ thinks they’re true.”

“He has convinced a king and his entire horde that they are.”

“Then I’m trusting the man who they call ‘The Wise’.” She nodded to herself. “Let’s get your ring back, find out where this ‘wonder egg’ is, and steal it.”

Kyembe chuckled. “We are not ‘stealing’ anything. Its owner is dead.”

“And what about this Lukotor?”

The Sengezian’s grin turned cunning. “You see how his ilk treats others? He would abuse the egg as surely as that. This is not a theft. We are rescuing it.”