And here she was, riding to this dread land, home to the living as well as the dead, a haunt for the desperate and dangerous, driven to hiding in Nightlund because they were hunted everywhere else.
As Kitiara rode that night, she thought of this, thought of her father, recalled the horror stories she had heard. Not far from Neraka, she came to a fork in the road. One highway led west. The other led north. Kit reined in her horse. She looked to the west, to Skie, who would be over his sulking fit by now and wondering what had happened to her. She was sorely tempted to take the western route, return to her troops, challenge Ariakas. Do just what he feared she would do.
She considered this option, forcing herself to examine it. Skie would side with her, she was sure of that. She would not be able to count upon the other blue dragons. Queen Takhisis, angry over Kit breaking her vow, would turn her back on her and the blue dragons would not go against their Queen. Kit’s own troops would be divided. She might rally half of them to her cause. The others would desert. Handsome Bakaris would join her, but he was not all that trustworthy. He’d turn on her in an instant if the money was good enough.
Kitiara shifted in the saddle. There was one other reason, the most important, why she would not ride west. She might break her vow to her Queen, but Kitiara uth Matar could not break a vow to herself. She had vowed to return to Ariakas in triumph, strong and powerful, so strong he would not dare cross her. To accomplish that, she needed a strong and powerful ally—an ally such as Lord Soth. It was either victory or death.
Kitiara rode north.
Day dawned, bright and cold, and Kit realized the horse was going to be a problem. The magnificent stallion with his jet-black glossy coat, his long mane, sweeping tail, and powerfully muscled body was obviously a valuable animal. People stopped and stared at him in admiration. Their gaze shifted to his rider, to Kit, clad once more in her gambeson. She had used the poignard to slash the threads’ embroidered design off the quilted fabric of her gambeson, already worn from much use. She had no cloak in this cold weather and that made her look even more down-at-the-heels. Everyone who saw that horse would instantly wonder how a shabby sellsword such as herself had managed to acquire the rare and noble beast. Everyone she met would be certain to remember the expensive horse and its beggarly rider.
Kit left the main road, seeking shelter in the woods. She searched until she found a shallow depression where she could tether the horse. Worn out from her exhausting ordeal, she needed sleep. Kit’s mind was busy with the problem of the horse as she drifted off. She had named him Windracer and she needed his strength, power and stamina to carry her to Nightlund. She needed his speed in case Ariakas’s forces closed in on her. She had to find some way they could ride openly on the road and not call attention to themselves.
Her mind worked as she slept, and Kit woke refreshed in the early evening, with what she hoped was a solution to her problem.
Leaving the horse concealed in the forest, Kit made herself even more disreputable-looking. She smeared dirt on her face, shook her hair over her eyes, then returned to the highway. She was still too close to Neraka for comfort, and her heart beat rapidly when a troop of goblin soldiers marched past on their way into the city. She crouched behind a tree and the goblin soldiers passed by her, never noticing she was there.
A merchant caravan approached, but it was guarded by several well-armed mercenaries and she allowed it to pass. After that, with night closing in, the number of travelers dwindled. Kit was starting to grow frustrated and impatient. She was wasting valuable time, and she had just about decided to risk riding as she was when the traveler she had been hoping to meet came along—a priest of Takhisis, obviously of high rank, probably a spiritor. A large medallion of faith dangled ostentatiously from a heavy golden chain around his neck. He wore black velvet robes and a lamb’s wool cloak of fine quality. His fingers were adorned with rings of jet and onyx set in gold. His saddle and trappings were expensive hand-tooled leather.
He was a short man, of stout build with a ruddy complexion. Unlike the dark priests of the Temple, he obviously enjoyed his dinner and his wine. He carried no weapon other than a riding crop. Kit waited for his armed escort to appear, but no one came. She heard no sound of hoofbeats. Though he was riding the roads near Neraka alone, the priest did not seem worried or nervous. Kit should have wondered about this odd circumstance but she was in haste and this victim was too perfect to pass up.
As the priest’s horse drew near, Kit rose from her place by the tree. Keeping her head lowered to conceal her features, she limped up to the priest, her hand extended.
“Please, dark father,” she said, her voice harsh, “spare a steel coin for a soldier wounded in the service of our Queen.”
The priest cast her a baleful glance and raised his riding crop in a threatening manner.
“Wretched cur, I have nothing to give you,” he said churlishly. “It is unseemly for one of our troops to be caught begging. Take your miserable carcass off the public road!”
“Please, father…” Kitiara whined.
The priest lashed out at her with the riding crop, striking for her head. The blow missed, but Kit gave a cry and fell back as though it had landed.
The priest rode on without a look. Kit waited a moment to be certain he was alone and no guards were following at a distance. Seeing no one else on the road, she ran lightly and silently after him. She leaped, vaulted onto the back of the horse, and wrapped her arm around the priest’s neck. She put her knife to his throat.
The priest was taken completely by surprise. At the touch of cold steel, he gasped and went stiff in the saddle.
“I asked you nicely the first time, dark father,” Kit said reproachfully. “You refused to give me anything, so now I’m insisting. It’s only because you are a servant of the Dark Queen that I don’t slit your throat, so you might want to thank her. Now get down off the horse.”
She shifted the knife to the man’s ribs and gave him a prod. She could feel his pudgy body quivering, and she assumed it was with fear. The dark priest sullenly dismounted. Kitiara slid deftly off the horse to land on the ground behind him. He started to turn. She kicked his knees out from under him, and he sagged to the ground with a groan.
“Hand over your money—” Kit began.
To her astonishment, the priest surged to his feet. Grasping his medallion, he held it out in front of him and cried out in fury, “May Queen Takhisis hear my prayer and shrivel your heart. May she flay your flesh from your bones, suck the breath from your body, and destroy you utterly!”
His flabby body shook with rage, his voice resounded with confidence. He had no doubt that the dark goddess would answer him, and for a terrifying moment, neither did Kitiara. The night air crackled with the power of his prayer and she cringed, waiting for the wrath of Takhisis to immolate her.
Nothing happened.
The crackling subsided and dwindled away. Kitiara’s flesh remained intact. Her heart continued to beat. She kept right on breathing.
Kit raised her head. The priest was still holding the medallion, but he was starting to look uneasy. “Takhisis!” he cried, and now there was a note of panic in his voice, “shrivel this miscreant’s heart and flay the flesh—”