In the Earth Abides the Flame (35 page)

A collective sigh came from the small group as they looked out from the hills towards their rest; then Kurr started down the steep slope to the road. Leith took a step forward to follow him. At that moment the sound of horses came from the left.

'Back to the trees,' Kurr growled. 'Better be careful. We don't know this country.' Leith, who was by now some distance down the slope, made an undignified scramble back up to the trees as the riders came into view.

For a moment Leith did not believe what, or who, he was seeing. Surely there could be no other man of such size, or who wore red robes like those clearly visible in the fading light.

Beside him he felt, rather than saw, Kurr stiffen in recognition, while just behind him Phemanderac gave a stifled cry, for down below on the Great South Road came the Arkhos of Nemohaim, accompanied by the Archivist (whom Phemanderac had recognised) and five well-armed attendants. They were riding their horses at a fast, mile-eating canter, and in a few moments they passed by and were hidden by the shadows off to the right.

Leith let out his breath in a slow, low whistle, and the tension that had gripped him since their arrival in Instruere clamped itself around his chest again.

Behind him Phemanderac shook his head. 'Did you recognise the man immediately behind the Arkhos?' he asked Kurr.

The old farmer shrugged his shoulders.

'He's the man in charge of the Instruere Archive. He knows about the Jugom Ark,' the philosopher said sadly.

Kurr took a moment to put it together. 'So a man who knows the nature of our quest is in league with our chief foe, one who undoubtedly knows his way around the countryside of Nemohaim. This changes everything.' The dour farmer's face wore a look of despondency.

'Just when things were looking a little more straightforward.'

'For all our problems, I'd rather be here than back in Instruere,' said Leith quietly.

It was not until well after dark that the Arkhimm made it to the outskirts of the sprawling town, and immediately they settled into the familiar routine of seeking out the least-rowdy inn

- with the

extra proviso that tonight it should not have regally attired horses stabled nearby. After much cautious investigation they finally settled on The Reveller's Rest, a small inn set off the main road. In talking to the innkeeper they discovered the name of the town was Kinnekin, the largest town in southern Westrau, set roughly halfway between Instruere and the southern border of Straux. After arranging rooms for the night the hungry travellers sought meals, and in a little time (but still far too long for Leith) they were settled in a corner of the main bar-room, working their way through fare that was plain but had the special merit of being substantial. Leith eased off his boots and let the stiffness and strain drain from his tired feet.

Beside him Phemanderac sat back in his chair and stretched aching limbs.

'Back in Dhauria we were taught walking is good for you,' he said. 'I can't imagine how they developed such a theory.'

The Haufuth smiled. 'I see the Arkhos of Nemohaim doesn't subscribe to the theory either.'

'Perhaps the theory is intended only for large men,' Kurr jibed.

The village headman turned to Leith, Hal and the two Escaignians. 'I wonder whom he could possibly be referring to,' he said, smiling ruefully.

'Not you, if that's your worry,' the old farmer growled good-naturedly. 'You've lost far too much weight to be named in the same breath as the Arkhos of Nemohaim.'

'Well, I suggest if you don't want to lose any more, you consider finding horses,' Leith said as tactfully as he could. Now the Haufuth had rejoined them the old farmer had given way to the headman's leadership, but he obviously did not find the transition easy.

'Horses would be an excellent idea,' said the big headman. 'If we only had enough money to purchase them! Most of our money is back in Instruere with the remainder of the Company'

The Company, thought Leith shamefacedly. He had spent very little time thinking about them

- apart from Stella - and they were very probably having the worst time of it. Phemanderac had told him of the Company's precarious position, trapped between the river and the Instruian Guard. Their only hope, expressed in hushed tones on their first night out from the Great City, was that the sudden flood afforded the Company an avenue of escape - or, failing that, if they had been captured they were still alive. I'm so selfish, he chastised himself. I could have spared them some thought. So he forced himself to give each one of them a moment, to capture an image of them in his mind. Indrett, his mother. Eyes bright with tears, waiting for her love to come home. Mahnum, his father, a figure carved from birch, now with a face. Farr, the Vinkullen man, strong eyes, a scowling brow, softening in the forest green-shade. And, beside him, his brother Wira, insubstantial now. Broad-shouldered and broad-hearted, with a hurt hidden deep inside. Perdu. Solid, forthright, eyes haunted by the separation from his family and his people. And behind him, the ghost of Parlevaag, frozen in the act of giving her life for them. The Hermit, cloaked with power, mysteries on his tongue.

Curiously, the image of the Hermit was the least substantial of the Company. Achtal the Acolyte, flint-hard and ruthless, somehow inhuman but no longer an enemy. And Stella. His thoughts lingered on her image, and still lingered, until the food and the fire combined to send him to sleep.

An hour or two went by, as the four Louleans talked things over with Phemanderac and the Escaignians. Between them they had enough coinage for one fair packhorse, so they decided that Kurr should seek one on the morrow. Conversation turned to Instruere, and the Escaignians talked about their lives, their families and their rebellion against the lords of the city. True to their custom, the two Escaignians would not reveal their names. Names were powerful things, reflected Phemanderac. Without them the two were merely representatives of their nation, unable to be approached too closely. Perhaps this was necessary in a place like Escaigne had been; a hidden society where trust was everything, betrayal spelt ruin and the corporate was more important than the individual, seeming to take on a life of its own. How unlike Dhauria, he mused, with its cult of the individual, the sophistry of its arguments, the rules still existing but unwritten, and maybe more powerful for all that. On second thought, perhaps Dhauria and Escaigne were not so dissimilar — hidden, self'absorbed, unaware of the wider world, and ultimately vulnerable. And Faltha? Faltha had enough good people to see the Sixteen Kingdoms through - if they could be raised up, if they could be organised to resist the darkness sweeping in from the east. But underneath it all something nagged at him. Was the brown tide of Bhrudwo any darker than the blackness in Faltha's own heart? Which was the greater enemy? Who gathered around the great prize of Faltha, ready to pick the eyes from her corpse - the hawks from the east or the vultures of the west?

Outside the inn, in the darkness of a moonless night, shadowy figures flitted across the open spaces either side of the small building. Small movements served as signals as the black shadows surrounded the building, and seemingly random night-sounds guided them to predetermined positions.

The fire died down as the bar emptied, and the innkeeper, a jolly, round-faced fellow, set to washing the tankards. In the far corner the Arkhimm sat, on the edge of slumber, wearied by the miles and by the deeper sense of care. The door burst open with a crash. In rushed a large group of people led by a long-haired man wearing the livery of the Instruian Guard. Before the Arkhimm shook the sleep from their eyes they were surrounded by men with swords drawn menacingly, men who ignored the innkeeper's strident protests and levelled their steely eyes at the startled faces of their quarry.

'There'll be no trouble, barkeep,' the long-haired man said evenly. 'These men were just leaving.'

'What do you want with us?' the Haufuth asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the fear out of his voice.

'We're your friends,' said the Instruian-robed man in a heavy colloquial accent, the sort Leith had heard in the markets of Instruere, and in tones that were anything but friendly. 'We just want to make sure none of you northerners have any accidents on your way to your lodgings.

Would be easy to stub a toe in the dark, see? Though not with us around.' He smiled, and a few of his fellows laughed. 'We'll look after you.'

'We don't need looking after,' said Kurr, his old belligerence evident in his posture, no doubt cursing his decision to leave his sword upstairs. It was a gift from the Escaignians, given on the south bank of the Aleinus, and now it would be gone. Along with what else? 'We are lodging here tonight.'

'Change of plans,' the long-haired man said cheerfully. 'Our master wants to meet you, and he's asked me to arrange it.' He smiled wider, and Leith noticed an assortment of the man's teeth were missing. At that moment Leith hoped the losing of them had hurt him.

'And who is your master?'

Long-hair turned to his fellows. 'This old'n's got a tongue in him! Talk us right through the night if we let him!' He turned back to Kurr with an air of mock civility. 'However, sir, we don't 'ave the time to enjoy the beer, though they do say it's the best to be found in these parts,'

he said, nodding to the bemused publican. 'Come on, then.' He beckoned to the Arkhimm.

'Let's go, and make it sharpish, or I'll make sharpish with you.' He fingered his sword and laughed as though he had just made a great joke.

The Arkhimm had no choice. At swordpoint they filed past the bar and out into the still, cool night air, while two of the rogues went through their possessions. It was all too much for Leith, recaptured on the brink of escaping. The thought of returning to Instruere and The Pinion was unbearable. He began to cry softly.

Two or three miles out of Kinnekin, Long-hair and his men guided their prisoners away from the main road, through a high hedge behind which horses were tethered and into an open field. For an awful moment Leith thought the end had come.

'I am truly sorry for any inconvenience, but I had a fiction to propagate,' said the long-haired man, all traces of a city accent gone. -'I wanted the innkeeper to believe you had been reclaimed by the Instruians.'

'Who are you?' Kurr asked in wonder. 'What do you want with us?'

'Who I am is not important at this time,' he replied. 'What is important is the King of Deruys has sent for you, and you are to be taken to him. Do not despair! Your quest is known to us.

We wish to aid rather than hinder you.' He smiled at them, a rich, wide smile. 'If we had not taken you when we did, you would have been recaptured by the Instruians. Now, if you will allow me, I will be rid of this foul raiment.' He stepped into the shadows of the hedge and began to take off the livery of the Instruian Guard.

'The King of Deruys?' Kurr said.

'Our quest is known?' Shock registered on Phemanderac's face.

'You're not from Instruere?' the Escaignians asked with relief in their voices.

'You're still prisoners, you know,' Long-hair said, wiping the blackener from his teeth. 'My lord wishes to take counsel with you, and he is a most determined man.'

'But why the disguise?' Leith asked.

'I'll answer your questions on the way to Deruys.' He waved to his men, who handed their captives back their possessions. 'Now mount up! We have still a long journey to make.'

Stealthily the guardsmen surrounded the building, giving not a sign of their presence. They had done this sort of thing many times before: night raids on traitors, opponents of the Council, dragging them from their homes to the pitiless Pinion, there to be questioned and broken. Tonight was going to be a little more interesting, for the reputation of the northerners

- they had bested a dozen Bhrudwans in hand-to-hand combat, according to reports - had only been enhanced by the hatred on the puffy face of the Arkhos of Nemohaim as he talked strategy with his guards. So they took extra care, ensuring the advantage of surprise was played to the fullest.

But it was they who were surprised when they broke down the door of The Reveller's Rest only to find an empty inn and an innkeeper who could only say: 'But you already took them!'

They searched the inn, and found clothing that matched that which the northerners had been wearing when they escaped Instruere. A few swords, a little money, nothing substantial.

Fearing the wrath of the Arkhos, they took the unfortunate innkeeper aside and gave him their own special brand of assistance with his memory.

'So we have another enemy,' the Arkhos ground out when he could trust himself to speak.

'The northerners are in league with someone — someone powerful.' It did not take the Arkhos long to arrive at the logical - the only - conclusion, fuelled by hatred as he was.

'Deorc!' The Destroyer, damn him to the pit of fire!

'My lord?' The Captain of the Guard gave the Arkhos his full attention. It had been an exhausting night, ever since his men had seen the northerners coming into Kinnekin, and things had not gone well. For a few moments after delivering the bad news he had feared for his own life.

'My foe's hand is in this. It has his hallmarks. Treachery, cunning, stealth. We must be on our guard.'

'Yes, my lord.' Anything to placate the man.

'Send two of your men out on each road, north and south. I want to know exactly where they are. If we can keep up with them, they will lead us to the Arrow. My Arrow!'

'Now, my lord?' He should have known better, but it was late and he hadn't fully recovered from his narrow escape on the day of the flood.

Instead of exploding, the obese man simply turned his dead eyes on the Captain of the Guard.

'Go now,' he said in a voice devoid of inflection.

The Captain of the Guard went.

The journey to Brunhaven, capital of Deruys, took nine days. During that time Leith learned a great deal about the Raving King of Deruys and, having heard the stories, was not at all sure he wanted to meet him. 'Mad' was the most polite thing said about him. Apparently the monarch, on the throne nearly fifty years, had a habit of speaking obliquely. He had been wont to indulge in eccentric behaviour until arthritis confined him to his castle, and even now his exploits, performed (often unwittingly) through his courtiers, the nobility, his guards or even his family, brought much mirth to the stolid kingdom. His madness, apparently, disguised a serious purpose.