A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1) (18 page)

‘Mother–’ Skord began, but Ashurek appeared and interrupted.

‘There is no need to fear for us, madam, we can look after ourselves. And if there’s a way to help you, we’ll find it.’

The appearance of a Gorethrian before Skord’s mother seemed the last blow. She uttered a low moan and fainted. One of the peasant women caught her and, giving Skord a sour look, slammed the door in their faces.

#

The country of Belhadra was a large, pastoral land in central Tearn, warm and rainy. Its cities were few and modest and most of its inhabitants were farmers. It was a hilly country of grassland, swamps and forests; wet and fertile. Belhadra was also deep in superstition and mystery, not without cause. There was a mystical city of glass, reputed to lie just north of the equator, that few had ever seen. The city was concealed amid forests, hills and waterfalls, protected from man so that it could fulfil its delicate function. But, in this age of the Serpent, it seemed it was not protected well enough.

A sprinkle of fine rain fell through the light cool mist of the morning, a mist that turned everything pale yellow, green and eggshell blue. A faint harmony of birdsong filled the air, against which the clear notes of a blackbird rose and fell away. Watery sunlight turned the mist pale gold.

The hooves of the four horses brushed the long, dew-soaked grass as they went at a brisk walk down the far slope of the hill, heading north and slightly west. The four riders came down into the Beldaega Vale, with its network of fields, tangles of exotic trees, thin rivers and scattered clusters of buildings. First rode Skord, now in rich travelling gear of embroidered cloth in shades of lilac and blue. His mount, the proud and fiery golden-chestnut mare, looked superb. The other three rode a little behind him, Estarinel on his noble, silver-brown stallion, Ashurek on Vixata who went skittishly, shining with shifting metallic colours, then Medrian on the ill-looking, sullen black nameless one.

Their saddles had been lost on the White Plane, so they rode bareback, with halters in place of bridles. They were unarmed, except that Ashurek had in his belt the short blue-hafted dagger that Estarinel had found on Hrannekh Ol. That dry plane had left both them and their horses weak, so it was a slow ride through the pale, misty morning. Skord would often drift ahead and wait, impatiently, for them to catch up.

They stopped to drink at a shallow stream running glassily over mica, then rode on across farmland. The Vale seemed a paradise of scintillating colours and the scent of moist earth a revelation after the White Plane.

Sunlight was sparkling through the rain as they rode into a wood of grizzly trees. Young leaves clustered on the twisted branches, but the ground was thick with leaf mould, with creepers and rampant wild flowers and binding weeds. Skord led them along a stony track that wound round the brink of a chasm. Below they saw a small lake, lying still and stagnant with steep walls rising all around it; dregs in a granite cup. Skord rode dangerously close to the edge.

‘It was a quarry,’ he said, his voice sudden and strange in the stillness.

The trees gave way to pasture, and they rode for many miles until at last they came to the crest of a hill and entered a tall, charcoal-black forest. A squirrel ran before them in the twilight as they led their horses to a camping-place. It had been a fine day, but now there was something oppressive in the air, a black electricity crackling between the skeletal trees.

They lit a fire and ate the bread and meat Skord’s mother had provided, Estarinel trying to forget his words,
Don’t try to poison me
. Then they prepared to sleep.

‘We’ll take it in turns to keep watch,’ said Ashurek.

‘There are no wild animals big enough to eat us alive,’ the youth scoffed.

‘I was not thinking of wild animals,’ Ashurek said icily.

Skord glared at him with barely veiled hatred. ‘Please yourselves. Keep watch between you,’ he snapped with an arrogant wave of his hand. He turned over and went straight to sleep.

Estarinel, keeping the last watch, looked out over the embers of the waning fire. He thought of his sister, Arlena, and of Falin, Edrien and Luatha, who even now must be alone on the cold sea, on their way home to Forluin. How many days would it take them? Perhaps the Serpent had sent a storm to swallow them too… but no, the image of them arriving home was stronger. He could see Arlena greeting their mother in the doorway.

‘We took him there, and he boarded
The Star of Filmoriel
with two dark-haired strangers.’

The two women looked at each other, the two women he loved so dearly; and to his shock he heard his mother reply, ‘Lothwyn is well, but your father died…’

Estarinel shook his head, trying to subdue his thoughts. ‘Only my imagination,’ he told himself. He tried to concentrate on his task, but exhaustion took him into an uneasy sleep, and for an hour he writhed under the pressure of nightmares, unable to wake himself.

Arrows of silver rain drove into his body, and he realised he was awake, and the nightmare was real. A violent storm had broken. As he sat up he could hear Skord shouting.

‘Wake up, all of you! Get up! I thought someone was keeping watch, damn it.’ He had saddled his horse and was trying to mount as it danced.

‘What’s the matter?’ Medrian shouted back. ‘It’s only a storm. Why the panic?’

‘This forest is not the place to be in a storm!’ Skord said insistently. ‘Come on – mount your horses. Don’t stand staring! Quickly!’

There was nothing to do but humour him. A minute later they were mounted and following Skord at a brisk canter. It was a nightmare ride, swerving and twisting round tree trunks, while the forest reached out all its tendrils and gnarled, brittle fingers to hamper them. They chased Skord blindly, the horses stumbling in the undergrowth and blowing hard in fear.

After what seemed an age, they left the forest; and as they came out from the cover of trees, the full force of the storm hit them.

A sheet of ice-cold water cut across them like a steel wall. The sky screamed and thrashed, spewing out a wind that tried to pin them to the tortured ground. Eyes screwed up against the rain, they ploughed forward. The ground was treacherous, running with rivulets of water. The night was no longer pitch dark. Blood-red lightning was blazing along the leaden banks of cloud.

A foul discoloration flooded the atmosphere; and in that moment they all became part of a horrific vision. They were phantasms blown across the battleground of a cosmic war. A hole yawned open into the domain of the Serpent itself; and the writhing sky was the Serpent, drowning the world in its sick power and ancient, impassive cruelty.

Estarinel felt they were puppets that had been put a million times through this motion. He had always been here; this was where he belonged, a spectre running beneath the string of diseased flesh that hurtled overhead, leaving him behind but never ending. Then he saw that something fled before it.

It was something tiny, a small blackbird, and it wept as it fled, tossed like a cinder on the Serpent-winds. Its cry rang across the world, and it seemed an ash of hope and bravery. But the Worm never quite caught up with it.

The Gorethrian, remotely, realised what the bird was. Medrian knew also, but her whole body felt like lifeless white crystal and she thought she would never come down from the sky.

Only when the horses began to prop and swerve did reality re-establish itself. They saw that they were at the brink of a drop. The Gorethrian cursed and urged Vixata forward, but she stood on her hind legs, forehooves flailing at the red and silver rain, bright gold. And as Ashurek forced her over the drop, his black hair flying, he laughed wildly like some demon of darkest hell.

Skord’s mare shied in terror and bolted down the drop. There was a sinister rumbling, and a great red fireball rolled along the underside of the sullen clouds. The other horses, in a panic, raced headlong after Skord.

It was a tall, steep face of stones and earth, with tough bushes and roots sticking from it. In that breathless gallop down, it was a miracle that the horses kept their feet; their hooves were a blur, barely contacting the ground.

Then there was an ear-splitting, howling screech and from the fireball shot a barbed spear of white fire, bright as a magnesium flare. It struck the top of the drop, then leapt from top to bottom of the face in an arc of blinding light to stick as a blazing sword of electricity stretching from sky to earth, where the riders had been a second before. All the charge of the sky poured down it.

Then it was suddenly gone. The wind still howled and the rain continued to pour, but the storm had drained itself, and the clouds were calmer, higher. The thunder and blood-red lightning ceased. The ground tingled a little beneath the horses’ hooves for a moment. A fork of pure white lightning was followed by a distant crack of thunder. It was a normal storm, fading and rolling away.

Gradually the horses slowed and allowed themselves to be stopped, still breathing fast with fear. The riders turned and looked behind them. Where the fire-spear had struck, the drop had crumbled and a great blackened, burnt-out crater was left. They stared, collecting their wits.

It was apparent from the dreadful look of horror in Skord’s eyes that he had not been immune to the strange illusion in the storm. But he covered his fear with forced amusement.

‘I’m sorry,’ he laughed. ‘We have the most appalling weather in Belhadra at this time of year. That forest has been hit by lightning so many times I should have known better. You saw how blackened it was by fire. The lightning will strike anything tall, or better still, something moving. I do apologise.’ He looked insolently round at the three, enjoying the disruption the storm had caused.

‘So you thought it amusing to lead us into deliberate danger of being killed by lightning?’ Ashurek said acidly. ‘Don’t apologise. Anyone who will risk his own life to play a joke has my utmost admiration.’

Skord gave an offhand shrug and rode on, smiling to himself.

The storm persisted for some time as they rode on towards Beldaega-Hal. Dawn melted through the clouds, leaving the world in a sleepy, silvery twilight. It was a weird light, deep and stormy although the worst onslaught was past. Towards the afternoon they came upon the first straggling red buildings of the town, and later a paved road leading into the centre of Beldaega-Hal. They joined the road and as they jog-trotted down it they passed flat, unfenced fields and the occasional cluster of peasant dwellings. All were built in blocks of red stone, squat and square in shape with reed roofs.

The buildings grew more numerous, forming untidy rows on either side of the road. Raggedly dressed children stared at the four riders. Peasant men and women looked on with curiosity. Carts were in the street, mangy horses stood half-asleep, thin dogs ran among the piles of rubbish that lay about the houses.

As they went further into the town, the oddness of the buildings struck them. They were like cube upon cube of red stone piled up, with rounded corners; scarred and pitted with age. All the buildings seemed crowded together, split by dingy paved streets barely wide enough to let a cart through. It was as if a child had thrown building blocks together at random. And as they drew closer to the town centre, a whisper of their coming preceded them. ‘It is Her favourite… with three black-haired strangers… one a Gorethrian!’

Skord paused to attract the attention of a small boy. He pushed a silver coin into his palm. ‘Run to the shop of the merchant Mel Skara, tell him I am coming with three guests, and he is to display his best wares: clothing, weapons. Go on.’ The boy, with a look of delight, shot off down the street and vanished round a corner.

Meanwhile, people were greeting them with mixed feelings. Everyone seemed to know Skord, and saluted him, but there were grumblings of suspicion when they saw Ashurek. By now it seemed that the entire town knew of their arrival. ‘Her favourite, with a strange, pale woman… a handsome knight… a Gorethrian… all riding bareback!’

All three, Ashurek especially, were now regretting coming to the town. They rode at a painfully slow walk, twisting and turning through the streets until they were sure they would never find their way out again. A variety of smells filled the air. Dogs barked. Children shouted. Babies wailed. It seemed overcrowded, claustrophobic; a town where no one could have any secrets.

Ashurek was reminded of the sad, terrified people he had seen when the Gorethrian army had occupied parts of Tearn. Bitterness awoke at the memory of those days, when the Egg-Stone had moved him like an automaton to crush such cowering mobs. But he still felt no pity for them. Better the fierce, single-minded rebels of the Empire than these pathetic folk; at least the rebels had something in them he could recognise.

Up a twisting alley Skord led them. Then, at last, they reached a building with a square plain entrance, the only decoration a sign in beautifully painted black-letter, reading, ‘Mel Skara: Merchant’. They dismounted and tethered their horses in a small paved yard at the side.

‘Here,’ said Skord, ‘we do our shopping here.’

‘But–’ Estarinel began.

‘Before you say again that you have no money,’ Skord interrupted in a confidential tone, ‘I do not have to pay for my requirements in this town. I just ask, and it is given… if you understand my meaning.’

‘No, I don’t, and I don’t think I want to.’