Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (5 page)

           
Cennaire sensed a change in him, and
wondered what the Vanu woman had said as they talked among the trees. Something
concerning her, she guessed, deciding that as yet she was not entirely trusted
by Calandryll's companions. Whatever course she might ultimately choose, she
knew she must for now earn their confidence, and so made no attempt to charm
Calandryll, but pretended weariness, and a degree of unease that was not
entirely feigned.

           
Indeed, all their talk of Rhythamun
rendered her nervous. He appeared a mage of dreadful power and she marveled
that these three had survived so long in their pursuit of the wizard. They
spoke almost casually of entering a hostile land, of the likelihood of
traversing the Jesseryn Plain to whatever lay beyond the Borrhun-maj. They were
prepared to face Jesserytc warriors and demons with equal equanimity, trusting
in themselves and the benevolence of the Younger Gods: they entertained no
doubt but that they go on, no matter the odds against them. Such conviction she
found almost frightening. She thought of the magic mirror hidden in her
baggage, and wondered how Anomius fared. Did her master fret? Did he wonder
where she was? At some opportune time, she thought, she must contact him, but
not yet; not while use of the mirror must surely reveal her for his creation.

           
The night passed sJow and she was
glad when she saw the sky above begin to pale and the camp began to stir, the
questers readying for departure with the efficiency of long practice. The fire
was blown to fresh life and breakfast set to cooking, the horses saddled while
water boiled, Bracht and Calandryll drawing dirks across their stubbled cheeks
as the two women washed in the icy water of the river. Before the sun's light
had reached the lowermost deeps they were mounted, Cennaire again settled
behind Bracht's saddle, and riding for the promised ford.

           
The crossing lay a good two leagues
to the west, its presence announced by sullen thunder, in a curve of the Kess
Imbrun where the great rift broadened, the beach widening before a loarrier of
tumbled stone high as the walls of a city.

           
Calandryll, in the lead, halted,
staring awed at the natural dam, waiting for Bracht to come up. The hypabyssal
blockage rose skyward above him, the boulders at its foot transforming the
riverbed into a wild terracing of rocky cascades over which white water foamed,
ferocious as it gushed between the stones. Along the face, spreading in a haze
of silvery gold, a mist rose from the spray, glittering rainbows arcing as the
sun struck the great fountains jetting from high among the boulders.

           
"The ford lies beyond."
Bracht shouted his opinion, leaning from his saddle to put his mouth close to
Calandryll's ear. "Above the rocks."

           
They climbed awhile, through a
shimmering haze, cloaked against the watery fog that soon engulfed them, the
clatter of hooves on stone lost in the thunder of the cascade, the horses
fretting nervously at the sound. Calandryll remained in the lead, squinting
through the mist until he saw an opening between two enormous stones,
indicating the gap with an outflung arm: to speak in that dinning would be useless.
He urged the chestnut into the dim-lit pass, the way rising steep there,
tortuous and slippery.

           
He emerged onto a broad shelf, its
edge overlapped by the great expanse of water pent behind the dam, the river
become more akin to a lake. Calandryll studied the ramparts of the dam with
uncertain eyes, waiting as the others aligned themselves beside him. The
topmost level of the barricade was wide and smooth as a made road: ten horses
might go easily abreast, no more than a finger's depth of water spilling over
the stones. But to the one side lay a drop that would send a rider tumbling
into the cascades below, and to the other . . . he studied the vast pool,
wondering at its depths, and the currents that must surely rage there beneath
the surface. The mist hung sparkling above, a spectrum of colors set to dancing
by the morning light, beautiful and at the same time eerie, as if spirits
pranced there, tempting the unwary. Cautiously, he urged his mount forward.

           
The horse began to stamp and snort,
liking this ford no better than its rider, and Calandryll held a tight rein,
his eyes narrowed against the film of moisture that covered his face, dripping
from his hair, finding whatever openings his clothing offered to trickle
irritatingly down chest and back. The edges of the way were soon lost behind a
curtain of swirling colors, and he could see scant feet ahead. It seemed he
traversed a way akin to the magical road that had brought him to Tezin-dar, a
place where time was without meaning, distance become abstract, the morning
filled with the threatening rumble of the torrent below, the strange silence of
the lake beside, the aural contrast disorientating. It occurred to him that if
Rhythamun left some monstrous creation to ward his trail, here would be a fine place,
and thought then to draw his sword, and then thought better of it, deciding it
was the wiser course to hold the reins firm against the panicky fretting of his
mount.

           
In that negation of time he had no
idea how long the crossing took, and was surprised when suddenly the mist
brightened, the shifting colors resolving into a soft golden haze. He wiped his
eyes, peering ahead, and saw the gold darken, merging with a reddish-grey, and
realized that he could discern shapes, like huge sentinels, waiting.

           
In a little while they resolved into
the primeval detritus of the Kess Imbrun, the great stone blocks that marked
the limits of the dam, spreading across the northern beach in welcome
announcement of the ford's end. He lifted the roan to a faster pace, the horse
responding willingly, and they came out of the mist onto a broad shelf.

           
Calandryll sprang down and turned to
see Bracht emerge from the haze, Cennaire disconsolate behind him, Katya coming
after. He went to meet them, giving Cennaire his hand as she slid from the
stallion's back. She clung to him a moment, her face against his chest, and he
held her awkwardly, watching as Bracht and Katya dismounted. Then she stepped
back, smiling faintly, and said, "I thought that road would never
end."

           
"Nor I," he returned,
studying her face, unsure whether he felt relief or reluctance that she let him
go.

           
"Ahrd, but that was a wet
crossing." Bracht's voice interrupted his contemplation. "Do we find
timber and get a fire started before night finds us?"

           
Calandryll looked about. The sun
hung low’ in the western quadrant now, not far off its setting, and he realized
that the fording, of the river had taken the better part of the day. A breeze
drifted cool down the chasm and he shivered, the involuntary motion prompting
Cennaire to ape him. Katya bent, wringing out her long hair,* Bracht, who
appeared not much discomforted, pointed toward the northern cliffs.

           
"Likely we'll find the makings
there. Do you take Cennaire a while, and I'll go ahead."

           
"What of Rhythamun?"
Calandryll asked.

           
"Did he plan aught, I think
we'd know ere now." Bracht shook his head, sending droplets flying.
"I think we're safe enough here."

           
Not waiting for an answer, he swung
astride the black horse. Katya followed him into the saddle. Calandryll
shrugged and mounted, reaching down to help Cennaire clamber up behind him. For
all he was damp, and not a little miserable, it was a pleasant sensation to
feel her arms encircle his waist, her body pressed against his back. He thought
to voice some gallantry, but all he found was, "We'll build a fire soon
enough, and then be dry."

           
"Thank the gods," came her
response: that she was wet afforded her no physical discomfort, but her vanity
was offended. And she thought it wiser to pretend a degree of suitable
dejection, so she contented herself with holding him, pressing hard against his
back. As he turned his mount after Katya's grey, he could not see her smile.

           
Like the southern bank, this side of
the Kess Imbrun was a labyrinth of tumbled rock and the sun was almost set
before they came to a place where the boulders formed a circle that afforded
shelter from the strengthening wind. Bushes grew there, sufficient that they
could build a fire, and forage for the horses. They cut branches enough to
construct a hearty blaze and Bracht and Calandryll delicately withdrew, rubbing
down the animals while the two women shed their wet clothing in privacy.

           
The evening grew chill as the sun
set, darkness layering the chasm, the rumbling of the torrent below them a murmur
dulled by distance and the intervening canyons, the lake invisible behind the
sheltering stones as they set food to cooking, aware that their supplies
dwindled and they must soon hunt, or ride hungry.

           
" We've enough for two days
more/' Bracht declared, fetching out falchion and dirk to wipe the blades,
"do we eat sparingly."

           
Calandryll drew a rag over his own
weapons, applied a whetstone to the edges, testing his work with a thumb.
"The Jesserytes surely eat," he remarked. "There must be game we
can hunt down on the Plain."

           
"Which must delay us."
Katya glanced upward, at the looming darkness of the cliffs. "Rhythamun
has surely reached the rim by now."

           
"And likely taken his place
among the Jesserytes," said Bracht somberly, "save they recognize him
as gharan-evur."

           
"Your folk did not."
Calandryll slid his sword home in its scabbard. "Dera, but this pursuit is
like the finding of a single straw in a haystack. Even though we've one who
knows his face."

           
He looked to Cennaire as he spoke,
and she smiled gravely. "I shall not forget that face," she murmured,
shuddering at the memory. "Do I but see him, I shall know him."

           
"That," Bracht said with a
sardonic grin, "is the easy part. Bringing you to him, the hard."

           
"Still, we've found his trail
thus far." Katya stretched bare arms toward the fire, her tone thoughtful.
"And that has been no easy thing. Does Horul aid us as have Burash and
Dera, then we've another godly ally in our quest."

           
Bracht shrugged diffidently, making
no comment. Calandryll said, "Perhaps the Younger Gods design it so,"
not sure whether he spoke from conviction or the need for optimism. Certainly
it seemed a monumental labor to hunt down a single man in the unknown country
of the Jesseryn Plain. "I pray it be so," he added.

           
"And I." Bracht chuckled,
his lean face hawkish in the fire's glow, "For the gods know, we need all
the aid we can muster."

           
Cennaire glanced surreptitiously
from one face to another, marveling at the determination of these three. She
was not much given to admiration—her experiences in the bordels of Kharasul, as
a courtesan in Nhur-jabal, had taught her more of misprize- ment than
respect—but now, she admitted with surprise, she could not help but feel a
grudging admiration for the singularity of their purpose, for their courage.
Did she, she wondered, develop some notion of morality in their company? A
conscience, even? Could that be so, given her revenancy?

           
Her contemplative mood went
unnoticed, or they assumed she was wearied by the journey, and soon it was agreed
they sleep, Calandryll taking the first watch.

           
He had little thought of danger: it
seemed, as Bracht had said, that Rhythamun was confident enough he left no
traps behind him, nor did it seem likely they should encounter hostile
Jesserytes in this place.

           
How wrong he was, he discovered when
something whistled out of the darkness, wrapping around him so that his arms
were pinned, his legs entangled, and all he could do was cry out once as he
toppled sideways, crashing hard against a stunted pine before he thudded down.

           
C
ALANDRYLL
heard Bracht shout, and in the same instant saw figures
dart from the shadows, running past him, one halting to kneel beside him,
settling a cold hand about his throat, the other displaying a knife, the steel
gleaming briefly in the moonlight. He thought to die then, but the blade was
tapped warningly against his cheek as the hand tightened on his windpipe,
threatening to choke him, and the wielder made a guttural hushing sound,
cautioning him to silence.

           
He could offer no resistance.
Whatever had felled him now bound him firm, and the strangling hand denied him
the air with which to vent a cry. Such would, he realized despairingly, have
been useless anyway: he heard the sounds of brief protest, but no hint of battle,
and knew that his comrades were taken as swiftly as he had fallen. Uselessly,
he cursed himself for failing in his watchman's duty.

           
Then the hand let go his throat and
he felt his legs loosed. He was snatched unceremoniously upright, spun round
before he had opportunity to identify his captor, and shoved toward the glow of
the fire. Bracht, Katya, and Cennaire lay beside the deceptively cheerful
blaze, like animals trussed for slaughter. Around them stood figures clad in
dark armor, their faces masked behind veils of woven mail. Like executioners,
Calandryll thought.

           
A kick sent him down, gasping as he
struck the ground, stretched beside Bracht. The Kern's eyes were closed, but
his chest rose and fell against the bonds encircling his body. Calandryll saw
that they were some manner of throwing device—long leather cords weighted at
their ends with small metal balls. He looked across the supine Kern and saw
that Katya and Cennaire were similarly entangled, though both the women were
conscious. Katya's expression was angry, her grey eyes stormy in the fire'^
light; Cennaire appeared confused and thoughtful. He assumed she wondered what
fate awaited her and said, "Did they plan to slay us, it would be done by
now."

           
He intended to reassure her: he
could not know she thought of snapping her bonds and fleeing. He was about to
speak again, but a boot drove the air from his lungs, and a hand gestured for
him to be silent. He groaned and turned his gaze to his captors.

           
Nine of them stood there, what
expressions their faces might have held masked by the concealing veils. He
studied them, seeing conical helmets from under which dangled ringlets of oiled
hair, dark as the armor they wore. Breastplates covered their chests,
rerebraces and vambraces their arms, gauntlets their hands, cuisses and greaves
their legs, all black save where the fireglow was reflected, red as blood. Wide
belts circled their tas- sets, each holding two scabbards, one for the
deep-curved swords they wore, the other for the wide-bladed knives. They were
menacing figures, the more so for their silent contemplation.

           
Calandryll wondered what thoughts
passed behind the veils. Those curtains were cut with eye holes, but he could
read no expressions there: it was as if nine automatons regarded him, creatures
of metal standing in judgment.

           
Then one spoke, a few harsh words,
and the captives were hauled to their feet, their legs unbound. Bracht groaned,
swaying dizzily, and two men— Jesserytes, Calandryll assumed—took bis arms,
supporting him until he steadied himself, shaking his head and blinking.

           
"Ahrd! Are we taken? I heard
you shout ..."

           
The Jesserytes' leader spoke again,
clearly ordering the Kern to silence. Bracht spat, the gobbet landing between
the man's boots. He laughed, as if he approved such defiance, and barked
another order, pointing toward the cliff, then touching a hand to Bracht's
lips, withdrawing it to make a slicing motion across his throat that was clear
indication of his meaning. A further burst of curt orders set leathern gags in
the prisoners' mouths, and the Jesseryte pointed again at the cliff, then
beckoned and strode away.

           
Five warriors formed about the
prisoners, shoving them roughly after, and the remaining three loosed the
horses from their hobbles, bringing up the rear.

           
It was an ominously silent
procession. None spoke, and their passage was marked only by the creak of
leather, the slow clopping of hooves, as they clambered among the rocks,
moving, Calandryll assumed, toward the north foot of the Daggan Vhe. He drew some
measure of hope from that, small solace, but all he had. He had spoken
instinctively to Cennaire, looking to reassure a woman he assumed was
terrified, but now saw the truth of his statement: did the Jesserytes intend to
slay intruders in their land, they would surely have killed them where they
lay. No less, was Rhythamun numbered among the faceless warriors, he would
surely have destroyed the questers on sight. For some reason he did not
comprehend, they were kept alive. For subsequent execution? For reasons obscure
to any save the Jesserytes? He did not know, but that they
were
alive allowed a degree of optimism.

           
He clung to that thought as he
stumbled, awkward with tight-bound arms, through the rock-strewn shadows. .

           
In a while they reached a ledge
where small, caparisoned horses stood tethered, tended by a single warrior who
barked a greeting as the Jesserytes
⁷
leader approached. It was
answered in the same incomprehensible tongue and the guard brought one animal
forward, dropping on hands and knees that the leader might use his back for a
mounting step. Another guttural exclamation had the captives disarmed and slung
roughly astride their own mounts with wrists lashed to the saddle horns, thongs
binding ankles to stirrups. Cennaire was tossed astride Katya's grey, behind
the warrior woman, a cord passed about both their waists. The Jesserytes
mounted, a man taking up the reins of each larger horse, another falling into
station immediately behind, and they started across the ledge.

           
Calandryll wondered if their captors
knew the way so well they dared attempt the trail by darkness, or if their
night vision was unusually developed. Whichever, they moved at a brisk pace
through the maze of gullies and basal canyons spread about the foot of this northern
wall of the

           
Kess Imbrun, trotting where the way
allowed, holding to a fast walk where the road climbed.

           
In time it rose clear of the lower
convolutions and the elevation allowed the moon to light the way. The lunar
disk was fattened and the night was clear, cloudless: Calandryll saw the ribbon
of the
Blood
Road
winding precipitously ahead, an unnerving path for a man with bound arms. He
clenched his teeth against the threat of panic, telling himself these strange
and silent men were not—at least, not yet—ready to see him die. Even so, it was
a disconcerting prospect that he sought to combat by studying them closer.

           
Their armor, he saw, was polished
jet, marked on chest and back with yellow symbols. Some form of clan insignia,
he guessed, for the leader wore the same sign, though his back also bore
another marking—of rank, presumably—and the cloths that dressed the little
horses were similarly decorated.

           
He forced himself to relax in the
saddle, knees firm against the chestnut gelding's ribs as it dutifully followed
the smaller animal ahead. The Jesseryte beasts were not much larger than
ponies, but surefooted, taking the dizzying trail without hesitation, climbing
steadily upward, as if they traversed some gentle gradient rather than a road
that before long dropped away on one side or the other into a moonlit infinity.
Their hooves clattered a busy counterpoint to the sighing song of the night
wind, rising above the grumbling of the cascades, those soon enough lost in the
distance. There were no other sounds. The masked men said nothing; nor, under
threat of blows, did the captives protest, only rode, each in turn wondering
where they went, and why.

           
CENNAIRE,
pressed hard against Katya's back, thought again of snapping her bonds and
flinging herself clear of the grey horse, and again discarded the notion. In
part it was from fear of bringing the horse down with her, both tumbling over
the precipice that loomed scant feet to her right. She was confident the fall
would not
—could
not—kill her, but by
no means so sure she would escape injury. Without a living heart to animate her
body, she knew she must defy death, but it remained possible her bones would
break, and the thought of lying broken, perhaps helpless, in the depths of the
Kess Imbrun was an idea unappealing as the thought of what such a descent must
do to her beauty. Equally, such action must end her alliance with the questers,
and so it was better, she decided, to continue in her role of mortal woman, to
act the helpless prisoner and see what the future held.

           
Did things come to such a pass, she
could free herself later. For now, she would wait.

           
BRACHT,
his head still ringing from the blow that had felled him, thought mostly of
holding his seat: the black stallion afforded him concern enough he had little
room for much else. The horse resented the indignity of a lead rein, snatching
against the leathers and snorting irritably, ears flattened back and head
tossing whenever the halter slackened. The Kern did his best to calm the beast,
urging it on with knees and soft murmurings, aware that did it succeed in
breaking free it would certainly attack the smaller animals ahead and behind,
and in the process no less certainly find its way over the road's rim.

           
He did not think the Jesserytes
would let him live—the hostility of the horseclans of Cuan na'For and the folk
of the Jesseryn Plain was ogygian, long-rooted in times past, a matter of
tradition. He assumed they were taken alive only that their deaths might be
prolonged, an amusement for their captors. All he had heard of the people of
the Forbidden Country suggested that—that they were little more than beasts,
savages who pleasured themselves with the torture of prisoners. That, or the
transformation of captives into slaves, which was the worse option—involuntarily,
he shuddered at the thought: male slaves were gelded.

           
He bit hard on the thong that gagged
him, abruptly aware of the pressure of his saddle between his thighs, chancing
a swift glance back, to where Katya was led, behind him. She was no woman to
accept slavery, to allow herself to become the plaything of some Jesseryte
lordling—she would die, rather.

           
That thought, and the simple
determination that while he yet lived he must not give up hope of defeating
Rhythamun, held him back from the alternative he would have taken had he been
alone. Were he alone, he would have given the stallion its head, urged the
great horse to vent its anger, and taken a Jesseryte or two over the cliff with
him. Instead, he sought to calm the beast, the sullen pounding in his skull
resolving into sullen anger.

           
For now he would cling to life.

           
FOR
her part, Katya rode confused. She knew nothing of the Jesserytes save what
she had heard from Bracht, and none of that promising. Yet the strange
warriors, for all their treatment of the prisoners was brusque, had offered no
real harm. They had come out of the night so suddenly, so silently, they
seemed, in their dark armor, like ghosts. She had heard Bracht's shout and
woken with hand on swordhilt—only to find her arms pinioned before the saber
had chance to clear the scabbard, her legs an eyeblink after. She had seen
Bracht come to his feet and fall in the same moment, thinking at first an arrow
took him—such thought horrifying—then seeing that he was bound by the curious
throwing ropes that whirled and whistled from the shadows. A gauntleted hand
had clubbed him down when he struggled to rise, but that had been all: there
had been no further violence offered.