Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (6 page)

           
She wondered why she—why all of
them—lived still. Everything Bracht had told her of the Jesserytes suggested
they slew intruders on sight, yet these appeared bent on taking them captive.
Why?

           
A possible answer chilled her:
because Rhythamun had ordered it so.

           
Because the mage had found himself
in some elevated station in his new form, and sent minions to ward his back,
with orders to take his pursuers alive. Such would likely be his way: to gloat
before commanding their execution.

           
Yet, were that the way of it, surely
questions must arise. Surely Rhythamun must justify his knowledge—and how else
could he know he was pursued, save through magic? In which case, she told
herself, as calmly as she was able, he must reveal himself for a wizard. Would
whatever sorcerers the Jesserytes bred accept him so readily? Were her
suspicion correct, yes. In which case, the quest was ended, Rhythamun
victorious.

           
She bit hard against her gag,
seeking calm against the despair that threatened to overwhelm her. She must not
give in! She must hold to the vows made in Vanu and Tezin-dar, and while she
still lived, cling to what tenuous fragments of hope yet existed.

           
So it was that each of them, in
their own fashion, chose to live on, to cling to hope until that precious
commodity should be finally expended, as the procession wound its way up the
Daggan Vhe.

           
They climbed through what was left
of the night, the sky above paling toward dawn before a halt was called, on a
massive ledge where a wide-mouthed cavern ran back into the cliff's wall.

           
The Jesserytes' leader walked his
mount into the cave and dismounted, his men not following until he barked an
order, then swinging down, bustling about with the economic efficiency of a
well- disciplined band entering a familiar refuge. Calandryll watched, puzzled
and intrigued, as the ponies were led in, tethered to one side, fodder
obviously stored against such visitation piled in mangers of rock. Two men
built a fire, fetching kindling and cut logs from niches in the cave walls, and
others brought provisions from similar caches. Flambeaux were lit, their flames
joining with the fire to illuminate the interior. One man remained watchful
beside each prisoner, waiting stoically until their leader issued another order
that had the bonds about the captives' ankles freed, the thongs binding them to
the saddle horns loosed. They were still confined by short lengths of leather
around their wrists, dismounting awkwardly to find themselves pushed into the
cave. Men took their horses, and it came to Calandryll that the Jesserytes were
somewhat awed by the larger animals, Bracht's stallion in particular, for their
silence was broken by anxious mutterings when the beast whickered irritably and
began to plunge against the reins.

           
Bracht turned back then, his sullen
face abruptly anxious as the black horse threatened to fight loose, to plunge
over the cliff. A warrior blocked his way, hand raised to halt the Kern, who
mouthed a muffled curse, his eyes flashing angry as the stallion's. Calandryll
feared he would be clubbed down anew, but a word from the Jesseryte chieftain—if
such he was—set the man aside, allowing Bracht to go to the stallion, murmuring
soothingly through his gag, taking the reins and leading the horse after the
others.

           
The stallion continued to fret
somewhat, seeming vexed by the presence of the smaller animals, and Bracht kept
up his mumblings until the beast calmed, allowing him to pass the reins back to
a Jesseryte.

           
Relieved, Calandryll looked about
the cave, seeing it was not entirely natural, but enlarged by men, as if used
as a staging post. The fire burned in a crude hearth, its smoke carried away up
a rocky chimney; a grotto, part natural and part man-made, stabled the animals,
stout poles penning them secure,- to one side a spring bled water into a bowl.
The place was dry, warm, and smelled of horseflesh and salted meat, as if
regularly used. From that, and the pace they had taken, he calculated they were
midway up the north face of the Kess Imbrun. He waited to see what the
Jesserytes intended.

           
No harm, it seemed; at least, not
yet. The leader walked bowlegged toward the captives, loosing the latches of
his helmet. He removed the bowl and shook his head, freeing a tangle of
blue-black ringlets, studying them slowly. His eyes were fulvous, tawny as a
cat's, and narrow, slanted above high cheekbones, a prominent nose. Thin lips
slashed his lower face, bracketed by a curving mustache. It was a cruel face,
without any expression Calandryll was able to interpret.

           
The man touched his chest and said,
"Temchen," then beckoned one of his men, speaking briefly in his own
language.

           
The gags were removed and the leader
tapped his breastplate again, repeating, "Temchen."

           
Calandryll licked his lips, sensing
that the man announced his name. He said, "Temchen?" gesturing with
bound hands at the Jesseryte.

           
The man nodded, saying, "Ai,
Temchen/
⁷
then jabbed a finger toward Calandryll, saying something
in the Jesseryte tongue that Calandryll assumed was a demand for his own name.

           
For a moment he thought to conceal
his identity, wondering if such revelation should result in death. It seemed
unlikely: were these warriors sent by Rhythamun, either they knew who their
captives were, or would find out soon enough. Perhaps, by giving his name, he
might learn something, even were it that he was taken by the warlock's allies.
He raised his hands, touching his chest in turn, and said, "Calandryll.
⁷⁷

           
Temchen ducked his head:
"Kah-lan-drill."

           
His tongue found its way around the
syllables with difficulty, no easier around the others' names.

           
"Brak." This with a stare
Calandryll thought speculative, a gesture toward the cavern's mouth, as if
Temchen pointed southward, a babble of indecipherable sounds.

           
Bracht shrugged and Temchen tapped
his chest, pointed at himself, then touched his swordhilt, pantomiming combat.
Bracht grinned tightly and said, "Aye, we fight you. Give me back my blade
and I'll fight you now."

           
The Jesseryte's eyes narrowed,
hearing the hostility in the Kern's tone, then laughed, calling something to
his men that was answered with chuckles and catcalls. Calandryll said,
"For Dera's sake, Bracht! Would you provoke him?"

           
"I'd as soon die now as see
myself unmanned," the Kern muttered, falling silent as Temchen turned to
Katya.

           
The Jesseryte seemed awed by the
Vanu woman's flaxen hair. He touched it as she spoke her name, fingering it as
though it were rare silk, or precious metal.

           
"Cat-ee-ah." He stroked
her hair a moment, reluctant, it seemed, to leave it go. "Sen-air."

           
He was far less interested in
Cennaire. Likely, Calandryll thought, because the Kand woman was much closer to
his own kind in coloration: Katya was a rarity.

           
He ended his inspection with a nod,
more guttural words, and turned away, going to the fire, where meat roasted and
dough sizzled on a skillet. The captives were ushered forward, motioned to
settle themselves against the cave wall, the Jesserytes interposed before the
exit. No further attention was paid them, save when food and water were passed
them, each receiving a slab of greasy meat and a cake of unleavened bread.

           
They ate in silence, the three
hungry, Cennaire feigning an appetite, as the arc of sky visible beyond the
mouth grew brighter, the opalescence of early dawn giving steady way to
sunwashed blue. When they were done, the Jesserytes bound their ankles again,
and passed loops around their chests, pinning their arms. The tying, for all
the cords were firm, was not ungentle, and when they were secured each was
draped with a blanket, and Temchen performed another little pantomime,
indicating they should sleep.

           
The Jesserytes set a watch, two men,
while the rest bedded down, and the cavern grew silent, save for the snuffling
of the horses, contented now, and the snoring humans. Calandryll lay between
Bracht and Katya, no more able than they to sleep for the confusion of
thoughts, doubts, bewilderment, that raced through his mind. Thinking to avoid
a blow, he waited until he was confident the Jesserytes slumbered soundly, then
wormed his face close to Bracht's.

           
"They cannot intend to slay
us," he whispered. "And I doubt they're Rhythamun's men."

           
"You think not?" Bracht's
voice was low in answer, sharp with an undercurrent of tension.

           
"How can they? Were we for
execution, why feed us? Why bring us here? And Rhythamun? Temchen showed no
expression when he learned our names—did he go about Rhythamun's business,
surely he'd have shown triumph then."

           
"I'll grant they're not likely
allied with the sorcerer," Bracht allowed. "But for the rest . . .
Execution is not the worst fate."

           
"How so?"

           
The Kern's teeth gritted a moment,
then: "The Jesserytes take slaves. Male slaves are gelded."

           
Calandryll bit back the gasp of
horror forming in his throat. Instinctively, he pressed his legs tight
together, shuddering as horrid chill crept down his spine. "You're sure of
this?" he forced himself to ask.

           
Bracht grunted confirmation.

           
"Even so." He licked his
lips, his mouth abruptly dry. "We live still."

           
"Gelded? You call that
living?"

           
"Even so, we've hope. Why did
they come after us? Surely there must be some reason for that?"

           
"They planned to raid into Cuan
na'For. As did the band that attacked Cennaire's caravan. They found easier
prey."

           
"Think you it can be so
simple?"

           
"I think I am taken by
barbarians who unman their slaves. I think Katya is a great prize—you saw that
strutting whoreson finger her."

           
"I grant he found her
exceptional. But still ..." Calandryll paused, the ugly churning deep in
his stomach that Bracht's blunt announcement had begun worked its way ominously
lower. It was an effort to calm that horrid trepidation, to impose some measure
of logic. "But still it may be they
were
sent, though by some other agency."

           
Bracht snorted softly, dubiously.

           
"Perhaps some Jesseryte
sorcerer sensed our presence," Calandryll insisted. "We've spoken
before of a design in this, of the Younger Gods lending what aid they can.
Perhaps this capture is a part of that; - perhaps we are brought to the
Jesseryn Plain swifter than had we traveled alone."

           
He was no longer certain whether he
spoke from conviction or the need to reassure himself, and Bracht offered no
help. The Kern scowled, noncommittal, saying nothing.

           
"Do you concede the victory
then? Do you grant Rhythamun the fight?"

           
"I concede I go bound into an
unknown land; I concede I'm mightily concerned. For us all. Do we find the
opportunity, I say we must escape."

           
"How?" Calandryll tested
his bonds: they held him tight, and how could they escape, here, perched on the
wall of Kess Imbrun, surrounded by warriors?

           
"I know not," Bracht
replied. "But does the chance arise ..."

           
"Aye. Does the chance
arise."

           
He did not think it would: Temchen
seemed too careful a man to let his vigilance waver. It seemed far more likely
they should he brought captive to whatever destination the Jesseryte rode. But
then .. . perhaps then. But if they did . . . what then?

           
They would be fugitives in a strange
land, pursuing Rhythamun in a form only Cennaire could recognize. There was no
longer any magical talisman to guide them, no longer any one of them familiar
with the country they must traverse. It seemed unlikely, did they escape and
flee, that they should find allies; still less likely they should happen upon
their quarry. The odds seemed suddenly weighted against them, fate showing them
an unkind face. Despair threatened and he struggled not to contemplate the fate
Bracht outlined, forcing himself to consider his own words, endeavoring to
believe his own optimism.