Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (7 page)

           
It
was not easy, but surely, he told himself, Horul is the god of the Jesserytes,
and Horul is kin to Burash and to Dera, to Ahrd. Surely Horul must favor this
quest, else he, like all the Younger Gods, see Tharn raised up, himself
destroyed. Surely Horul must league with us, and be that so, then perhaps there
is some measure of divine intervention here. Perhaps Temchen was sent by the
equine god, some indiscernible pattern working to our favor.

           
I
must believe that, he told himself. I must not give in to despair. 1 must
continue to hope.

           
That thought lingered as a great
weariness possessed him, lulling him so that he did not kno w he slept until a
boot nudged his ribs and he opened his eyes on sunlight and a masked face, a
Jesseryte kneeling to strip off the blanket, loose his feet and arms that he
might rise. He stood on command, his comrades with him, going over to the fire
to receive a bowl of thin porridge, a cake of hard, sweet bread, a mug of
bitter tea sharp with herbs.

           
That breakfast was taken swiftly and
then they were set back on their horses, gagged and bound in place again. A man
knelt to afford Temchen a mounting stool, and the Jesseryte once more led the
cavalcade along the
Blood Road
, upward, climbing briskly toward the sky.

           
THE
sun was not much advanced along its westward path, not yet close to
noon
, and Calandryll realized their sojourn in
the cavern had been only a brief respite, likely taken to rest the horses and
men who had spent the night descending this same steep road. They seemed not to
hurry overmuch— the trail was precipitous, narrow enough in too many places
that undue haste must be dangerous— but still they progressed at a good pace,
as though Temchen were anxious to reach the rimrock swift as possible.

           
Their faces masked by the metal
veils, it was impossible to discern expression there, nor did the Jesseryte
physiognomy lend itself to interpretation when the veils were lifted, when they
halted awhile in the afternoon.

           
The prisoners were dismounted then,
given water and a little food, but there was no more attempt made to
communicate, as if the learning of their names was all the information Temchen
required of them. Neither did the Jesserytes speak among themselves, but went
about their duties with the precision of well-drilled soldiery, their tasks
sufficiently familiar as to render words unnecessary. When Calandryll spoke,
Temchen glanced his way and raised a finger to his thin lips; when Bracht
replied, a man raised a hand in threat. The Kern, though clearly galled, fell
silent, and Calandryll deemed it the wiser course to follow suit. Katya said
nothing, only studied her captors with stormladen grey eyes, and Cennaire
merely waited, not speaking, to discover to where they went.

           
The food consumed, the gags were
replaced, the prisoners remounted and again restrained, and they continued the
ascent.

           
Onward, ever upward, through an
afternoon of sunlight that bathed the ramparts of the Kess Imbrun with golden
light, the fantastic crenella- tions shining like great red spires, many-hued,
the canyons pooled with misty darkness, or glowing where the sun invaded as if
fires burned within their depths. The yellow disk moved across the sky,
westering, the crags and buttresses dulling as the light shifted, hurling great
shadows eastward. The filling moon hung above the horizon, stars visible as the
heavens were transformed from shimmering azure to shades of deepening indigo.
The western sky burned crimson-gold awhile, and twilight fell. Calandryll
thought they might halt then—knew that did he ride with his comrades alone,
they would, for the road was too hazardous to attempt by dusk's light—but
Temchen showed no sign of slowing their pace, and he wondered again if the
catlike eyes pierced the darkness better than his own.

           
It was no less unnerving for the
experience of the previous night to take that way by darkness. Soon there was
only moonglow by which to negotiate the trail, and that deceptive, shadows
concealing rocks, the pale silvery radiance tricking the eye, deceitful. Bats
once more fluttered, their roosts seemingly located about the midparts of the
chasm, and that flocking did nothing to make the going easier. But still the
Jesserytes pressed on, climbing, climbing, until it seemed they must rise up to
meet the moon along its way and ride in company with the stars.

           
What haste possessed them?
Calandryll wondered. Or was it their habit to travel so, heedless of the sun's
passing, as if the night were their domain? Certainly, clad in their
beetle-black armor, silent, they seemed akin to nocturnal creatures, and he
wondered what motivated them, that musing bringing back Bracht's dire warning.

           
He fought the unpleasant sensation
that thought delivered to his bowels, telling himself that surely,
⁴
did
they view their captives as nothing more than slaves, handily found and taken
without undue difficulty, they would not press so hard. Neither could he
believe they served Rhythamun—that argument he had put to Bracht, and now, with
little else to do save think, he found it the more convincing. But what answers
there were to this captivity, to this urgent nighttime journey, he could not
surmise.

           
You
will travel far and see things no southern man has seen . . .

           
He smiled around the gag, cynically,
as Reba's words came back, whispered on the night wind, taunting. That, surely,
was the truth—what else, from the lips of a spaewife? All she had foretold was
come true. His father's anger had driven him from Secca; his own brother
proclaimed him outlaw, renegade, patricide. He had known betrayal and found
true comrades,- had traveled roads no man had trod. She had prophesied danger,
and that he had met in quantity. But the ending . . . that she had not scried
along the many branching paths of the spaewives' art.

           
Perhaps—the ugly chill of doubt grew
colder— this was the ending. Perhaps Bracht was right, he wrong: they were
taken as slaves, to be gelded, the women placed in some Jesseryte harem, a
bordel, while Rhythamun continued unhindered, to find Tharn's resting place and
raise the Mad God. He shivered, willing himself to calm, to logic, invoking the
litany of past experience to quell doubt, to impose hope.

           
In Kandahar, Sathoman ek'Hennem had
threatened the quest, taken him and Bracht prisoner, but they had escaped the
rebel lord.

           
Anomius had used magic against them,
but they had eluded his gramaryes.

           
The Chaipaku had sought their lives,
his and Bracht's and Katya's, but thanks to their own skills and the
intervention of Burash, the Brotherhood of Assassins was no longer a threat.

           
They had survived the swamps of
Gessyth, evaded the trap Rhythamun set in Tezin-dar.

           
In Lysse, he had passed within
hailing distance of Tobias, who would surely have slain him on the spot had his
brother recognized him. But he had not, and they had gone free.

           
Into Cuan na'For, into the arms of
Jehenne ni Larrhyn, who had crucified Bracht, only to see the Kern saved by
Ahrd, the Lykard woman slain by Katya.

           
Dera herself had set an enchantment
on his blade,- Burash had brought them down his watery ways in safety; Ahrd had
shown his benevolence: the Younger Gods themselves stood in alliance with their
quest.

           
How then should it fail?

           
Because,
said the cold, mocking voice of the wind, the Younger Gods are lesser creatures
than their elder kin, weaker than their predecessors. Have they, themselves,
not spoken of their limitations^ Have they not told you they may do only so
much, and no morel Shall that be enoughl

           
Surely,
he said.

           
Think
you so! asked the wind. Did Burash bring you swift enough to Lysse that you
found Rhythamun there! No, you were too late, the sorcerer was gone on,
shape-changed.

           
But
we found his way. We sundered his alliance with fehenne. And Dera blessed my
sword.

           
The
wind laughed about the moonlit spires, rustling down the canyons, and said, A
small enough gift, that. Nor too soon given. You were delayed there, and
Rhythamun still went on, no! Not Dera, not Ahrd could halt him.

           
But still they lent us aid.

           
A skirling then, a taste of dust,
like ashes blown contemptuous from a funeral pyre: Ahrd could not bring you
fast enough through his own sacred forest to catch the mage.

           
But not so far ahead. And one with
us now who knows his face.

           
The wind paused, turning back on
itself, and came again, renewed, vigorous. Much help that, when you ride a
prisoner to your unmanning. When you ride into the unknown country, where men
wear masks across their faces and carve off manhood as if the bearer were a
beast.

           
Into a land where Horul is
worshipped! And Horul is a Younger God—he cannot stand by!

           
Perhaps he cannot; perhaps he will
not. But is he strong enough! Rhythamun goes before, drawing ever closer to
Tharn. Think you Tharn knows not his salvation approaches, even in his limbo!
Even dreaming! Think you he shall not do all he can to aid his savior!

           
What can he do! The First Gods cast
him down—Yl and Kyta, his own progenitors. Shall he break their enchantment!

           
Does he not already! asked the wind.
His raising
calls for blood; blood calls
for his raising—is blood not shed aplenty now! Think on Kandahar, fool! Think
on the rebellion of the Fayne lord, think on the war the Tyrant presses. Think
on your own brother—Tobias den Karynth, Dowm of Secca!— who builds a navy and
argues for war with Kandahar. How much blood shall spill when that dream is
fulfilled!

           
Be it fulfilled! It is not yet.

           
Perhaps; or perhaps it is. Perhaps
e'en now the warboats sail from Eryn. Perhaps the Narrow Sea runs red.

           
Tobias must convince his fellow
domms, and in Cuan na'For fehenne looked to war, but was thwarted.

           
A small victory: one little battle
in a far greater combat. And you a captive now, riding virgin to your fate,
while Rhythamun goes on . . . and on . . . on .. .

           
"No! It cannot be!"

           
The denial came distorted through
the gag, a muffled defiance, more moan than shout, but still loud enough the
Jesseryte ahead glanced back, warningly, the man behind came up, driving a
rough hand at Calandryll's shoulder. The chestnut—the gelding!— skittered, and
its rider grunted, seeking with knees and bound hands to calm the horse,
thinking, startled, that the quest might truly end, for him, did the animal
panic, take him off the road. He blinked, realizing he had dozed in the saddle,
that the night waned and the wind was died away. He saw the sky brighten in the
east, and wondered if he had, truly, heard that silent voice, or only the
pessimistic musing of his own mind.

           
I
must hope, he told himself. Hope, now, is all I have. Hope, and faith in the
Younger Gods.

           
In silence, he voiced a prayer to
Dera, to the goddess and all her kin, asking that this capture be part of some
design, or that he and hisjiomrades— Cennaire he counted now among that
number—be allowed escape. He hoped it was not selfishness to ask they escape
entire, whole in all parts: the notion that it might go otherwise was ugly.

           
He could do no more, not now, only
sit his horse and watch the road unfold in day's clean light, the breeze no
longer insidious with doubt but merry, a cheerful zephyr redolent of warm earth
and grass.

           
That fact did not, at first, strike
him, for the gloom of his nocturnal reverie still dulled him somewhat. But then
his nose registered the change, that the hard, dry scent of timeless stone was
replaced with hint of growth, and he looked up, past the horseman who led him,
and saw the rim of the Kess Imbrun.

           
The great rift's edge was both
welcome and ominous, the one for its marking of a step along the way ended, the
other for its announcement of impending fate, of resolution of his fears. He
steeled himself, seeing the Daggan Vhe traverse a shelf, wind back, steep and
wide, then run out between walls similar to the gully that had begun this
journey into captivity. The gelding quickened its pace, urged on by the warrior
ahead, willing enough, as though it, like its rider, saw the finish of heights
and depths, and welcomed the prospect of flat land once more with equine
innocence.