Bloodheir (25 page)

“Help me,” he gasped. “They’re coming for me. Can you smell it? The leaves, the forest?”

He reeled sideways, thumping into the wall. Wain edged towards the open door, horrified but still feeling the residue of a shaming desire.

Aeglyss sagged. “No. No.” He sank down on to his haunches, pressed against the wall, like a child making himself small, trying to hide. “You’ll not have me. I’m too . . .”

Wain turned away. Her head was heavy, resistant to the movement. She took a step, and then another, and her legs were sluggish. She had to force her way out of the room against the reluctance of her own body.

“Wain,” Aeglyss said behind her, and she could not help but look back at him. He was still crouched down there, in the crease between wall and floor, staring up at her. “I have terrible enemies,” he murmured. “The great beasts of the Shared would turn upon me. But you are not my enemy. You know it, in your heart. And I am not yours. Please. I am the greatest friend fate will ever grant you, and your cause.”

Perhaps. She was not certain whether she spoke it aloud, or only thought it deep in the turbulence this
na’kyrim
spun her mind into. Perhaps. I cannot think clearly. I cannot tell. Not any more. She walked out and descended into the more comprehensible company of her warriors.

Something had died, up amongst the rocks. An eagle clambered into the sky as soon as Orisian and his company came in sight, its huge wings hauling it up and away from the hidden corpse. The ravens were more determined, or more hungry perhaps. They hopped and croaked amongst the boulders without regard to the column of riders passing on the road below.

Orisian had fifty men with him, all of them veterans of the war against Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig. The road they followed was an old one, a trading route from the days of the Kingship. Neglect had crumbled away some of its fabric, but it remained a good surface. It had carried them up the northern bank of the River Kyre, through the flat coastal farmlands and on into the rolling pasture-draped hills where the Kilkry Blood bred its famous horses and grazed its innumerable cattle. Now those hills were becoming mountains. The road ran along a terrace cut into a steep, bare slope above the river. The Kyre, down there in the huge gutter it had carved for itself, rushed between great boulders, rumbling as it foamed, milky, through rapids.

They had been climbing for some time. If he twisted and craned his neck, Orisian could still just make out the sea far behind them: a vast grey slab across the western horizon. Looking ahead, on up the road, there was nothing but the long bleak valley of the Kyre, driving into the heart of the Karkyre Peaks.

Somewhere in those mountains, Orisian knew, was Highfast, and he hoped it would offer something by way of warmth or comfort. The Karkyre Peaks were no loftier than the Car Criagar, but they were, if anything, still more unwelcoming. There was almost no vegetation, even on these lower slopes. A few stunted and ragged bushes hung on amongst the stones, and there were scattered patches of wiry, sparse grass; apart from that, it was a world of bare rock, scree and stone-dust. Ahead, a score of jagged pinnacles dominated the skyline, sharp-backed ridges splaying out from them. The mountains of the Car Criagar were massive, old, broad-shouldered; these Karkyre Peaks were like serrated blades newly stabbed up from out of the earth.

The desolation, and perhaps the leaden quality of the light, worked on the minds of Orisian and all his companions. There was no talking. The only sounds were the persistent flat roar of the river below, the clatter of hoofs and the occasional eerie cries of ravens. Ess’yr, Varryn, Yvane and Hammarn had all refused to ride. They walked in the midst of the column of horsemen. The two Kyrinin were cowled, the better to conceal themselves from the curious – and potentially hostile – eyes of observers. Orisian was surprised at how much human life there was along this road, even now that they had reached such barren terrain. In the last day they had passed a dozen hamlets or solitary huts. The inhabitants were uniformly silent and hard-eyed, watching them pass from the shadows of doorways, as if they resented this disturbance of their solitude.

Rounding a turn, Orisian’s eye was caught by a strange structure a short way above the road. It looked as though someone had tried to build a squat house out of great flat-sided boulders, only to be defeated by the sheer mass of their intended materials. Even at this distance, writing and symbols were faintly visible, cut into the weathered face of the rocks.

“What’s that?” Orisian asked.

Bannain, riding just ahead on a short-legged mountain pony, glanced up.

“It’s Morvain’s tomb. He died here, retreating from Highfast after the failure of his siege. Looted out long ago. There’s nothing left within. So I’m told, anyway.”

“I’m surprised the Aygll Kings let it stand.”

“Well, it was in the last days of their rule. It was Lerr, the Boy King, that Morvain rebelled against, and he’d already lost his grip on most of these lands. The child was dead himself within a year or two of Morvain’s death.”

“Hard times,” Rothe muttered from behind them.

“Yes,” acknowledged Bannain, then shrugged and gave his reins a casual shake. “No more so than these, though. This world’s not given to resting easy.”

They rode on. The road became ever more like a broad ledge cut into the side of a cliff. Walls of bare rock loomed above them. Below, a smaller river flowed into the Kyre: a tumultuous confluence that had fashioned a bowl in which to seethe. The road swung north and followed the lesser tributary up into the mountains.

Orisian rode beside Ess’yr. She was walking well, with no obvious sign of the broken ribs that had hampered her since their descent from the Car Criagar. Her face was hidden from him, lost in the depths of her capacious hood.

“I don’t much like this place,” Orisian said. “Not enough trees.”

She said nothing for a few paces, then: “No. Not enough. It is said the God Who Laughed never walked this land, because its edges hurt his feet.”

“A wise god. We’ll not be here long, I hope. A day or two, perhaps, and then on to Kolglas. You’ll be able to see my home.”

“I have seen it. From across the water. Close enough. And Inurian told me of it; the castle in the sea, he called it.”

“Yes,” murmured Orisian. “The castle in the sea.” What made him imagine that this woman would care what place he called home? She was a creature of the forest and the hills, her heart as unmoved by castles and stone walls as anyone’s could ever be. And she had been lover to a
na’kyrim
; a man as gentle and wise as any Orisian had ever known. There was nothing he could offer her that would compare with the memory of Inurian, or make good his absence. Still, he longed for her goodwill. He lacked the tools to secure it, but that did not blunt the desire.

“I owe you a bow,” he said to her.

That made Ess’yr glance at him, a quick tip of her head sideways and up. He glimpsed her cheek, the thin line of her lips.

“I should have thought of it sooner,” he said. “You broke it saving me from the Horin-Gyre Bloodheir; broke it on his face. If you hadn’t, I might not be here now. I would have got you another one in Kolkyre if I’d thought of it.”

He caught a grunt – possibly contemptuous – from Varryn’s direction. Ess’yr’s brother was walking a few paces behind them. It was easy to forget how acute a Kyrinin’s hearing was. Ess’yr turned her eyes back to the road and the hood once more hid her face.

“I do not need a Huanin bow,” she said. “I will have another in time. It will be a Fox bow, made on Fox lands.”

“Or a White Owl bow, from a dead hand,” said Varryn, just loud enough for Orisian to hear. He glanced back over his shoulder, unable to disguise his irritation. He did not want Varryn eavesdropping on every word he uttered to Ess’yr.

“You’ll have your chance for revenge soon,” he said.

“Not revenge,” Ess’yr said. “Balance. The enemy have killed many Fox. Therefore many of the enemy must die.”

“I don’t know if it works, that kind of balancing.”

“There is no other kind.”

Dusk came on quickly. Ravens were flocking in the darkening sky, tumbling around the peaks, plummeting in to ledges on the cliff faces. Their harsh cries carried a long way. The little river – now far below them – disappeared into the gloom that settled across the valley floor. Its voice, by turns hissing and chattering as it churned its way down out of the mountains, could still be heard, though. Somewhere high up on the other side of the valley, rocks came loose and tumbled, rattling, over scree.

Orisian was starting to become concerned, fearing a night to be spent under the cold stars, when distant points of light came into view ahead. Bannain had assured them that they would reach shelter before nightfall, but only now was Orisian able to wholly believe it.

The inn was like no other he had seen before. As they drew closer, he struggled to tell where the disordered, boulder-strewn mountainside ended and the building began. It was clear that the inn had once been a huge structure with workshops and stables and cottages built around and onto it. Most of them had collapsed into rubble and ruin, crumbling back into the rock of which they had been made.

Amidst this wreckage, the inn itself still stood. Slate tiles had slipped off part of its roof, and lay in a grey pile at the roadside. Oil lamps burned in some of the windows; others were dark and shuttered.

Torcaill, the man Taim Narran had assigned to lead Orisian’s escort, brought them to a halt a little way short of the inn.

“I’ll send a few men in first, sire,” he said to Orisian. “It will not take long.”

Orisian almost told him to forego such precautions. What possible danger could there be here, in this forgotten and abandoned place? But Torcaill took his responsibilities seriously, and Orisian had no wish to belittle that. He nodded in assent. Torcaill led half a dozen men on to the inn.

“What’s he up to?” Yvane asked. The
na’kyrim
had come up to stand beside Orisian’s horse, her hand resting on its neck. The animal looked round at her, but found her uninteresting and hung its head in a vain search for grass.

“Just having a look before we go in,” Orisian said.

Yvane grunted. “Does he fear some mountain goat waits within to stick you with its horns? No . . . wait, perhaps it’s lurking under one of the beds, ready to nip at your ankles?”

“You’re in a lively mood,” Orisian observed, looking down at her.

“No, I’m not. I’m exhausted. It makes me light-headed, all this walking.”

“Ride, then. You’ve been offered a share of a horse’s back more than once.”

“She’s worried she’ll fall off and crack her head,” Rothe suggested, easing his horse past them.

Yvane glared after the shieldman as he drew up in front of the inn and dismounted a little stiffly. He stretched, digging his fingers into the small of his back. The light falling from the windows was bright now, the surrounding mountains almost wholly lost in darkness. There were clouds enough to hide the moon.

Orisian shivered and puffed out his cheeks. The muffled sound of boots thumping on stairs and floorboards came from the inn. Rothe stood in the doorway and peered inside. After a moment or two, he stepped back to allow Torcaill to emerge. The warrior waved.

“Looks like you’ll get a good night’s rest, anyway,” Orisian said to Yvane. “Plenty more walking tomorrow, I expect, so no doubt you’ll need it.”

“Not so much,” Yvane muttered dolefully. “Highfast’s not far now.”

“You’re not looking forward to it.”

The
na’kyrim
glanced up at him, and then away. It was a self-effacing, hesitant sort of movement; not what Orisian associated with Yvane at all. He almost felt sorry for her, but suspected that she would not welcome such a sentiment.

“Not greatly,” she acknowledged. “Too late for changing minds, though.”

The innkeeper who greeted them within was tall and thin, narrow eyes peering out from beneath bushy eyebrows. He gave no sign of pleasure at this unexpected glut of customers.

“There’s beds for an even dozen of you,” he said in the thick, lethargic accent of the Peaks. “The rest’ll be bedding down in the ruins. And I’ve not enough food for so many. Most’ll be feeding yourselves, too.”

“That’s fine,” Orisian said, paying little attention. He went back outside, peered around in the darkness.

He searched amongst the indistinct crowd of men and horses. He wanted to ask Ess’yr if she and Varryn would sleep inside. But the Kyrinin had already separated themselves from the others. They were slipping away, sinking into the night, moving into the thicket of broken walls and fallen roofs behind the inn. He stared after them even when the darkness had taken them from him.

“Is there broth?”

Orisian turned around. Old Hammarn was there, his hands clasped together.

“Always good after a long journey,” the
na’kyrim
said. “And before, too.”

“Come,” Orisian smiled. “Let’s go and see what we can find.”

They reached Highfast the next day, amidst sleet and gusting winds. The great fortress loomed out of the belligerent sky, stark and grey and hard. It stood on a pinnacle of rock, capping the peak with a carapace of battlements and turrets. The road swept up to it around the exposed haunches of another, loftier mountain, and then threw a side-branch across a narrow stone bridge to the gates.

The wind roared at them and lashed them with waves of wet snow as they crossed that bridge. Orisian looked only briefly to the side. The dizzying drop and the dark rock slopes far below resolved him to lock his eyes upon the gates ahead. They were tall and narrow. Their wood was scarred and pitted and cracked; the skin of their iron banding was split and rusted. Above them, Highfast’s fortifications soared.

Walls and towers were crowded thickly onto their precarious perch, so that it seemed half a dozen castles had been crammed and folded into one.

Bannain, riding at the head of the column with Torcaill, shouted something up at the turrets flanking the gate. The words were snatched away by the wind and Orisian did not hear them. There was no obvious response. Orisian pressed his chin into his chest and hunched his shoulders. He was wondering whether to dismount and put his horse between him and the wind when the gates opened. Torcaill led them in.