Chasers of the Wind (7 page)

There were neither corpses nor Sdisian sorcerers. It was empty. Quiet. Ta-Ana’s body was nowhere to be found. That caused his hackles to rise. The tracker peered intently into the darkness, prepared to do battle, but no one attacked him. Whatever had become of the archer, she wasn’t here.

Ga-Nor saw Da-Tur’s sword lying right there on the trail. He picked it up and set off at a brisk pace for the pass, looking around constantly. The Son of the Snow Leopard had not yet given up hope of reaching the Towers and warning the commander. Perhaps it was not too late.

*   *   *

Before the War of the Necromancers the lands of the Empire stretched into Nabator itself and did not end at the Boxwood Mountains. All of what was now called the Borderlands had been part of the Empire. Cities and villages grew up in the valleys through which the trade routes wended their way. But everyday life shattered when the Damned appeared. From that point onward, these lands were abandoned by the Empire. Their dark fame spread too wide. Only the highlanders dared to live in the cheerless, cold valleys.

The people left, but the cities like Gerka remained. Eight of the Spires, watchtowers built by the Sculptor himself, were also abandoned. Only the ninth, dubbed the Alert Tower, was still used by the armies of the Empire. The ancient books tell that the Sculptor carved out these towers at the same time he created the legendary Gates. Soaring upward of sixty yards in height, constructed of black stone, with a multitude of arrow loops, they had stood for a thousand years.

From the outside you would never be able to tell that the last Spire in use had experienced many wars over the years. It looked exactly as it had the day its construction was finished. It seemed fragile and lovely, as if the Sculptor had not been a human, but a Je’arre. Some people said that the legendary master took a flow of mountain air into his hands and fashioned it into this shape of celestial beauty. And then he turned that air into stone.

In the stories told to us by our elders, it was said that until the War of the Necromancers, the watchmen in the towers could easily converse with their colleagues who were located in the other eight Spires. Perhaps there was an element of truth in these stories, but at the present time they seemed like fairy tales.

There were similar whispers that there was a vault under the tower, sealed nowadays, where the Paths of Petals slumber. Through them, a soldier could instantly travel to the Spire that required his assistance. But this too became legend long ago. The Walkers can no longer control the Petals.

The Sculptor built the Alert Tower not far from the road that led to two passes. Ga-Nor reached it at midday. From a distance, the tracker could see that there were dozens of vultures circling over the cliffs beyond which the Alert Tower was located. The Son of the Snow Leopard stopped and frowned. To an attentive man, such a congregation of scavengers spoke volumes.

The reality confirmed his worst fears. A gallows had been constructed in front of the Spire, and three dead men in the uniform of Imperial soldiers were dangling from it. All the rest were scattered below the walls; they hadn’t even found the time to bury them. Replete with the meat of the fresh corpses, the vultures were shrieking nastily at one another, fighting over the tastiest morsels.

The tower had new masters.

Nabatorians.

Ga-Nor hid behind some rocks and studied his enemies. What had happened was beyond his comprehension. Apparently a detachment of enemy troops had slipped through the pass and slaughtered the watchmen. The last part didn’t really surprise Ga-Nor. In former times, two hundred of the most select soldiers had served here, but recently the commander of the Gates had been sending about twenty. And sometimes not even that many.

The long years of peace had given them the impression of security. And as usual, it was a false impression.

And now it had come to a head. The watchmen had been caught unawares. They hadn’t even managed to raise the alarm. Twenty soldiers had no chance whatsoever against a hundred well-trained black-haired warriors.

The Nabatorians were making themselves at home and had already begun to settle into the Spire. That could only mean one thing—they weren’t expecting any danger from the direction of the Gates. What had happened to the fortress?

Ga-Nor stopped losing himself in speculation when cavalry appeared on the southern road. The northerner began to count, but he gave up at six hundred. A large squadron of pikemen and crossbowmen passed by next. Apparently, an entire army was gathering beneath the walls of the citadel. Ga-Nor wondered what the King of Nabator was expecting. The Gates were not so easy to take.

Throughout the day, companies of soldiers kept passing along the route. Ga-Nor also saw a group of six Sdisian sorcerers and dozens of their acolytes. A score of Fish slowly lumbered by, and nearly eight hundred Morts ran past swiftly. Two hundred creatures, equipped with enormous, powerful bows, floated past him, hovering over the ground. He recognized them as Burnt Souls. Judging from everything he had seen, the perpetual enemy of the Empire, the Kingdom of Nabator, had signed a treaty with Sdis and amassed a considerable force.

The tracker could not figure out what to do next. It would be sheer idiocy to remain where he was. They’d see him sooner or later. Fleeing into the mountains and waiting for it all to be over was unbefitting a Son of the Clan of the Snow Leopard. Should he try to make for the Gates? That was the most insane course of action he could think of. There was no way he could break through the enemy lines.

He put off the decision for the time being and remained where he was, having decided that it was best to take things slowly.

Toward nightfall he began scowling. The weather had turned cold and severe, and leaden clouds had enveloped the valley in a thick veil. And then the clouds burst, and the driving rain chased the enemy soldiers into the tower. The birds feasting on the corpses took to the air with indignant squawks. Stumbling and slipping in the greasy mud, a hundred corpses under the supervision of five Whites marched by, awkwardly keeping pace with the sergeant’s drums. Then the road was empty.

The northerner was beginning to think that under the cover of the inclement weather it might be worth the risk to try to sneak into the town by the Gates at the very least. There he could see what was happening and then decide what to do next.

At that moment two men exited the tower. Wrapping their cloaks around themselves, they picked up some shovels and headed in the direction of the hidden northerner. All he could do was try to refrain from bringing attention to himself. It shouldn’t really be all that difficult. It’s not particularly easy to catch sight of someone who’s lying up to his ears in mud.

The men halted about ten paces away from the Son of the Snow Leopard and began digging a pit.

“Damn that sergeant! He’s inside warming his ass up, and what about us?”

“We’re on the outs, like always!” agreed the second man. “I’d like to choke the life out of that bastard.”

“Oh yeah, you’ll choke him!” grumbled the first. “He’ll outlive us all, the rascal. He should be the one trudging about in the rain, digging a grave. I didn’t sign up for this!”

He huffed, angrily cast his shovel to the ground, grumbling curses, and walked over toward the place where Ga-Nor was hiding. Standing over him, the man began to untie his trouser strings. The Son of the Snow Leopard, realizing that he would soon be inundated not just by the rain, but by a much more unpleasant stream, rose up to his full, not insignificant height.

The Nabatorian thought that a demon had risen from the earth and he pissed his half-undone trousers with fear. The northerner swung his sword blindly and then leaped over the body as it fell into the mud and rushed toward his second adversary.

When it was all over he cast a quick glance at the tower. Grabbing the first body by the feet, he dragged it behind the cover of the rocks. Then he hid the second corpse. All this took about a minute. Sooner or later someone would come out into the rain to see how the gravediggers’ work was going. It would be a good idea to be as far away as possible at that moment.

He’d killed the second Nabatorian with a blow to the temple from his sword hilt. It would be thoughtless to soil the man’s clothes with blood, especially when they would fit so well. The redheaded warrior exchanged his clothes for the other’s quickly, and then he concealed his face beneath the hood of the cloak. He folded up his kilt and clan scarf and took them with him.

Four dozen horses were standing beneath an enclosed canopy attached to the side of the Alert Tower. Three of them were still saddled. He took one of the animals by the reins and led it out onto the road.

*   *   *

The foul weather had driven off the Nabatorian patrols to such an extent that no one bothered to stop a solitary rider. After an hour the northerner spied the small town spread out before the Gates and he grunted in surprise. He’d expected to stumble across ashes and ruin, as well as the enemy army. But the town seemed untouched, as if thousands of humans and nonhumans had never been there.

The tracker slowed his horse to a walk. Where had the enemy army disappeared to? It couldn’t have just vanished into thin air, unless, of course, that was something the Walkers could do.

He was riding slowly down the town’s only street when three riders appeared from beyond a turn and made their way toward him. He remained calm. The soldiers rode by him slowly, disinterestedly glancing at the emblem of one of the Nabatorian companies sewn into his cloak, and went on their way without saying a word.

That worked out quite well.

All at once, the citadel emerged from the shroud of rain. Four of the six towers were in ruins and the Wings were flung wide open. Until this moment Ga-Nor hadn’t really entertained the notion that the Gates could really have fallen. He could not imagine how this happened. Who was to blame for such a blunder? Who was responsible for the fact that the enemy had entered the lands of the Empire?

“Hey, you!”

He pulled at the bridle and turned around. Two men with crossbows were standing in the road.

“Are you from the tower?”

Ga-Nor couldn’t deny that, so he nodded.

“With a message for the commander?”

He nodded again. One of the Nabatorian soldiers frowned.

“Why so shy, friend?”

“Would you feel like chatting after bumping along for an hour in the rain?”

Ga-Nor tried to soften out his hard “r,” which would give him away as a native of the north.

“Well, all right. On with you.”

He thanked Ug that the war dogs hadn’t bothered to peek under his cloak. There’s no way he could explain away his red hair. Redheads are a rarity in Nabator, where almost everyone is swarthy and black-haired.

It would be smart to turn back while he still could. The mountains were vast; he could easily hide himself there. But it would be even better to head west. Sooner or later he’d reach the Golden Mark, and from there he could reach the Empire by sea. But … There they were, the Wings. Five more minutes and he’d already be home.

Ga-Nor came to a decision.

At the turn they tried to stop him but he hollered, dug his heels into the horse’s sides, and, not paying any heed to the outraged cries behind him, galloped through the inner courtyard. He trampled an idiot who didn’t have time to jump aside, hacked away at a fumbling halberdier with his sword, and then passed through the gate of the Viceroy into the lands of the Empire.

Horns sounded behind his back.

4

Vzzzzzick … Vzzzzzick … Vzzzzzick …

The whetstone scraped repulsively along the knife’s edge. Whip watched Midge’s daily ritual incredulously. He thought there was no point in such activity, and that the stunted assassin was merely expending time and energy for nothing.

“Aren’t you bored of that yet?”

“Why? You think it’s sharp enough?”

“Sharp enough?” said Whip indignantly. “That’s all you’ve been doing since we left Al’sgara. Soon you’ll be able to carve stone like butter.”

“Is that really a bad thing? And anyway, you’re exaggerating like always. You can’t even shave with it. Here, look.”

As proof, Midge tested the knife on a lock of his own hair, which was instantly shortened by an inch.

“Oh,” said the man, looking at his reflection in the knife with dismay. “It seems it really is sharp enough.”

Shen came in from the street. Midge caught sight of him and picked up his whetstone once more. Glaring wickedly at Mols’s young protégé, Midge once again began sharpening his knife, which still emitted that repulsive sound, much to Whip’s dismay.

“Where’d you lose Bamut?”

“He’s following our friend, while Midge here screws around.”

“It’s curious that you left him. You get bored, little boy?” replied the runt. Whip scowled.

These two just wouldn’t leave each other be. He tried not to pair them up, but what else could he do? Put them on opposite ends of the village? Ah, thanks, Mols! You did me a bad turn, make no mistake!

“Enough!” growled Whip, running out of patience. “I told you yesterday—if you wish to draw each other’s blood, you have to wait until after the mission.”

“Well, we kind of carried out the mission yesterday,” said Shen through clenched teeth, not taking his eyes off Midge.

“It’s for me to decide if we’ve carried it out or not. Midge, get up off your ass and go find Bamut. Consider it the start of your shift. And you, sit down and eat.”

“You took a dislike to me from the start. Is that not so?” said Shen as he sat down on the bench.

Whip waited until his shaf had been brought to him, took a sip, and only then did he answer.

“All right then, lad. I’ll be honest with you. You’re unnecessary to our well-worn threesome. Like a fifth wheel on a wagon. I don’t know what pit Mols dragged you out of. And what’s worse—I don’t know what your deal is. I don’t know if we can count on you, and I don’t know what to expect from you.”

“So you should test me,” said the blue-eyed man.