Dusk (38 page)

It was as they gathered the surviving hawks together at the harbor that one of the Krotes suggested how to defeat the temple defenders.

The hawks that could be saved were left with piles of the village dead to eat. Their strength would take days or weeks to return, but the Krotes saw no purpose in killing them yet. Those few that were beyond saving were hauled slowly through the streets to the temple.

Arrows flew. The hawks grumbled and cried out as they were holed a dozen times, two dozen, but being shoved from behind they finally heaved themselves against the walls of the temple, covering the firing holes, dying, far too heavy to be shifted from within.

Stomach gases swelled as they gasped their final breaths. Their hides stretched so thin that they became translucent, ready to burst and let loose the appalling smell that always accompanied a hawk’s slow decay. The Krotes withdrew, made flaming arrows and fired them at their dead mounts’ bodies from a safe distance.

Most of the small fires went out immediately. Others held on pitifully, and a few spread, crackling their way across the dead creatures’ fatty hides. It did not take long for the first hawk to burst, gushing dancing blue flames across the street. A second explosion followed, a third, and the flames became voracious.

The fire quickly took hold of the temple. Flaming gases from the dead hawks vented through the small windows and set the insides alight. The creatures’ fat melted and flowed. There were screams from the temple, but only a few, and they did not last for long.

The building burned on into dusk. The Krotes tried to extinguish the flames, afraid that the smoke would be seen from a distance, but they were forced back by the heat. The fires had ignited the hawks’ fatty flesh, and the stench of burnt meat permeated the air across the whole of Conbarma.

That made the warriors hungry. They found wine cellars and good, fresh seafood in some of the homes, and that night they spent a few hours celebrating their first victory on the shores of Noreela.

Lenora sat and celebrated with them, but all the while a part of her mind was farther south, imagining the village of Robenna as she had last seen it. And as she looked around at the Conbarma dead, smelled their insides, watched the hungry hawks crunching them into pulp, she sensed a shade sitting within her. It said nothing, but it was comfortable. It recognized her.

She knew then that she would see Robenna again. And this time, it would be on her terms.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING,
five specks appeared in the sky out to sea. Lenora ordered a dozen Krotes aloft, while she and the remaining warriors took up defensive positions. The specks grew slowly, their course unerring, finally resolving into hawks. The scouts moved out to intercept them, but at the last minute the Krotes’ mounts veered away, spinning seaward, their riders shouting in dismay, shock and fear. All twelve managed to rein in the frantic hawks and hobble back toward shore, but by then the five new hawks were hovering above the harbor, two of them slowly setting down, tentacles reaching out to make their landing as gentle and graceful as possible.

Lenora could not bring herself to walk along the harbor wall to meet them. Her warriors knelt and rested their foreheads on the ground, muttering words of greeting and reverence.

And the Mages were on Noreela for the first time in three centuries.

“Lieutenant!” the tall one called. “I have need of you!”

Lenora swallowed, smoothed her leather tunic and stepped out onto the harbor wall. She had been in the Mages’ presence many times before but never like this, never in combat.

“Mistress,” she said, approaching the tall, old woman. She called herself Angel, but few people felt comfortable using that name. It was too personal. “Mistress, what an unexpected pleasure.”

“Indeed,” Angel said, stretching her bony arms. She looked around at the harbor and the battle-scarred town. “They’ve done the place up since I was here last,” she said quietly. “A few new buildings. Quieter. They must have known we were coming.” She looked at Lenora then, her old eyes filled with a knowledge and power that Lenora could not meet for more than a second or two. “What news, Lieutenant?”

“We hold Conbarma, and it’s ready to receive the ships.” She paused, glanced across at S’Hivez where the old Mage sat slumped forward on his mount. He looked like a mummified corpse, something they would pull out of the glacier on Dana’Man.

“You’re talking to me, not him!” Angel said.

“Sorry, Mistress.”

Angel stared at her, then smiled. “You of all people need not apologize to me, Lenora. We’ve been through so many years together—a few good, a few hundred bad—and now it’s our time again. Do you feel that?” She drew close, her breath musty and filled with secrets of rage and time. “Can you really sense that, Lenora?”

“Yes,” Lenora whispered. And she could. All her memories of the Cataclysmic War and their terrible flight north, refreshed over the past few days, had been instantly wiped away by their first decisive victory. They were back on Noreela . . . and sometime soon, she would go home again. That would be her own personal reward, and not even the Mages need know of that.

“I want you to fly with me, Lieutenant.”

Lenora frowned, confused. Angel walked past her and headed along the harbor wall for land, true land, her hand already reaching out to touch the bones of Noreela laid bare for ages. She followed, glancing back at S’Hivez sitting astride his hawk. He showed no inclination to dismount.

“Don’t worry about him,” Angel said. “He knows we’re leaving soon, and he’s not one for symbolism. I’m the one who wants to touch this place again.”

Lenora followed her mistress, maintaining a respectful distance. They passed one of her men, pressing himself so close to the ground that it seemed he was trying his best to merge with the rock.

“Here we are,” Angel said, her voice soft and filled with a timeless grief. “Here we are.”

The Mage stepped forward into the first dusty street of Conbarma. She stood there for some time, looking down at her feet then up at the buildings before her, left and right at the shops and taverns that fronted the harbor, back down at her feet. Then she sank slowly to her knees, and from where Lenora watched she was nothing more than a sad old woman, her friends and family dead, kneeling in the dust and wishing to be taken back into it. She picked up a handful of sand and brought it to her face, inhaling, letting some slip between her fingers and drift away on the breeze.

Then Angel suddenly stood, spun around and strode back to Lenora. Any resemblance with that sad old woman had vanished. Here she was, the Mage, Angel, the woman whom in Lenora’s eyes had always ruled, the one with power and passion enough to keep going whatever the setbacks. She had built a community far to the north where breath froze on your lips in winter and your piss turned to ice as it left your body. Built an
army,
always certain that her time would come again. And S’Hivez, though he had withered and faded, had gladly watched Angel take control. Lovers once, now they were more like a monstrous mother and son.

“How many times have you dreamed of this, Lenora?” she asked.

“Hundreds, Mistress.”

“Is it anything as good as you imagined?”

Lenora smiled. “Better.”

“Good. That’s because this is a place to live, whereas Dana’Man was a place to die. Do you feel alive? Does the blood on your hands make you feel alive?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Come with me. The source of magic is far to the south. My shades have seen it, and it’s weak and ill protected, and now it has a name. We’ll fly there and take it for ourselves. There may even be Red Monks for us to fight! I’ll trust my army to land here and do what it was built for.”

“You can have full confidence in them,” Lenora said.

“I hope so.” Angel walked past Lenora and touched her shoulder briefly, squeezing, and she took that as gratitude. “S’Hivez!” Angel called.

Lenora turned in time to see the old Mage sitting up in his saddle.

“S’Hivez, it’s time to fly on. This place tastes as good as it ever did, and it’ll be ours. But do you want to feel young again? Do you want to feel
better
?”

S’Hivez mumbled and Angel laughed, and her voice sounded like that of a young girl about to slit her own mother’s throat. Sweet, poison.

“With us, Lenora, just you!” she shouted. “Tell your Krotes to hold this place for the next week until our army lands.”

Lenora turned and ran back to the harbor, heading for where one of her men had landed with his hawk, issuing orders even as she leaped into the saddle and urged the creature aloft.

They’re not supposed to be here so soon,
she thought, but it was not bitter. The fact they had arrived illustrated that events were moving on apace, and she was glad that her mistress demanded her company. Now that they were back in Noreela, wherever the Mages went was where the action would be. New history being forged.

Lenora was more than happy to be along for the ride.

Chapter 25

“I’VE BEEN THERE,”
Kosar said. He could not look at any of them, because the memory of Kang Kang was not something to be shared. “At least, I’ve been
near
there, and that was enough. It’s not . . . right.”

“And a river that runs uphill is?” Trey asked.

“Kang Kang has
never
been right,” Kosar said. “What we saw back at San was a travesty, but one with a very human cause due to what the Mages did. A’Meer, Hope, you must have heard the stories? Those mountains are not meant for humankind, and they should have never been a part of Noreela. They harbor things that should not be and which we can never know. A’Meer? Haven’t you heard?”

“Of course I have,” she said quietly.

“Hope?” Kosar asked.

The witch shrugged, shook her head. “I’ve heard a thousand tales, but never from someone I believed had truly been there. Men have always tried to impress me, women to make me jealous or mock me. I’ve heard more stories than I’d care to recall, but I don’t believe any of them. But I do know part of what you say is true, at least: Kang Kang is not of this land.”

Rafe sat silently on his horse, the others glancing up at him, down again, trying to make sense. He offered no response to Kosar’s argument. He had stated his aim, and it seemed that he had no inclination to discuss it further.

“Rafe, New Shanti is where you’ll be safest, I have no doubt of that,” Kosar said. “A’Meer has told me a lot about her people, their ways and their aims. They’re the opposite of the Red Monks. They’ll do anything—
anything
—to keep you alive and safe. A’Meer herself almost died trying to do so, you know that as well as anyone. Imagine ten thousand A’Meers fighting for you.”

“A million A’Meers could fight for me,” Rafe said, “and I’d be grateful. They could protect me and hide me, but in the end only magic can save itself. That’s why I need to go to Kang Kang.”

“Is it the magic telling you to go?” Trey asked.

“It doesn’t tell me to do anything. It can’t. It has no mind, nothing controlling it. Perhaps it leaves hints, offers suggestions, but they’re not orders. I don’t want to go there any more than you, Kosar, but I simply know it’s the safest place for me right now. The
right
place. If there’s going to be a war because of me, I’d rather be away from everyone else.”

“We should move,” A’Meer said. “We can talk about it while we’re walking.”

Kosar went to touch her arm but she was already turning, heading off ahead to scout the ground. She had her hand resting permanently on her sword hilt, as if certain that they would be battling again before the night was out.

RAFE SAT IN
the saddle and moved in time with the horse. He had ridden a horse virtually every day back in Trengborne, either going out into the fields to take food to his parents, giving a lift to one of the elderly villagers as they went to and from the market, or simply exploring the hillsides of the wide valley. His mother had often told him that he learned to ride before he started walking. His horse back there had been a dappled Rhoshan, crossbred with a more common Laphal, but still with thoroughbred blood running through its veins, its race memory no doubt giving it dreams of running wild across the Cantrass Plains. He had named her Suki, and he had regarded her as a friend. She was not his and his alone—the poor farmers owned very little, everything was for the use of all—but she was his favorite, and he always believed that she gave a snort of pleasure when he approached, saddled her up and guided her out of the stables. Her Rhoshan blood made her less easy to control, but Rafe had liked that. They had ridden many miles together. He hoped that she was not dead. But it was a vain hope. The stables had been locked, and after the Red Monk visited their village there was no one left to open them.

Thinking of his life in the village comforted Rafe, because it made him feel more like himself. By dwelling on the hard days in the field he found that his own personality came to the fore once again. He rediscovered himself in those memories, pleased to realize that he had been there all along. Driven into hiding, perhaps, by the thing rising in his mind. Shocked into dumbness by its power. It was huge, intimidating, humbling and terrifying, but Rafe was still Rafe. This thing inside him was using him for a ride, just as he had once used Suki. He only hoped that the mutual admiration was the same.

He had lied to Trey, and he did not know why. The magic had not told him to go to Kang Kang, because as yet it did not possess a voice, but it
had
strongly suggested that path to him. In his sleep, in his unconsciousness—and in his mind’s eye now if he chose to look in and down toward that deep, dark place—its guidance toward those distant mountains was obvious. Behind them was heat and poison, ahead was danger and conflict, and it was only in the direction of Kang Kang that a successful outcome seemed possible. Just as he had lied to Trey, Rafe had no way of knowing how honest these visions and perceptions were. He did not know this magic. It was as much a stranger to him now as it had been back in Trengborne, as he hid beneath his home and watched the Monk slaughter his parents, heard it whispering to him up out of the grass, the stones, the ground itself. It was greater than it had been, vaster and more complex, and it seemed to expand every second, threatening to burst his mind should he dwell upon it too much. But still it was a mystery. He hoped that he would understand very soon.

He had lied to Trey, and he wished he could lie to himself as well. He wished he could believe that he and his small band of protectors controlled their own destiny, making decisions and planning their own path, instead of letting this mindless, unfathomable power give its own direction, aiding them at moments not of his choosing, turning him into nothing more than a horse to be steered and coerced the way its master desired. He had thought to wake and cure Alishia, but the magic told him no. He wanted to empower himself ready for a fight with the Monks, but the magic gave him nothing. He was controlled, totally and utterly, and whatever end was destined for him filled him with dread.

That was why he had lied to Trey and the others. He could keep the feeble truth from them, at least.

“MONK!” A’MEER HISSED.

Kosar dropped to his knees beside the Shantasi, turned, raised his hand. The others stopped, the two horses snorting and stamping hooves as they sensed sudden fear in the humans.

“Where?”

“There.” A’Meer pointed straight ahead at a darker shape in the shadow of a tall tree.

Kosar had to squint, and then he saw the movement, the gliding shadow closing rapidly. “Oh shit,” he said.

“Keep to me,” A’Meer said. “We attack together, score as many hits as quickly as we can. Damn, I can’t see a thing!”

“There’s more of them,” Kosar said, his heart sinking, his whole body sagging in defeat. He did not want to know what it was like to take a sword between the ribs, yet his mind was reaching ahead, imagining the next ten minutes. “There, look to the left. Two hundred steps away.”

“I see them.”

“We can’t fight them in the dark,” Kosar said. “We’d stand a much better chance if we could see them. Damn the clouds for hiding the moons tonight!”

“It can’t end like this!” A’Meer said. “It’s so
pointless.
”

“You need light?” Hope said. The witch had crawled up between them and now she knelt, shrugged her shoulder bag off and delved inside. “Close your eyes for a second so that you can adapt. Perhaps it’ll blind them for a few moments, give us the first strike.”

Kosar saw the shadows gliding in across the ground, moving from cover to cover, hoods and cloaks making them all but shapeless . . . but there was no mistaking their intent. He obeyed the witch and closed his eyes.

His eyelids turned red as light burned in from outside. He heard something hissing like a huge snake and could not stop himself from looking. The light blinded him for a moment, and he brought up his free hand to shield his eyes, keeping his sword at the ready. Fire danced in the sky, balls of flame leaping left and right, seemingly bouncing from each other and then ricocheting elsewhere, dodging and lighting the landscape. Kosar gasped, mesmerized for a few seconds by the display, but then Hope clapped his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “It’s just chemicala.”

A’Meer was standing, facing the shapes that had been stunned into immobility by the sudden illumination. There were six of them, hoods hiding their faces but not their intent. Swords drawn, the Monks readied themselves for the attack. In the sparkling light their cloaks seemed redder, the heathers about their feet a brighter purple. Even the smell of the undergrowth seemed richer. Or perhaps this close to death, Kosar was seeing and sensing with a startling clarity.

A’Meer loosed an arrow into the first Monk, reached back, plucked a new shaft from her quiver, fired, reached, drew, fired. In five heartbeats she had put an arrow into each shape, and they barely moved.

“Passed right through,” Kosar said. There was no blood, no sign of any wounds. “The arrows went straight through.”

A’Meer paused, then drew and fired again at the first Monk. The arrow struck its face and exited behind its head, hood flapping as its feathered tail flicked it. The shaft struck a rock way behind it, snapping in two.

“So is this bad magic back so soon?” Hope said, aghast.

Trey stood beside them, his disc-sword unsheathed and glinting in the reflected light of Hope’s chemicala. “They’re not moving,” he whispered. The only sound was the hiss and spit of the fireballs.

“Why aren’t they attacking?” Kosar said. He remembered the Monk in Trengborne, unhindered by the arrows sprouting from its head and body, driving forward with renewed ferocity each time it was struck.

A’Meer fired three more times at the first Monk, each arrow passing through the shape, none of them leaving any apparent wounds.

“Waiting for us to use all our arrows?” Hope said.

“Are they really there?”

“If not we’re all having the same nightmare.”

And then the Monks moved.

As one they slowly sank down to the ground, their legs parting and spreading as if melting into the cool soil. They kept their form as they slid down, and Kosar even saw the glint of their eyes as cloaks and hoods were plucked apart at the melting point. Whatever went to make up the Monks shimmered and undulated, flowing out from where the shrinking forms stood and covering the ground around them, glittering like a million eyes in the night.

Hope’s lights were fading.

“It can’t be,” the witch said, disbelief making her sound so young.

“What?” Kosar asked.

The shapes were almost completely gone, the hoods still red, eyes and red faces still there as they sank into the shifting ground. They looked liked six individual puddles, but each one moved a hundred ways at any one time, covering the grasses and stones but never stealing their shape, a coating rather than a covering. Once the Monks had gone, the stuff grew dark, and in the fading light of the floating fireballs they looked like splashes of shadow looking for a home.

“Mimics,” Hope said.

As if her utterance had galvanized them, the shapes drifted together, formed one mass and then moved quickly to the right, heading west, disappearing into the night.

Hope’s chemicala finally died and plunged them into a greater darkness than before. The four drew back to the horses and stood protectively around them, facing out, waiting for their eyes to adjust.

“What exactly did we just see?” Kosar said. He wanted a response from anyone, but his question was directed at Rafe. “Rafe, what was that?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said from his horse.

“Mimics,” Hope said again.

“They’re a legend,” A’Meer said, but the uncertainty in her voice was obvious.

“Of course they are!”

“I’ve never heard of them,” Kosar said. “I’ve traveled, but I’ve never seen or heard of anything like that.”

“Mimics!” Disbelief and delight vied for dominance in Hope’s voice. “I’ve heard of them a few times, even met an old woman who claimed to have seen them once, but I never believed I’d ever see them myself.”

“But you
did
believe that they existed?” A’Meer asked.

“I’m a witch,” Hope said. “I have a very open mind.”

“But why Monks?” Kosar asked.

“A warning.” The witch fell silent, perhaps realizing that the mimics’ appearance was not really a cause for celebration.

“They showed us six Monks, then they headed west,” A’Meer said. “If it’s a warning, I wonder how near they are?”

“And why would the mimics warn us?” Rafe asked.

“I think you should know that, boy,” Hope muttered. “It seems news of our journey and what we carry is reaching far beyond the human world.”

“Whatever and why ever, we should be moving, not standing around talking,” Kosar said. “If these things came to warn us, there must be good reason. Unless they’re a part of it. What if they’re with the Monks?”

“I’m sure they’re beyond petty allegiances,” Hope said. “They’re as far from us as we can imagine. Hive organisms. We probably just saw more mimics than there are people alive in Noreela now. They have their own reason for issuing such a stark warning, and that’s the magic that Rafe carries.”

“But they could just as easily be leading us to the Monks, not from them.”

“I’m sure they could have destroyed us themselves. I’ve heard stories.” Hope said no more, but the silence implied tales too gruesome for the telling.

“Well, let’s move,” A’Meer said. She took up the two horses’ reins and led them forward, walking straight toward where the mimics had manifested just moments before.

They followed. Kosar looked down at his feet, trying to see whether the ground had changed where those things had melted down into a moving carpet of life. Was the heather stripped to the stems or made richer? Was the soil denuded of goodness or enriched? But darkness hid the detail, and his feet were only shadows moving him ever onward.