Songs of the Earth (6 page)

Lips pursed, Alderan watched him a moment, then squinted along the dusty road on the south bank of the Awen towards the settling sun. ‘We should keep moving. I reckon there’s two hours of good daylight left. Do you feel up to a canter?’

Gair shifted in his saddle. His bruises ached steadily now as the motion of the horse stretched his muscles. Scabs snagged on his clothes and pricked at him all over his back and legs, but his belly was where the questioners had worked the hardest. ‘I can try.’

‘Then let’s put some distance behind us.’

The road followed the course of the river west and south, up the flank of the valley and onto the moors, where it forked. Gair reined up, twisting in the saddle to look back. From this distance Dremen was a jumble of blue slate roofs, church spires thrusting through the evening haze. It looked just what it was, a provincial capital humming with ordinary people living out ordinary lives, but for the city within a city that occupied a slight rise somewhat to the north of the centre. Pale walls girdled a glorious confection of domes and gilded cupolas where sunlight flashed on window-panes and pennons streamed from every graceful spire. Tallest of them all were the twin towers of the Sacristy, soaring heavenwards as if to touch the glory of the Goddess Herself.

Rising almost as high behind the Citadel was the Motherhouse. A grim, unlovely construction of grey Dremenirian granite, it stood four-square to the north and wrapped its massive walls around the inner city like a mailed arm. Its towers were blunt and regular, its windows mere watchful slits. The Suvaeon Order had guarded the Church for more than two thousand years, defending
her against unbelievers with armour of righteousness and shields of faith, backed up with good Syfrian steel. Its uncompromising bulk straddling the neck of land between city and river loomed ready for two thousand more.

‘There’s still a way to go, Gair,’ Alderan called from further ahead, but Gair barely heard him, caught up in memories. He’d first seen the Holy City, ten years ago, from almost this exact spot. Now it, like his foster home, had turned its back on him.

Hoofbeats sounded as the old man nudged his horse up beside him. ‘Even from here it looks a hard place,’ he said.

‘It’s all I’ve known since I was eleven years old.’ Gair fingered the bandage on his left hand. For better or for worse, the Mother-house had left its mark on him, as surely as his magic had. He would never be the same again.

‘The border’s not far to the south,’ said Alderan. ‘You could be in Leah in a few days.’

‘What for?’

‘You have no kin at all there? No one who would take you in for a day or two?’

‘I told you, I have no one.’

‘Have you thought where you might go?’

‘Where can I go, with this?’ He held up his left hand.
Damn it, I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get away, as far away as possible
. Jerking the chestnut’s head around Gair urged him along the right-hand fork of the road. It led southwest over the heathery uplands towards the mountains and Belistha beyond. The road was good, beaten smooth by centuries of travellers, so he let the horse have his head. A few paces behind, he heard Alderan shout after him, then the sound of hooves as the old man spurred his mount up to a gallop. He did not look back again.

A league or more passed as the sun settled lower in the sky, flushing the moor with red-gold warmth. As the road drew nearer the foothills it dipped into a winding glen. Shadows threw parts of the trail into gloom, so Gair slowed his horse to a walk. He was
too close to the parish boundary now to throw his liberty away by breaking his mount’s leg in a hole in the road.

If circumstances had been better, it would have been a pleasant place to stop. Kingfishers quartered the river pools beneath thickets of blackthorn and ash where sparrows bickered. Telltale circles broke under the clouds of insects, hinting at larger fish to be had – trout, most likely, and a summer’s evening was about the best time to catch them.

Steel glittered in the sun as lances rose above the road ahead. They were followed by a row of shining helms, white plumes nodding. Gair reined back as Church Knights trotted out of a fold in the ground and formed in a line across the road. Five matched greys tossed their heads, silver curb chains jingling, and five silk pennons fluttered in the breeze. Cursing, Gair swung the horse round to look for Alderan. The old man sat his mount quietly some forty yards back, with five more Knights behind him.

The trail was blocked. To his right was the river, thirty yards across and Goddess knew how deep. To his left, a steep slope scarred with scree and boulders. Probably just about climbable, if he led his horse, but there was no way to know what lay at the top. The Dremenirian moors were rumpled like an old blanket, criss-crossed with streams and dells where armed men could be waiting. The only other way out of the trap was to go straight through the line. He swung his horse back round.

‘In the name of the Goddess, stand fast!’ bellowed a Knight with the red cord of captain round his arm.

Five men, armed and armoured. Heavy cavalry, the Church’s finest, and a world apart from quintains and straw-stuffed dummies, but Gair had done little else for the past ten years. The longsword hissed out of its sheath.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Alderan demanded, urging his horse alongside. ‘Do you see the red rose badge on their shields? They’re Goran’s men.’

‘Goran wanted to see me roasted. If he can keep me in this parish until dusk, he’ll get his wish.’

A movement behind the captain caught Gair’s eye. Another man, with a shabby hide jerkin, on a dun-coloured pony. His watery blue eyes slid around the scene like a couple of raw eggs in a skillet, but they kept coming back to him.

‘Who’s that?’

Alderan followed Gair’s gaze and grunted. ‘Witchfinder.’

‘I thought we’d slipped past him.’

‘So did I. Either I was wrong, or he made a really good guess which of the five gates we’d take.’

Gair stared at the man as that underdone gaze slid off him then pulled back. The prickle behind his forehead intensified. ‘How does he
do
that?’ He scrubbed his face with the back of his hand, but it was useless. The witchfinder made his brain itch. ‘I’ve got to get past them.’

‘Gair, there’s no point. They can track you across a hundred miles with him. Leave it.’

‘No.’ His horse shifted under him, tossed his head. ‘I can’t let them take me. I’ve got to get past.’

The chestnut was no war-horse, but he was steady and strong. Gair started him forward. Alderan’s voice calling his name was left behind. He was not going to go back.

‘Stand fast, in the name of the Goddess!’ the captain shouted again.

Ignoring him, Gair touched his heels to the horse’s ribs and brought his weight forward, holding the sword across his body. He had only one chance to get this right. If he failed, he would die, spitted on a lance or bound to a stake, it made no nevermind.

Ahead of him, the Knights sat their horses uncertainly. There were too few of them to effectively block the road and too many to get out of the way. As the captain bawled at him to stand, Gair heeled the chestnut to a dead run and aimed for the gap between the second and third Knights. Lances wavered halfway to the
couch and gauntleted hands sawed at reins, but by then it was too late. Yelling ferociously, he charged through the line and on down the road. He was through!

More mailed Knights rounded the next bend at a trot. Their lances were already couched. Gair hauled on the reins so hard the chestnut almost sat down in the road, then urged him back the way they had come.
Holy Mother, I don’t want to die
. A spur of rock ran down to the road, fractured into a crude staircase. He set the horse at it and dug in his heels. The chestnut scrambled up the first step, then another; Gair lifted his weight out of the saddle to help him. Another leap, steel shoes skidding, gorse clawing at Gair’s boots. He looked up at the ridge-top and saw more Knights.

A sick dread sat on Gair’s stomach. He had nowhere to go. The Knights were advancing, the trap Goran’s hound had set closing around him. Ansel’s reprieve had risked the Curia’s wrath for nothing.

Then his ears began to ring with a keening note.

Masen breathed out slowly. His breath curled into steam on the frosty air and disappeared into the bare branches of the trees around him. He had to be careful now, not make the slightest sound, or his quarry would hear him, despite the chatter of the stony river. The stag’s hearing was exceptional, even for one of its kind. No wonder it had been hunted so unsuccessfully for so long.

He watched it pace through the trees ahead, a flicker of white amongst the winter-black trunks. The beast was a long way from home. This forest stretched the length of the Brindling Mountains from the an-Archen south to Astolar and they were well above the plains, almost to the snowline. No country for deer, especially one carrying such a magnificent rack of antlers. Deer lived on their wits and their speed; they did not willingly choose terrain that could foul their heads or break their legs. Something had brought it here, something it feared enough to overcome its instincts.

Masen shifted position a fraction, transferring his weight smoothly from one foot to the other. He would have sworn he made no sound, but the stag heard him and bounded ahead. Hooves clattered on stone, splashed through water. Well, if it knew he was here, he could afford a little less caution. Shaking out his net, he moved towards the river.

The stag stood four-square on a gravel-spit out in the rushing water. Its pelt glowed in the thin sunshine, each of the twenty points of its antlers shining silver. Wide blue-black eyes fixed on him and wet nostrils flared as it sifted out his scent.

A few more steps brought Masen to the water’s edge. He kept his net loose in his right hand. The stag’s head jerked warningly, antlers flashing – nineteen points, not twenty; one was broken and the rest furrowed and scarred from many battles. A wily one, this. It had chosen to face him across the deepest part of the river channel, where the water flowed fast and dark and ice sparkled on the stones. Behind it lay the shallows on the outside of the bend, ready for a swift escape. Masen grinned. Wily indeed.

Close to, it truly was magnificent. Finer-boned than a highland stag, but no less strong, with a deep chest – big lungs, for long running – and powerful haunches to drive it forward. Head up, its ears swept the air for the slightest sound. Every muscle under that snowy pelt was bunched and ready to run hard. He could take no chances here.

Slowly, Masen transferred his net to his other hand so he could shrug off his bow and quiver. The stag snorted and stamped a foot, scattering gravel into the water. With great care, he hung his weapons from a branch on the nearest tree and held up his hand, moving away from them. Its head turned to keep him in focus, ears flicking back and forth warily. A Kingdom boar had taught Masen not to underestimate these creatures. Seeing the scar on his thigh each time he undressed made sure he didn’t forget.

A breeze brought the scent of it across the river to him. He smelled the musk of the rut, rank sweat in its coat, the sour edge of fear. Pitching his voice low and soft, he began to speak. It didn’t matter what he said, for the stag had no language, but the tone was important. Masen murmured nonsense, hummed snatches of lullabies, anything he could think of that was soothing to the ear. Some of the tension drained from the stag. Its fixed stare shifted for a fraction of a second, then again as it dared to look around.
Masen hunkered down to make himself smaller and less threatening, but he kept the net ready. The stag dipped its head towards the water and he saw a flash of its dark, purplish tongue. It was thirsty, and the smell of the water was overcoming its caution.

When it leaned down to drink, Masen lunged. Straightening his legs he thrust himself up and flung his arms wide. The invisible Song-woven net soared out over the river, spreading, falling, powered by his will. The stag’s head jerked up, but too late. The net coiled around it; in moments the Song had tangled the proud antlers and hobbled the stag’s legs. It crashed down on its side in the gravel and bleated frantically. Panicked eyes rolled in its head.

Masen hopped onto a rock in the middle of the water and then onto the spit, crouching beside his captive.

‘Hush, hush now,’ he murmured. ‘I mean you no harm. I’m here to take you home.’ He stroked its shoulder, the net prickling as his hand passed through it. He had to be careful not to leave his hand in one place for too long; the stag’s flesh was as cold as the snows. It panted and strained against the mesh, silvery hooves thrashing in the gravel.