The Hidden City (51 page)

They had set out at first light, and the sun had not yet risen when they topped a low ridge and saw a vast, flat expanse of dead whiteness lying ahead. Time, like climate, had lost all meaning.

‘I'd hate to have to cross
that
in the summertime,' Kalten said.

‘Truly,' Sparhawk agreed.

‘The slavers' trail swings north here,' Bevier noted, ‘probably to go around those flats. If a Cynesgan patrol stumbles across us out there, we might have trouble convincing them that we're attached to that caravan we've been following.'

‘We'll just say that we got lost,' Kalten said with a shrug. ‘Let me do the talking, Bevier. I get lost all the time anyway, so I can be fairly convincing. How far is it to the other side, Sparhawk?'

‘About twenty-five leagues, according to my map.'

‘Two days – even if we push,' Kalten calculated.

‘And no cover,' Bevier added. ‘You couldn't hide a spider out –' He broke off. ‘What's that?' he asked,
pointing at an intensely bright spot of light on the mountainous western horizon.

Talen squinted at the light. ‘I think it might be the landmark we've been looking for,' he said.

‘How did you arrive at that?' Kalten asked skeptically.

‘It's in the right direction, isn't it? Ogerajin said that we were supposed to go northwest from Vigayo to the Plains of Salt. Then he said, “From the verge of the Plains of Salt wilt thou behold low on the horizon before thee the dark shapes of the Forbidden Mountains, and, if it please Cyrgon, his fiery white pillars will guide thee to his Hidden City.” There
are
mountains there, and if that light's coming from right in the middle of them wouldn't it almost
have
to be coming from the pillars?'

‘The man was crazy, Talen,' Kalten objected.

‘Maybe,' Sparhawk disagreed, ‘but everything he described is right where he said it would be. Let's take a chance on it. It's still the right direction.'

‘About the only thing that might cause us any trouble would be if we stumbled across a helpful Cynesgan patrol and they decided to escort us back to that caravan we've been following for the last few days,' Mirtai observed.

‘Logically, our chances of coming across a patrol out there on the flats are very slim,' Bevier suggested. ‘Cynesgans would normally avoid that waste in the first place, and the war's probably pulled almost everybody off patrol duty in the second.'

‘And any patrols unlucky enough to cross us won't be making any reports in the third,' Mirtai added, suggestively putting her hand on her sword-hilt.

‘We've tentatively located the pillars,' Sparhawk said. ‘And if Ogerajin knew what he was talking about, we'll have to take a line of sight on them to penetrate the illusion. Now that we've found them, let's not lose them. We'll just have to take our chances out there on
the flats. If we're lucky, nobody will even notice us. If not, we'll try lying to them, and if that doesn't work, we still have our swords.' He looked around at them. ‘Does anybody have anything else to add?'

‘I think that covers it,' Kalten said, still somewhat dubious.

‘Let's get started, then.'

‘They just broke off and ran away, friend Vanion,' Kring said a day or so later. Kring's face was baffled. ‘We were using those tactics Tikume and I came up with, and everything was going more or less the way we expected, and then somebody blew a horn or something, and they turned tail and ran – but where? If what we've been told is true, there's no place in the whole world they can go to catch their breath.'

‘Did you have anybody follow them?' Vanion asked.

‘I probably should have, I suppose, but I was concentrating on luring the Cyrgai across the border.' Kring smiled at Sephrenia. ‘That Styric curse doesn't seem to have worn thin in the last ten thousand years, Lady. Three full regiments of Cyrgai went down like newly-mown wheat when they crossed the border.' He paused. ‘They're not really very bright, are they?'

‘The Cyrgai? No. It's against their religion.'

‘You'd think that at least a
few
of them would have realized that something was wrong, but they just kept running across the border and falling over dead.'

‘Independent thinking isn't encouraged among them. They're trained to follow orders – even bad ones.'

Kring looked at the bridge crossing the Sarna. ‘You'll be operating from here, friend Vanion?' he asked.

‘I'll put a force on the other side of the bridge,' Vanion replied. ‘But our main camp will be on this side. The river marks the boundary between Tamul Proper and Cynesga, doesn't it?'

‘Technically, I suppose,' The Domi shrugged. ‘The curse-line's a couple of miles further west, though.'

‘The boundary's changed several times over the years,' Sephrenia explained.

‘Tikume thought I should come up here and talk things over with you, friend Vanion,' Kring said then. ‘We don't want to interfere with Sparhawk, so we haven't been going too far into Cynesga, but we're running out of people to chase.'

‘How far in have you been going?' Vanion asked.

‘Six or seven leagues,' Kring replied. ‘We come back to Samar every night – although there's no real reason for it now. I don't think there's any danger of a siege any more.'

‘No,' Vanion agreed. ‘We've pushed them enough so that they can't really concentrate on Samar now.' He opened his map and frowned at it for a few moments, then he dropped to one knee and spread it out on the winter-brown grass. ‘Step on that corner, please,' he said to Sephrenia. I don't want to have to chase it again.'

Kring looked puzzled.

‘Household joke,' Sephrenia explained, putting one small foot on the corner of Vanion's map. ‘Vanion's fond of maps, and an errant breeze turned his current favorite into a kite two days ago.'

Vanion let that pass. ‘I'll agree that we don't want to crowd Sparhawk, Domi, but I think we'll want to build some fortified positions out there in the desert. They'll give us jumping-off places when we start our advance on Cyrga.'

‘I had the same thought, friend Vanion.'

‘Let's establish a presence across that border,' Vanion decided. ‘I'll send word to Betuana, and she'll do the same.'

‘How deep in should we go?' Kring asked.

Vanion looked at Sephrenia. ‘Ten leagues?' he suggested. ‘That's not so deep that we'll be stepping on Sparhawk's heels, but we'll have room to maneuver, and it'll give you some elbow-room for that spell of yours.'

‘Using the spell's a good plan, friend Vanion,' Kring said a bit dubiously. ‘But you're deliberately drawing the best our enemies can throw at us to yourself – and to Lady Sephrenia. Is that what you want? I don't mean to be offensive, but your fight with Klæl's soldiers seriously reduced your ranks.'

‘That's one of the reasons I want forts out there in the desert, Domi,' Vanion said wryly. ‘If worst comes to worst, I'll pull back into those positions. I'm almost sure I can count on some dear friends on my flanks to come to my rescue.'

‘Well said,' Sephrenia murmured.

‘Stop,' Khalad said sharply, reining in his horse when they were perhaps five miles outside Vigayo.

‘What is it?' Berit asked tensely.

‘Somebody named Ramshorn died,' Khalad said, pointing. ‘I think we should stop and pay our respects.'

Berit looked at the crude grave beside the trail. ‘I looked right through it,' he confessed. ‘Sorry, Khalad.'

‘Pay attention, my Lord.'

‘It seems you've said that before.'

They dismounted and approached the rude ‘grave'.

‘Clever,' Berit murmured quietly. It was probably not necessary to lower his voice, but it had gotten to be a habit.

‘Talen's idea, probably,' Khalad said as they both knelt beside the mound. ‘It's a little subtle for Sparhawk.'

‘Isn't that supposed to be two words?' Berit asked,
pointing at the weathered plank with ‘Ramshorn' roughly carved into its face.

‘You're the educated one, my Lord. Don't touch those rocks.'

‘Which rocks?'

‘The yellow ones. We'll mix them up as soon as I read them.'

‘You read rocks? Is that like reading seagulls?'

‘Not exactly. It's a message from Sparhawk. He and my father worked this out a long time ago.' The short-bearded young man leaned first this way and then that, squinting at the mound. ‘Naturally,' he said finally with a certain resignation. He rose and moved to the head of the grave.

‘What?'

‘Sparhawk wrote it upside down. Now it makes sense.' Khalad studied the apparently random placement of the yellowish rocks on top of the predominantly brown mound. ‘Pray, Berit,' he said. ‘Offer up a prayer for the soul of our departed brother, Ramshorn.'

‘You're not making any sense, Khalad.'

‘Somebody might be watching. Act religious.' The husky young squire took the reins of their horses and led them several yards away from the ill-defined trail. Then he bent, took Faran's left foreleg in both hands, and carefully inspected the hoof.

Faran gave him an unfriendly stare.

‘Sorry,' Khalad apologized to the bad-tempered brute, ‘it's nothing important.' He lowered the hoof to the gravel again. ‘All right, Berit,' he said then, ‘say “Amen”, and we'll get going again.'

‘What was that all about?' Berif s tone was surly as he remounted.

‘Sparhawk left a message for us,' Khalad replied, swinging up into his saddle. ‘The arrangement of the yellow rocks told me where to find it.'

‘Where is it?' Berit asked eagerly.

‘Right now? It's in my left boot. I picked it up when I was checking Faran's hoof.'

‘I didn't see you pick up a thing.'

‘You weren't supposed to, my Lord.'

Krager awoke with the horrors to the sound of distant screaming. Days and nights had long since blurred in Krager's awareness, but the sun shattering against his eyes told him that it was a full and awful morning. He had certainly not intended to drink so much the previous night, but the knowledge that he was reaching the bottom of his last cask of Arcian red had worried at him as he had grown progressively drunker, and the knowledge that it would soon be all gone had somehow translated itself in his fuddled mind into a compulsion to drink it all before it got away from him.

Now he was paying for that foolishness. His head was throbbing, his stomach was on fire, and his mouth tasted as if something had crawled in there and died. He was shaking violently, and there were sharp stabbing pains in his liver. He sat on the edge of his tangled bed with his head in his hands. There was a sense of dread hanging over him, a shadowy feeling of horror. He kept his burning eyes closed and groped under the bed with one shaking hand for the emergency bottle he always kept there. The liquid it contained was neither wine nor beer but a dreadful concoction of Lamork origin that was obtained by setting certain inferior wines out in the winter and allowing them to freeze. The liquid that rose to the top and remained unfrozen was almost pure spirits. It tasted foul, and it burned like fire going down, but it put the horrors to sleep. Shuddering, Krager drank off about a pint of the awful stuff and lurched to his feet.

The sun was painfully bright when he stumbled out into the streets of Natayos and went looking for the
source of the screams that had awakened him. He reached a central square and recoiled in horror. Several men were being systematically tortured to death while Scarpa, dressed in his shabby imitation royal robe and his makeshift crown, sat in an ornate chair watching with approval.

‘What's going on?' Krager asked Cabah, a shabby Dacite brigand of his acquaintance with whom he had frequently gotten drunk.

Cabah turned quickly. ‘Oh, it's you, Krager,' he said. ‘As closely as I can gather, the Shining Ones descended on Panem-Dea.'

‘That's impossible,' Krager said shortly. ‘Ptaga's dead. There aren't any more of those illusions to keep the Tamuls running around in circles.'

‘If we can believe what some of those dying fellows said, the ones who went into Panem-Dea weren't illusions,' Cabah replied. ‘A fair number of the officers there got themselves dissolved when they tried to stand and fight.'

‘What's happening here?' Krager asked, pointing at the screaming men bound to poles set up in the middle of the square.

‘Scarpa's making examples of the ones who ran away. He's having them cut to pieces. Here comes Cyzada.' Cabah pointed at the Styric hurrying out of Scarpa's headquarters.

‘What are you
doing?'
the hollow-eyed Cyzada bellowed at the madman sitting on his cheap throne.

‘They deserted their posts,' Scarpa replied. ‘They're being punished.'

‘You need every man, you idiot!'

‘I ordered them to march to the north to join my loyal armies,' Scarpa shrugged. ‘They concocted lies to excuse their failure to obey. They must be punished. I
will
have obedience!'

‘You will
not
kill your own soldiers! Order your butchers to stop!'

‘That's quite impossible, Cyzada. An imperial order, once given, cannot be rescinded. I have commanded that every deserter from Panem-Dea be tortured to death. It's out of my hands now.'

‘You maniac! You won't have a soldier left by tomorrow morning! They'll
all
desert!'

‘Then I will recruit more and hunt them all down. I
will
be obeyed!'

Cyzada of Esos controlled his fury with an obviously great effort. Krager saw his lips moving and his fingers weaving intricate patterns in the air. ‘Let's get out of here, Cabah!' he said urgently.