The Ruling Sea (56 page)

They drew closer; Pazel arched his neck. High overhead the wall sprouted turrets and towers and vine-laden balconies. Birds flew through gaping windows; orchids flowered in cracks. Yet for a thing so clearly ancient the wall was surprisingly intact.

When they reached the wall Ott turned them east. Chadfallow trailed a hand over the mossy stone. “In Etherhorde we have one broken column, and a bit of an arch,” he mused.

“What’s that you’re saying?” asked Pazel. The doctor looked at him, startled. It was the first time Pazel had spoken to him on the island.

“I am saying that this is the work of the Amber Kings,” said Chadfallow. “That this whole great edifice was built before the Worldstorm, and survived it.”

“That’s a lot to swallow,” said Drellarek.

“Look at the stonework. Only the first lords of Alifros had such skill.”

“Why would the Amber Kings want to build in the middle of a jungle?” asked Erthalon Ness.

The riders stopped their horses, staring at him. Pazel had never heard half so sane an utterance come from the Shaggat’s son. Chadfallow looked the man up and down, clearly fascinated. Pazel half expected him to take the man’s pulse.

“Well?” the son demanded.

“The jungle has grown back,” said Chadfallow. “In their time—more than two thousand years ago—the Amber Kings cleared many a mountain, with fire and the axe. They built great cities atop them. Fortress-cities, whole settlements in one mighty structure. No enemy could dream of taking them.”

“No enemy but Alifros herself,” said the Shaggat’s son.

“Quite so,” said Chadfallow, still more amazed. “But the Worldstorm did not strike all lands equally. Somehow this corner must have been spared—perhaps the great bulk of Bramian sheltered it from the driving winds. In any event the Amber Kings ruled from their summit cities for hundreds of years before the Storm. By day farmers descended the slopes to grow food on terraces—those flat shelvings we crossed—and by night they slept soundly in their fortress chambers. That is what the old tales tell. Do you understand me, Erthalon Ness?”

The Shaggat’s son gave a nod. Then he looked back down the mountain.

“When my father returns he will cut no trees,” he said dreamily, “for I will ask him to be kind to the white monkeys. This will be their republic. They will bear my name.”

It was almost a relief to hear him raving again. They said no more, but walked on in the shadow of the wall. Pazel found himself wondering if a sane man lay trapped somewhere inside the lunatic. The fate seemed worse than any lightless prison.
And could the reverse be true?
he wondered.
Do sane folk carry madmen locked in their minds?

After a quarter hour they came to the remains of a mighty gate. The ironwork had melted away with the centuries—only a few rusty spokes protruded from the stone—and no one could say what kind of sculpted beasts crouched on the pedestals to either side. A heaving of land that might once have been a road curved away from the opening and down into the trees.

Inside the gate was a portico, roofless and choked with greenery. Just beyond it a mighty staircase ascended, also open to the sky. It climbed all the way to the top of the fortress, where the sun beat down dazzling on the yellow stone.

Ott checked his horse at the threshold.

“Water the mounts,” he said, “and dig the stones from their hooves. Give them no food, but eat a bit yourselves. Here, Pathkendle, take the reins.”

With that he slipped to the ground, adjusted his weapons belt and ran with quick, cat-like movements up the stair.

“What in the Nine Pits is he up to?” said Alyash. “He said the fortress was our destination. Now he talks as though we’ve another ride to look forward to.”

“I think both may be true,” said Chadfallow. “But now I will see to that arrow, if you please.”

The tarboys picked rocks from the horses’ hooves while Chadfallow tended Alyash. The bosun never made a sound, but his face creased with agony when the doctor at last twisted the arrowhead (a barbed thing made of bone) out of his thigh. After that he was quite calm. He chatted and joked as Drellarek cut slices of bacon with his dagger, and Chadfallow plucked bits of legging from the wound with tweezers.

“Mend the trousers when you’re done with the leg,” said Drellarek with a laugh. “We want him to make a good impression on our allies, don’t we? Here, boys, eat.”

“Who are these allies, Mr. Drellarek?” asked Swift through his first mouthful. But the Turach shook his head and made no answer.

Pazel took his slice of gristly bacon. He was famished, but all the same he felt a stab of guilt.
Eating from the Throatcutter’s hand. Part of the team. Like Chadfallow, just doing a job
.

By the time they finished eating, Sandor Ott was descending the stair. As he reached them Pazel saw that his face was strained.

“What’s wrong, Master Ott?” asked Drellarek.

The spymaster’s hands twitched at his sides. When he spoke there was a tremor in his voice. “The stair leads onto the roof of the fortress-city,” he said, “and from there a path runs straight and level to the place where we descend. You will ride on my left, at a walk, and you will not speak. But if I give the order you must gallop like the very wind. I have just learned who is master of this mountain. It is an eguar.”

Chadfallow’s eyes snapped up. “You saw it?” he said.

Ott nodded. “It lies basking in the sun.”

“Fire from Rin,” whispered Drellarek.

“An eguar?” squealed Erthalon Ness. “An eguar! What is that?”

Ott whirled and struck the man across the face. “Something that will gladly devour you, if only you keep screaming.” To the gaping tarboys, he said, “Never mind, lads. We shall be in the city for but half an hour, or less. And eguars cannot outrun horses any better than the Leopard People can.”

Chadfallow shook his head. “They do not run far,” he agreed, “but at close range they move with blinding speed.”

“Enough of your airs!” snapped Ott. “There is no book from which to learn the truth about such a creature. And you have never walked the wild places of Alifros, as I have done all my life.”

“Yet I know this to be true,” said Chadfallow.

“How?” demanded Alyash.

The doctor closed his eyes. “From Ramachni the mage,” he said at last, “who makes his home in greater peaks than these, among dragons and shadowmambrs and hrathmog hordes. And yes, eguar. They can catch horses, Ott. And they have means of killing even that which they do not catch.”

“But what does it
look
like?” pleaded Saroo.

“You’ll see soon enough,” said Ott. “Now pay attention: if we are separated, ride straight at the lowering sun. You’ll see a little station-house, and beyond it a triple archway, the only one of its kind. Ride through those arches, and down the stairs beyond them. We will regroup at the bottom and resume our journey.”

“Master Ott,” said Drellarek, “there is always the sea route.”

Ott glanced at the Turach with disappointment. “We stand here because the sea route is closed. The waves are too high for smaller vessels, and we cannot wait for a calm.”

“But the
Chathrand
could easily—”

“The
Chathrand
must not be seen again by any living soul, Sergeant Drellarek. I thought you at least understood that.”

“What I should like to understand,” said Chadfallow, “is what we’re doing here at all.”

Ott took out his canteen, and watched the doctor as he drank. Then he wiped his mouth and said, “Shorten your stirrups, and check your girth straps. We’re running late.”

Alyash mounted, wincing as he swung his wounded leg over the saddle. Drellarek spat an oath, but a moment later he too was on his horse. The others reluctantly followed suit. As long as the Turach and the spies were united they had little choice. One old doctor and three tarboys could hardly fight the deadly men.

They walked the horses on the stair, trying to keep to the moss and leaf-litter, for the beasts’ iron shoes echoed loudly on the stone. Ott and Pazel were in the lead. The spymaster’s hand was on his sword-hilt. He whispered continually to his charger, who nickered deep in her throat despite his soothing.
That falcon of his could be useful now
, Pazel thought.
Where’s he gone?

Some dozen steps from the rooftop, Chadfallow raised a hand, and the party halted.

“Listen to me,” he whispered. “You must not look directly at the eguar. To do so might provoke it, like a bull. And if you see some trace of the creature, some place where it has crawled, walk your horse around the spot—never through it. Above all, guard your thoughts! Stay calm! Eguar have a spellcraft all their own.”

Ott raked them with a final glance. “No more talking,” he said.

At the top of the stair the sun met them full in the face. Pazel shielded his eyes—and saw the eguar instantly, even before his mind took in his surroundings. Fear washed over him, irrational and huge. The beast was perhaps a thousand feet away, coal black, facing them. It resembled nothing so much as a great burned crocodile with its legs tucked under its body, and a spiny fan like that of a sailfish running down its back. A vapor surrounded it—a quaking of the air, as if the creature were a living bonfire. Pazel could not see its eyes. Was it sleeping?

Ott pinched his arm savagely. Pazel wrenched his gaze from the creature and faced forward. One by one the horses stepped onto the roof.

What he saw before him would have stolen Pazel’s breath, had he any to spare. It was as if they had climbed not just onto the roof of a fortress but that of the very world, and found it hot and blinding as a desert. The courtyard was vast and severe. Towers rose at its vertices, some intact, others shattered. Clusters of rooftop halls, like minor towns unto themselves, were scattered across its expanse. There were broken domes and standing colonnades, shattered fountains, pedestals with statues of men whose features, like those of the creatures at the ruined gate, had melted over centuries of wind and rain. There was a great amphitheater, and a bulbous cistern on stubby legs, and round shafts built straight down through the fortress-city, with staircases carved into their sides.

There were also many smooth, pond-like cavities in the stone. All were filled with black water that glistened in a way that somehow turned Pazel’s stomach.

Beyond the fortress, the jungle-clad mountains swept west into the heart of Bramian; a second row of peaks marched north. The structure, Pazel saw now, stood on a bend in the range. And along both arms of the range the mighty wall raced away. It was broad as a city boulevard, and he could not see the end of it in either direction.

But from the corner of his eye he could still see the black, vapor-shrouded eguar. He felt ashamed at the extent of his fear. But the same terror shone in the others’ faces, when he glimpsed them. Even Drellarek looked slightly pale.

They crept forward. The shattered halls and pavilions dropped behind them one by one. Reason told Pazel that the triple arch was less than a mile from the stair where they had begun, yet it seemed impossibly distant. There were no leaves here, and each footfall of the horses rang out terribly distinct. Erthalon Ness appeared to be weeping.

Then the eguar opened its eyes. They were white, and burned like stars in the dark flesh. Ott stiffened. Someone’s horse neighed and pranced. But still the beast did not move.

Close at hand now was the first of the water-filled cavities. Ott gave it a wide berth. Pazel saw that the gleam on the water’s surface actually extended faintly to the stone on one side, as if something had been dragged from the cavity and left a trail of silvery ooze behind it. His eyes followed the trail. It meandered away from them across the rooftop, growing brighter the farther it went, until it ended
(Don’t look!
he screamed inwardly, too late) with the eguar itself.

Pazel gasped aloud. He’d met its eyes—and a force like a hurricane struck him in that instant. But it was not a physical blow, for the others sat rigid as ever on their steeds, unaware of the power streaming from the eguar.

Pazel doubled over the saddle horn, pain between his temples, bile on his tongue. Ott’s hand tightened viciously on his arm but he could barely feel it. What was the creature doing to him? And then he glimpsed its moving jaws, and understood. It was speaking.

Pazel had heard many strange tongues, and learned to speak them, in the five years he had lived with the Gift. Flikkermen croaked and gurgled; nunekkam squeaked; the ixchels’ tongue was full of somber, minor-key music. The augrongs boomed out abstract metaphors, and Klyst and her murth-kin worked charms each time they spoke. But no language he had ever heard prepared him for the eguar’s. It flooded his brain, violent as the waves beating into the sea-cave, and a hundred times more frightening.

“Have you gone mad?” hissed Sandor Ott. “Be still. The creature is only yawning, or something like.”

“Run,” gasped Pazel.

“Pathkendle. Pathkendle. Compose yourself, or I swear on Magad’s life I’ll throw you from this horse.”

Pazel composed himself. The thing had stopped speaking, but the echoes of its words still washed about in his head. The horses were skittish now, and it grew steadily harder to keep them from breaking into a run. A terrible odor had arisen: a caustic smell, like acid thrown on a fire. Pazel felt his throat begin to itch.

Far across the plaza, the eguar snapped its jaws. The sound echoed from the turrets beside them. Erthalon Ness sobbed audibly, and Pazel felt Ott’s body tense.

Then, miraculously, they were at the arch. Beyond it, stairs led down onto the wall, thirty feet below the level of the rooftop. In a matter of seconds they were through; it was over. Pazel released a huge breath, one he had held unconsciously since that first ticklish feeling in his throat. Swift and Saroo looked giddy with relief.

Ott beckoned them on another hundred yards or so. Then he turned and smiled.

“At your ease, and well done! Even you, Maggot Ness: I thought for a moment we would have to throttle you to stop those tears.”