The Way Into Chaos (27 page)

They came around a switchback, starting west again. Wimnel Farrabell lagged behind, as he had all morning. He was not accustomed to marching, even without a pack, and his broken arm drained him. Tejohn felt sorry for the man, but he was not going to wait for him. Farrabell was expendable now.
 

Luckily, Arla’s vision had returned well before dawn. “There are no bridges,” she told them as they walked. “This far west, we won’t encounter many fast-flowing rivers. There will be mountain streams--cold and miserable to wade through, but that’s how we’ll have to do it.”

Tejohn could see no streams, only the tall grasses, the stones beneath his feet, and the blurry colors that marked the valley floor and mountains beyond. He knew from maps that the western end of the Sweeps was a bit more southern than the eastern, but it wasn’t noticeable unless the sun was very close to the horizon. And on this side, the Southern and Northern Barriers ran nearly straight, as mountain ranges go.

Arla pointed out into the middle of the valley. “Do you see Lake Windmark below?”

She gestured out into the distance. Tejohn could not see details at this distance, but he could see a long stretch of gray, the same color as the sky.
 

“Yes,” Reglis answered. Wimnel and Lar had barely spoken all day.

“It looks like a lake with a shore from up here, but in fact, it’s much wider than it appears. Deep marshy grasses surround it on the southern side, and okshim herders give it a wide berth when they have a choice.”

“Why?” Tejohn asked.

“Alligaunts, my tyr. They are thick at the western end of this valley, but some venture far to hunt. The Northern Barrier is a steeper range, with smooth cliff faces no human can scale, but that means the lake has settled in the northern side of the valley. It’s only once we get to the most western part of the Sweeps that the lake will broaden across the whole of the valley and we will be unable to avoid the water’s edge. If we keep high on these southern slopes, we should be safe for most of the trip.”

Tejohn said, “The graveyard menagerie in the Palace of Song and Morning had an alligaunt skeleton; I’ve never seen a live one, but I know they are not small.”
 

Reglis grasped his spear in both hands. “Are they so dangerous?”
 

“Each is stronger than a man,” she answered. “They prefer to ambush their prey near water, dragging them under and drowning them. It’s a nasty death, and they often hunt in a pack so that if someone rushes into the shallows to save a victim, they are taken down and torn apart, too.”
 

A grim silence settled over the group. Tejohn, knowing they were well above the hunting range of the creature, nonetheless scanned the area around them with extra scrutiny.
 

“On the other hand,” Arla added, “their tails are delicious.”
 

Lar laughed at that, and Reglis joined in. Tejohn was too hungry to laugh, but he wasn’t going to be the one to call for a rest.
 

Reglis pointed to a small cluster of twisted trees. “We should pause here for a quick meal.” He spoke with the casual confidence of a young man with nothing to prove. “We’re marching at a fair clip and should pace ourselves.”
 

Everyone seemed glad when they sat in the shelter of the trees. There were gray storm clouds overhead, but the wind kept them moving and they did not release any rain. Wimnel caught up to the group by the time they had opened their packs and taken out their food. He gently eased himself onto the ground, ate half a loaf of meatbread, and fell fast asleep.

Tejohn did not like the way Lar was looking at the injured driver. “My king,” he said quickly. “We can not lose more time, not for him. Tonight, we will let him sleep without taking a watch. It will help him to heal, but we must press on.”

Lar nodded and looked at the ground without speaking.

Arla said, “There are small mining camps all along this part of the Sweeps. I expect we’ll find one before our third day is out. We might be able to hire an okshim cart there; as you might expect, the beasts are less expensive on this side of the barrier.”

Tejohn nodded. Arla had assumed leadership of the group in all but name, and that was fine with him. It pleased him to have an experienced guide. “Is there anything else we should know?”

She glanced to the northeast with a worried expression, then looked at the ground. “I think not, my tyr.”

“Don’t keep secrets from me, soldier. If there’s a danger to the northeast we should know about, I want to hear it.”

“It’s nothing, my tyr.” Arla licked her lips. “Nothing but old folk tales.”

Lar spoke up. “Bless us with your folk wisdom.”
 

“I... My king, I am at your service. This... The Chin-Chinro do not often speak of the Qorr Valley. It’s thought to be bad luck. I myself have not thought about it for ten years or more. But last night, after the ruhgrit attacked, it came to mind again.
 

“There is a valley on the far side of the Northern Barrier. Legend says it is open on one side only, if cliff faces battered by crashing waves and great chunks of ice the size of the commander’s tower can be called ‘open.’ It is secluded, blocked by high cliffs all around, but within...”

She didn’t seem to know what to say next. Tejohn prompted her. “Here be monsters.”

“Yes,” she said with some finality. “Some say the alligaunts came from there, swimming around the rim of the Northern Barrier before the sea giants or water eyes arrived. The gigantic spiders that invaded Shadow Hall most certainly came from there. Those creatures devastated the herder clans before they made their way through the southern passes. My grandfather used to talk about the times of his grandfather’s grandfather, when feathered toads that poisoned anything they touched flew over those peaks.”

Her implication was clear. “And you think the ruhgrit have also come over those mountains. That they are the latest monster spawned in your monster valley.”

“Oh, no, my Tyr.” Arla seemed genuinely upset by Tejohn’s words. “It is not my valley. No human can even visit it, much less claim it as their own. There were passes once, but the ancient creatures destroyed them.”

“If that’s true,” Reglis said, “we should see less of the ruhgrit as we move farther west, out of their range.”

“They’re big birds,” Tejohn answered. “Their hunting range is probably larger than we’d like. We will have to watch the skies above and the shrubs at our feet for a while yet.”

Lar filled everyone’s canteen. That was servant work, but there was no one else to do it.
 

When their meal was over, Reglis woke Wimnel and helped him down the trail. Arla led the way, but Tejohn deliberately delayed Lar. “My king, I would like to see your shoulder.”

“That is not blessed,” Lar answered with a dismissive wave. He tried to push past Tejohn toward the trail.

“No, my king.” How could Tejohn keep this behavior a secret from the others? “You appointed me your shield bearer and counsel, and I can not fulfill my duties if you lie to me or keep secrets. Let me see the shoulder where you were injured. I must insist.”

After a brief staring contest, Lar shifted his cuirass and pulled up his padded sleeve. The tufts of blue hair had spread, becoming a patch of bristling fur.

“This gets worse with every spell you cast, doesn’t it?”

The king shook his head. “Each spell I bless slows the change but strengthens it, too. It’s like when you have to hold back blessings in temple. The more you restrain yourself, the more blessed it becomes.”

Tejohn’s heart sank as Lar spoke. “My king, I do not understand you.”
 

The young man became irritated. “It’s like holding back a blessing. Have you never laughed, my tyr?”

“Thank you, my king. I am not a clever man.” Tejohn had a odd idea. He reached into his pocket and took out the enchanted stone he’d gotten from Cazia Freewell. “What else are you experiencing, my king?”

“Blessing,” Lar answered. “My stomach feels empty all the bless, even after we eat.”

Fire and Fury. Tejohn had hoped the spell would change the king’s words back to what he intended. Unless that’s what he did intend to say. “My king, I must ask you this: Do you know that you are substituting the words
bless
,
blessing
,
blessed
for other words, every time you speak?”
 

Lar Italga did not respond immediately. He stared downward, mustering his concentration. With great deliberation, he said, “The creature I am becoming is saying its name. The Blessing.”

“That’s what they call themselves?” Tejohn asked. Lar nodded. “Fire and Fury, but I will not call them that. Never.”
 

Arla made her way back to them. Her blunt face and wide eyes were puzzled. “My king? My tyr? Is anything wrong?”
 

“No,” Tejohn said. He had no intention of telling them that Lar was transforming. It would have been all too easy for the others to abandon them in the Sweeps or turn their spear points against them while they slept. Lar’s curse would have to remain a secret for now.
 

The path was easier as they went farther down the mountainside. There were fewer switchbacks and less loose stone to slip on. Late in the day, Arla spotted a mountain lion skulking among the rocks above them. Tejohn and Reglis immediately readied their spears while Arla strung her bow. Lar turned and hurried back along the path toward Wimnel, who had fallen far behind. The king took the driver’s good arm, steadying him across some of the looser stones. Tejohn and the others would not slow their pace for the driver, but they certainly waited for the king.
 

“I’m sorry, my king. I will try to do better.” To his credit, Wimnel did not whine. He might have been a coward, but he could endure hardship. Lar only nodded and stayed with him, helping him over the rougher parts of the hill. The group as a whole moved somewhat more slowly, but the driver moved faster and kept pace with them. The mountain lion, for its part, decided to search for easier prey and disappeared into the rocks uphill.
 

The sun was nearing the western rim of the valley when Tejohn called for Arla. “Are we down in the Sweeps yet?” he asked.

“Yes and no, my Tyr, depending on how you measure such things. Some would say we’d entered the Sweeps when we stepped onto the scree this morning. Some when we leave the mountain side. Some when we step into our first mudhole. The land is steep to the south and less steep as you go—”

Tejohn held up his hand to stop her. “I understand. Let me ask this instead: this land has been claimed by the empire, hasn’t it? Disputed, but claimed, and storm houses have been built here for our subjects.”

She glanced at Wimnel, showing that she understood immediately. Before the empire spread, storm houses were places of shelter. In recent times, they were more likely to have a pair of sleepstones in them. Old King Ghrund, a murderous bastard if there ever was one, had put out sleepstones for his subjects in the Sweeps to care for their ill and injured...and he took them away if they rebelled. The tyrs had mocked the plan at first, but no one could deny that it had created peace.
 

But Arla explained that there were no storm houses this far south. Some of the more productive mining camps might have one, but she couldn’t say where one could be found.

“What about that?” Reglis said, scowling upslope. It was a building made of pink scholar-created stone like the palace or Fort Samsit, but partly obscured by a knot of trees.
 

They scrambled up the hill and discovered that it was not a storm house at all. Worse, the southern wall was gone.
 

“What happened here?” Reglis said as he wandered through the single room. The pink stones of the southern wall lay scattered up hill as though flung by a giant.
 

“It’s a scholar’s hut,” Arla said, “abandoned about a year, by the looks of it, and picked clean.”
 

Tejohn glanced at Lar, who looked away. Just the day before, the king had told him that some scholars lived in seclusion, studying spells, sometimes with disastrous results. Now they had found just such a place.
 

Still, it was good to stand behind a wall out of the wind. “Night will be on us soon.”
 

Lar led Wimnel to the most comfortable spot behind the wall, saw that he had water and food, then silently encouraged him to sleep. In the meantime, Arla and Reglis had gathered firewood and prepared a fire, which Lar lit for them.
 

Reglis and Arla took flutes from their packs, but they ate their dismal provisions in silence. “My king...” Reglis said. “My king, I have already sworn my life, my spear, and my duty to you, but... I’ve never seen... That man, a servant to the throne, was injured and you, his king, gave him your support.”
 

Arla interrupted. “I, too, am astonished.”
 

Tejohn shifted slightly, letting his hand fall on his sword. The captain and the guide had laid their weapons behind them, just within reach, but they still had knives. If they were about to declare him unfit, Tejohn would hear both of their death-rattles.
 

“My king,” Reglis continued, his deep-set eyes so shadowed that Tejohn could not see them at all. “I will be your most loyal servant, not just in oath but in thought and deed.”

“Reglis speaks for me as well,” Arla said, her wide eyes still and calm. “although I had not expected him to.”
 

“And me,” Wimnel said from his dark corner. “Although my service is worth little.”

Lar did not answer right away. Instead, he looked down at the fire, concentrating hard on what he had to say.
 

“My king?” Reglis asked.

“Tell. Them.” Lar finally said.
 

“My king—” Tejohn began to protest, but Lar’s expression silenced him. Tejohn sighed. The king understood his people better than Tejohn ever had, and it was time to trust him, a little.