Wings of Wrath (13 page)

If she stared at it long enough it seemed she could begin to feel its baleful power as well. A cold chill crept up her spine, confusing the rhythm of her wing stroke; her heart filled with a sudden desire to be heading somewhere else, anywhere else. It was hard to continue flying north once the effect had taken hold. If she stared at the Wrath long enough it became hard to fly anywhere.

But the Guardian named Rhys was heading north, directly toward it, and so she followed.

She had picked up the man's trail outside some kind of meetinghouse in the Kierdwyn Protectorate, where dozens of his kind were gathered. Finding him had been no easy task, since all she'd had to go by was a fleeting moment's memory from outside Danton's palace, snatched just after the Souleater had struck her down from the sky. There had been no more than a few seconds for her to absorb the battle scenario in all its surreal splendor: A single warrior bravely standing his ground against a creature out of legend. A white-bearded Magister who seemed content to watch the battle, not lifting a finger to help. And Magister Colivar, standing off to one side as if stunned, his hands clenched into fists at his side. Lying on the ground, her breath knocked out of her by her sudden transition, she'd watched just long enough to see the warrior thrust his spear into the great creature, to feel the earth shake with its death convulsions, and then she had fled the scene. Any longer and the Magisters would surely have found her there . . . and their wrath was something she feared even more than Souleaters.

Now the Souleater's killer was heading north, with a woman by his side. Kamala had learned enough about the Guardians from snatches of conversations overheard outside the meetinghouse—a hawk's hearing could be as good as its eyesight with sorcery to enhance it—to understand why this one had been able to bring the creature down. If anyone really knew what the Souleaters were about it would be these specialized warriors, who trained and studied and meditated each day in the steadfast belief that their ultimate destiny was to do battle with the creatures. And of them all, only this one had proven his capacity.

Kamala had followed these two Guardians for days now, soaring high overhead until her borrowed wings ached. Each night she descended to some secret place that was out of their sight and reclaimed her human flesh, forcing herself to focus upon being human again until the ecstasy of flight faded from her memory and she could sleep, albeit fitfully. Then the sun would rise all too soon and the warriors would saddle up again, and the journey would begin anew. . . .

If any man knew what the Souleaters were about, this one called Rhys nas Kierdwyn surely did.

If he had been alone she might have approached him directly, but he was not. And for reasons Kamala did not fully understand, the presence of a woman by his side made her uneasy. It probably wouldn't have if the woman had been decked out in a stylish riding gown, trailing silk skirts sidesaddle over the flanks of her mount. Such a woman Kamala would simply disdain and dismiss, a mere traveling accessory to the one who really mattered. But no, this woman was clearly a comrade-at-arms in every sense of the word. And that bothered her.

Why?

You are jealous,
she thought.

What a bizarre thought! Jealous of a morati?

The woman was dressed in a man's garb, but not in any manner that kept her true sex hidden. She had not flirted with the men outside the meetinghouse as a normal woman might have done, but Kamala was willing to bet that the other Guardians were not unaware of the difference between them, or its sexual potential. Yet they all kept a respectful distance, of their own accord. Sometimes one or the other would make a joking comment about her effect on them all, but even then they were laughing with her, not at her.

True acceptance.

It burned her to see it. Why? Because they accepted this warrior woman for what she truly was, not for some role that she must play in order to win men's favor? Because she did not have to pretend to be something less than a woman to win a respected place among them?

If the Magisters had half so much tolerance, Kamala thought bitterly, things might be very different for her now. And at night, in her fitful dreaming, she imagined what that might have been like for her. To be part of their brotherhood without the need to deny her sex. Simply accepted.

She kept her distance.

Rhys and Namanti reached the top of Branwyn Ridge just before sunset. It had been a hard day of riding and the horses were clearly less than enthused about being prodded up the steep incline at the end of so many grueling hours. Namanti's mount in particular, a bulky Skandir-bred gelding with thickly tufted ankles, whinnied repeated protests as she urged it up the slope. The two packhorses, laden with supplies for the journey, suffered in stoic silence behind them, but found the going no easier.

There was supposed to be a pass some miles farther north, but neither suggested they ride that far before nightfall. They were coming close to the Wrath of the Gods now, and the next few miles might well bring them within its sway. No man in his right mind would spend a minute more in that baleful region than he had to. Not to mention that animals could often sense the Wrath before men did; sometimes horses would panic when they caught their first whiff of it, and bolt for freedom in a desperate attempt to get away from some unseen, unnamed enemy. In a place like this, where even a sane horse found the footing precarious, such behavior could result in injury or even death.

As the gods had intended, Rhys reflected darkly.

On the other hand, a man could pit the force of human self-control against the ancient curse, and perhaps stand his ground for a while. Some did better than others. A few men, like Rhys, could get to within sight of the Spears before the pressure became unbearable. When men had to go closer than that it generally took a good bout of drinking to get them started, and twice as much drinking when they came back home to forget what they had seen. Sometimes for public rituals a handful of Magisters would be brought in to mute the curse's power so that the local reigning
lyr
could offer prayers of thanksgiving in the very shadow of the Spears without being driven mad. But even that was a temporary fix at best. And the fact that the Magisters hated the Wrath and would rather be anywhere else on the face of the earth than within reach of its power was not lost on anyone.

Rhys remembered one day not so long ago when he had come close enough to a Spear to touch it without such assistance. That he could remember the incident without cringing was a testament to how weak the Wrath had become.

If its power is fading, then it cannot protect us any longer
.

Daylight was fading now, and the mountainous landscape ahead of them was an eerie sight, misty shadows creeping toward the east like ghostly fingers. Here and there the low-angled light would pick out the upper edge of a granite cliff, or the summit of some wind-carved monument, setting the tip alight with bright orange fire. It was an ephemeral beauty that vanished moments later, as quickly as it had come, as dusk conquered the peaks and the shadows of the coming night grew deep and black.

“You wanted to come up here tonight. Why?” Namanti rode as close to Rhys as she dared, given the restlessness of her mount. The husky creature had been trained for battle, and could stand its ground in the face of a full cavalry charge if necessary, but the Wrath emitted a different kind of fear. Clearly the horse was not happy at all about this journey. “Remind me.”

Peering into the distance, Rhys looked for motion. Any motion. They were close enough to the Wrath now that animals would be loath to make their home here, which meant that the only creatures moving among these shadows should be those who had some pressing reason to do so.

Or men.

But he could see nothing. The shadows were already too deep, the valleys too dark. They had come too late.

“I've had an odd feeling all day,” he murmured. “Of being watched, somehow. I was hoping . . .” His voice trailed off, fading into silent frustration. At last he shrugged. “It's too late to see anything from here.”

Her expression was solemn. “You know that's a common reaction to the Wrath, yes? Sensing enemies where there are none?”

He stared out over the mountains. “I know.”

“This feels different than that?”

He nodded.

“All right, then. That's good enough for me.” She wheeled her horse around and nodded toward the south. “I saw a place a short bit back that will serve for a good camp. Out of sight from most directions, with a good vantage point for a sentry. I assume we're keeping watch from now on?”

He nodded, but still did not move.

“Rhys?”

“I had a dream last night, that something was waiting for us in Alkali.” He shook his head. “Something that won't cross the border.” He pointed to a set of three stark granite spires rising up from deep within the Alkali Protectorate. The tips of the Three Sisters glowed orange against the darkening sky. “Somewhere near those.”

“You sure?”

Lips set tightly, he shook his head. “I'd hoped if we came up here I could see something to confirm it. Not sure what. But it's too dark to see anything at this point.”

She said it quietly. “Bad dreams are also a symptom of the Wrath.”

This time he nodded stiffly. “I know.” He turned his horse southward to follow her; his expression was grim. “Believe me, I know.”

He'd been this far north before, several times. He knew what the magic of the gods could do to a man's mind, even a man who was half-
lyr
. He knew that rational thought became progressively more difficult as one approached the Spears, and paranoia took root all too easily. He knew that when you got close enough every rock seemed to hide an enemy, and every breeze seemed to carry baleful sorcery in its wake.

But that doesn't mean nothing's out there,
he told himself stubbornly. And he took the first watch himself that night, knowing that he would not be able to sleep.

The Guardians were traveling a strange route that sometimes proceeded logically, following the low points in the topography but at other times snaked its way directly over the tops of ridges or mountains, as if the two travelers were seeking the most difficult possible path. At one point the going was so difficult that Kamala could tell that the horses were straining to make the climb, while she could see that a few miles ahead of them there was a dip in the ridgeback that would have allowed for easy crossing. From what she could hear of their conversation they seemed to know the pass was out there, but they still chose to take the harder route. Perhaps they had gotten as close to the Wrath as their horses could tolerate. Even from the height of her skyborne vantage point Kamala could see how edgy the animals were becoming and it was not hard to figure out why. Most of the native wildlife had fled this region long ago, and those few animals that had remained behind were scrawny, nervous things, barely half the size that they should be. If left to their own devices, Kamala had little doubt that the horses would turn tail and head south as fast as their hooves could take them. More than once the two travelers had to work hard to urge their mounts forward, yanking on the long reins that led the pack animals to get them to cooperate.

The lack of local wildlife had complicated Kamala's journey considerably. In the form of a hawk she generally had little trouble bringing down enough food to sustain herself, and while the human Kamala might have gone hungry rather than sink her teeth into a raw, bleeding field mouse, something about being in bird form seemed to negate her normal disgust. With a hawk's wings to carry her through the air and sorcery to enhance her senses and her speed, hunting did not usually take any more time than unpacking supplies in human form would have. But now, in this benighted region, things were no longer so easy. Her sorcery was showing signs of becoming affected, and since she relied upon it for hunting, that was not a good thing. One night she decided to try a more direct approach and simply conjured food for herself. The spell took more than an hour to focus properly and eventually produced a loaf of bread teeming with worms and a half a round of cheese that smelled so vile she couldn't bring herself to taste it. Better to go hungry.