Darkwar

by Glen Cook

  “They are out there,” Barlog said. Grauel nodded. “Just watching right now. But we will hear from them before we reach the packfast.”

  Grauel nodded again. She said, “Do not bother our superior witches with it. They know most all there is to know. They must know this, too.”

  Barlog grunted. “Walk warily tonight. And stay close. Marika, stay alert. If something happens, just get down into the snow. Dive right in and let it bury you if you can.”

  Marika put another piece of wood onto the fire. She said nothing, and did nothing, till the taller silth came from the shelter, stretched, and surveyed the surrounding land. She came to the fire and checked the cook pot. Her nose wrinkled momentarily. Travel rations were not tasty, even to huntresses accustomed to eating them.

  She said, “We will pass the rapids soon after nightfall. We will walk atop the river after that. The going will be easiest there.”

  Aside, Barlog told Marika, “So we traveled coming east. The river is much easier than the forest, where you never know what lies beneath the snow.”

  “Will the ice hold?”

  “The ice is several feet thick. It will hold anything.”

  As though the silth were not there, Grauel said, “There are several wide places in the river where we will be very exposed visually. And several narrow places ideal for an ambush.” She described what lay ahead in detail, for Marika’s benefit.

  The silth was irked but said nothing. The older came out of the shelter and asked, “Is that pot ready?”

  “Almost,” Grauel replied.

  Rested, even the older silth was more cooperative. She began moving snow about so that their pause here would be less noticeable after their departure.

  Grauel and Barlog exchanged looks, but did not tell her she was wasting her time. “Let them believe what they want to believe,” Barlog said.

  The taller silth caught that and responded with a puzzled expression. None of the three Degnan told her they thought the effort pointless because the nomads knew where they were already.

  Biter rose early that night, full and in headlong flight from Chaser, which was not far behind. The travelers reached the river as that second major moon rose, setting their shadows aspin. Once again the silth wanted to push hard. This time Grauel and Barlog refused to be pushed. They moved at their own pace, weapons in paw, seeming to study every step before they took it. Marika sensed that they were very tense.

  The silth sensed it too, and for that reason, perhaps, they did not press, though clearly they thought all the caution wasted.

  And wasted it seemed, for as the sun returned to the world it found them unscathed, having made no contact whatsoever with the enemies Grauel and Barlog believed were stalking them.

  But the huntresses were not prepared to admit error. They trusted their instincts. Again they set a watch during the day.

  Again nothing happened during the day. Except that Marika dreamed.

  It was the same, and different. All the closeness, pain, terror, darkness, hunger were there. The smells and damp and cold were there. But this time she was a little more conscious and aware. She was trying to claw her way up something, climbing somewhere, and the mountain in the dark was the tallest mountain in the world. She kept passing out, and crying out, but no one answered, and she seemed to be making no real ground. She had a blazing fever that came and went, and when it was at its pitch she saw things that could not possibly be there. Things like glowing balls, like worms of light, like diaphanous moths the size of loghouses that flew through earth and air with equal ease.

  Death’s breath was winter on the back of her neck.

  If she could just get to the top, to food, to water, to help.

  One of her soft cries alerted Grauel, who wakened her gently and scratched her ears till shuddering and panting went away.

  The temperature rose a little that day and stayed up during the following night. With the temperature rise came more snow and bitter winds that snarled along the valley of the east fork, flinging pellets of snow into faces. The travelers fashioned themselves masks. Grauel suggested they hole up till the worst was past. The silth refused. The only reason they would halt, storm or no, was to avoid getting lost: There was no chance of that here. If they strayed from the river they would begin climbing uphill. They would run into trees.

  Marika wished she could come through by day instead of by night in snow. What little she could see suggested this was impressive country, far grander than any nearer home.

  There was no trouble with nomads that night either, nor during the following day. Grauel and Barlog insisted the northerners were still out there, though, tracking the party.

  Marika had no dreams. She hoped the horror was over.

  The weather persisted foul. The taller silth said, as they huddled in a shelter where they had gone to ground early, “We will be in trouble if this persists. We have food for only one more day. We are yet two from Akard. If we are delayed much more we will get very hungry before we reach home.” She glanced at the older silth. The old one had begun showing the strain of the journey.

  Neither huntress said a word, though each had suggested pushing too hard meant wasting energy that might be needed later.

  Marika asked, “Akard? What is that?”

  “It is the name of what you call the packfast, pup.”

  She was puzzled. Was Akard the name of the silth pack there?

  The storm slackened around noon. The travelers clung to their shelter only till shadows began gathering in the river canyon. The sun fell behind the high hills while there were yet hours of daylight left.

  The silth wanted to make up lost time. “We go now,” the taller said. And the older hoisted herself up, though it was obvious that standing was now an effort for her.

  Marika and the huntresses were compelled to admire the old silth’s spirit. She did not complain once, did not yield to the infirmity of her flesh.

  Again Grauel and Barlog would not be rushed. Both went to the fore, and advanced with arrows across their bows, studying every shadow along the banks. Their noses wriggled as they sniffed the wind. The silth were amused. They said there were no nomads anywhere near. But they humored the huntresses. The old one could not move much faster anyway. The taller one covered the rear.

  Marika carried her short steel knife bared. She was not that impressed with silth skills, for all she knew them more intimately than did Grauel or Barlog.

  It happened at twilight.

  The snow on one bank erupted. Four buried savages charged. The silth were so startled they just stood there.

  Grauel and Barlog released their arrows. Two nomads staggered, began flopping as poison spread through their bodies. There was no time for second arrows. Barlog ducked under a javelin thrust and used her bow to tangle a nomad’s legs. Grauel smacked another across the back of the neck with her bow.

  Marika flung herself onto the back of the huntress Barlog tripped, driving her knife with all her weight. It was a good piece of iron taken from her dead dam’s belt. It slid into flesh easily and true.

  Barlog saw that nomad down, whirled to help Grauel, dropping her bow to draw her sword.

  Javelins rained down. One struck the older silth but did not penetrate her heavy travel apparel. Another wobbled past Marika’s nose and she remembered what she had been told to do if they were attacked. She threw herself into the snow and tried to burrow.

  A half-dozen huntresses streaked toward the stunned silth. Grauel and Barlog floundered toward them. Grauel still held her bow. She managed to get off two killing shafts.

  The other four piled onto the silth, not even trying to kill them, just trying to rip their packs off their backs, trying to wrest the iron club away from the taller. Barlog hacked at one with her sword. The blade would not slice through all the layers of clothing the nomad wore.

  Marika got herself up again. She started toward the fray.

  Javelins intercepted her, drove her back.

  Ther
e were more nomads on the bank now. At least another half-dozen. The cast was long for them, so they seemed intent on keeping her from helping.

  Then she heard sounds from the other bank. She looked, saw more nomads.

  For the first time since the fighting started she was afraid.

  One of the nomads got the iron club away from the tall silth and started toward the south bank, howling triumph.

  Marika reeled. There was an instant of touch, wrenchingly violent. Screams echoed down the canyon, to be muted quickly by sound-absorbent snow. In moments the nomads were all down, clawing their chests. Marika’s own heart fluttered painfully. She scrambled nearer Grauel and Barlog to see if the touch had affected them, too.

  For all the violence, only the older silth was badly injured. She made no complaint, but her face was grim with pain.

  Curses in dialect rolled off the slopes.

  “There are more of them,” Marika told the taller silth. “Do something.”

  “I have no strength left, pup. I cannot reach that far.”

  There was a rattling pop-pop-pop from way up on the southern side of the canyon. Some things like insects buzzed around them. Some things thumped into the snow. The taller silth cursed softly and dragged Marika down.

  The older gritted out, “You had better find some strength, Khles.”

  The tall silth snarled at Grauel and Barlog, “Get the old one to the bank. Get her behind something. All of you, get behind something.” She closed her eyes, concentrated intently.

  The popping went on and on.

  “What is that?” Marika asked as she and the huntresses neared the north bank with their burden.

  A new sound had entered the twilight, a grumble that started softly and slowly and built with the seconds, till it overpowered the popping noise.

  “Up there!” Grauel snarled, pointing to the steepest part of the southern slope.

  That entire slope was in motion, trees, rocks, and snow.

  “Move!” the tall silth snapped. “Get as far as you can. The edge of it may reach us.”

  Her tone did more to encourage obedience than did her words.

  The popping stopped.

  The snow rolled down. Its roar sounded like the end of the world to a pup who had never heard anything so loud. She crouched behind a boulder and shivered, awed by the majesty of nature’s fury.

  She looked at the silth. Both seemed to be in a state of shock. The old one, ignoring her injuries, kept looking at the nearest dead nomads in disbelief. Finally, she asked, “How did they do that, Khles? There was not a hint that they were there before they attacked.”

  Without looking her way, Grauel said, “They have been with us since the first night, haunting the ridges and trails, waiting for an opportunity. Waiting for us to get careless. We almost did.” She poked a nearby corpse. “These are the best-fed nomads I ever saw. Best dressed, too. And most inept. They should have killed us all three times over.” She eyed the silth.

  They did not respond. The tall one continued to stare up the slope whence the avalanche had come. There were a few calls in dialect still, but from ever farther away.

  Barlog was shaking still. She brushed snow off her coat. A dying finger of the avalanche had caught her and taken her down.

  The tall silth asked Grauel, “Were any of you hurt?”

  “Minor cuts and bruises,” Grauel said. “Nothing important. Thank you.”

  That startled the tall one. She nodded. “We will have to carry the old one. I am no healer, but I believe she has broken ribs and a broken leg.”

  Barlog made her own examination. “She does.”

  She and Grauel used their swords to cut poles from which they made a travois. They placed the old silth and their packs upon it, then took turns pulling. The tall silth took her turn, too. It was no time for insisting upon prerogatives. Marika helped later, when the going became more difficult and the travois had to be carried around obstacles.

  Grauel and Barlog believed there were no nomads watching anymore.

  “How did they sneak up on you?” Marika asked, trudging in the tracks of the tall silth.

  “I do not know, pup.” She searched the darkness more diligently than ever the huntresses had. Marika realized suddenly that the silth was afraid.

  III

  Nomads were no further problem. Enemies were not needed. Weather, hunger, increasing weakness due to exposure and short rations, those were enough to make the trek a misery. Marika took the travel better than her companions. She was young and resilient and not spending much energy pulling the travois.

  Thus, when it came time to take shelter, the duty fell upon her. Grauel and Barlog were so exhausted they could do little but tend the fire and stir the pot—the pot that had so little to fill it. They snarled at one another for not having had sense enough to loot the nomads. The tall silth’s pointing out that the nomads had carried nothing but weapons did not soften the dispute.

  Meth did not withstand hunger well. Already Marika felt the grauken stirring within her. She looked at the others. If it came to that desperate moment, upon whom would they turn? Her or the old silth?

  They had been five days making a two-day journey. Marika asked the tall silth, “How far must we travel yet? Surely we must be very close.”

  “Fifteen miles more,” the silth said. “A quarter of the way yet. The worst quarter. Five miles down we have to leave the river for the trails. There are many rapids where the river will not be frozen over.”

  Fifteen miles. At the rate they had been progressing since the old one got hurt, that might mean three more days.

  “Do not despair, pup,” the silth said. “I have put aside my pride and touched those who watch for us in Akard. They are coming to meet us.”

  “How soon?” Grauel asked, her only contribution to the conversation.

  “They are young and healthy and well fed. Not long.”

  Not long proved to be a day and a half. Every possible thing that could go wrong did, including an avalanche which destroyed the trail and compelled a detour. The grauken looked out of every eye, needing only a nudge to tear free. But meet those other silth they did, eight miles from the packfast, and they celebrated with what for Marika was the feast of her young life.

  After that the cold and snow should have been mere nuisances. A meth with a full belly was ready to challenge anything. But not so. They had been too long hungry and exposed. The slide toward extinction continued.

  Marika did not see Akard from outside on arriving, for they approached the stone packfast under a heavily clouded sky at a time when no moons were up. The only hints of size and shape came from lights glimpsed only momentarily. But by then she was not interested in the place except as journey’s end. She half believed she would never make it there.

  The journey from the Degnan packstead took ten nights, most spent covering the last twenty miles. For all she had food in her belly, Marika was exhausted, being half carried by the silth who had come to the rescue. And she was in better shape than any of her companions. She hoped that never again would she have to travel in winter.

  They carried her into a place of stone and she collapsed. She did not think how much more terrible it had become for her companions, all of them having been carried the past few days, lingering on the frontiers of death. She thought of nothing but the all-enveloping warmth of her cell, and of sleep.

  Sleep was not without its unpleasantness, though. She dreamed of Kublin. Of Kublin alone and terrified and injured and abandoned, surrounded by strange and unfriendly faces. It was not a dream that made sense. She began to whimper in her sleep and did not rest at all well.

  For days no one paid Marika any heed. She was a problem the silth preferred to ignore. She ate. She slept. When she recovered enough to feel curious, she began roaming the endless halls of stone, by turns amazed, baffled, awed, frightened, disgusted, lost. The place was a monster loghouse—of stone, of course—surrounded by a high palisade of stone. Its architectur
e was alien, and there was no one to tell her why things were the way they were. The few meth her own age she encountered all were hurrying somewhere, were busy, or were just plain contemptuous of the savage among them.

  The packfast was a tall edifice built upon limestone headland overlooking the confluence of the forks of the Hainlin. The bluffs fell sixty feet from the packstead’s base. Its walls rose sixty feet above their foundations. They were sheer and smooth and in perfect repair, but did have a look of extreme age. There was a wide walkway around their top, screened by a stone curtain which looked like a lower jaw with every other tooth missing. The whole packfast was shaped like a big square box with an arrowhead appended, pointing downriver. There were huntresses upon the walls always, though when Marika asked them why, they did admit that Akard had seen no trouble within living memory.

  “Still,” one with more patience than most said, “it has been a hard winter, and the northerners are not known for their brains. They may yet come here.”

  “They are not completely stupid,” Marika said. “They may come, indeed. They will look, and then they will go away. Packsteads are easier prey.”

  “No doubt. There have been rumors that nomads have been seen in the upper Ponath already.”

  Marika took a step back. She cocked her head in incredulity. “Rumors? Rumors? Do you not know why the huntresses and I came here?”

  “You were brought because you have the silth talent.”

  “I came because I had nowhere else to go. The nomads destroyed all my pack but the two huntresses who came with me. As they destroyed several other packs and packsteads before ours. Within walking distance of ours. There are tens of hundreds of them in the upper Ponath. Ten tens of tens died at our packstead.”

  The huntress’s disbelief was plain. “The sisters would not permit that.”

  “No? They did not do anything positive that I saw. Oh, they did finish the wehrlen leading the nomads, and they killed those who were plundering our packstead when they got there, but they did not go on to free the rest of the upper Ponath of invaders.”