He spoke to them both, but Nyori felt that he looked at her especially, and felt color rise to her cheeks. Her mind felt hazy, but it wasn't an unpleasant sensation. She looked at Marcellus, but he seemed absorbed in removing the packs from his grunnien, checking their rations.
Murdon gathered some sticks and twigs and placed them in a pile. "I thought a little fire would be nice if my host does not mind."
Marcellus gave him an unreadable look. "I have no flint to make the spark. But if you have some way to conjure a flame, by all means."
Nyori watched as Murdon waved his hands around the pile. Sparks danced around his fingers. He grinned as he thrust his hands into the brush. Flame bloomed from the twigs and leaves, which popped and cracked as they burned. He leaned back with a contented smile on his face.
Nyori stared in delight. "Are you sure you're not a sorcerer?"
He laughed. "I would not say that. In my times I've lived by any means, and I spent some time among the traveling Rhoma, who taught me a little on the nature of fire, as well as a few magician tricks that serve me well from time to time."
Marcellus approached with some dried meat and bread. "Eat, my friend. It is not much, but it's better than nothing."
Murdon took the food absentmindedly. "Indeed so, warrior. Many thanks to you for your kindness." The food remained in his lap as a smile creased his weathered face. "Shall I recite a song for the lady?"
She nodded excitedly. A faint, almost inaudible voice wondered why she felt so light-headed and giddy. She ignored it, lost in the childhood memory of sitting in a crowd with her parents as they listened in wonder at the tales from a traveling meister. Murdon looked much the same despite his griminess as he sat up, hands placed as though holding an invisible harp.
"This would be the dirge of the women of Riallo, sung as they watched their men go to their certain deaths, six thousand warriors riding against a host of a hundred thousand of the bestial Gorian, Fandred and savage outlanders who served Stygan the Dreadlord. Listen and you may hear the outcry of the sorrow of Riallo, as they strode boldly to their bitter end."
With a voice far more melodic than would be believed of a man of his appearance, he sang.
Day of darkness, day of sorrow
Day of death upon the morrow
Shun the darkness, shun the flame
Shun the horn that calls your name
For by that song your lives are taken
By the gods you are forsaken
Our lords go forth, but are not seen
Are not awakened as they dream
Their swords break, and their shields shatter
On the field their proud hosts scatter
Night of fire, night of death
Night is all that we have left
Eye of darkness, eye of sorrow
Eye the ravens on the morrow...
With his voice swelling in her ears, she felt unusually drowsy. Before she could see what Marcellus thought, her head touched her blankets, and she drifted...
She ran in an iridescent forest, among trees that glowed white as though they harnessed lightning. She skipped along as Aelon danced around her, graceful as gazelles with their whirling movements. She stared wide-eyed at their beauty and grace, in their flowing robes of shimmering patterns...
"Nyori."
A shadowy figure caught her eye. The cloaked stranger stood in the deep thicket, his face indecipherable. But his voice was instantly familiar. Teranse the Theurgist thrust out a hand toward her as if in warning.
"Wake up, Nyori. You are taken by the akhkharu."
Nyori awoke slowly as the dream scattered like startled rats. Her head was an anvil on her neck, but she managed to sit up groggily. Her senses immediately picked up the menace, so thick it nearly smothered her. She heard scuffing sounds and muffled grunts. In the dying embers of the fire, she beheld a sight out of her nightmares.
Murdon was killing Marcellus.
Or what looked like Murdon. The man wore the same tattered clothes, but his hair was dark and slick, the aged lines vanished. His eyes glittered; his face distorted in a feral snarl. One hand easily pinned Marcellus by the throat.
Marcellus managed to draw a dagger from his boot. Murdon easily caught his arm and twisted savagely. Nyori screamed as the arm bent the opposite direction with a sharp crack. Marcellus gave a strangled moan.
Murdon's face wrinkled in a horrific grin when he saw her. His voice was the sound of razors rubbed together. "My companions returned in failure. But I was patient. I knew if I waited, you would come to me." His fingers twirled; a black dagger appeared in his hand. "First I will slay your protector. Then I will feed on your sweet essence."
The dagger plunged. Marcellus and Nyori cried out together.
Something pulsated at her side. The patterned Glyphs on her hands glowed in response as she snatched Eymunder from the satchel on her belt. It instantly waned and lengthened into a staff with a thought.
Marcellus' struggles weakened by the second.
Nyori approached on Murdon's blind side, closing her eyes as she struck. The impact jolted her arms; sizzling heat washed over her. When her eyes opened Murdon was impossibly tall as he writhed like an injured bear. His wounded roars battered her ears as he clutched his ruined side. The stench of burned flesh almost made her gag.
Marcellus rolled sideways and snatched his sword with his good hand.
Murdon swung blindly and grazed Nyori with a clumsy backhand. As she staggered backward, Marcellus charged with a roar. Murdon was shadowy death as he seized him by the wrist.
Before Marcellus could lose his second arm, Nyori swung Eymunder at Murdon's legs. He bellowed as he stumbled.
She tried to strike again, but Murdon snarled and hoisted her by the neck. She gagged and kicked wildly at his chest and face.
Marcellus gave a wild yell and plunged the blade in Murdon's heart.
The shriek that ripped from Murdon's throat was that of a thousand ravens pouring from a nightmare as he dropped Nyori and fell to one knee. Yet he still refused to die. Blood trickled from his lips as he slowly raised his head, the grin on his face almost stopped Nyori's heart.
Marcellus shook his head dizzily as he pulled the blade free. He roared again and hacked with horrific force, severing Murdon's head from his body.
Though it seemed nothing else could shock them, they watched in fascinated horror as sparks flared from Murdon's wounds. The body ignited in bluish flames that devoured the clothes and flesh until only glowing ash remained.
Marcellus took a faltering step, then fell heavily to the earth. Nyori dropped to her knees beside him.
"You are indeed a warrior princess, milady." Marcellus' smile was weak. "Truly I am honored to have been in your company."
Nyori looked in alarm at the dagger handle protruding from his side. She pulled it out carefully, gasping as blood spurted on her hands. "Lie still. I shall try to heal you again."
"It is...too late. Poison laced that dark blade. Even now I feel it taking me away. My time has come. Do not be afraid, and do not cry, young Shama. I longed to return home, but perhaps it is only fitting I die as I lived..."
His head lolled to the side, his eyes closed and he exhaled heavily. He said no more as his body sagged and his stubborn will finally depleted, leaving behind the broken and battered body of a mere man.
Nyori desperately stripped him to the waist, trying to focus and probe him as before, but she touched only emptiness, as though reaching into a void.
There was nothing to heal.
Eymunder flared brightly, a signal fire that bathed them in golden light. She knew for certain that the staff could aid her in healing even his deadly wounds; the borrowed memories in her head assured her of that. Yet it could destroy him just as quickly. Healing took strength from the wounded as well, and his strength was all but gone.
She looked at Marcellus' face; so noble in its departure from life as the last breaths left his body. There was no voice from above to t
ell her what decision was best, no sudden wisdom to be imparted to guide her to the right decision. The winds blew in mists from the mountains, shapeless ghosts that cried as though they grieved the fallen knight already. She knew there was little time to make a choice.
The knowledge was in the remnants that the Theurgist had burrowed in her mind. Fortunately, the borrowed memories knew precisely how to form the sequence correctly. There had never been a complete master of Apokrypy until Teranse accepted the mantle. What was basic in his mind was more complex than many others could even conceive.
And he had given that knowledge to her.
With a simple focus the staff became a wand again, more suitable for intricate Glyph binding. The orb pulsated as she traced the sequence of Glyphs across his bare skin with the narrow light that beamed from the end of the wand. It was like writing without ink, trying to keep the form of each Glyph perfect at the same time. The characters lingered for mere seconds before fading into his skin.
She finished the sequence and stood. Marcellus lay completely still with his eyes closed.
"Elu annu etlu ina baraqu anna," Nyori said.
Nothing happened. Marcellus did not move or make a sound.
Nyori waited. The starlight was smothered by heavy clouds, the surrounding terrain hushed as though waiting with her.
Nothing.
Finally, Nyori sighed. Her shoulders sagged as she squeezed her eyes shut. Somehow, the words were not right. Whether it was the form of the Glyphs or the pronunciation, she didn't know. But once again, she had failed.
Misty rain fell, dampening her hair.
Thunder murmured.
The storm broke with sudden violence. Lightning flickered unceasingly, all around so that Nyori's nostrils stung from the scent of smoke, char, and sizzling ozone. Thunder rumbled so powerfully that the ground quaked with reverent submission. Nyori staggered but managed to keep her footing as she stared at the display in silent awe and more than a little fear.
Tiny fingers of electricity separated from the unceasing flashes and latched to Marcellus' body. The sizzling threads encircled, raising him until his entire body hovered just above the trembling earth.
Eymunder's orb flared golden, and though lightning struck in their vicinity, it was as though an invisible dome protected them. Nyori's hands and arms glimmered as though charged by the electricity. Her scalp tingled and her hair hovered around her face. Debris from damaged brush and turf floated in the air, and the rain fell in sheets that did not touch her. She closed her eyes and held up her arms, surrendering to the embrace of the storm.
And across Marcellus' chest, the Glyphs flared brightly.
Interlude: Stormbrow
Stormbrow waited on the peak of a small, barren rise. No hill in the Steppes was particularly tall, but any could hide a cunning band of raiders. Not that he expected to find any raiding parties. Peace was tenuous between the Onasho and the Difiju castes, but it held.
Still, peace never lasts.
Raids and battles were a way of life in the Steppes, and whoever thought otherwise would soon wake out of their dream to find themselves dead.
The wind tugged at the feathers that jutted from the comb in his hair–the eagle feather tipped in black for wisdom achieved; three tipped in red for the men he had captured in battle, and four raven feathers for the men he had killed. He had seen twenty-two winters, young to get the wisdom feather, and so was placed in charge of a scouting route. He tugged the wisent fur cloak that hung from his shoulders. The winds from the distant Dragonspine were as bitter as the mountains themselves.
Eagle Eye approached on a dun mare. The man had an excited air about himself.
What has he seen? If the hunting parties of the Difiju were near...
Eagle Eye pulled rein beside him. He was tall and lean, tanned like Stormbrow with three raven feathers and one red-tipped eagle feather in his inky hair. Despite the excited gleam in his eyes, he spoke as though discussing the weather. "Two strangers heading this way, riding grunnien. A milkhide with a woman who looks Steppe-born. Villager, I'd guess."
Stormbrow contemplated that. A milkhide out so far in the Steppes alone was unusual, but not unheard of. Sometimes a fugitive from one of their great cities would seek refuge in the Steppes. Other times it would just be a young fool testing his mettle by crossing to Epanos or Runet. But one so close to the winter lodges posed a problem. It would not do to have some strange milkhide stumble into their camp.
It might be best just to kill him and leave it at that.
That could be a problem in itself, for killing a milkhide was a delicate business. One could never tell if the man was important in his homeland or not. Killing one milkhide could lead to many more on his heels. Then there was the woman. There was no honor in killing a woman unless she showed her blade. Outlander captives did not quickly take to the Onasho lifestyle either, so making her a prisoner would most likely lead to difficulties as well, despite her being Steppe-born.
"She is probably his guide, though I've never seen a woman do so before. Are you sure they are alone?"
Eagle Eye gave him a narrow-eyed glance. The man was good at his job, and Stormbrow knew it.
Stormbrow nodded. "Let's see what they are about."
Nothing more needed to be said. They rode over the hills stunted with grass that refused to yield to the frosty touch of autumn's passing. Sagebrush and other prickly plants were abundant as well, for they were on the outskirts of the Steppes, still close to the wilds that lay to the East.
The sun was still not midway in the sky when Eagle Eye motioned that the strangers were beyond the next hill. They dismounted and kept low as they clambered up. Looking over the ridge, Stormbrow saw nothing. He gave Eagle Eye a quizzical glance, but the man seemed confident.
Sure enough, the sound of hooves and the heavy breathing of shaggy grunnien became audible. Soon afterward the milkhide rode into view along with the woman. Their saddlebags and waterskins appeared to be near empty. A sword, bow, and arrows were strapped to the milkhide's saddle. Only a fool entered the Steppes unarmed.
The grunnien's shuffling trot was strained, on the verge of collapse. The man appeared unaware, wrapped in thoughts that took him away from his mount's condition. He sat upright in the saddle, eyes staring straight ahead. His dark hair rustled behind him, and his clothes were travel-stained, flecked with mud from the storm a few past-days ago.
The woman appeared as weary as the beast she rode on. She was slender, her hair tawny and pulled into a windswept braid. Her jewelry was customary of the Steppes: noticeable but nothing to attract robbers. The most striking thing was not her appearance, but the staff lashed to her saddle. It appeared to be made of glass or clear crystal, catching the light as they rode. She leaned forward and spoke, but her words were inaudible.
The man abruptly pulled rein. His mount snorted and quivered from fatigue. The man's eyes pierced the barren hills. "You can come out," he said in a strong, clear voice. "We mean no harm, and our grunnien are tired. I wish to speak of trade."
Stormbrow exchanged surprised looks with Eagle Eye. They had made no noise, he was sure of it. However, there was nothing to do but reveal themselves. They stood as the strangers wheeled their mounts around to view them.
"If you will stay there," Stormbrow said, "we will ride to you."
The man nodded. Stormbrow and Eagle Eye descended back to their horses.
"He is no mere milkhide lost in the Steppes," Eagle Eye said. "And the woman must be a Shama."
"A Shama?" Stormbrow tried to keep the disbelief from his voice. "She is too young."
"How else did they know we were watching them? She saw us with her Other Eye."
Stormbrow repressed a shudder. The Sha made him uneasy. He regarded them with great respect, but their powers made them something beyond human. He never felt comfortable around them. It was unnatural to do the things they did.
"Perhaps," he said. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"
Th
ey rode to where the stranger waited patiently with his hands on the pommel of his saddle. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with gray piercing eyes that had seen much. He appeared unafraid, yet not arrogant. The woman appeared around their age, maybe younger. She did not appear surprised by their appearance. That meant she knew The Onasho by sight. Perhaps she was of the Steppes, as Eagle Eye had suggested.
"May the peace of my heart be upon you and your people." The man made the circular sign of goodwill with the first two fingers of his right hand, surprising Stormbrow once again.
"Your peace is ours, and our peace yours until you choose to part from us." He almost winced as he repeated the gesture, a guarantee of the man's safety. He had certainly not intended to offer the peace, but he could not refuse the greeting without insult. "I am Stormbrow of the Onasho caste. This is Eagle Eye."
The man nodded respectfully. "The lady with me is Nyori, a Shama from the Northern Steppes under my escort." Stormbrow looked again at the woman, who met his gaze challengingly. She still looked too young, but it seemed that Eagle Eye was right again. Why a milkhide escorted her instead of a Steppe brother was the real question.
The man looked toward the horizon and spoke his next words softly, as if they were not important. "To the Onasho I am known as Silver Horn."
Eagle Eye made a gurgling noise in his throat, and Stormbrow felt his eyes widen.
Everything had changed.
STORMBROW SENT EAGLE Eye ahead to make preparations for their guest. Silver Horn's massive grunnien was not fit for anything more than a casual stride, and the Shama's seemed little better. Occasionally Stormbrow glanced at the man beside him. Silver Horn was regarded as a man of fame among the Steppe People, one of the few milkhides deemed honorable to them.
The Eye of Everfell Page 20
