by Ru Emerson
“Interesting,” Ylia snorted. “You might call it that.”
“Mmm. We have a friend, it appears.”
She laughed grimly. “No friend of mine.” Her fingers closed around the broken shard and she pressed it into his palm as she stood. “Who might a knife like that belong to?”
He turned the knife over, ran a thumb gingerly along the edge. It was sharp, would easily cut to the bone. “I should know of this. Stone knives—well, no matter. I will think on it.” He scanned the strewn boulders. “The one who threw this could be anywhere. We had better leave.”
“Before Marhan becomes impatient.”
Golsat laughed, pocketed the knife and pushed her down the trail before him. “When is he not? But for the safety of your four-footed friend, I think we'll give them another target. Whoever they are.” Ylia picked up Nisana, let her climb into her pouch again.
Mothers. He takes these things so calmly; that's bravery for you. It didn't occur to her he thought almost exactly the same thing.
Matter closed. She strode forward, put on as much speed as she dared with such treacherous footing, so as not to hold them up. But she had a battle a while later when she confided to the brothers what had happened, for nothing would do but that Brendan must return and find the thrower of the knife.
“I would let it be, brother,” Brelian said lightly, though even he looked, finally, a little irritated with Brendan's single-mindedness. “We may need you later—alive, please—and there is a long way to go before dark.” But Brendan was determined, and Ylia's patience, tenuous at the moment anyway, finally snapped.
“All right, where do you intend to find him?” she demanded. “Do you think he is waiting there still, for you to come and slay him? By the Black Well, Bren, you could hide a barn in these rocks, let alone a man—or anything else! Have you eyes all about your head? And an inner sense to tell you when you need them behind you?” He hesitated. “I already told you I could sense nothing, human or animal, for leagues around us. What, then, does that leave you?” Brendan paled noticeably, though his eyes were still set. “Forget the thing and keep your eyes open. I wager you will not need to go in search of it at all. The way our luck has run of late, it will find us!”
Of all the enemies one might encounter, the greatest is fear. So had I heard most of my life. They who tell you this fall to add that none believe it until chance places them in the path of terrors. I know the truth of it just so, and more than once even I was nearly defeated by awaiting horror before I saw the physical enemy. In this, young Ylia and the child Lisabetha knew more than I—or, in any event, learned it harder and sooner.
14
It was no great distance at all to the narrow ravine. Footing within was treacherous, for there was loose rock and brush, and much of the flat inner surface was taken up by a swift-moving creek. But it was short, and they emerged without further mishap onto Marhan's ledge. A narrow trail, the merest depression in the surrounding grasses, led nearly due north, holding close to the western cliffs. The land to the right was level for perhaps a dozen lengths, then fell smoothly away, sloping gently for perhaps another five lengths. It sheared off abruptly then, and the opposite wall of that canyon reared high, a few ragged trees clinging to sheer walls and ledges. The hollow roar of a great waterfall at some depth between the stone walls echoed across the clearing.
There was a brief halt, only enough to allow Golsat to catch up. Ylia, moved by some odd, nervous prickling, took a few hesitant steps to the side, let her gaze wander. We would be fortunate to reach the far end of the ledge before dark, never mind the valley beyond it. But she could see Marhan's valley, a pale green blurred by distance and a mist of ground fog. And the way between was straight and flat.
To the west, cliffs sloped raggedly up. Beyond them, snow-covered peaks were already shrouded in thick cloud: the sun would be setting early. A few clutches of black pine dotted the sward; heavy forest held the northern slopes. A flight of small birds swooped low, vanished across the southern ridges.
A profound discomfort nagged at her inner being. ‘Search,’ she whispered to herself. Alone—she could, given a little time, though not very thoroughly. Nisana slept heavily against her back, didn't stir at her weak mind-touch. “I mistrust this place, Marhan.” The words were out before she realized she intended to speak at all. She bit her lip.
The Swordmaster turned on his heel; his mouth was set. “Mistrust.” He heaped sarcasm onto the word. “Well, then, I hope you have another way for us to go! Or shall we stay here the night?”
“You—do not sense anything, do you?” Brelian asked. Reluctantly she shook her head. Nothing she could lay a finger, or a name to. But—
“Vapors, damn it, boy!” Marhan snapped. He had limped most of the afternoon and was in a surly mood indeed.
“No such thing, this is me, remember? I only said—”
“I say we move on,” Marhan overrode her rudely. “Now. Before the weather blows up, as it looks ready to do. It is cold, it is getting late, we have perhaps an hour of sunlight. But I need not tell you that, need I?”
“Have you seen trace of game? Anything at all?” she asked, not without qualm. Bad to press Marhan when he was in such a foul mood; the more so when she knew she could give no cause for fear. What is wrong with me? A nice, clear trail, the ending in plain sight—have I reached the point of vapors after all? She thrust the thought aside angrily. Damn the man! She glared at him.
Marhan was shaking his head impatiently. “Of course not, I wasn't looking for game! I was looking for a way off this damned plateau and into that valley for the night! Unless,” he added nastily, “you would rather sleep on rock again?”
“Touchy old fool!” she mumbled to herself.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she snapped aloud. “I said nothing!” Levren stepped neatly between them.
“Come, you have set us on guard, eh? We will be all right. It is still daylight, after all.”
Ylia caught a grip on her temper and held it. Whatever was wrong with her, there was no cause to alienate the Bowmaster. “Levren, it was daylight when that bat-creature attacked us.” She drew a deep breath, expelled it in a rush, adding, as he patted her shoulder, “Do not speak to me, please, as though I had lost my wit. I haven't!” He shrugged, stepped aside.
“That stone knife—are you certain it is not that which has you—” That was Brendan at her shoulder.
“Stone knife? What stone knife?” Lisabetha jumped to her feet and pushed past Marhan. Ylia spared Brendan a hard look as Golsat drew the blade and held it out. Lisabetha gazed at it intently; she would not touch it. “Where—where was this found?”
Golsat gestured with it. “Yonder, just into the stone field.” He caught her arm, then, for she had gone dead white.
“There are tales of—no.” She shut her mouth tightly, turned and tore loose from his grasp. Golsat frowned at the knife, restored it to his inner pocket.
Ylia scanned the trail, the land to both sides of it, the ravine behind them. Her own face was almost as pale as Lisabetha's, but her mouth was set, her eyes still dark with anger. “I have not lost my nerve, Bren, if that is what you think.” Her voice barely carried to him, near as he stood. “There is something. Here. Something wrong, though I cannot put a name, or even a kind of wrong to it. But there is something.” She swung around to face him, gazed in turn at her companions. “And I warn every one of you, right now. Watch! Since we go on—” Marhan nodded grimly. “Then let us go! As the Swordmaster has so kindly reminded me, we have no time to waste!”
Marhan mumbled something, glared at her one last time—she matched his glare with one of her own—and started out at a goodly pace. Malaeth squeezed the swordswoman's shoulder in silent sympathy as she and Brelian passed.
'Nisana.’ ‘Mmmph.’ Mind-speech had finally made contact, only to encounter a thoroughly asleep cat, one not at all pleased to be wakened. ‘Nisana!’ ‘Mmm—what?’ Mothers, is it something in the air, or are they kin? Yli
a wondered sourly. Touchy creatures! ‘We need to search.’
A pause. Then, sharply: ‘Why? I sense nothing. We searched in the rock field, again at the head of the ravine. I was asleep, Ylia. Make your own search!’
'I have. I can find nothing. But—’
'And so you woke me. You are as bad as Lisabetha,’ she grumbled, and stretched hard. ‘Have you considered there might be nothing?’
'That is the third time I have been accused of cowardice,’ Ylia stormed at her. ‘And there is something—’
'There is nothing!’ Nisana was worse than Marhan, given the right circumstance, and being roused from her afternoon nap was certainly one such. ‘I sense nothing. This is not like the other places, where things were.’ Silence. Ylia could feel the effort it took for the cat to get control of her anger. ‘Ylia. By your own Mothers, I never implied you coward. But—there—is—nothing—here!’ Her mind-speech reverberated.
Ylia's hands curled into fists. ‘Oh—go back to sleep!’
'I intend to.’ She mumbled to herself as she turned, seeking a comfortable position. Not far ahead, Marhan was still grumbling under his breath.
Chill air brushed her face; she pulled the cloak closer as a shadow obscured the sun. The upper peaks were buried under cloud, taking the sun under. Marhan's valley was rapidly vanishing in feathery drifts of mist.
An hour's steady walking brought them halfway down the ledge. The sun was gone for good; the world had turned a dreary, damp grey. Sheer streamers of fog floated over the ground, blown by a fitful breeze.
Marhan stopped, motioned the company close. “I daresay you'd like a rest. But—”
“No.” Malaeth was winded but determined. “Not here.” She glanced in Ylia's direction, but the girl's eyes were closed as she concentrated, oblivious for once of the reactions of those around her. Marhan rolled his eyes.
“No.” Brendan shook his head. He stared at Ylia. What has frightened her, who fears no more of anything than I do? It worried him, both her odd reaction and the fact that he could do nothing about it. “Let us go on; there will be plenty of time for rest when we reach lower ground.” He moved to Ylia's side, roused her with a touch as Marhan started off once again.
They had barely begun to move when thick cloud draped down the mountainside: one moment they could see, if not any great distance; the next they were enveloped in a moist, impenetrable curtain.
Seven hells! Marhan stopped short. It's going badly, the fool girl—no, he really couldn't blame it on her, things didn't go bad for thinking them. All the same, he was far from happy at the moment. Quit fussing, old man; think instead! “Ho, Levren!” he called out finally. His voice rang overloud, he hastily lowered it. “We had better walk in file here. All of you, hold onto the person before you, lest we lose one another. This should thin below but we must get there first.”
“I'd think so.” Levren's calm voice reassured him. They'd get there; of course they would. And the fog would be thinner.
Someone gripped his shoulder; Ylia. Hard to tell features, even so close, in this soup of a fog, but the plaits gave her away. “We will lead, Marhan. Nisana and I.” She eased past him before he could agree or argue, ignored the dubious look he gave her, and started off. Marhan sighed, caught at her shoulder, felt a reassuring tug on the hem of his cloak.
Not as useful in fog as at night, the second level of Sight, but better than a pair of normal eyes. Better, certainly, than Marhan's eyes. Ylia forced herself to a slow, reasonable pace: faster or slower and the old man would think her nervous or hesitant. Nisana climbed to her shoulder to aid her with cat's vision—her own inner strength bolstering the girl's use of the Sight.
Their progress slowed; the fog thickened as the sky grew dark with coming night, and now there was rock underfoot where small slides had come down. For the most part, however, the trail remained clear. Ylia scowled at it, at the scarce visible rocks and trees they occasionally passed. Her mistrust was growing by the moment. But there was no other way; without the trail as guide, they'd be hopelessly lost in moments.
She smiled briefly, humorlessly. Could anyone have seen their progress, they'd surely have laughed: she in the lead, a small black and orange cat teetering on her shoulder, both peering uncertainly into the fog, she calling aid to those behind; Marhan limping, scowling and chewing at his moustaches, holding firmly to her free shoulder. Golsat holding to his; Malaeth behind Golsat, clinging to the ties of his jerkin and Lisabetha holding the edge of the old woman's cloak. Brelian with a hand on her arm, Brendan holding the edge of his brother's cloak, and Levren at the rear, one hand holding Bren's cloak, and his free hand, like Bren's, holding a drawn sword. We must resemble a company of blind mummers.
'Ylia.’ A soft murmur in her mind. ‘There is an unwholesome feeling to this mist. Although—I cannot precisely say why.’ As close to an apology as she'd ever get from Nisana, but at the moment more than welcome.
'Search, then. Please. I will be more glad than you could guess if you prove me wrong. But I think—’ The words died away; she gagged, stumbled, nearly unseating Nisana, as a gust of pure Fear struck, fresh and close at hand! It was gone in the same instant, leaving her to wonder what she had sensed. Marhan's fingers tightened on her shoulder. “Sorry, Marhan. A rock.”
“What—was—that?” He hadn't even heard her: his voice was hoarse, unsteady, but he had the presence of mind to keep it low.
How did he, of all people, sense that? Mothers and all the gods at once, was it clear to more than me? “'Ware, Swordmaster!” A tickling of it stole across her mind, raising the hairs on her neck. Nisana growled low in her throat. To the left—no—right? ‘Nisana?’
'I cannot tell!’
'It is here. With us.’ Damn the fog, I can barely see a pace before me and it's not yet dark. ‘We—we'll have to stop—we'll have to—’ Her thought was a wild babble; somehow, half-ill with terror, she caught it and forced it still.
'Where, girl?’ Nisana's thought was no more controlled than her own. The Fear nudged at them, stealthily. ‘Keep moving, leave it behind—if we can.’ Rock clattered down across the trail not far behind.
'Nisana, if we—’ Ylia's breath caught in her throat. The Fear struck again, hard, just in front of her.
“Draw sword!” Marhan had felt it. “Something unclean walks this ledge with us!” Nisana sprang to the ground. The screel of several swords drawn at once was drowned by a terrified scream and sounds of struggle.
“Lisabetha! Lisabetha, no! I will keep you safe, I swear it, do not fight me!” Brelian's voice overrode hers. Ylia pushed back past the Swordmaster, who crouched a little to the left of the path, blades in hand, peering near-sightedly into the fog. He was swearing under his breath. Lisabetha, a dim shape in a thinning patch of grey, struggled with Brelian like a mad thing. A blur of movement—she threw him across her body and to the ground as though he were a child, turned and sped under Levren's arm, hared back down the trail. The rest of the company stood rooted in shock.
Ylia was the first to move. Marhan's shout reached her; she slowed only to call over her shoulder: “Guard the others, I will get her! She is not worth two lives!” But as she ran headlong after the girl, boots thudded after her. Brelian.
“You cannot deny me. I lost her, mine to regain her!”
“With my aid,” she panted. “You cannot see five paces in this!” But the fog was thinning, drifting across the trail in swirling eddies as a cold air blew down from the heights. Clearly, all at once, they could see the girl not far ahead—a slender, flying form, her cloak twisting wildly behind her. But, with each step, they were gaining.
Lisabetha—and what? Small, pale, spidery things leaped and fell from the ledges and overhanging rock, more sprang from the trees and she was surrounded. Then, with a horrid shriek, she was down. At that moment, a massive shielding dropped away. Ylia staggered back into Brelian, who had stopped as though struck. The Fear-That-Follows! She gagged, would have fallen, but Brelian grabbed her arm a
nd shook her fiercely.
“There is no time for that, we will lose her!”
She swallowed, fought terror. It receded, a little, at least to the point where she could again move. Lisabetha had risen to her feet once more, but could not break free. Brelian drew his sword, slipped his dagger from its arm sheath and cried: “Lisabetha! To your aid!” and he was gone. Go, don't think, just do it! She gripped her hilts hard, ran forward to meet the horror that was already turning on them.
For a space, then, she was fighting for her life and could take no stock of whether Lisabetha still lived. Brelian fought with savage determination an arm's length away, but could make no headway. Thrust, parry, duck as a rock hurled at her head crashed into the ledges behind. Lunge. The Fear was a constant pressure against her inner being. How many of the foul, many-legged things she slew she could no longer recall. But slowly they were being driven back, she and Brelian, back up the trail. And sounds of battle behind told her the rest of the company was already beset.
Time ceased to have meaning. Then her head cleared a little, and she found herself standing against the western wall of the ledge, a narrow stone shelf behind her heels marking the end of any retreat, from there fighting an enemy to which there was no end, though the bodies of their fallen littered the trail, and the ground as far as she dared look. Brelian—there, a length away, dangerously in the open. Lisabetha—perhaps. And Brelian was still trying to cut through the foe that way. Levren and Golsat stood together, shielding Malaeth, who crouched in terror under a slab of rock, while Marhan fought grimly away to the left of them. Brendan, somewhat to her surprise, had taken a position hard against her left shoulder and was wielding his blades with cool skill, crying encouragement to the others: “Ho, Golsat, that was a good thrust! Brother, to your right—hah! A fine play, if a trifle shorter than I like them. But a good height for removing heads from shoulders, eh, my Lady?”
“Perfect, my Lord!” she shouted back, trying to match his banter. But it was hopeless. Hopeless as any chance that we might win free of this place. That any of us should live to see the sun rise. But—but to die at the hands of these... The Fear clung to her like the cloying smell of death; she shook her head in a vain attempt to clear it, fought even harder.
