LAECCAN WATERS
Tarranau struggled to his feet, gasping for breath in the thin mountain air. He stood high above the valley, heading north through a saddle between two ridges. Behind him, Sawwaed and Ceinder leant against a rock, sweat pouring from their foreheads. Further down the mountain, Atyniadol, Ddifeddianedig, and Bwyell climbed upwards, their pace slow and their faces showing signs of extreme exertion. Only Fynyddwr was unfazed. He sat up above, watching the rest of the group struggle while he preened and combed his hair.
Tarranau growled a curse in Fynyddwr’s direction. Sawwaed echoed it, and Ceinder burst out laughing. She kissed Tarranau on the cheek before setting off up the mountain, looking back at her husband with a “Well, are you coming?” glance.
Sawwaed chuckled, his armour clanking as he moved. “You sure she’s not a firemage? She’s got enough spirit for one.”
“Don’t remind me.” Tarranau shook his head and set off after his wife. Only a little over a year ago, he was expecting to graduate into the watermage guild in Tregonethra, then live a damp but comfortable life as a ship’s mage, or perhaps a teacher. Now, he was heading over the mountains north of Tri-Hauwcerton, thousands of miles from his former home. And he was married. “What a difference a year makes.” He grinned and put on a burst of speed to catch up to Ceinder.
“So you made it. Thought I’d have to pitch a tent up here.” Fynyddwr put away his comb and cocked his head to one side as he looked past Tarranau. “Might have to, if Ddif doesn’t move faster.” The spiritmage was in poor shape. Of the seven travellers, Ddifeddianedig and Atyniadol were the two who had not had strenuous physical jobs before departing on this journey, and it was showing as they climbed through the mountains. They would likely be able to keep up before too long, but for now they were a constant drag on the speed of the group.
“We aren’t all born mountain hoppers, you know.”
“True, lass, but if they want to make it across, they need to learn fast. Weather’s going to go bad tonight, and we need to be in a cave. And there’s none near here.”
Tarranau looked perplexed. “How do you know that? No one’s ever been here before.”
“Mountains are mountains, Tarranau. Learn the rock and the shape, and you’ll know whether there’s caves about or no.”
Sawwaed arrived, Atyniadol leaning on his arm. Her face was bright red, but she remained standing. The husband and wife pair were an odd combination, Sawwaed tall, muscular, dark-skinned and fair-haired, reflecting his desert origin. Atyniadol was from Tri-Hauwcerton, a city tucked deep in the mountains where much of life was lived underground. As such, she was pale, quite short, and with long hair of a deep rust colouration. Exact opposites in every way. Perhaps that was why they fitted together so well.
Next Bwyell arrived. Tarranau barely knew him, for Bwyell had been hired by Ddif as a bodyguard and spent little time in conversation. He was squat and powerful, always clothed in heavy armour, and with his long hair pulled back in braids that hung from under his helmet.
Ddifeddianedig was the last to arrive, panting and wheezing as he came to a stop. His bearing possessed none of the stately grandeur it had when Tarranau first met him, and his voice had lost its aura of overpowering command. Of course, once the spiritmage got his breath back and his clothing sorted, all would be back to normal. Ddif was nominally the leader of this expedition, and certainly the financier, but most decisions were undertaken in a democratic way. And up here, amongst mountains that had swallowed many a fool adventurer, everyone relied on Fynyddwr’s experience to keep them safe.
Even so, there had been close calls. Tarranau had tumbled down a scree field, brought up short only by the rope attaching him to the rest of the party. Bwyell had fallen as well, thundering down the mountain until he slammed into a boulder. The soldier’s heavy armour had protected him, but he suffered cracked ribs and a plethora of bruises all the same. Ceinder had fixed the ribs, but the bruises only time had healed. Others carried injuries as well, for these were not like the mountains of Tri-Hauwcerton, hospitable to climbers and safe to live upon. The great tors seemed to despise living creatures, berating them with rockfalls, dead-end gullies, hidden saddles, sheer cliffs and gusts that threatened to sweep travellers away.
The group had set forth from Tri-Hauwcerton when the spring thaw ended and the mountains rid themselves of their coat of snow. It was now the middle of summer, and they had yet to reach Gysegar Fynadid, a giant mountain that towered above all others and was visible from Tri-Hauwcerton itself. Fear was beginning to creep through the party, a fear they would be trapped in these mountains come fall, and that autumn storms would leave them at the bottom of some valley, forgotten like so many other adventurers who had dared to reach Gysegar Fynadid.
Fynyddwr looked over the assembled group and snorted. Three of them might be mages, but they were raw beginners when it came to journeys amidst the peaks. Still, they tried hard. He stood from his perch upon the boulder and waved them on, setting a harsh pace over the saddle. Tonight they hunted for a cave, and Fynyddwr was determined to find one before the onset of twilight. He had already spent too many nights beneath a damp and dreary sky.
Tarranau and Sawwaed kept pace, but their breathing came laboured and heavy, Sawwaed’s all the more so because of the armour he wore. Made of overlapping layers of metal and stone, it could stop even the heaviest of blows, but the weight of the armour was commensurate with its protective qualities. The desert-dweller had been a factory worker in Bhreac Veryan when he saved Tarranau from being robbed and murdered in an alley, and at the time had been of burly physique. Compared to his current form, the old Sawwaed would have appeared skinny and unfit, for the better part of a year in the armour had shaped him into a rock of a man.
For his part, Tarranau was far different than the callow lad who had departed from his home that long year ago. His appearance was little changed, but it was in his eyes the difference was visible. The worst fights the watermage had prior to his journey were a few spats of childhood anger. Since then, Tarranau had slain fifty men or more, some innocent, most not. Their faces gnawed at the edge of his mind, and many nights Tarranau would lay awake, staring upwards until Ceinder was able to coax him into sleep.
Meeting Ceinder in Tri-Hauwcerton had been a blessing, for she had brought a calming presence into his life that eased his heartache and complimented his talents. Ceinder was as gifted as Tarranau, but where his skills allowed him to manipulate water, her skills lay with the working of stone and metal, and she had been trained as a stonemage from a young age. When Tarranau and Sawwaed had been forced into accepting this journey to the north by Ddifeddianedig, the watermage had feared losing Ceinder, for they had known each other but a short while. She had soothed his fears, and instead demanded he marry her and take her with him. Faced with her will, Tarranau did nothing but bow to the inevitable with a smile on his face and joy in his heart.
A like situation had brought Atyniadol with Sawwaed, although they had been living together and planned to marry before the need to go north had risen. They had met when Sawwaed joined the army of Tri-Hauwcerton, where she served as an officer’s clerk. The courtship had been swift, and when Sawwaed endured that fateful meeting in which he learned of his need to travel across the mountains, Atyniadol would in no way let him journey alone. There was a joy and a comfort that bound them together.
As Tarranau strode after Fynyddwr, he thought back on the meeting that had brought them all to this point. The watermage and Sawwaed had been forced to flee Bhreac Veryan ahead of the murderous hands of the Brawdoliaeth chan Danio, the thugs who ran the city and were promising a glorious empire built on the enslaved backs of all other peoples. That flight had been aided by a spiritmage, one of those very rare and unusual men who can cross the boundaries into the land of the dead. The debt came due when Ddifeddianedig summoned them to a meeting and told them of the need to go north. Beyond the wall of peaks there was another land, a kingdom aiding the rulers of Bhreac Ver
yan in kidnapping mages of various kinds, for purposes as yet unknown. Whatever those reasons were, the very rumour of them had set the spirit world aflutter, and thus had Ddifeddianedig been ordered by his compatriot to resolve said mystery.
And so Tarranau now struggled over a steep saddle, his legs tired, his back heavy with the weight of the packs they all must carry, and his breathing laboured as the mountains climbed higher and higher into the sky. Fynyddwr marched relentlessly ahead, the only one of the seven unaffected by the altitude and the strain. As sweat poured from Tarranau’s brow, he wished for a stream into which he could plunge, stripping away the filth and the heat of the journey. None was to be found, and he trudged onwards, following in the mountaineer’s footsteps.
Ddifeddianedig called down imprecations upon Farw Ddyn Yn Cerdded as he climbed, for that man had been the spiritmage to order him north. An adventurer and trader in his youth, Ddif had retired to the comforts of his home after a year living in Yn Brydio Ad, the great desert that swallowed much of Bedwar Barthu Dirio. The spiritmage had been forced into the situation due to a deal with a spirit who had saved his life when raiders attacked his caravan. The payment for such saving had been the year living alone in the desert, a fate which Ddif had longed to avoid. Thus he had never left the comforts of his home for some twenty years, but at the command of Farw he had bestirred himself, and for the first time in two decades walked abroad from Tri-Hauwcerton.
The years of solitude had done little for his athletic prowess, and even time spent training with Fynyddwr and Bwyell had not returned him to his once formidable levels of fitness. So now he struggled along at the back of the group, alone aside from Bwyell, the taciturn man refusing to move more than a few paces from the spiritmage he guarded. Cursing his health and Farw equally, Ddifeddianedig climbed upwards, his eyes fixed on the retreating backs of Tarranau and Sawwaed as they disappeared over a crest. By the end of this journey, he would be right there with them. It was a solemn promise, and one Ddif fully intended to keep.
Tarranau stared as he crested the ridge, for before him the world swept into the sky in one great mass, a giant swelling from the skin of the earth. It was the base of Gysegar Fynadid, a mound of rock and soil wider than any three mountains they had crossed so far. So high did the peak reach that the shoulders of the tor was lost amongst the clouds. Even Fynyddwr, hardbitten mountaineer that he was, whistled in awe. The peak of the mountain was considered the holiest place in the world to those who followed the tenants of earth. Tarranau doubted more than a few had ever seen it, and of those that had, not one had returned to Tri-Hauwcerton to tell the tale.
The great massif stood directly athwart their path, and to detour around would take many days, for it bulked almost from horizon to horizon, and the valleys to the east and west of it were riven with cracks and canyons and forests of uncertain quality. And for them to have reached the base of Gysegar Fynadid and not attempt the summit was something no one in the party was willing to accept. Five of them followed the tenants of earth, and Tarranau and Sawwaed, the two who did not, were so taken by the tor that they, too, knew they would climb to its peak.
Fynyddwr broke the spell the holy mount had cast upon them. “It’s beautiful, but the view won’t shelter us. There’s going to be a cave on the way down to the valley. We’ll sleep there tonight, then spend the next few days reaching the pretty lass ahead. Now come on, the sun’s almost down.” So saying, the mountaineer set out at a breakneck pace down the hill, running with full pack and gear. Tarranau and Sawwaed made no attempt to keep pace, and instead waited for Ceinder and Atyniadol to appear. Then they followed, talking quietly with their wives. Tarranau and Ceinder debated the merits of various forms of magic, while Atyniadol and Sawwaed pondered their remaining food. Atyniadol had an excellent memory and mind for figures, and knew that within a week all they had brought with them would be gone, save whatever they could hunt. Sawwaed agreed, but thought they would find game in the forests on either side of Gysegar Fynadid.
A shout from below brought the four of them to a halt, until they saw it was merely Fynyddwr waving them towards the cave he had found for the evening. It was hardly luxurious, the floor lumpen and uncomfortable, but it would keep the worst of the weather off. While waiting for Ddif and Bwyell to arrive, Tarranau and Sawwaed were sent to gather stones to block the entrance, while Ceinder and Atyniadol prepared dinner. Fynyddwr went in search of peat, in hopes the meal tonight might be cooked.
Luck was with him, and he returned with an armful of dried peat, piling it in the centre of the floor before setting it aflame. It burned low but warm, and soon the seven of them were enjoying stew and pleasant conversation. Tonight, the stories flowed easily and brought smiles to their faces, and all avoided the subject of their journey. As exhaustion overcame them, the fire burned low and the travellers comported themselves into their sleeping arrangements. The only sound that could be heard then was snoring.
The next morning found the seven huddled around the remnants of the fire and draped in clothing for warmth. Summer it may have been, but the mountains still wore their crowns of snow, and the air caught at throats. When Fynyddwr called for preparations to leave, the others leapt to their feet, eager to move and gather heat. The mountaineer chuckled, and led the way from the cave. He expected three, perhaps four days before they reached the forests at the base of Gysegar Fynadid, and that was well, for their food would disappear a few days afterwards. From then on, they would live on their skills as hunters, until they could make it beyond the mountains to that fanciful place to the north. Fynyddwr snorted. He didn’t believe there was a land beyond, but, then again, he had signed up.
The others assembled, and the mountaineer led off, his feet making rapid, sure strides across the terrain. The rest soon fell into their normal marching order, with Tarranau and Sawwaed followed rapidly by Ceinder and Atyniadol, while Ddif and Bwyell made the tail. The descent to the valley floor was easy, for although there were no trails here in the far north, the ground was gently sloped and covered in nothing more than soft grass, a pleasant change from the acres of rock that had been their path so far. It was as if the presence of Gysegar Fynadid changed the very nature of the terrain, making it gentler, more welcoming.
The pace stayed quick across the valley floor, their legs finding the flat going easy compared to the ups and downs of the last weeks and months. Tarranau stared about in wonder, for he had never seen a place of such natural grandeur as this. The high ring of mountains, the central spire of unimagined size, and the great plain of the valley floor that swept to its base combined to awe the watermage, and he peered at every last feature, his eyes wide.
Ceinder laughed, her voice bright and cheerful, and she pulled him into her arms and kissed him. Letting go of her husband, she reached out with her extra senses, with the earth inside of her. She gasped as the sheer power of this land overwhelmed her, poured its energy through her. Standing in this spot, she could attempt things simply impossible even in the mountains of her home. To her mind, it felt as if the heart of the earth beat beneath her feet.
Seeing the reaction the terrain had garnered from the two mages, Ddifeddianedig opened himself to Hysbryd Byd, and looked across into the world of the spirits. He was instantly deluged in a flood, thousands of the nameless and the shapeless begging him, offering him rewards undreamed of. With a gesture he sent the paltry souls of the weak-willed scattering, and examined the vista thus opened up. The land between here and dark pillar that marked Gysegar Fynadid’s intrusion into the spirit world was covered with the souls of the dead. For the weak-willed, those too pitiful to retain the form and function of their being, it meant they had died in this place. Strange to find so many of them here, for Ddif thought they would not have survived the trek across the mountains to reach this place.
Unwinding himself from Hysbryd Byd, Ddifeddianedig felt his spirit return to his body. This place was a magnet, and the spiritmage could understand why many of the dead had never wanted to re
turn to their homes after reaching this juncture. The pilgrims did not return from their pilgrimage, for they had found a special place.
Sawwaed and Atyniadol pulled each other closer, for they could feel an immensity pressing down upon them, a tensing of the air in each breath they took. To them, it gave the valley a sense of menace, of foreboding, as if it was the realm of an ancient living thing that forbore to have its rest disturbed by the paltry meanderings of humans. Keeping each other close, they set out after Fynyddwr, who had begun to march once more.
The others followed with their heads upon a swivel, attempting to capture this remarkable place in their memory, so that each step they took and each new view thus opened up would be remembered for the rest of their lives. It was a strange feeling, and silence settled over the seven travellers, with the only noise being the steady thud of boots upon earth.
For three days they passed through this massive valley, spending each night beside a stream, and waking each morning to see the rays of the sun kiss Gysegar Fynadid, illuminating the great bulk before descending to touch lesser hills and mountains. It was a spectacular sight, and by the second day they were waking before the dawn to see the rising sun.
As they journeyed, the seven found the atmosphere settled about them like a blanket, always there, but comfortable and welcome. The sweep of the ridge lines, the graceful majesty of the peaks, all began to feel like home, and so the pace slowed as a growing reluctance swept over the party, a reluctance to reach the base, for then they would climb and pass beyond to the other side of the land, putting this spectacle at their back, to look on it no more. Fynyddwr and Ceinder felt this most keenly, for they were the two amongst the seven most tied to the earth. Ddif, Atyniadol and Bwyell felt it too, but not as keenly, especially in the case of Ddifeddianedig, for he had the realm of the spirits to cling to as an anchor. Tarranau and Sawwaed, being born of different stuff than earth, found themselves least affected, but here the pull was so strong the reluctance entered even their minds.
War Lands of Arhosa Page 5
