The blackness touched the hooves of Kensal’s mare, and the animal rolled its eyes in fear. Suddenly, Ryl’s voice cut across the chanting, crying out in a language that pulled at Emereck, though he knew he had never heard it before. “Miramar! Niterbarat cebarrel ja rykar rinarnth!”
The chant faltered, and the advance of the blackness slowed. Nothing more seemed to happen. Kensal and Ryl stepped back a pace, then another, until their backs almost touched the stable wall. Then Emereck saw something else move out beyond the fence that enclosed the courtyard: a fog on the surface of the lake. It thickened impossibly fast, into a dense wall of gray wool that swept toward them.
The Lithmern leader faltered again as the fence surrounding the courtyard was swallowed by the unnatural wall of mist. Then he redoubled his efforts, chanting more loudly than ever. The mist rolled on over the courtyard, unaffected. Emereck saw Ryl smile as she vanished into it; then Kensal and Flindaran were swallowed up as well. Emereck had time to hope that he would be as pleased as Ryl by this unexpected development, and then the fog engulfed him.
The mist was warm and damp and smelled, impossibly, of halaiba flowers. Emereck could make out a few dim shapes where the Lithmern stood; then the mist thickened and they were gone, leaving only an orange glow on his right where the inn burned. Ahead, the leader’s voice called instructions to his men, and the soldiers answered in Lithran.
Wondering what good a concealing mist would do when no one could move, Emereck looked down. The black smoke was slowly dissolving where the mist touched it. As the last of it disappeared, Emereck’s horse reared again, screaming, and bolted.
All he could do was hang on and hope that the horse was still heading toward the courtyard gates. He passed Flindaran in a rush and was among the Lithmern. One of the soldiers drew a weapon; another grabbed at the horse’s reins. Then Emereck was through them and out of the courtyard.
Behind him he heard shouting and the clang of steel on steel. He hauled on the reins, but the horse ignored him. Gradually, the sounds faded into the distance. He hoped fleetingly that the horse would not stumble; at this speed they’d probably both break their necks if it went down.
Suddenly the horse shied violently, nearly unseating him. As he struggled for balance, Emereck glimpsed the startled face of an armored rider. He saw the man’s sword coming down, and twisted away, but he was not quick enough. The shock of the blow grated along his ribs. Pain lanced through his side. His horse gave a shrill, frightened whinny and bolted into the mist once more.
Grimly, Emereck clung to the saddle. He had never been more than an adequate horseman; staying with his terrified mount taxed his ability, and the pain of his wound only made matters worse. He had no idea what direction they were going, for the mist hid everything. The ride quickly became a nightmare of figures looming unexpectedly out of the gray darkness and then vanishing again. Some were men; some were trees; some, Emereck was sure, were only his imagination.
He did not know how long it was before his horse slowed at last. He was vaguely aware that the animal had settled into an exhausted plodding, but by then it took most of his concentration just to stay in the saddle. He had lost a good deal of blood, and he was having difficulty thinking clearly. He knew he should stop and rest, but he was afraid that if he did, he would be found by the Syaski or the Lithmern or whoever they really were. Besides, he doubted that he would have the energy to start again once he stopped.
As he went on, the mist changed, so slowly that at first he did not even notice it. The air grew cold, and the smell of flowers faded. The mist thinned fractionally, barely enough for Emereck to tell that he was moving through trees. It seemed to be darker as well, though that was probably only his imagination.
A long time later, he realized that the horse was no longer moving. If I’m not riding, I should dismount, he thought fuzzily. He tried to swing his leg up, but his muscles did not seem to be working properly, and he overbalanced. He felt himself falling, and then the ground hit him and he lost consciousness.
Shalarn sat in the darkened room, staring at the dying embers in the brazier. Her black hair hung loose around her face, and her hands were clenched in tense concentration. The room was silent except for the sound of her breathing and the occasional faint crackle of the fire.
Slowly a picture formed in the air before her, framed in swirling smoke. Men in armor stood in front of a large building, shouting words she could not hear. The scene shifted. Firelight flashed on steel, and a man fell. Her eyes narrowed angrily; she had ordered them to avoid fighting! With effort she controlled herself before she lost the vision, and the scene changed again. A line of mounted men blocked a courtyard gate, and dark smoke flowed out from them.
Shalarn leaned forward eagerly. They had found him, then! She tried to shift the viewpoint, and caught a glimpse of two young men on horseback just in front of the line of soldiers. Behind them was a shadowy blur. She struggled to focus the spell, and suddenly a curtain of mist hid the scene. Shalarn gasped. Even through the seeing-spell, she could feel the echo of sorcery.
The mist swirled, then parted to show one of the young men from the courtyard. His side was wet with blood, and he was alone. As she watched, he swayed and fell from his horse.
On impulse, she murmured another spell. The picture shivered, and the other man appeared. The room faded from her awareness as she concentrated on him, drawing him in the direction she had chosen. It was much easier than she had expected. She brought him to a point almost on top of the wounded man, then let go of her spells. As the picture vanished, she wondered absently whether the two men even knew each other. Well, she had done what she could, and those blundering soldiers would have much to explain when they returned.
With a sigh, she released the last threads of the seeing-spell. She would learn no more tonight. She stretched her cramped muscles and sat back, wondering whether she should try again the following night. The seeing-spell was unreliable at best, and it required considerable power. Then, too, there was always the chance that Lanyk would discover what she was doing. Her men would return in seven or eight days; perhaps she should wait until then for an explanation.
She frowned. The raid had failed; that, at least, was clear. And there was sorcery involved, strong sorcery. The Cilhar had wizard friends, then. Perhaps that was the key to his importance. Or was he himself the wizard?
Her frown deepened. There was still too much she did not know. The thought of a foretelling crossed her mind, but she dismissed it at once. She knew from bitter experience how misleading oracles and auguries could be. Again she considered making a second attempt at the seeing-spell. But if the sorcerer detected it, it might bring everything to ruin once more.
Straightening in sudden decision, she rose. She would wait the seven days for her explanation. In the meantime, she would build her strength for whatever confrontation might come. Her face relaxed into a smile as she left the room. Behind her, a wisp of smoke curled up from the brazier and vanished as the last of the fire winked out.
Chapter 3
EMERECK AWOKE TO THE smell of smoke and the hissing sound of fat dripping into a fire. For a moment, he was sure that this was their previous camp and the entire episode of the inn had been a dream; then he moved, and the pain in his side told him otherwise.
He opened his eyes and looked down. His chest had been crudely wrapped in the torn remnants of his tunic. He blinked, then rolled cautiously onto his good side and raised himself up on one elbow to look around.
Judging from the sunlight, it was late morning. He lay under a tree in the middle of a forest. He saw no sign of the mist, the lake, or the village. His horse was tethered nearby, along with another mount he recognized as Flindaran’s. Flindaran himself was sitting on the opposite side of a small fire, scowling at the rabbit he had suspended over the flames. Emereck stared at him in disbelief.
At the rustle of Emereck’s movement, Flindaran looked up, and his expression lightened. “Emereck! You haven’t—
I mean, you’re…”
“Flindaran, what are you doing here?” Emereck demanded.
Flindaran’s answering grin held profound relief. “Taking care of you, you ungrateful croaker. You’re lucky I found you.”
“I’m not sure ‘lucky’ is the right word.” Emereck pushed himself up to a sitting position, wincing as he did. “What happened to Ryl and Kensal? And how did you find me in all that mist?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t know. We had to fight our way out of the courtyard. I lost Ryl and Kensal as soon as we were through, so I turned left and tried to head for the woods, the way Kensal suggested. I thought I saw Ryl ahead of me a couple of times after I got into the trees, but I was never quite sure. I tried to follow her anyway, but if it was her, I lost her again just before the mist started to clear, and then my horse practically tripped over you. It was more luck than anything.”
Emereck shook his head. “I can’t get rid of you no matter how hard I try.”
“Just for that, you get the burned section when the rabbit’s done.”
“You mean there’s going to be a part that isn’t burned? Your cooking must be improving.”
Flindaran made a face at him and reached quickly to turn the rabbit. “Now tell me what happened to you. You went galloping through those Syaski like one of the heroic idiots in those tragic ballads you’re so fond of; I was sure you were going to get killed.”
“They weren’t—wait a minute, you don’t think I took off like that on purpose, do you?”
Flindaran stared.
“My horse ran away with me.”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Flindaran’s mouth. “Well, you never have been much of a horseman. Go on.”
Emereck described his encounter with the swordsman, but skipped lightly over most of the nightmarish ride that followed. When he finished, Flindaran shook his head. “I keep telling you and telling you, you ought to learn how to handle a sword. Maybe now you’ll listen to me.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Flindaran grimaced. “You’re lucky all you got was a scrape on the ribs! I’m not Philomel the Healer, you know.”
“Just a scrape?” Emereck shifted, and winced again. “It feels a lot worse than that to me.”
“Scrapes usually do.” Flindaran paused, looking worried. “I cleaned it off, but I’m not sure how good a job I did. And I wasn’t sure which of your herbs were good for bleeding, so I didn’t use any of them.”
“It’s just as well, though I suppose you’d have managed not to kill me. Otherwise, you’ve done all the right things.” Emereck stopped and studied his friend. “Don’t worry so much. It would have been worse if things had happened the other way around.”
“What do you mean?”
“What would your father say if the two of us rode up to his castle and you were the one with his chest wrapped up?”
“He’d say I deserved it. And he’d be right; those Syaski were lousy swordsmen.”
“They weren’t Syaski.”
Flindaran shrugged. “Maybe the first bunch weren’t, but I’ll bet you a new harp the second batch were.”
“The second… That’s what he meant!” Emereck said, startled.
“What who meant?”
“The soldier who came charging around the inn right before the one on the horse started doing… whatever it was. I only caught a few words of what he said, but it fits. He must have been warning the Lithmern that there were real Syaski coming down the road!”
“You’re sure they were Lithmern?”
“Positive. Their accents were right, even if their armor wasn’t.”
“Maybe they’re hiring their swords to Syaskor for a while. That would explain the armor.”
“Lithmern working for Syaskor?”
“Why not? Half the Lithmern army has turned mercenary in the past couple of years. There wasn’t much else they could do after Alkyra wiped out their invasion.”
“It’s a pity Lithra and Syaskor aren’t neighbors,” Emereck commented. “They deserve each other, and if they were closer together, they might keep each other out of everyone else’s hair. But if the Lithmern we saw were working for Syaskor, why were they worried about more Syaski showing up?”
“I don’t know.” Flindaran frowned. “I don’t like the smell of the whole thing. Lithmern in Syaski armor, real Syaski who can’t fight—none of it makes any sense!”
“Don’t forget the magic.”
“Magic?”
“What do you think Ryl and that Lithmern were doing, reciting Varnan poetry?”
“Oh, that. That’s not what I was talking about; magic never makes any sense.”
“At least not to swordsmen.”
Flindaran ignored him. “I wish I knew why they thought Kensal was important enough to send a raiding party for him.”
“We could go back and look for him; maybe he knows.”
“Are you out of your mind? We barely got away as it was.”
“It was just a suggestion.”
“Your curiosity is going to get you killed one of these days. Besides—are you sure you should ride?”
“I don’t have much choice. We can’t camp here for a month while my side heals.”
“We have a couple of weeks to spare before we’ll be missed in Minathlan; Father’s expecting us to come in with the caravan. At the rate Goldar was going, it’ll be at least three and a half weeks before they get there. We can do it in a week, once your side is healed.”
“You’d go out of your mind, sitting here doing nothing, and I’d do the same from watching you. Riding may wear me out, but it won’t do me any real harm.”
Flindaran looked at him sharply, then grinned. “All right, we’ll head for Minathlan. But first we eat.” He leaned forward and reached for the rabbit.
By the time they were ready to leave, it was mid-afternoon. Flindaran helped Emereck mount, then swung himself into his own saddle. “All right, pick a direction.”
“I thought we had decided to go on to Minathlan.”
“Yes, but which direction is that?”
Emereck stared. “You mean you don’t know where we are?”
“I haven’t the foggiest notion.”
“That’s because we’ve mist our way.”
Flindaran groaned. “I surrender.”
“You started it.” Emereck shook his head. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”
“What difference would it make? We’d still be lost.”
“You and your shortcuts. I don’t suppose you have any idea how to get us out of this?”
“Well, we don’t want to go back to Tinbri, and I think that’s west of us. Minathlan ought to be somewhere north and east. So why don’t we… why don’t we…” Flindaran frowned, staring into the trees. “That way,” he said suddenly.
“What?” Emereck squinted up at the sun, then looked at Flindaran in puzzlement. “But that’s almost due east; you just said we have to go northeast to get to Minathlan.”
“It feels right.”
Emereck blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“It feels right,” Flindaran said stubbornly. He hesitated, then continued with more confidence, “Besides, it’ll be easier to find out where we are if we go east.”
“Oh, really?”
“There’s an old road the caravans take that runs northeast from Kith Alunel; we should come to it before long. Then all we have to do is follow it and we’ll get to Minathlan.”
“That makes a little more sense.”
“And when we get to the road, we’ll be on a regular route again.”
“You just convinced me.”
Flindaran nodded absently and they started off. Flindaran went first and Emereck followed, gritting his teeth. Despite the reassurances he had given Flindaran, he was in no condition to enjoy the ride. Even at a deliberately slow walk, his side was painful. He tried watching the trees to take his mind off it, but they all looked the same. Watching
them gave him a headache.
Flindaran moved surely through the forest, seldom checking their direction. After a time, Emereck grew uneasy. How could Flindaran be so certain of their way? Emereck looked up to determine the position of the sun for himself, but the heavy canopy of leaves made it impossible. Finally, he rode up to Flindaran and asked bluntly, “Are you sure you’ve never been in these woods before?”
“Of course I’m sure. What kind of question is that?”
“I just thought—” Emereck was suddenly at a loss for words to explain his nebulous suspicions. “Never mind. I’ll just be glad when we’re out of this forest.”
“You will? Why?” Flindaran’s voice was surprised and puzzled. “I like it. It’s so green.” When Emereck did not reply, he went on in a musing tone, “You know, my grandfather claimed our family originally came from somewhere around here, back when Minathlan was still desert.”
“Really? I didn’t think there were any records back that far.”
“There aren’t. It’s just a family legend about some ancestor who left this area and settled in Minathlan.” Flindaran looked up at the trees. “No doubt he had a good reason,” he added sourly.
Emereck swallowed the reply he had intended and said nothing. Flindaran did not speak often of his home, but Emereck had heard descriptions from minstrels who had been there. Minathlan was a flat country with few trees, tending to a dusty yellow-brown in summer and a muddy gray-brown in winter. The land had been reclaimed from desert many centuries before by some anonymous wizard, and the Dukes of Minathlan had worked it well since then. But neither magic nor diligence could coax more than a mediocre harvest from most of the land, and though Minathlan was not poverty-stricken, it was far from prosperous. Emereck did not find it surprising that Flindaran preferred this lush forest.
The Harp of Imach Thyssel Page 5
