The Gathering Storm

by Kate Elliott

  They made it to the top, one exceedingly slow step after the next, before Anna had to stop to rest, and he was grateful for the break although he dared not sit down for fear he would never get up again. She knelt and set Blessing down on the grass.

  “I’ll carry her,” he said to Anna, who was clearly winded, breath rasping as she bent over double, clutching her sides.

  Blessing had not stirred. Her eyes remained open, but she did not see anything around her. She did not react to sound or touch. All she did was breathe.

  He had failed her. He hadn’t protected her after all.

  “I can carry,” said the healer.

  “It would be good,” whispered Anna, sides heaving.

  He knew he hadn’t the strength, and that just made him angrier.

  But eventually Liath and the shaman would return to the tent, and they would come after him. He would not be hauled ignominiously back to captivity like an injured dog.

  “Very well.”

  The healer squatted, got arms under and around Blessing’s slender body, and lifted her easily. Maybe it was the way her shoulders flexed under the felt jacket or the way her narrow hips fell in a line with her shoulders, or maybe it was the broad splay of her hands.

  Maybe he was delirious and, like madmen, saw glimpses of truth beneath the falsehoods worn by the world.

  The healer was a man, but a man dressed as a woman.

  Sanglant shook his head and with teeth gritted against the pain set out again. No matter. He was hallucinating, or the Kerayit were stranger than he thought. It made no difference.

  “Camp is—?” he asked, because the wind shifted and he lost the scent.

  “That way.” Anna rose with a hand pressed into her ribs. “I saw the smoke. I know where we’re going.”

  Downhill was harder than up because each footfall jolted him from heel to skull. He plodded along grimly. He would reach the camp, and there he would rest, and he would not leave his daughter’s side until she recovered, or she died.

  Ai, God. What if she were dying?

  Nay, the Lord of Mercy could not be so cruel. And yet, why not? The Lady of Justice could not be so arbitrary, and yet, why not?

  He slogged on while the moon reached zenith and began to sink, occluded now and again by streaming clouds. The passage of those clouds along the heavens made him dizzy, as though he were spinning, and it made him recall that infuriating conversation he had once had with Liath years ago now, when they had sheltered at Verna.

  There, too, she had dwelt easy among her sorcerous companions, who had accepted her as one of their own while treating him as an outsider. The way she had chatted with the shaman had triggered those old feelings of being an interloper, less important to her life than the weaving and binding of magic woven into her soul.

  She had been shooting arrows into the sky to determine if it were Earth or the spheres which rotated. These questions she asked at first had made no sense, and yet in a corner of his mind he could hallucinate—he could visualize—the Earth as a sphere turning endlessly as the heavens rested in eternal repose around it, or perhaps it was the Earth which rested unmoving while the other spheres rotated, spheres nested inside spheres and all spinning at a different rate and speed and direction.

  Was it the turning Earth that made him reel? Or exhaustion and his injuries? The wound on his chest had opened up; a sticky oozing of blood pasted his tunic to his skin, sliding and ripping as it began to dry or got wet all over again. No ordinary man could ever have walked so short a time after having his chest half ripped away, but ordinary men weren’t cursed as he was.

  He concentrated on setting one foot after the next, heel pressing into the ground and the foot rolling forward across the arch and onto the ball to begin the cycle again. Amazing how this most commonplace of movements might prove so daunting, so absorbing, so difficult. Even the curl of wind on his cheek carried extraordinary significance. How far had that wind traveled? Did wind have a home or did it simply travel around and around the Earth? Perhaps it was the wind that caused the Earth to turn, or perhaps the Earth’s turning caused the wind.

  He was dizzy, obviously. Why else would his mind stray along such tortured and unexpected paths? The tang of smoking fires caught his attention. They were now closer to his army’s camp than they were to the centaur encampment; he could separate out the disparate smells in the same way a discerning man can savor on his palate the blend of spices from a rich dish.

  They might actually make it.

  A shadow covered the moon but slid away quickly. The healer cried out in fear and dropped to her—his?—knees clutching Blessing close against her—his—body to shield her.

  Anna screamed.

  The silver griffin flew over them, banked awkwardly, and with wings beating hard came to rest in front of them. It lifted its massive eagle’s head, turning it to one side for a better look first with one eye and then with the other. Its eyes gleamed like tiny suns. As its claws raked the ground, its tail lashed wickedly against the grass, scattering a cloud of chaff.

  Anna whimpered. The healer did not move. The creature sank low on its haunches, ready to pounce.

  He was too weak to kill it.

  As he sagged forward, scarcely able to hold himself up on the spear, all he had left were his wits.

  A griffin is one part eagle, one part lion, and one part snake, so the poets said. Lions were wild beasts and snakes were vermin, but eagles like all birds of prey had long lived in a measure of harmony beside humankind as hunting birds.

  He dropped the spear, unpinned his cloak, and swept it off his shoulders in one smooth motion that took all his strength. The wound in his chest tore open. Adrenaline kept him going as he swung the cloak high up and over the griffin’s head and, with the beast momentarily distracted by the fluttering cloth, leaped in against its shoulder and yanked the cloak down over its head, covering its eyes. And tensed, waiting for its violent reaction.

  Hooded, and thus blinded, the griffin went utterly still.

  “Go on,” he said hoarsely. Blood trickled down his abdomen. Sweat sheened his neck. “Go, Anna. Go to camp and bring help. Bring rope, the strongest in camp. Bring fine cord, horsehair or gut, and needles stout enough to pierce this thick cloak. Take Blessing and go. NOW!”

  Anna slapped the healer on the arm and took off. The poor Kerayit hesitated, torn by duty, but the griffin terrified him; having been given permission, he abandoned Sanglant and trotted after Anna with Blessing safe in his arms.

  Sanglant hung there, hands gripping the cloak closed below that massive, cruel beak, and took it one breath at a time. If he could keep the griffin hooded through this breath, drawn painfully in and let out with even greater agony tearing through his chest, then he could do it through the next one, and the next, and the next. He could hang on here until help came.

  Wind whispered through the grass. The stars spun overhead, or maybe it was only his own head spinning, but he kept hanging on. Although the griffin stayed still, there remained shifts and tensions in the griffin’s body just as there would in a horse held tight under its rider’s hands: a twitch in one shoulder, a tufted ear laid back and flicked up, a shudder of restless muscles held in check.

  He talked to the griffin the way he talked to Resuelto, hoping it would become accustomed to his voice, hoping that the time would pass and give him a chance to survive. Hoping that he could think of something other than the pain that had ignited deep in his chest, so hot and violent that he feared he would pass out like a snuffed flame. But he kept his voice steady and soothing nevertheless.

  “What sort of beast are you? Where do your kind come from? Why did God make you? You are a strong, handsome fellow, are you not? You remind me of my gelding Resuelto, who is as strong and beautiful as you and loyal in the bargain, a fine horse. A good companion. Are you like a horse who may respond to good treatment? Or are you so wild that you will kill me as soon as you get the chance?”

  As long as he kept the cloak
tight over the griffin’s eyes, as long as it couldn’t see, it did not fight him. The play of the moon’s light across its pale hindquarters fascinated him, yet a miracle also were its folded wings and the place around its shoulders where lion’s body became an eagle’s head. The twinkling of the stars seemed to reflect in the iron feathers, so edged, so dangerous, so close to his hands and body but not quite touching him because he was protected by the griffin’s unexpected docility.

  He waited, weak but stubborn, holding on. The moon reached the western hills; soon there would not be enough light to see more than suggestions of shapes. But he had never relied mostly on eyesight. He listened to the murmur of the wind through the grass, the melodic rubbing of the griffin’s feathers where the breeze ruffled them, the scrabble of tiny claws through the grass where a mouse or rabbit foraged. He heard a distant shout, hushed by another voice.

  They came prudently, moving swiftly but not recklessly, with Fulk in the lead and others close behind. Torches lit the night, and the crackle and hiss of flames and the pitchy scent of their smoke made the griffin uneasy.

  “Hush, now,” he said, wishing he could stroke it, but if he touched the head and neck feathers, they would cut his hands, and he dared not shift enough to reach the tawny shoulder for fear of letting the cloak slip.

  “My lord prince!” Fulk called to him from a safe distance.

  An awed whisper, many voices murmuring at one time, rose from the troop. They did not rush forward, being well trained as well as practical, so although certainly the griffin smelled and heard and sensed their arrival they did not panic him. Not yet.

  “Quietly, Captain. Come forward with the strongest thread you have, a canvas needle, and strong rope. We’ll sew this cloak tightly over its head and lead it in to camp. It’s kin to an eagle. No reason we can’t jess it and train it.”

  Silence greeted his words just as they would the utterances of the insane, but Captain Fulk came forward nevertheless. His legs hissed through the grass and his footfalls clipped along steadily, a man who did not lose his nerve even in the worst situations. A man I can trust, thought Sanglant, who dared not turn to watch Fulk’s approach because his hands were numb and if he shifted the griffin might realize that a single strong jerk of its head would free it from the cloak.

  Fulk was accompanied by some damn fool bearing a hissing torch that made the griffin shudder down the length of its body, but the man veered off downwind, crouched, and held the torch in such a way that it illuminated the scene so that Fulk would be able to see what he was doing.

  “I pray you, Captain, work quickly. Sew it tightly and jess the beast’s forelegs with just enough play so it can creep. We’ll use the rest of the rope as a leash.”

  “Yes, my lord prince.”

  Captain Fulk was a most excellent soldier. He did what he was told and did not flinch or cower. Sanglant edged backward just enough to allow Fulk room to duck in under the griffin’s head, where he started stitching the edges of the cloak together, working efficiently and with a remarkably steady hand. From this angle Sanglant was barely able to see over the beast’s shoulder to the man reckless enough to accompany Fulk with the torch.

  It was Sibold. Of course.

  The young soldier was grinning madly. “I see you found your griffin, my lord prince. I told them you would.”

  XX

  A STRONG POTION

  1

  BARTHOLOMEW assigned a burly oaf, called Stinker by the other men, to be Alain’s jailer. He was big, and he did stink, and he had a nasty mouth on him, always cursing and muttering.

  “You call me what the rest do and I’ll bite your shitty little ears off,” said Stinker as they walked through the village, heading south. He kicked one of the dead clerics to show how tough he was, but otherwise the corpses were left lying as Father Benignus ordered them to move out.

  “Bet you wish you had a big cock, like I do.”

  Alain glanced at Bartholomew, who walked behind him, scratching his chin anxiously, but the man looked away, ashamed.

  “I’m a big man, you cocksucker,” added Stinker, “which is what you must have been if you rode with those pissing clerics. They’re lying in their own piss and blood now, aren’t they? Hate them, I do. I hate everyone.”

  “Why?” asked Alain.

  Stinker made a move to strike him, but Sorrow growled and the big man backed off while the bandits around them snickered.

  “You wanna take me?” shouted Stinker. “What about you, Red?” With his staff, he poked a youth whose cheek and chin were stained with a huge red birthmark. “You making fun of me, Dog-ears?” He spat at the feet of a second man. “You wanna make something of it?”

  “You wanna get your teeth knocked out?” snarled Dog-Ears, tugging on the lobe of his remaining ear. “We’re just waiting. You say the word, Stinker.”

  “Shut your mouths,” snapped Bartholomew. “You know what happened to the last two men what got in a fight. You know how Father Benignus don’t like that. You know what he’ll do.”

  That shut them up.

  They walked south through the woodland until it was too dark to see and then wrapped themselves in their cloaks on the damp ground. A dozen men—about half the group—remained on watch, nervous and fearful. Alain allowed them to loop a rope around his wrists and tie him loosely to a tree trunk, and he leaned there, dozing, as the night passed. Mist pattered down through the branches, wetting his face. No owls hooted. He heard no sounds of life at all, only the intermittent shush of rain. As far as he could tell, Father Benignus spent the night huddled on his horse, never once dismounting.

  At dawn, as the bandits rose groaning and made ready to depart with their captured horses and the clothing, food, and gear they’d stripped from the dead clerics, Alain caught Bartholomew by the arm and whispered in his ear.

  “Does the holy father always stay on his horse? How does he pee?”

  “Shut up.” Bartholomew yanked on the ropes. “You’re not dead, but you will be if you don’t keep your mouth shut.”

  Rage growled softly, enough to make Bartholomew start back as he eyed the huge hound, but she did not lunge. It was only a warning.

  “Keep that dog off us,” warned Batholomew, moving away. “Hey, you, Stinker! Get up here with your prisoner.”

  “Hush.” Alain stroked Rage’s head, and Sorrow nosed in as well, wanting attention.

  Stinker kept his distance from the hounds. No one spoke as they set off. They all seemed to know where they were going.

  It was a miserable slog through the hilly countryside with a drizzle filtering down through beech and oak forest. Many of the trees hadn’t reached their full foliage so, with no leaves to catch the mizzle, all the deer trails were churned to mud by those who walked at the front. Now and again an unexpected puddle lying athwart the track ambushed their steps until all of them, whether barefoot or shod, had sopping wet feet. Rain dripped from branches and misted down from the heavens until their shoulders were sodden and their hair slicked against heads and necks.

  They reached their encampment about midday.

  From the trail Alain glimpsed no hint of any campsite but there was an increasing restlessness in the hounds, who lifted their heads to sniff the air and made several darting forays into the undergrowth before he called them sharply to heel. Just before they broke free of the forest, he caught the scent of smoke, but because the wind was blowing at their backs, it faded away and he didn’t smell the campfires until they came right out of the forest and could see them. There wasn’t much of a clearing except where trees had been cut back. One ancient and vast trunk marked where a huge old oak tree had been cut down, although the stump was now weathered and brown with age. Where the trail ended and a cluster of ragged tents and makeshift hovels spread out through the clearing, he stopped short and stared.

  At the far edge of the clearing, seven rugged stone pillars erupted out of the ground like uplifted scales along the back of a dragon buried in the earth. This cr
aggy ridgeline rose starkly above the trees, a jumbled mass of natural rock pale in color and pockmarked by openings, steps, niches, overhangs, and what looked like windows carved into the upper reaches of the little crags.

  The broken line of rocks reminded him of the Dragonback Ridge on Osna Sound.

  He had seen dragons falling from the sky in that last vision of Adica’s world, just before he was ripped away from her. An unexpectedly sharp stab of grief pierced him and, gasping, he dropped to his knees and covered his face with his hands.

  “Hey, boy, move your sorry butt!”

  A foot slammed into his hip, but the pain made barely any impression. Nor did Bartholomew’s voice, sounding so distant, leagues away.

  “Leave it, Stinker. Go on. I’ll make sure he sticks here.”

  Stinker’s reek moved away, subsumed in the smoke and clatter of the camp, but these distractions dissolved as Alain struggled to make sense of his grief and of the world it had left him in.

  Were these really dragons, stricken by magic to become stone and fallen to earth as the great sundering ripped through the world?

  He pressed his palms into the mud and with the hounds growling at any who came close, he bent his head, shut his eyes, and listened through his hands.

  He sought blindly for some echo that might reveal the presence of a monstrous dragon petrified into stone. Was that murmur the memory of its respiration? Or was it only the wind rustling in the trees? He heard as from a distance the sound of the bandits slogging past and their sarcastic comments, directed at his kneeling form, but he thrust that distraction aside and sought farther down, deeper into the earth. Was that faint thrum the heartbeat of the Earth singing through the ley lines that bound all of world together? These threads drew him like a clear straight path through an otherwise impassable forest, and he felt his awareness hurtling outward, away from his body. Voices called to him through the stone.