Not trusting his perception, Wulfgar slashed out with his blade and hit something solid. The warlock parried the next blow. As their blades locked, Wulfgar slammed him into the stone hollow, shattering a statuette on a pedestal. Blood splashed the stone. Grabbing the man’s thorny tunic, Wulfgar shoved him against the wall and put his blade to his throat, pointing up. “Whoreson,” he snarled. “I’ll send your head back to Tromb in a fucking sack—”
“Hold,” said a voice behind him, resonant and implacable. Wulfgar’s amulet stilled like a beast under a calm touch. Trembling with wrath, he withdrew—then jumped aside as something swung out incomprehensibly fast and knocked the assassin unconscious, dropping him into the wreckage of the shrine.
Wulfgar backed away, breathing heavily. The black-cloaked man he had seen by the cart turned and pushed the hood from his face. He had pale skin, brown graying hair, and gold-green eyes. “I’ll deal with this one,” he said, his voice kinder but no less dark. “Go get something to calm your nerves.”
Thus dismissed, Wulfgar sheathed his sword, only then realizing he still held it. The stranger knelt before the oborom warlock and reached out. On the back of his cloak, an eye gazed from the center of a hexagram surrounded by a pattern of leafy oak boughs and a sun and moon beaming rays of light.
A Keeper of the Eye.
Wulfgar didn’t wait around for developments. He moved away, retrieved his knife from the tree and left the area quickly as two men in blood-red cloaks brushed by him and continued in the wizard’s direction.
Wulfgar moved through the market towards the tavern street, thinking it odd that no one had seemed to take notice of his skirmish—until he heard a high-pitched woman’s shout. The woman from the balcony ran up to him, holding her skirts with one hand and raising the other. “Why you bloody scoundrel!” She struck Wulfgar on the face, stunning him. He reached up and put his hand there, opening his mouth with a small sound of pain. “Ye destroyed my garden, you and that bloody—”
“Assassin who tried to kill me?” Wulfgar finished, dropping his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll report you to the Eye!”
Wulfgar glanced over his shoulder. “They’re still over there. Go to it.” Without waiting for her response, he continued on his way.
As he approached the tavern with the woman’s slap still stinging his face, a burst of laughter flared out from inside. His horse stood undisturbed and head bowed, one rear hoof cocked on the ground in a resting pose. Wulfgar cut across the street and stole into the vine-draped alley on the side of the inn, slowing as he reached the end. He looked around the corner to the back. The door at the top of the stairs hung there as he had left it.
He ran up the stairs and into the room, pulling the door closed and setting it at an odd angle. After retrieving his saddlebag from beneath the bed, he left the room and walked casually back to the tavern. Eyes turned to him again, but didn’t linger. He felt his sword on his thigh and the book on his back as he strode to the far end of the bar by a wall. He pulled up a stool and dropped his bag heavily to the floor.
“The strongest you’ve got,” he said quietly, catching the barman’s eye. The man nodded and went about it, unperturbed. He was well-built, had ruddy cheeks, thinning blond hair, and a thick beard. He returned and set a faceted glass by Wulfgar’s hand.
“Would ye be havin’ supper?”
“’Twould put me greatly in your debt, sir.” The man bobbed his head and disappeared into a back room.
Wulfgar leaned against the wall and brought the glass to his lips. Fine whisky, smooth and full, burned into his chest like a fiery wind. He looked into the glass, his cheeks hot and his nostrils flared as warmth spread into the pit of his belly. Go get something to calm your nerves, the wolf-eyed wizard had said. Good advice. He relaxed, turned around on his seat, and did his best to appear that he hadn’t just fought an assassin in some poor woman’s garden.
The large room was full of people, men and women. Near the door, an ornate stand held cloaks of various colors. Wulfgar presumed, in this place, that some of them belonged to the Keepers of the Eye; but he only recognized with certainty one of Albatross blue-green. A cheery fire burned in a stone hearth on the far wall. Above it hung a beautiful painting of the standard Wulfgar had seen on the wizard’s cloak in the market. Vibrant sunlight and moonlight illuminated the grayish green oak leaves and the six-pointed star in an elegant pattern of symmetrical beams. The eye gazed out from the center with divine confidence.
Before the hearth lay the skin of the biggest wolf Wulfgar had ever seen. A woman sat near its ferocious head in a green skirt and a scanty top. A thick brown braid gathered on the nape of her neck and tattoos of ivy spiraled around her arms. An older woman with similar features moved gracefully around the room holding a tray aloft. As she served a nearby table, Wulfgar caught the scent of patchouli.
In a far corner lounged a stout man, armed and wearing a blood-red cloak of the Order of Raptor, another of the Keepers’ colors Wulfgar knew, having avoided them often enough in his travels. He had once believed that the Keepers’ doctrines of non-involvement rendered them soft, or that their powers removed the need for armies, weapons or strategies. But he had learned that wizards often handled by the blade what they would not by the staff. Their citadel contained an elite military school where some of the best blades and archers in the land trained. And they could assemble an army in the time it took a bird to fly, an army skilled not only in arms but also in principles of wizardry and cosmos.
Whether despite the Raptor’s presence in the corner or because of it, the people in this tavern were not concerned about trouble. Townsfolk mingling with wizards with nary a care, Wulfgar thought tiredly, turning back around. He felt suddenly far from home. It was not lost on him that the woman with the purple scarf had sent him to a tavern frequented by Keepers. Perhaps she thought to honor him; but more likely, given his unkempt appearance, to put him beneath the Eye. Too late for that.
His thoughts were interrupted as the barman returned. He placed down a bowl of thick barley soup and a dish with a side of pork, small red potatoes and a hunk of brown bread. Wulfgar’s stomach fairly wept at the sight. He hadn’t indulged in such fare with the hunter on his back.
“Strong enough for ye?” the barman asked him, gesturing to the now empty whisky glass.
“Like a pretty lass on my mind,” Wulfgar replied with his mouth full, pushing the glass forward. The barman grinned and refilled it, then left him to his meal.
The plates were cleared and Wulfgar was on his fifth glass when the barman came over and leaned against the edge of the bar with a dingy rag over his shoulder. His brown eyes flicked over the room.
“Yer a northman, I take it,” he observed, glancing down at Wulfgar’s foreign, road-battered attire, then away.
Wulfgar nodded, but he didn’t state his origins. He cleared his throat and cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “What standard is that over the fire?”
The barman raised a brow. “A northman who doesn’t know the Order of Raven? What dark wood is it ye hail from, now?”
Wulfgar’s cheeks warmed. Aside from the fact that he hadn’t made the connection between the painting and the name of the tavern, he had never seen a Raven, having hired his blade to the more undiscerning powers of the world. Nor had he bothered to learn all the colors, flora and fauna associated with the Orders of the Eye.
I am my father’s son, he thought dryly.
“What brings you to Eyeroth, then?” the barman inquired.
“I seek the Aenmos,” Wulfgar ventured, using the word Asa had taught him as the proper title for Ealiron, the creator of the world. He only remembered it because his mother had died in Gareth’s arms with the word on her lips.
After a startled pause, the barman guffawed, drawing glances from the other patrons. “Do ye, now.” He let his gaze float up towards the hallway Wulfgar had earlier used. “I doan suppose ye found ’im up there, ay?”
Wulfgar ignor
ed the comment. If the man were that concerned with his business, he would have sent that burly Raptor after him. “I’m told the Aenmos resides in the wizards’ citadel. Perhaps you can tell me the way.”
The barman grabbed his rag and wiped absently at the edge of the bar. “Only the wizards know the way. But you’ll find the gates at the top o’ the mountain.” With that cryptic remark he moved away.
The patchouli barmaid strode up and slammed down a wooden tray full of empty glasses. As the barman complied with her requests, she looked at Wulfgar appraisingly. Warmed by her boldness—and the barman’s whisky, no doubt—he considered how far she might take it, until his sensibilities and a heavy heart cuffed him. Idgit. Given this day’s fortune she would probably bring him to the room he had just broken into.
He took another sip of his drink, pausing as the tavern door opened and two men entered. Raptors. One of them lifted his chin toward the corner where the bouncer sat, prompting the man to raise his hand with a crooked grin. The second one was taller, with the thick dark hair and prominent nose of a Halnsman.
The barman spoke with the Raptors in low tones. He went into the back room for a moment, and returned with two slender bottles. One of the warriors said something that caused him to laugh. They paid him, then stepped back and turned to depart. The Halnsman cast a pointed stare in Wulfgar’s direction before they swept through the door.
After some moments the barman returned. He tilted his head in the direction of the door. “They’re on their way to the citadel. They may let ye in, if ye state yer purpose.”
Wulfgar swallowed against a dry throat. The comment might have been a favor or a dismissal. He took a breath and stood up, drained his glass, and reached into his cloak for his purse. “Your fare is worth the land over,” he said as he placed a thick coin onto the bar. As the man’s jaw dropped, Wulfgar looked up at the ceiling and added, “The rest of that is to pay for your door up there. You might want to put a stronger lock on it.” Flashing a humorless smile, he touched his fingers to his brow and then picked up his pack and strode out into the evening.
Twilight cloaked the street. Whisky gave Wulfgar strength of purpose he might not have had otherwise as he fastened the book onto the gelding’s saddle, untied the reins and mounted, swaying slightly as he rode into the street. Not sober enough for this, he thought. He didn’t see the Raptors. Knowing the citadel to be at the top of the mountain, he found the first street that went up and headed that way, thinking the wizards couldn’t have gone far.
He rode through several streets until he spotted the wizards strolling at a leisurely pace through a narrow way, their cloaks swaying behind them as they talked softly together. They went around a corner. Wulfgar followed, intending to call out to them, but as he entered the next street, it was empty. He didn’t think they had moved so fast that he wouldn’t see them now. But they were gone.
He rode on in a haze of unease until he passed through a steep, thickly wooded area dappled with the soft lights of houses. The streets became less populated and narrower. It was cold, and the wind blew steadily. The Raptors had disappeared, leaving Wulfgar unsure if he had really seen them. Dealing with the assassin for so many days had frayed his nerves to fluff.
Dusk fell to night as Wulfgar entered a street edged on both sides with high rock walls. He dismounted and continued on foot, his and his horse’s steps echoing in the closeness. He passed by a wide torchlit passage with hay on the floor. He continued until the street ended.
Above, a carven eye stared out of the rock. The air smelled of rotting leaves and wood smoke. Torchlight danced from two cressets on either side of a wrought iron gate. Behind it, a stairwell vanished into shadow.
The gate showed no sign of a handle or a lock. Wulfgar wrapped his hand around the ironwork with a strong tug. It didn’t move.
He started as his horse shied, yanking the reins from his hand. The beast skittered sideways as two forms emerged from the shadows. Wulfgar raised his hands as the Raptors from the tavern put his back against the gate with their swords at his heart.
“State your name and business,” the Halnsman said.
Wulfgar watched helplessly as his horse bolted down the narrow path like a rabbit, taking the ancient book into the dark in a wild rhythm of clattering hooves. Son of a wolf bitch, he swore inwardly as the blood left his face.
The tip of the Raptor’s sword touched his throat. “Your name,” he repeated.
“South Born of Ragnvald, King of Tromb,” Wulfgar said.
The Halnsman snorted. “Aye. And I’m First Seat on the Aenlisarfon.” He glanced at his companion and then waved Wulfgar away from the gate with his sword. The other wizard moved around to the iron bars and uttered a word. The gate screeched open. “After you.”
Wulfgar drew his sword. As they moved to intercept him, he spun the blade around, making his intentions clear. Behind him, hoofbeats echoed on the cobblestones. He dared not turn around.
“You’re coming with us,” the Halnsman said. As he moved his blade into Wulfgar’s guard, he parried it, none too gently.
“Samolan,” said a firm voice a distance behind them. “Stand down.”
Like obedient hounds at the sound of their master’s voice, the two Raptors sheathed their blades and stepped back. The Keeper with the wolf eyes approached leading Wulfgar’s horse.
The dark-haired Raptor looked up, his eyes glittering. “Master, this rogue vandalized the Raven’s Nest.”
Still holding his blade, Wulfgar glanced at the newcomer with a shrug. He couldn’t deny the claim, though he had paid the barman handsomely in recompense.
“I am aware.” He held out the reins to them. “Take the beast to the stable and bring this man’s things to the South Quadrant.”
As the two men moved to comply, Wulfgar sheathed his blade and went to the horse before they took it. He quickly untied the saddlebag with the book in it, and put it over his shoulder. No good leaving that to chance after nearly losing it.
When the warriors had gone, Wulfgar leveled his now-sober gaze on the mysterious man who had just intervened in his trouble for the second time.
“I understand you seek the Aenmos,” the wizard said.
Wulfgar bowed his head. “I am Wulfgar, Prince of Tromb, Sentinel of the South,” he said formally. “I carry a burden from my homeland with orders to give it to the Aenmos and him alone.”
The wizard’s expression revealed nothing. “I am the Raven of Ostarin, First Raptor and Ninth Seat of the Aenlisarfon.” He moved towards the open gate. “Welcome to Eyrie. Come.”
Wulfgar followed him into the darkness. They ascended a shallow flight of steps and passed through a tunnel with roots tangled above their heads. They emerged onto a cobbled path. Lights twinkled through the trees and up into the heights of the mountain like stars. On the peak, a faceted spire glowing with amethyst light pierced the sky.
As the two men neared a post holding a burning cresset, the Raven turned. “May I have a look at that sword?”
Wulfgar hesitated. A simple request, albeit strange. He stopped, drew his blade, and held it out on open palms. The wizard took it by the hilt, swung it in a spiral pattern with casual, breathtaking skill, and held it up to the light. He studied the inscriptions for several moments, and then lowered the sword and returned it in the same fashion as he had received it. Wulfgar sheathed the blade as they continued down the path.
“Sentinel of the South,” the wizard said. “You are the second one to reach these shores with a blade like that. Until now, I’ve been in doubt as to the ownership of the first.”
Hope swelled in Wulfgar’s heart for the first time since his arrival. He drew forth Sirion’s message and handed it over. “My sister Rhinne is the Sentinel of the North. The harbormaster told me she was here.”
The Raven took the note, read quickly, and returned it. “She is here.” His expression turned grave. “But I fear she didn’t fare as well against the thorn-clad assassins as you did.” He paused. “
Are they by any chance seeking what you brought to us?”
Wulfgar nodded. “Aye. Did they harm her?”
“She’s under a spell that put her out of our reach.” He glanced sidelong. “The Aenmos himself is caring for her.”
Wulfgar adjusted the weight of the book on his shoulder as he recalled something Bjorn had said: I should think, if there were a god beneath Tromblast, some other god would know about it. Ealiron, for starts. “What kind of spell?”
“Before I got to him, the assassin who found her had carved a pattern into her flesh that gave an entity the power to see into her mind.”
Wulfgar stopped in his tracks as the blood drained from his face.
The wizard turned to him as if his statement were merely a matter of course. “You know of him too, then.”
“What does he want with Rhinne?”
“Something he altered time and space to hide.” Putting his nose to the air, he continued on. “It’s good you’re here, Wulfgar. But I fear our work will not ease your heart.”
The Impossible Wilderness
Woven into roses, apple twigs, wisteria blooms, roots and vines, a woman’s voice beckoned her to sleep; a faceless voice, pulling her down in rough whispers, birch leaves falling and rotting on the edge of the river, a sluggish, freezing, muddy river. The course captured and froze feathers, wisps of dried seeds, and little blossoms. Dirt and night pulled her down.
Her neck hurt, her belly hurt. Her heart broke into frozen, thorny branches. She tried to awake, clawing upwards with a scream she couldn’t utter, crushed by green granite stones. She pushed and writhed as the freezing river carried her into a pool swirling with the neap tide. The water drew her into the dark where all the roots grew. She was alone, so alone that she knew nothing but being.
She rolled over. By the side of the bed stood a warrior in shades of brown, green and gray, tall as an ash tree, with golden blond hair and deep gray eyes shining with clear light into a hollow that had never known light.
The Riven God Page 16
