By treaty, neither Ulmenir nor Omera owned the pass itself. It had been named a natural monument to the historical collaboration between the cousin kingdoms. Just now, however, the trade route was impassable. At the fore of the column, a recent landslide filled the ravine and had halted the vanguard of the army.
“That’s a nuisance,” Herfod said
“We can blast a path through,” Ufrid suggested. Ugoth agreed with him.
“Chemical or magical?” Herfod asked.
“Let’s save the chemical for the dragon,” the king decided. “Get Vehre up there with that other witch, the one who can move objects. He’s bound to blast that away quickly with her.”
“Fine, but Thali is going to be pissed. She’s in love with the man.”
Ugoth laughed. “I know. What a surprise! Do you think they have? Despite the risk?”
“I don’t doubt it,” Herfod said. “He’s the least grumpy man I’ve ever met since. Even Samel is grumpier than him now.” Ugoth laughed again. Herfod grinned and swung his horse about. “Better order the army to back up. Vehre’s power tends to backlash, remember?”
“I remember.” Ugoth would never forget. That first fireball had almost engulfed Herfod. Vehre hadn’t been permitted to practice since. Herfod had pronounced it unnecessary, which was just as well.
Herfod guided his mount to the side of the line and then raced it down toward the monks’ section. Ugoth sent messengers forward and back, ordering the column to reverse its direction. A half hour later, the army had settled well off from the rock fall, while Ugoth, Ufrid, Herfod and Vik had come forward with Vehre and the witch who could move objects. Also there to witness the prodigious feat were the Cho Korth nobleman, King Olent, Lord Berholt, and Bishop Petrin, these men still mounted.
Bishop Petrin had ridden forward out of curiosity, but he additionally hoped to strike up another conversation with Prince Ufrid. The priest was convinced His Highness could be converted. The younger royal brother listened intently whenever they spoke, especially when they discussed the weaker nature of women. Ufrid approved of the church principle that women must be firmly guided and punished if necessary. He was also particularly interested in church doctrines about the flaws of physical existence, the impurity of the flesh, and the perversions that a pure follower must decry and stamp out at every opportunity.
Yes, Ufrid was very interested in that, but Petrin had no idea Ufrid found the priest’s dogmatism titillating, especially later in the night when he was using a whore, male or female. Ufrid was also delighted with the disapproval the bishop dared to express concerning Brother Herfod’s wicked association with King Ugoth. The lovers weren’t open about their intimate liaison in public, but it was common knowledge to just about everyone, except maybe that innocent Cho Korth lord.
Encouraged by Petrin, Olent had tried to make a scandal of the relationship, only to have Ugoth set him back in his place with a torrid history lesson about more useless Omeran sovereigns, few of them homosexual like the infamous Oslal. There had been worse who’d diddled nothing but women. Ufrid had enjoyed a history tutorial for a change. He’d no idea the Omeran royalty had been into such dirty dealings, much of it done illicitly in bedchambers. He’d thought his experience with Eshaia unique. Ufrid found it fascinating that the Church of Heavenly Light had managed a foothold in Omera despite the rampant crooked politics, perversions and promiscuity. But then, perhaps the Omerans had chosen to let the cult in as an act of penitence.
After the failed condemnation of Ugoth’s wickedness, and regardless of the Omeran peerage’s less-than-upright history, King Olent hadn’t given up. He had retreated and then attempted to shame the Ulmeniran monarch later during a tactical discussion in the pavilion. Surrounded by the lords and captains of the combined army, Ugoth had answered the dishonour by demanding if Olent intended to challenge his command through personal combat. That had terminated Olent’s defiance conclusively, but Ugoth had refused to leave the subject of his intimate relation with Herfod open to further insolence. He had issued the same challenge to every man present.
No one had stepped forward. Ugoth had then directed the amassed commanders of the host to shut up about his personal affairs or run off like cowardly boys in the night. No one had run. Herfod had stood behind him during this confrontation and watched with inscrutable calm.
But even that hadn’t been the end of the protest. Once he’d witnessed King Olent’s defeat, Bishop Petrin had decried the relationship, suggesting that the gods would punish the pair for their perverse acts. Ugoth had burst out laughing. Abbot Vehre had been present and he’d outright called the bishop an idiot. Most of the other men had quietly agreed.
Despite what he was to Ugoth, they all knew Brother Herfod was a monk first. They’d seen him in action by then, doing one spectacular thing or another. His chants were always more powerful than anyone else’s, his resulting auras more expansive and bright, and he could outdo Vehre’s massive aura bolts with ease. He’d proven it only days earlier when flames had spread from a fallen lamp to a tent and then to the fir trees beyond. Hundreds of yards away and still running toward the calamity, he’d tossed an immense orb. It had enveloped the forest fire and doused the growing inferno. The holy power had reversed the flames on themselves, imploding them to a finite point in which the fire could no longer feed. Only the burning tent had been left to deal with. Herfod was clearly favoured by the gods.
He was competent. He was effective, and he brooked no contempt from officious nobodies who couldn’t wield any sort of weapon. He showed Bishop Petrin as much when he sent him flying out of the pavilion right after Vehre called him an idiot.
Petrin had not approached the king and his lover since, but today he was too curious to resist. He sat his horse and glared reprovingly at Herfod and his perverted beautiful brother who purportedly had an angel’s face. Despite what the priest had witnessed of the gods’ apparent approval, Petrin was convinced Herfod was a fiend in disguise. He had said as much to Prince Ufrid, and Ufrid had nodded gravely. Petrin felt warm remembering this royal agreement, believing Ufrid a far wiser man than his befouled brother.
“All right, then,” the fiend said. “We need you to force it backward, Vehre. Not toward us.”
“I know!” Vehre said, casting an exasperated look at Herfod. “I didn’t mean for the other to come my way. I think I was too interested in the results.”
“That could be,” Herfod agreed. “You may have inadvertently dragged it back to you. Don’t do it this time. Those are rocks, man!”
Vehre grinned. “I’ll outrun you this time.”
Herfod laughed. “Just get on with it, you holy oaf.”
“You could do this,” Vehre pointed out. “Why haven’t you teamed with a witch? You could likely crack these boulders to sand with this woman.”
“I don’t work with the witches, Vehre. I just coordinate their efforts.”
“But—”
“Remember what happened on Held Mount!”
“What happened on Held Mount?” Ugoth asked.
“Oh. Right,” Vehre murmured. “Right.” Wouldn’t want that to happen again. Stupid of him to have forgotten that the Ancient Power wanted Marun’s conscience dead. And hadn’t Thali said a dark witch had recently infiltrated their ranks, just for the purpose of draining Brother Herfod’s soul from his body? Quite obviously, working closely with a witch, even a white one, put Herfod in peril.
“Get on with it, Vehre,” Herfod urged the disturbed abbot.
“Wait. What happened on Held Mount?” Ugoth repeated.
“The usual thing happened.” As Herfod said this, he pulled his cowl off to get a clearer look at their surroundings. A noise echoed down from high above. It sounded like a bird of prey screaming. Herfod squinted at the overcast sky, but couldn’t see the bird.
“The usual thing,” Ugoth huffed. He pinned his attention on a more reliable source of information. “Vik?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Vik said, a half
smile playing over his lips. “I’ll give you the sorry details during supper.”
“Excellent.”
“Thanks, Vik,” Herfod said. “Nice of you to be my personal historian.”
“You’re welcome. It’s no trouble at all to remember your every embarrassing moment.”
Grinning wryly, Herfod looked skyward again. Still no sign of the bird that had called earlier. He doubted it flew in the clouds. He decided it must be perched on the rock face somewhere. He spotted a ledge not too far up the cliff and eyed it with interest. “I think I’ll climb up there to see what’s beyond the fall.”
“Fine,” Ugoth consented. “Be careful.”
“Hey! It’s me! I never fall.”
Ugoth smiled at the joke. Vik laughed and mocked Herfod with a small barking noise. Vik had come up to watch out of boredom. The military unit with which he travelled was a good one, but the same faces were tiring after days of marching, even if one of them happened to be the face of one’s current lover. Perhaps especially because of that. “You fell off a castle wall, remember,” he reminded his brother.
“That was Ugoth’s fault!” Herfod called back, already yards up the sheer face, hanging from the tiniest crevices in the rock. He jumped back down suddenly and returned, pulling his cloak and hood off.
“Too heavy,” he said, handing them to Vik. He shrugged off the curved blade and then his habit. “Too long,” he explained.
Vik grinned as he received the habit. Herfod retrieved the weapon and slung it back over his shoulder. “Isn’t your sword too long as well?” Vik asked.
“It’s on my back. No problem. Not in the way.”
Presently Herfod clung to rock high above them. He reached the ledge and perched on it, a dauntless black figure. His crimson hair was bright despite the drizzle and low light and made more obvious by the paleness of his skin and the unmitigated black of his suit. It had gone uncut for perhaps two months and was overly long for a holy brother. Unkempt, it curled all over his head. He was unshaved, scruffy, striking and oblivious of the remarkable image he presented.
“Not good news,” he called down. “There’s another fall further off, but it seems smaller.”
“Well,” Vehre huffed. “Best get on with it, then.” He offered his hand to the witch. “You’re called?”
“Ynene,” she said. “But that’s not it. I changed the first letter.”
“Right, right. Forgot. Don’t ever introduce one’s self. Anene?” he asked.
“No.”
“Unene?” To this, she smiled affirmation. Vehre nodded. “Fine, Unene. When I drop my hand?” She nodded agreement. He clasped her hand and opened his mouth to chant, but a terrible, bestial cry arrested his words. He gaped upward in alarm and bawled a warning.
“Harpies!”
Two flapped overhead.
“Herfod!” Ugoth shouted.
Vehre turned. Another of the creatures had flown down, unseen until too late. It hovered just yards from Brother Herfod, a storm of grey feathers. The monstrous female flung something liquid. Herfod had nowhere to flee, and the liquid caught him full in the face. He slumped against the rock wall. His unsheathed sword slipped from his hand and fell to the bottom of the cliff. He pulled a dagger, but this too tumbled from his grasp. Then he tilted off the ledge.
“Herfod!” the king cried again.
The harpy caught the senseless man and lifted him rapidly. He was limp in her claws, seeming completely lifeless. Vehre had summoned an aura ball into the palm of his hand, but he hesitated. If he hit the beast, Herfod would fall.
“Shoot them!” Ugoth cried. “Shoot them!”
“Herfod will die if he falls from that height!” Vehre objected.
“He won’t! Shoot!” Ugoth screamed. “Do it!”
But within seconds, it was too late. The harpy was out of range. Vehre’s missile passed beneath Herfod’s slack limbs by several feet. The harpy’s sisters shrieked exultantly down at them.
“Marun’s!” the lowest croaked. Her voice was guttural. A thick grey tongue protruded from her thin lips at the end of the pronouncement. She flapped backwards and screeched again, glaring down with yellow eyes. Where legs should have been, filthy, sallow bird limbs protruded. Caked faeces grimed the female anatomy in the fork of her thighs. The skin over her arms, head and torso was an unwashed brown. She was hideous, a creature of flailing grey wings, a warped female form between.
She taunted a second time. “Red hair! Monk! Marun’s boy!”
She screeched her contempt at them and urinated a thick spray of whitish foulness. They scattered out from beneath it. She flapped after her burdened sister. Vehre pitched a sizzling orb of azure that caught her on a dirty yellow claw. The claw disintegrated. She shrieked, defecated and rose higher.
“Herfod!” Ugoth screamed. He raced along the broken ground after the winged monsters. Staring after Herfod’s distant, limp figure, he missed his footing and stumbled on the rocks.
He cracked his head. Everything went momentarily black, and then Herfod’s ward fired over him, rising in protest of the injury. Ugoth sat dizzily until the pain receded and the aura faded. When he lurched back to his feet, the harpies were specks in the distance.
“Oh! Oh, no!” He felt as if he were sinking then, sinking lower than life itself, sinking to where death belonged. His life was over. He was just standing there, a semblance of something alive, a shell.
Vik stepped up to his side, still clutching Herfod’s cloak and habit, whispering words. Ugoth turned his stricken face toward him. Over and over, Vik repeated the chant, staring unseeingly forward.
“Vik?” Ugoth said. “Vik? What are you saying?” He was desperate; he hoped the foreign words were a prayer that would bring Herfod back.
Vik looked at him, his expression bleak. He repeated the chant in Ulmeniran.
“There is no certainty in life but one. Death is the only certainty. Observe your life and laugh. Life is nothing but time spent, and time is forgotten.”
Ugoth stared at him blankly. Within seconds of comprehension, Vik watched the hope drain out of him.
“It’s a Pek battle dirge,” he said flatly. “Use it, Ugoth. It’s the only thing that will bring you calm.” He turned away, blue eyes dark with misery, and walked through the silent observers of their shared grief. He paused beneath the ledge where his brother’s weapon had fallen. He laughed derisively. The Amek blade had broken. He left it where it lay and disappeared within the ranks of the army.
Behind on the rock-strewn path, the men who had gathered about King Ugoth edged back. The ward illuminated the king once more, but the light was cold and angry. Ugoth stood straight. He stood firm. His inhuman eyes were lit with bitter determination.
“Death is the only certainty,” he repeated. He stalked through the watchers toward his waiting army, and they heard his voice again. Hate envenomed every word. “Even for you, Marun. I will destroy your army. I will free him from you. The gods be my witness!”
The aura fired over him and briefly altered to incandescent white. There was a sense of something ominous watching, something powerful and filled with the same implacable determination. Then the blinding aura blinked out.
“The vow has been witnessed and accepted,” Abbot Vehre pronounced with a hushed, reverent voice. “Pray to the gods. Brother Herfod’s loss has offended them. The Shadow Master must be made to pay.” He stomped out from amongst the hushed group. “Get you gone from my path, Olent! And you, Petrin! Away Ufrid! I have a wall to bring down!”
He caught the stunned witch’s hand up. The amassed noblemen, soldiers and monks rushed to safety. Abbot Vehre chanted, his voice so angry the words sounded like curses until they disappeared to the elsewhere that was heaven. Vehre dropped his arm. The witch barked her malediction, and the orb sailed the air to its target. The projectile hit and a section of the rock wall blasted asunder. Vehre smiled grimly in the shower of dust they had created.
“Thank you, Brother Herfod, for thi
s gift!” he cried and began the chant again. In less than an hour, he and the witch had blasted the impeding rock fall into dust, but as the army marched past, the silence was that of a funeral procession, and Vehre felt no triumph. He had ashes in his mouth, the ashes of his distaste for Brother Herfod, the ashes of his old hate. In the empty place where these emotions had been, he had nothing but a sense of unendurable loss.
***
Ufrid was desperate to contact Marun, but his brother had forced the army to march longer than usual. At the time when he would have gone off alone to lift the mirror into his hand, Ufrid still oversaw the disposition of his portion of the army. He fretted as the light failed. With the escarpments looming on both sides, the army worked in near darkness to set up camp. Soon, if he managed to contact Marun, the sorcerer wouldn’t be able to see him at all.
Contemplating this fact, Ufrid calmed. There were advantages to being in obscurity. The sorcerer wouldn’t note his concern, his fear, his desperation.
“Damn!” he hissed. Marun had what he wanted or would have soon. Then there would be no reason for him to assist a contender to the throne of Ulmenir, no reason for him to keep his promise to turn aside from the kingdom, no reason to bargain at all. Ufrid had to contact the sorcerer before the harpies did.
After decreeing the orders for the night, Ufrid wheeled his mount away from the campfires and snapped at his guards to remain behind, professing a need to think and pray. His captain objected. Ufrid barely refrained from shouting. “The bloody harpies are gone, man! Just watch from a distance. I will not have you listening to my personal prayers to the gods.”
He set his spurs to his stallion and thundered up the incline. At a discrete distance, he slowed the beast and halted. The terrain was treacherous, rocks everywhere. He was in full view of his men, of the army for that matter, but he was but a dim figure in the dusk. He was cautious nevertheless. He pulled the mirror out and kept it in his lap rather than lifting it. A light shone out of it. He guided the horse to face the escarpment, hoping to hide the luminous surface better.
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