by Angus Wells
As we rode deeper into the hinterland, the terrain grew rougher, the hills steeper and higher, the valleys smaller. The timber thickened, so that we rode more often than not beneath a roofing of branches, the sky obscured. But Krystin never faltered, and as the afternoon gave way to evening and we climbed a hogback spread thick with tall pines, she found our quarry.
The commur-mage raised a hand as we approached the crest. I slowed my gray even as Barus motioned for me to halt. Farther up the slope, Krystin dismounted, leading her black down to where we waited. I sprang from the saddle, clamping a hand over the mare’s nostrils as I saw her about to whicker. The jennym beckoned two soldiers over, whispering orders, and the men began to collect horses, leading them away to flatter ground. I gave them the gray’s reins.
Barus said, “Stay with the horses, Storyman. This is warrior’s work.”
I shook my head and saw his face blacken. He was about to speak when Krystin grasped his arm. “This is neither the time nor the place to argue,” she said.
“Nor to carry excess baggage,” Barus replied.
The commur-mage ignored him, turning to me. “Can you fight?” she asked.
“I’m Durbrecht-trained,” I told her, thinking that answer enough. I heard Barus snort softly and added, “I’ve fought Kho’rabi ere now.”
Krystin nodded and said, “All well, we’ll not fight them. Only kill them.”
Barus said, “I’ll not play nursemaid.”
I said, “I’ll not need such care.”
His dark eyes narrowed under the rim of his helm, and I thought him about to protest, but Krystin silenced him with a look and said, “So be it. On my order, jennym. Daviot comes with us.”
Barus ground his teeth. I wondered why he objected so to my presence, then dismissed the thought as Krystin waved the troop close.
There were, with me, twenty-one—odds none too favorable against ten Kho’rabi, and one of them a wizard. I waited to see what stratagem the commur-mage had planned.
She said, “The Sky Lords are landed over this ridge. Barus, do you come with me to spy the lie of the land. You others wait here, and in the God’s name keep those horses quiet.”
I glanced back: the horses were set on a picket line amongst the trees. I prayed my gray should not vent her temper. Then I heard the faint sounds of climbing and turned to see Krystin and Barus moving stealthily toward the crest. Before any could halt me, I followed them.
Barus favored me with an angry glare, Krystin with a look I could not interpret. I paid heed to neither. I was a Storyman: it was my duty to observe. The commur-mage motioned me to caution and I nodded, moving on hands and knees to the ridgeline, easing forward on my belly.
The pines thinned there, and the downslope was bare of cover. At the foot there was grass and a pool of clear blue water where rocks dammed a little stream. It was an idyllic setting. A breeze blew down the valley, setting the timber on the far slope to sighing. The sun was yet high enough the water glittered, gurgling merrily along its way. I noticed that no birds sang even as I stared at the red cylinder of the airboat that floated stationary to the north. I saw four of the Kho’rabi gathering wood, five bringing their spoils from the black carrier basket. The tenth—the wizard, I assumed—stood beneath the boat, his head tilted back, his arms spread wide. The disruption of the air surrounding the vessel was more noticeable as the shadows lengthened, an aura that shimmered and shifted like sunlit mist. Within it I saw the elementals more clearly. They were ethereal creatures, little more substantial than the aura itself, half the size of a man, all changing shades of blue and silver, with hints of darkness where eyes and mouths would be. I wondered what part they might take in the coming battle; and if Krystin’s magic should be strong enough to overcome them and the Kho’rabi wizard both.
Then I felt a tug on my arm and turned to find Barus calling me back: warily, I retreated.
We joined the others. I saw the Tryrsbry men had bows strung now. Krystin beckoned them close and whispered a report.
“We wait until sunset,” she said. “Let them settle to their dinner and think themselves safe. They build a fire, which shall light them for us. Loose your shafts on my order.”
“Horses?” Barus asked, and the commur-mage shook her blond head: “No, that slope’s too strewn with rubble, and we’d need bring the animals up beforehand. Arrows and a charge on foot is the way.”
The jennym nodded his agreement. I said, “What of the wizard?”
Krystin said, “He’s mine.”
I said, “And the elementals? What of them?”
She frowned and returned me, “What of them?”
I heard Barus snigger softly, as if I once more exhibited ignorance. I once more ignored him, frowning in my turn as I asked Krystin, “Shall they not fight for the Sky Lords?”
She smiled, but in a friendly manner, and said, “No. The Kho’rabi wizards bind the spirits to their cause, but they’ll offer us no hurt. Do they approach you, ignore them—they’re harmless.”
I said, “I’d thought …”
And fell silent as Barus murmured, “This Storyman knows little, eh?”
Krystin said, “Barus,” in a tone of reprimand and brought her face close to mine. We were both somewhat sweaty after our half day of hard riding, but hers was sweet and pleasantly musky. The breath that touched my face was sweeter still as she said, “The elementals owe no allegiance save what’s imposed on them by the Sky Lords’ magic. They are bound to their task by sorcery, not desire, and once the Kho’rabi wizard dies, they’ll run free. Think of them as a team of horses hitched to the airboat.”
I nodded, digesting this information. It occurred to me that a team of stampeding horses could be dangerous, but Krystin seemed confident, and so I said nothing. She smiled; I returned it, thinking that she was very beautiful. Not as my Rwyan, but in the manner of ancient statues, as if she were Danaê come down from her mountains to once more hunt the earth.
Barus, who had followed our exchange and appeared to like it not at all, said in a carefully modulated voice, “He’s no weapon save that dagger.”
I grinned at him, motioned him to wait, and crept down to the horses.
The gray mare eyed me irritably as I approached, and I murmured gently, seeking to reassure her; willing her the while to remain silent. She tossed her head and stamped a hoof, but the carpet of pine needles dulled the sound, and she—the God bless her—only huffed air. I stroked her neck, thinking that there were considerable advantages to a mount trained for cavalry work, and took my staff from the saddle. It was a length of hickory thick around as my wrist, and slightly taller than I. Each end was capped with metal, and the entire length was banded with metal rings into which were etched the symbols of my calling. Trained as I was in the use of a quarterstaff, it was a weapon to be reckoned with. I brought it back to where my companions waited and flourished it at Barus.
He eyed it dubiously and shrugged. Krystin, however, nodded and said, “It will do, needs must. But go wary.”
I smiled at her and said, “Lady, this shall not be my first skirmish with Kho’rabi.” Then I feared she should think I boasted (which I did) and added, “And all well, your bowmen shall slay them before it comes to close quarters.”
“All well,” she murmured, and looked to the sky. “So, now we wait.”
“You did well to bring word.”
I looked up to find Krystin close. She rested on her elbows, her hair spilling back from her sculpted features. Her tunic did little to conceal the shape beneath. I shrugged and said, “It was fortunate you were in Brynisvar.”
She turned her head, brushing back an errant wave of pale gold, her eyes firm on mine. “Perhaps it was destiny,” she said.
I found her gaze and her tone both disconcerting. “Perhaps,” I said.
She smiled, looking past me to where Barus lay, and lowered her voice so that I must draw closer to hear: “Pay no heed to Barus. He’s a jealous man, even without the right.”
<
br /> I felt further confused. I shrugged again and said, “Certainly, he seems not to like me much.”
“There are few he does like,” she said, “and none who are not of the West Coast.”
“You’re not,” I said. “Of the West Coast.”
“No.” She shook her head so that it seemed for a moment she was encompassed in curtains of light. “I was born in Tannisvar. The College sent me here to serve Yrdan.”
“Aeldor of Tryrsbry?” I asked.
She said, “Yes.”
I asked her, “How long have you been Tryrsbry’s commur-mage?”
She said, “A year. Arlyss, who was commur-mage before me, was slain by the Sky Lords.”
“Not long, then,” I said, thinking that we were of an age, and that she had established her authority well in so short a time. “Yet Barus accepts you readily enough—for one not West Coast born.”
She chuckled softly and said, “My sex and my calling give me certain advantages, Daviot.”
I said, “Yes,” and saw white teeth flash as her lips parted.
Across the valley the sun touched rimrock. Below, darkness gathered. I heard the wind sigh through the pines. It was almost time. I looked to Krystin and found her studying my face, her lips still curved in a smile entirely enigmatic.
She said, “When this is done, shall you come back to Tryrsbry?”
I nodded, and she said, “Good.” Then she stretched, prompting me to think of cats, and said, “So. Do we go about our business?”
I took up my staff. I saw a soldier pass Krystin a bow, a quiver filled with arrows fletched in black and silver and red. To my left, Barus had a shaft already nocked, a tight savage smile on his mouth. We began to climb. Behind us the sun fell rapidly, as if, having touched the topmost peaks, it was drawn down to wherever it went at night. In balance, the shadow that had filled the valley bottom began to climb the slope. Stars showed, and a quarter-filled moon. Bats fluttered overhead. Apart from the sound of the wind, these hills were very quiet.
We reached the crest, and there was noise. A fire crackled, spitting sparks at the darkened sky, outlining the Kho’rabi, who talked as they lounged about the blaze. It was strange to hear them speak; stranger still the vague familiarity of their tongue, as if I could almost understand. I counted the full complement: they had set no watch. Nor did they wear their black armor, which stood in neat piles away from the fire. The airboat was a red shadow along the valley, the sigils on its flanks glowing faintly. I could no longer discern the elementals. I saw the Tryrsbry warriors spread along the hogback. I was to Krystin’s right, Barus to her left. The jennym wet a thumb, held it to the wind. Krystin took two shafts from her quiver, cupping each head in right and left hands. She whispered something I could not hear and blew softly into each fist. Then she stabbed one arrow lightly into the ground and nocked the other. She looked to Barus and nodded, then both rose to a kneeling position, bowstrings coming back to touch their cheeks as they sighted down the shafts. I saw a Sky Lord spring to his feet, head cocked as he peered toward our position. I thought: The wizard; he senses magic. “Now!”
Krystin loosed her arrow as she shouted, the second readied before the echo came back off the far valley wall. The Kho’rabi who had climbed to his feet took three steps back as the shaft struck his chest. It was driven deep, but still he raised his hands, pointing at our position. He did his best to speak—to voice a cantrip, I guessed—but Krystin’s arrow had pierced a lung and blood filled his mouth, slurring his words. I saw a glow, like witchfire, dance about his outthrust hands, and then the slim column of the second arrow sprout beside the first. His spell died stillborn. The blood that came from his mouth was black in the firelight. The witchfire radiance shone bright an instant and then was gone. He fell down, his arms spread wide, and for a while his legs kicked, propelling him back as if he sought to flee. Then he was still.
The dusk was full of shouting now and that particular whistling an arrow makes as it travels its deadly path. The Tryrsbry bowmen were expert: their shafts flew straight and true. The Kho’rabi fell around their fire, most barely to their feet, two as they drew blades. I heard Barus roar and joined unthinking in the rush down the slope. I saw Krystin drive her short-sword deep between the wizard’s ribs, slash his throat. I saw a Sky Lord before me. He was on his knees and wore two arrows in his chest, and blood came in long streamers from his parted lips. His breath was a choking exhalation. I thought he looked no monster, stripped of his dread armor, but only a hurting man, not much different in appearance from we Dhar. I thought of what I had seen that noonday, at the farm: I stove in his ribs and windpipe. I looked about, seeking another, and saw a warrior from whose belly and left shoulder shafts protruded swing his blade awkwardly at Barus. The jennym parried the cut and returned a sideways swing—the stroke Keran dubbed the Headsman. The Sky Lord’s skull was parted from his neck. I sprang away as liquid gouted. All around the Tryrsbry men dispatched those Kho’rabi not slain by the arrows; slit the throats of those already dead.
Suddenly, from where the airboat hung, there came a loud rustling, a wailing akin to a building wind. It grew in volume, rapidly, until it was a howling fit to pierce the ears. I saw the sigils on the vessel’s sides pulsate, brightening so that they stood out clear in the darkness. Several of the Tryrsbry men pressed hands protective to their heads. I stared, my own ears ringing, threatening to burst. It seemed there was something of triumph in the howling, as if myriad thin voices rose in gleeful chorus. It reached a crescendo, and I felt myself buffeted as by a wind. For an instant I saw leering faces flutter around me. I felt spectral hands tug at my hair, touch my face. It was like the caress of falling snow. I looked into the blank dark eyes of the elementals. I saw them whirl about the fire, stirring the blaze to a conflagration. I saw them hover above the dead Kho’rabi wizard, long fingers plucking at his wounds, dabbling in his spilled blood. Then they gathered about Krystin, a whirlwind of flickering, barely visible shapes that stroked her cheeks and hair. Some few clutched at her hands; I swear one kissed her on the lips. Then they were gone, rushing into the night sky, lost to sight.
I stood rooted to the spot. I thought on what a tale I should have to tell. I looked toward the airboat, thinking it a great prize. Perhaps with that for a trophy, our sorcerers would learn the secrets of the Sky Lords; perhaps learn the manner of the craft’s construction, plumb the secrets of its propulsion. We might find the means to build our own and meet the Sky Lords in aerial combat.
The airboat exploded.
It sounds dramatic in the telling—the airboat exploded!—but in reality it was not. It was not like the airboats I had seen destroyed over Durbrecht or the Fend. There was no fireball, no blast of sound and fury. Instead, it seemed to sigh, not much louder than the wind amongst the pines, or a tired horse. It tugged on the cords connecting it to the basket, drifting a little way south as the wind took it, no longer held by the power of the trapped elementals. Then the sigils blazed, tongues of flame—real, not occult—licked at the sides, and there was a soft report. The airboat collapsed inward, like an emptied wineskin. For a moment the night was bright with its burning, malodorous with sulphur stench. I watched aghast as it fell onto the basket and all was consumed.
Krystin interpreted my expression. “It is ever thus,” she said. “The Kho’rabi wizards set magicks on the craft, that we not capture one.”
I said, “I had hoped we might. We could learn much.”
She answered me, “As did I, the first time. But it seems the boats are bound by sorcery to their captains—the wizard’s death both frees the elementals and ensures the destruction of the boat.”
“Then …” I said, and broke off as she turned to Barus.
“Do you see these burned.” She gestured at the bodies, which the jennym set to heaving onto the two fires. To me she said, “Should we not try to take a wizard alive? Was that to be your question, Daviot?”
I nodded.
Krystin chuckled, not unk
indly, and shook her head. “No Kho’rabi is ever taken alive,” she said. “Neither warrior nor wizard. We’ve tried it and lost good men in the attempt; without success. That we can slay them must be enough—at least these shall not carry word of our defenses to their masters.”
I said, “No,” and put a hand over my nostrils as the corpses began to burn.
We rode some way from the scene of our ambush before we halted. I suspected Krystin was as anxious as I to put distance between us and the funeral pyres. Surely she rode in silence, seeming lost in her own thoughts. Perhaps she used her talent to communicate our victory. I was not sure, nor did she vouchsafe me an explanation or I see fit to question her. I hoped to do that later, for my head was abuzz with all I’d seen this day. For now, however, I curbed my tongue. And then, when we reined in, we were busy awhile with the picketing of the horses, the construction of a fire, and the preparation of food. I did my share, tending the gray mare, evading the teeth she snapped at me even as I hoped I might be gifted the beast. Temper or no, she was a sound runner and would be a boon in my wandering. I rubbed her down and watered her, left her cropping grass as I went to the fire.
The Tryrsbry men were sharing boasts of their prowess, passing a wineskin back and forth as they spoke of past battles. Barus was with them, giving me a dour look as I came close. Krystin sat a little way off, and I went toward her, then hesitated, thinking perhaps she preferred solitude. She looked up and touched the grass at her side. I smiled and settled there. The moon was high by now, filling the clearing she had chosen with a wan light. It transformed her hair to silver, her features even more statuesque.
“You fought well,” she said.
“A wounded man?” I shook my head. “There’s little valor in such killing.”
She shrugged, nodded, said, “He was a Kho’rabi. To slay a Kho’rabi is to fight well. One less enemy.”
I made no reply.
She said, “They’d destroy us, Daviot. They’d have this land and see we Dhar slain to the last child.”
