Far to the south in the treacherous highlands. Tulkhan led his mount up the steep incline. Behind him his men were scattered over the slope, also leading their mounts. The noise they were making was enough to wake the dead. Spread out as they were they offered a prime target for ambush.
He felt the sweat of fear drying on his skin. Here on the north slope of the hillside he was shielded from the cold wind, and the sun was a welcome change from the chill which crept up through a man’s boots into his bones, stealing his very passion for life.
The same chill had seen dozens of his men come down with a bone-shaking fever. He’d had to leave them in the small villages which dotted the southern highlands and trust they would not be murdered in their sick beds.
He made the crest and looked out to the south over the densely wooded ridges which stretched like frozen green waves, rolling away as far as the distant southern ocean. It was impossible to march an army through land like this. The rebel leader would find it ideal for a trap.
Tulkhan was only too aware of their vulnerability. If he’d been Reothe, instead of the hunter on this fool’s errand chasing shadows, he would have harried his pursuer till not a man stood.
Only two nights ago he and his men had accepted the hospitality of one of the T’En southern nobles. It did not take Tulkhan long to recognize the signs. The man and his family were giving lip service to the Ghebites, but their loyalty lay with the rebels.
When the nobleman claimed he knew nothing of the rebels’ whereabouts, Tulkhan could have had him executed. This might have loosened the tongues of his three daughters. But it would have made them hate him and strengthened their resolve to stay loyal to the old regime.
The eldest girl reminded him of Imoshen though she was only part Dhamfeer. He caught himself wishing Imoshen were with him, riding at his side. The local villagers would have answered her questions and she would have known if they were lying.
Mist clung in the hollows between the ridges. There were no visible signs of the rebels’ passage, nothing to tell him he wasn’t wandering pointlessly through these accursed blue hills.
Only the fact that seven nights ago one of his advance parties had been massacred to a man told him he was on their trail. He sent two commanders out with a number of his men on alternative routes in the hope of flushing the rebels out.
But his commanders could have lost the rebels since then. They had local guides who knew the paths and the caves, much good it did them.
His local guide was proving annoyingly obtuse. Not that the man actually lied to him as far as Tulkhan could tell, but getting information from him was like extracting teeth.
Tulkhan cursed softly. “What is that slim column of smoke?”
A finger of smoke hung on the still air in one of the deep ravines. When it reached the turbulent upper air it vanished.
The guide shaded his eyes and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Could be bushfire. Lots of fires this time of year.”
“Could it be the rebel camp?” Tulkhan persisted.
The guide turned burnished gold eyes on him. The man was a True-man like Tulkhan but of a baser race, one of the very old stock who had settled Fair Isle so long ago they had grown apart from their mainland cousins. His coloring, his accent all marked him. In his own way he was as alien to the Ghebites as Imoshen.
“If you were leading the rebels would you leave a smoking cooking fire to mark your camp?” the guide asked.
Tulkhan cursed. “Then it’s a small crop holder?”
“Could be.” His guide shrugged.
“We’ll go there.”
The guide shifted and Tulkhan thought he sensed reluctance. Was the man hiding something?
“How long will it take us to get there?” Tulkhan asked. It seemed only a short way, but he had learned that distances were deceptive, particularly in these dense highlands. There were two ridges between them and the deep ravine. With no paths, the ravines could prove impassable. The army could lose a whole day in backtracking.
The guide shaded his eyes and studied the terrain. “Go that way. All day.”
Tulkhan frowned. The rebels would be long gone if it was their camp, but at least he would be able to tell if he was on their trail.
He signaled to the men to move out. Stoically they responded.
He should have left the horses quartered on the plains. But who was to say they would be there when he returned? He hadn’t known that the southern highlands would be so impassable.
They traveled for most of the day. As far as Tulkhan could tell the guide might have purposefully chosen the roughest, most uncomfortable path for him and his men. But he could see no easier route so he held his peace.
The cold was seeping up through the ground and the sun no longer reached the deep valley floor of the ravine when they neared their destination. It was time to find a place to camp. Every night he tried to select a spot they could defend if attacked. It was not always possible.
As they advanced in the steadily growing twilight Tulkhan felt on edge. He paused and sniffed. There was a strange tang on the air and he could have sworn the valley floor was not as cold as it had been before.
He turned to the guide, only to see him making a sign across his chest and eyes.
“What’s this?”
“Holy place.” The guide would not meet his eyes. “Not a good place to go.”
Tulkhan wondered if the guide was trying to divert him. “Move on.”
He forged ahead, rounding a bend in the ravine floor to find a relatively open space where the new scent was even stronger.
A low mist clung to the stones and spindly trees, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of them.
But there was a stream and it would provide a relatively safe place to camp for the night. Tulkhan strode over to the brook and dipped his hand in. His cold fingers registered the warmth of the water. It was almost hot enough to bathe in. His eyes narrowed. This wasn’t mist. The place was shrouded in steam which rose from vents in the rocks. There was something wrong.
“What manner of place is this?”
But the guide had moved ahead, leaping from smooth river stone to stone, over the stream. Tulkhan followed, growing uneasy as the mist thickened and visibility dropped.
He found the guide crouched before a flat-topped stone, blackened by fire.
The guide made a complicated sign and left some of the hard cakes he carried as part of his food supply on the stone. “For the Guardian. We go now.”
“Wait. What is this place?”
“Old. Older than the T’En, older even than my people. Not a good place to stay.”
Tulkhan was inclined to agree, but it was almost dark and they couldn’t risk stumbling about in the ravines. He’d already lost men and horses because of falls.
“We camp here for the night.”
The guide stifled an involuntary exclamation.
Tulkhan’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll have one of my men leave an offering on the stone for the Guardian. Satisfied?”
The guide said nothing.
He retraced his steps across the stream to check on his men. They filled the ravine floor. With practiced ease they were selecting places to make campfires, places to bed down and spots for lookouts.
Tulkhan beckoned the soldier who handled the cooking. He chose a fine pullet hen, “donated” from the nobleman’s kitchen.
“Will this do?” Tulkhan asked the guide.
The man glanced sharply to the bird then away. He gave a shrug.
Exasperation made Tulkhan impatient. He was trying to meet these people halfway. Grabbing the chicken by its leg, he stalked off with it squawking indignantly, across the stream back to the sacrificial stone. He felt ridiculous, hungry and tired. He wished he had never come to the southern highlands to hunt rebels. But he was determined to do this right. He had always made it his policy to pay lip service to the religion of conquered countries. Men who had lost everything would risk everything. Men who had scrap
s feared losing even those. Give the masses food and religion and it would keep them quiet, if not content.
“Come.”
The guide followed silently, almost reluctantly.
Tulkhan laid the bird on the stone and took out his ceremonial dagger. “Is there any formal observance I should make?”
“A little of your own blood should mix with the sacrifice’s.”
Tulkhan grimaced. It was like other religious procedures he had witnessed. Every country thought their religion superior.
He snorted. By the gods, he had grown cynical.
Pricking the ball of his thumb he squeezed out a drop or two onto the stone.
Many was the time he had overseen an offering to some obscure deity and appeased the inhabitants. It was amazing how similar religious ceremonies were.
“Like so?”
But when he looked up the guide had backed away. The man made the sign over his eyes and again over his chest. Tulkhan grimaced. Whatever he might think of their religion, the guide at least believed in its power.
Tulkhan’s stomach rumbled. He wanted to get this over and done with and have his dinner.
With one slash he sliced off the chicken’s head, letting its blood flow over the stone. The stone was so hot that the blood bubbled. Hissing steam rose, obscuring everything, even the guide, who stood only a body length from him.
The hairs on the back of Tulkhan’s neck rose. His heart hammered as he recognized the sensation. He could feel a tingling on his tongue, that familiar metallic taste he associated with a gathering of power.
“What’s happening?” Tulkhan hated hearing the note of panic in his voice.
The guide’s answer came from a great distance. He was no longer subservient, but insolent and pleased. “You have fed the ancient ones. Now they will feed on you. Feel the Guardian’s power!”
The steam almost blanketed all noise, but Tulkhan could hear the guide scrambling for his life. He dropped the body of the now still chicken and turned. But a wave of dizziness swamped him.
He could not tell which way the camp lay, no sound came through the mist. An ominous sense of expectancy hung on the air. Tulkhan cursed himself for a fool.
He drew his sword, vowing to sell his life dearly, but in his heart of hearts he suspected that whatever the Guardian was, it could not be hurt by cold steel.
Blood pounded through his head, drumming in his ears. Was it really his own blood, or the sound of a drumbeat and the chanting of voices‘? Red, leaping shadows filled the mists.
His mouth went dry with fear.
Incongruously he saw the mists before him part to reveal a sexless, naked child of eight or nine. This apparition raised ageless, ancient eyes to study Tulkhan.
A great oppression settled on him.
He wanted to drop to his knees and beg the child’s forgiveness.
Abruptly the drumbeats faded and the steam swirled behind the child, who turned as someone or something approached. Rippling opalescence traveled through the mist in expanding waves.
Then, as if the mist were a living thing, it exhaled, revealing a tall, slender T’En male who stepped from its embrace. Tulkhan blinked, shielding his eyes. The man seemed to carry his own inner illumination.
Squinting into the glare, Tulkhan gasped. He was looking at a male version of Imoshen. The man was T’En. He had the same narrow nose, high cheekbones and wine-dark eyes, and he was clad for war.
The warrior frowned at him. “What mischief have you been working, Ghebite? Don’t you know the Ancients are greedy once awakened?”
Tulkhan glanced around but the child was gone. Had that sexless creature been one of the Ancients? Was this man its Guardian? Was he some past T’En warrior bound by a curse to patrol this place?
“Well?” the intruder demanded.
“I sought only to honor the local’s beliefs.” Tulkhan was surprised to hear the firm tone of his voice. Who would guess his heart was hammering with fear? “Who are you, the Guardian?”
“Guardian?” The feral red eyes gleamed and Tulkhan could have sworn the T’En was laughing silently at him. “In a way. Who are you?”
“General Tulkhan, half-brother to King Gharavan.”
This time the T’En warrior did laugh, a bitter, rueful laugh. “I should have let them devour your soul, General.”
Tulkhan’s hand tightened on the sword. “Who are you?”
“I am your death. You do not know it but you are a dead man who walks and talks.” He executed a mocking bow. “I am T’Reothe of the T’En.”
Tulkhan leapt forward, sword slashing to take the warrior in the gut. The blade traveled through Reothe’s insubstantial body. The T’En’s laughter poured over Tulkhan, scraping along his raw nerve ends as the momentum of his lunge met nothing and he staggered forward into the swirling mists. The uneven ground caused his boot to slip and he went down on one knee. Even as he fell, he turned and lifted the sword point between them. But T’Reothe was gone.
Shouts. He heard his men calling his name. They charged through the mist, swords drawn, carrying burning brands from their campfires.
Rising stiffly, Tulkhan favored his injured knee and tried to calm his men. They had heard him give his battle cry and come to his aid.
By the time he had settled the camp and arranged the watches, Tulkhan was not surprised to learn their guide had disappeared. He would have liked to move camp but it was after dark and he had to satisfy himself with posting extra watches.
He shuddered, knowing that mere metal would be poor defense against an attack led by this T’Reothe.
As the men settled down for the night, Tulkhan paced the length of their scattered camp along the ravine floor. Huge fern trees rose above his head, dripping moisture from the heated misty air. His men were forced to spread out because the ravine was so narrow. Once again, they were vulnerable to ambush.
How he hated this southern highland. He should never have come here. Driven by impatience, he kept patrolling, pausing to exchange a word here and there with the sentries. The spirits of his men always improved when they saw him.
But Tulkhan had no such faith in himself. He had seen his enemy in the flesh, or at least the insubstantial flesh. T’Reothe of the T’En was pure Dhamfeer. His skin crawled at the memory.
Tulkhan had experienced firsthand the tricks Imoshen could do. What more could this Reothe achieve? Even the Ancient one had fled at the T’En warrior’s approach. Reothe had called him a dead man who still walked and talked and somewhere deep inside Tulkhan felt as if a light had gone out.
He had looked into himself and discovered he was hollow and he hated it. He had never felt inadequate before this. How could he, a True-man, compete with this T’En warrior when cold steel could not wound insubstantial flesh?
But there was nothing insubstantial about Reothe’s existence.
What if Imoshen discovered her betrothed was more than a rumor? If she knew Reothe lived, would she feel bound to honor her earlier vows? Would she see her male counterpart as the likely victor and change allegiance?
Two days later he spotted smoke and led his men to a ravine floor where they found the remains of one of his other contingents. More than forty men dead. The lone survivor was their commander, who had been tied to a stake unharmed.
His eyes rolled in terror and then he wept and laughed when he saw them approach.
Tulkhan stepped forward as his men cut the survivor down and helped him massage sensation into his limbs.
“Leave me!” he shrieked, almost falling when they released him. The man stared at Tulkhan with a mixture of horror and relief. “He said you would come. He said I would not have to wait long—”
“Who?” Tulkhan asked, though he suspected he knew.
“T’Reothe. Two nights ago he led his people into our camp just before dawn. He left me with a message for you.”
Then the commander clamped his lips shut and his body shuddered.
“What message?” Tulkhan grimaced.<
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The man shook his head. “The moment I tell you I will die.”
“Nonsense!” Tulkhan felt the men around him stir uneasily and felt a terrible sense of foreboding ripple through his body. He had to know the message. “There is not a mark on you. No festering wound, nothing! You are a healthy man. Take heart. Give me the message.”
Tears slipped from the man’s eyes, falling unheeded. He pulled his jerkin open to reveal his chest, marred only by a small burn. “The T’En prince touched the skin above my heart with the sixth finger of his left hand. He looked into my eyes and he said the moment I tell you his message my life will flee my body.” He dropped to his knees. “Please don’t make me tell you.”
Tulkhan hesitated. He could not afford to show weakness, yet the man’s fear was very real. It made his own skin crawl with dread.
At last he temporized. “Is it an important message?”
The commander nodded once. He took a deep breath, came to his feet and looked Tulkhan in the eye, giving the salute a man at arms gave his superior.
“T’Reothe is going north to claim his betrothed, the Princess Imoshen.” The words left his mouth in a great rush. He gasped, pressed his hands to his chest and stood absolutely still.
Tulkhan stared, unable to look away, unable to offer aid. Surely this Reothe could not kill by mere suggestion.
Tulkhan placed his arm on the man’s shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. Silently the commander shook his head, clasped his own hand over his General’s then frowned.
His body jerked once.
The breath left his body in a long sigh. He swayed. Tulkhan cursed. His men swore by their many gods as their fellow soldier fell to his knees and pitched forward into the dirt, dead. Not one man tried to break his fall.
Even as Tulkhan knelt down to feel for the man’s heartbeat he knew what he would find. He had seen death too many times to be mistaken.
Fearful whispers told him Reothe’s little ploy had done its damage.
“Get moving!” he bellowed. “I want a funeral pyre for the dead and the words said over them.”
He watched as his men worked efficiently, gathering dead wood to burn the bodies. Was Reothe headed north to the Stronghold to claim Imoshen, or was he simply diverting Tulkhan?
Broken Vows Page 21
