“But now that ye have been rescued, he will merely claim that we all escaped, should we fail and Stoke succeed.”
Aravan fell silent, and Faeril shook her head in rue. “Wily and treacherous is this Emir. No matter whether we succeed or fail, he has an answer for the Sultan or the Baron, whichever one asks the questions.”
* * *
“Lor, what a remarkable place is this,” hissed Gwylly, Faeril nodding in agreement.
On across the moss and under the oak trod the two. Faeril looked up among the limbs, hoping to see Nimué, but only broad branches and dark green leaves did her eye perceive. “I hope she doesn’t mind,” whispered Faeril as she and her buccaran shed their clothes and slipped into the water.
“What makes you think Nimué is a she?” asked Gwylly, shivering, watching his skin turn to goose flesh in the chill water.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that this wondrous hollow seems more suited to a she than a he.”
Gwylly ducked and came up blowing, shaking the water from his eyes. “The bottom is sandy, and since we have no soap, this will have to do.” He held out a fistful of beige grit to Faeril.
Using sand, they scrubbed their skin and hair, diving under to rinse off and to fetch up more clean grit. At last Gwylly moved to Faeril, saying, “Here, love, let me do your back.”
Faeril smiled and drew up her hair from the nape of her neck, turning her back to her buccaran. “Every time you do my back, you know where it leads.”
“Indeed I do, my love. Indeed I do.”
Moments later, in the moss below the sheltering oak, someone whispered, “I do hope that Nimué has the decency to look the other way.”
* * *
Two more days passed, the Warrows continuing to recover. On this day Urus and Aravan, not having the heart to kill the doves that came to the pool, had gone out hunting and had managed to bag several desert mountain quail. And when the late afternoon wind blew up the mountain slopes. Urus built a small fire outside the haven and roasted the birds.
It was the first meat they had had in the past seventeen days.
As they sat and ate, Gwylly, his mouth full, his voice raspy and breaking, asked, “Riddle me this riddle: Why would a monster such as Baron Stoke gain the favor of the Sultan of Hyree?”
“Only the two of them know of a certain,” answered Riatha, “but mayhap there are clues pointing. List to this thread:
“In the Great War of the Ban as well as the Winter War, Hyree stood on the side of the foe.
“In both of those times they worshipped Gyphon, the Great Deceiver.
“When we came through Nizari, we saw mosques abandoned, minarets fallen into ruin. When Faeril asked why, we heard from the Emir’s own lips that in his grandsire’s time, the imâmîn, the clerics, had been overthrown, for they hewed to a false prophet instead of the true god, and had done so for nearly nine hundred years.
“Heed: nine hundred years back of the Emir’s grandsire was in the time of the Winter War, when Hyree hewed to Gyphon.
“And after the War, the desert religion of the Prophet Shat’weh became dominant in Hyree. Hence, these mosques and minarets were those of Shat’weh, whom the Emir called the false prophet.
“The Emir then went on to say Hyree had returned to the old ways, the true ways. And that can mean but one thing—”
“Gyphon!” interjected Faeril. “Oh, Riatha, just now do I see why you stopped me from asking the Emir further questions about the mosques and minarets, about the false prophet and the true ways….”
Riatha nodded. “Aye, for then we knew not of the treachery to come, and I did not wish him to believe that we would know enough of their Gyphon worship to carry word back to Pellar, back to the High King.”
“This portends ill for Mithgar,” said Aravan.
“Another War for supremacy, do you think?” asked Urus.
Aravan spread his hands, palms up. “Who can say? But there is this: When the Great War of the Ban ended, there were yet some mortals in Adonar, and when they returned to Mithgar—”
“But I thought the way between the Planes was sundered before the War ended,” put in Gwylly.
“Not for Mithgarian blood, Gwylly. The way to Mithgar was yet open for them, still is for that matter, though it is closed to Elvenkind; just as the way back to Adonar is yet open to Elvenkind, but closed to mortals.”
“Oh, right,” said the buccan. “I forgot.”
“In any event, the mortals brought with them their account of what had passed when Gyphon suffered Adon’s judgment. The Deceiver was banished beyond the Spheres, but ere he fell into the Great Abyss, he said, ‘Even now I have set into motion events you cannot stop. I shall return! I shall conquer! I shall rule!’
“The Myrkenstone was one of these events Gyphon had promised, and it brought on the Winter War. Yet who knows what other schemes he may have set into motion?”
“Ooo, that sends shivers up my spine,” said Gwylly.
“Mine too,” agreed Faeril, then cocked her head. “But what has this to do with Stoke?”
Urus spoke up. “The Sultan would favor Stoke only if he saw him as a powerful ally. Know this: Stoke draws Foul Folk unto himself. Perhaps the Sultan thinks Stoke will give him an army of these creatures. An army to rule the night.”
“Lor,” breathed Gwylly, “could this be preparation for another War with Gyphon? If so, how soon, I wonder?” The buccan looked ’round the circle, but none had any answers.
“If we succeed,” said Urus at last, “at least we will have eliminated Stoke from the ranks of the foe.”
The Baeran stood and looked at the sky. The Sun was setting beyond the range. “I will get the shovel and bury the fire and quail bones, for night comes and I would not have their scent lingering on the air.”
* * *
“We were told the mosque was a hard day’s ride from Nizari,” said Faeril, her voice fully recovered. “Yet the Ghûlk you saw on a Hèlsteed was moving at a walking pace. That can only mean one thing: somewhere along the way is a place of safety for those who suffer the Ban—a crack, crevice, or cave…a place where the light of day cannot reach.”
Urus nodded and looked at Aravan and smiled. “We could have come to the same conclusion but did not, Aravan. Clever people, these Waldana…at least this one is.”
Faeril grinned in pleasure. “I had good teachers,” she said.
“Nay, wee one,” responded Aravan. “Cleverness is a trait we cannot instill, and can only enhance slightly.”
“Go on, Faeril,” urged Riatha, “what wouldst thou suggest be our course of action?”
“Just this,” answered the damman. “If it is truly a hard day’s ride to the mosque, and if we ride through the daylight hours, then we will arrive as night falls. And in the nighttime, Rūcks and such are at their strongest, for then they do not have to fear the Sun.
“Yet we cannot ride through the night hours—in particular, we cannot ride through the canyon in the night hours, for then is when the Spawn themselves use it.
“In fact, I think we should not ride in the gulch at all, else we will leave spoor for Vulgs and such to follow…especially if there is a way station for the Foul Folk down in the canyon—or somewhere nearby—for then on occasion they are likely to patrol its extent, and I would not have them find us within it. Instead we should try to choose a route that will avoid the ravine entirely, thus leaving no trace they are likely to stumble across.
“So this is what I suggest: that we ride the rim in the day, staying well back from the canyon, especially at night, for then we must hide from the foe.
“And when we find the mosque, if at all possible we should wait until daylight before entering. That way, if we are pressed beyond our limits, we can fall back to the Sun.”
Faeril fell silent, and none said aught for a while. At last Urus rumbled, “See? I told you these Waldana were clever.”
As the others nodded and agreed to the plan, Gwylly hugged his damman and kiss
ed her, whispering, “And you are mine, all mine.”
* * *
On the twenty-second day after entering the sanctuary, the five prepared to leave in the early dawn light.
A week past, Faeril and Gwylly had sorted through the things brought out of the citadel for the Waerlinga by Riatha, finding most of what they would need in the days to come: weapons, clothing, climbing gear, and other such. As they had taken inventory, Riatha had said: “E’en when ye were removed from us by the Emir, I knew that we would come back for ye. We retrieved thy weaponry from the table when we took up our own, and I packed away all else against the rescue to come. Had the warders been alert, they would have seen that we did so and would have stopped us. Yet they did not, and so, here is what we saved.”
And now came the time to take up the mission once again, the time of recovery and planning at an end.
While Riatha, Urus, and Aravan saddled the steeds and laded them with their goods, Gwylly and Faeril girted themselves with bandoliers and bullet pouches, with throwing knives and sling, with daggers and long-knives. And they were dressed in their desert gear, leaving behind the Emir’s silks and satins—the clothing they had been wearing when rescued—the garb clean and folded and placed under the oak, the rich cloth a gift to Nimué. Finally all was ready, and they took one last look at this wondrous refuge, and then turned to go.
Urus and Riatha led their horses out, and Gwylly and Faeril came after, but Aravan stayed behind, his blue stone in hand. And when his companions were gone, his voice quietly echoed throughout the great hollow:
[“Nimué, we thank thee for the use of thy haven, a sanctuary sorely needed. Yet e’en more so, we thank thee for the lives of the Waerlinga, for they are precious to us and the world a better place with them in it.
“We go now to right old wrongs and rid the world of a monster. Should we survive and there be aught we can do for thee…”]
The Elf fell silent, and only silence answered.
Aravan turned and led his horse to the fold of stone leading outward. Just ere he entered the passageway—
[“Friend,”] responded Aravan, pausing expectantly…but there was no more, and so he walked on out to where his companions waited in the early light of day.
* * *
Southerly they rode, Gwylly sitting before Riatha on the withers of her steed, Faeril likewise ensconced before the Elf, Aravan.
The land they entered was rough beyond their expectations, but Urus saw this as an advantage, for, “…Stoke’s minions are unlikely to come this way, preferring instead the easy passage of the gulch below.” And so, across sharp-edged ridges and shattered plateaus and scree-laden slopes they fared, now and again coming to crevasses that they detoured long to pass around, or jumped if they were narrow—the Warrows swinging ’round behind their riders and hanging on tightly, the horses running and leaping, soaring, landing.
They rode throughout the day, stopping often to give the horses a breather, sometimes dismounting and walking. And as the Sun began to near the western horizon, they scouted the terrain for shelter, finding a narrow dead-end slot riving the face of a nearby bluff.
They judged that all in all this day they had come but five leagues—just fifteen miles total.
They took turns standing watch, the warder on duty holding Aravan’s guardian stone. The chill on the amulet waxed and waned, growing cool and cooler, then warming again, never becoming frigid.
At mid of night, a nigh full Moon sailed silently overhead, and the ’scape was lighted nearly as bright as day. Even so, when the stone grew chill, still they saw no foe, each warder concluding that the enemy patrolled down in the distant gulch.
* * *
The second day was much the same as the first, as through a broken land they travelled, staying within sight of the canyon, using it to guide them to the destination. Just where was the mosque, the Emir’s major-domo had not known, “…somewhere near the ravine, I am told,” had said Abid, and no more.
And so, above the gulch they rode, keeping it well off to the right; and from the ridge tops and high ground their eyes ever searched the distant reach ahead, watching for minarets, for domes, for spires…searching but locating none.
As evening drew nigh, they came across a rivulet running down the mountain flank. Turning upstream, they discovered it issued from a crevice, yet they did not stay within, for it clove into the mountain far beyond their exploration. “This has water and could be a Ruchen bolt-hole,” mur- mured Riatha, kneeling and refilling a goatskin upstream from the drinking horses, “and I would not hide where the Spaunen may come. Let us away to elsewhere.”
And so, as the Sun set and night came, a mile beyond they settled for the darktide among a jumble of massive boulders.
Their order of watch was the same as they had kept before: Aravan, Gwylly, Faeril, Riatha, Urus.
* * *
It was nearing dawn when the stone grew chill and Urus saw the silhouette of a great, dark flying thing flap across the face of the Moon, winging southward.
“Stoke!” he hissed.
Then it was gone.
The Baeran did not waken the others.
* * *
All that day they rode among great boulders, twisting a tortuous route inching southerly. At times they would gain the open and check their bearings, keeping track of the whereabouts of the gulch. But occasionally, when they had ridden long without coming into the clear, they would stop, and one or another would climb onto a boulder to see where the gully lay, and to call out its course to the others below. And once they unexpectedly came upon a rim to find themselves peering down into the gulch itself, for it had taken a wrenching turn and had cut diagonally across their path. Quickly they had retreated, and had swung wide to pass ’round the bend.
They finally left the boulders behind and came to a foot of a long ridge sloping upward. And as they topped this ridge, suddenly, there before them in the distance high upon the mountainside, gleaming in the afternoon Sun, they could see a large, walled mosque, the building a sandy red, its dome a pale orange. And off to one side towering upward stood a slender minaret.
Gwylly’s heart leapt to his throat, and his pulse hammered in his ears. He looked to Faeril and found her eyes on him, and they were grim. Then once again his gaze swung to the mosque afar.
They could see no movement in the distance, yet there was no doubt among them—
Somewhere inside a monster lay.
CHAPTER 39
Mosque
Early 5E990
[The Present]
Urus looked at the descending Sun. “I do not think there remains enough daylight for us to reach the mosque and complete our mission ere darkness falls. No matter that I chafe at the bit, Faeril’s plan is sound—the temple itself must wait till morrow’s dawn. Hence, we need find cover for the night. Let us take to the high ground for a place to hide, somewhere closer and above the holt, so that we may look down on it and lay our plans by what we see.”
They scanned the mountainside, locating potential sites, finally choosing a cluster of crags on a horizontal ridge slightly higher than the plateau on which the mosque sat.
Up they rode and up, here and there dismounting and walking, sparing the horses the burden. As they climbed the slopes, the Sun sank in the west.
“Hah,” huffed Gwylly, trudging upward, “the place is farther than it looks.”
“Aye,” agreed Urus. “Mountains are deceptive with their distances. Something to do with their huge size.”
“Like a mirage? Like an illusion?” asked Gwylly.
“More like a delusion,” put in Faeril, clambering up over a ledge.
Now and again as they climbed upward they would peer at the mosque and its surround, yet no glimpse of movement did they see. Still the Sun descended, staying not its ceaseless course, copper rays now streaming through dark peaks to the west.
“Oh, lor,” exclaimed Gwylly, “I’ve just
had a horrid thought: what if the crags are infested by Foul Folk?”
“Then we are in for a fight,” said Aravan.
“Nothing or all is the risk,” added Urus. “There is no middle ground.”
“We will soon know whether our choice was wise,” said Faeril as they climbed up the last of the grade, the horses following.
They came in among the crags, stone pillars jutting up like great lithic sentinels surveying the slopes westward, ruddy rays of the setting Sun glancing from their unyielding flanks. A maze of sloping passages ran among them, open to the sky, widening into roofless chambers within the stony grove. Weapons in hand and leading their horses, into the labyrinth fared the five, and they found a relatively flat place where they could tether the steeds.
Riatha turned to the others. “Let us go back to where we may see the ground below and plot our course for tomorrow.
“I would remind ye all to hide that which might glimmer—Faeril, cover thy daggers; Aravan, thy crystal blade—for I would have no last stray glint from the setting Sun reveal us to watchers below. I would not have them come upon us in the dark of night, nor we to walk into a trap on the morrow’s dawn.”
A pulse of doom ran through Gwylly at these bodeful words, and he reached out for Faeril’s hand and found her trembling. Swiftly he hugged her, whispering, “I love you,” and together they followed the others through the winding crags, the damman pulling her cloak over her bandoliers.
Swiftly they came to the place where they could look down on the mosque, a half mile away and some two or three hundred feet lower down. The sinking Sun cast long shadows, yet the comrades could see well enough by its dying rays. And as they stood concealed among the pillars and peered downward, Aravan began speaking, drawing their attention to detail, detail that would perhaps be vital to their plan:
“I gauge the height of the mosque to be some one hundred feet or so from the courtyard below to the tip of the spire above, the width of its dome the same. The main building I would judge at fifty feet high, and its length mayhap at three hundred, its width slightly less.
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