by Marc Turner
“Corrupted!” the mage scoffed. “Yes, I imagine it would seem that way to you. The touch of death-magic can be unsettling to the unenlightened.”
“It’s fatal, then? For us too?”
“For you, yes. In time.”
The wind had changed again, and the horses were shifting uneasily.
Merin spoke. “Why is Mayot doing this, mage? What does he gain?”
“Power,” Chamery said. “Each death releases energy he can draw on.”
“So he’s blighted this entire land? Why? What does he need such power for?”
Chamery did not respond.
“We should move on,” Luker said to Merin. “We’ll find nothing here that isn’t poisoned.”
“But our water—”
“Will have to be rationed now. Happy memories, eh?”
Merin stared back, expressionless. “How far to the White Road?”
“Dusk, maybe, before we reach it.” If you ever stop asking questions, that is.
They skirted the village to the west, following a winding track flanked by dry-stone walls. Once clear of the fields, Luker led them at a gallop toward the forest.
A bell later he saw the glittering line of light on the ground that marked the White Road. At some time in the past it must have ended at the edge of the trees, but now it protruded several hundred paces across the plain like a jetty into the sea, evidence of the forest’s retreat in the face of centuries of ax and flame. Even though Luker had traveled this way before, the sight of the road still made his skin prickle. Glowing faintly, the white paving stones were perfectly clear of dirt and leaves, as if an army of broom-wielding servants had swept them clear just moments earlier. Streams of wind-borne dust blew across the stones but never settled on them.
The hooves of Luker’s horse clattered as he steered it onto the road, and a short while later he reined up at the edge of the forest. There was no movement between the trees save for the rippling of the leaves on the ground. Strands of death-magic spanned every tree and bush like some monstrous spider’s web. Too bad for you, Mayot, that I’m no fly. The air was soaked with power, so highly charged it felt as if a thunderstorm were about to break. Maybe it was, judging by the powers converging on this place. Had they come to claim the Book from Mayot?
Six years ago when Luker had last traveled the White Road with one of the emperor’s agents, scores of spirits had converged on him as soon as he entered the forest from the north. Unable to attack the Guardian and his charge for as long as they remained on the road, the phantoms had trailed them day and night, jabbering in mindless misery—the same wretched sound, Luker recalled, as the emperor’s agent had been making by the end of their four-day journey. Now, though, the woods were silent. Where were the spirits? Lurking deeper among the trees, perhaps, watching him even now? Or bickering over Mayot’s rotting corpse?
Odds were Luker would find out soon enough, for regardless of whether Mayot was alive or dead, the Guardian doubted the mage, or Kanon for that matter, would simply be waiting for him on the road ahead. At some point Luker and his companions would have to surrender the safety of the White Road and strike out into the forest, thus laying themselves open to attack by the spirits. Luker wasn’t concerned for himself, of course—the spirits’ clumsy efforts at possession posed no threat to someone with a Guardian’s training. Jenna and Merin, too, were strong-willed. The problem, as ever, would be Chamery. For all his arrogance the boy was weak-minded, and like as not the spirits would scent his vulnerability like a shark scenting blood. At the first sign of the mage succumbing to their wiles, Luker would not hesitate to do what needed to be done. Hesitate? Hells, the boy had had it coming long enough.
Right on cue, Chamery’s lisp sounded behind him. “Why have you stopped, Guardian? Are you thinking of turning back?”
“I’ve never backed down from anything. You’d do well to remember that before you open your mouth again.”
Merin spoke. “If you two are finished, we need to press on. Do we risk the road?”
“No choice,” Luker said. “It’s the only thing that’ll keep the spirits off our backs.”
“Can you sense anything ahead?”
“No. Death-magic’s like a fog. I’ll be blind once night falls.”
Chamery laughed. “The Guardian’s finally realized what the rest of us have known all along.”
“You fancy a shot at point?” Luker said, gesturing ahead with a sweep of one arm. “Be my guest. Maybe Mayot will save me the trouble.”
“Of killing me, you mean? Hah! You forget, Guardian, we are entering my world now. Mayot is not the only one who can draw on the energies released by the dying forest. Here I am invincible!” With that the mage kicked his horse forward and disappeared into the woods, Merin close behind.
As Jenna drew alongside, Luker held out a hand. She gave him a questioning look.
“It’s not too late, you know,” he said. “You can still go back.”
Jenna flashed her crooked smile. “What, just as things are heating up?” She leaned in close. “My money’s on the boy, by the way.” Then, before Luker could respond, she dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and cantered away.
Scowling, he watched her retreating back. The branches of the trees cast long shadows on the forest floor, and the assassin’s form was quickly swallowed by the gloom. Behind Luker the spare mount whinnied as if impatient to be off. The Guardian turned to check his back trail, then caught himself. Waste of time. No one was stupid enough to follow them into this Shroud-cursed nightmare.
Spurring his horse forward, he plunged into the forest.
* * *
Ebon dismounted and led his horse into the valley, its hooves slipping and skating down the muddy bank. By the time he reached the bottom his boots were caked in muck and his arms were scratched bloody by brambles and nettleclaw. The trees were more closely spaced here, and the canopy of branches overhead all but blocked out the fading sunlight. Good place for an ambush, Ebon thought, but it seemed the consel had made up his mind, and that was that. He cleaned the worst of the mud from his boots, then swung into the saddle and watched the last few Sartorian soldiers make the descent.
At a command from Garat the company formed up in a ragged column behind the four demons. There were no trails traversing the undergrowth, so the metal giants simply pushed their way through, using their axes to clear a path where the brush was thickest. The scratch of nettleclaw on their armor set Ebon’s teeth on edge. There was no conversation as they traveled. The sound of fighting came from the east. For now the clash of weapons remained distant, but that could not last, for the Vamilians were sure to hear the demons crashing through the undergrowth. And when the undead came pouring into the valley there would be nowhere for the company to run …
The consel rode a few paces ahead, surrounded by soldiers. Ebon was beginning to think Vale was right when he said Garat would not be won round by the king’s efforts at friendship. If they were to be enemies, though, Ebon intended to learn all he could about him during their time together. In war, a commander’s primary target was the mind of his opposite number, and for all Garat’s undoubted cunning he had demonstrated himself to be impulsive, headstrong, easily goaded into reckless action. He showed no respect to his opponents, nor did he appear to command any affection or loyalty from his soldiers. And yet, if the reports were to be believed, the consel had ended decades of stalemate by crushing the Almarian League. Either he was a man of singular tactical genius or—Ebon’s gaze swung to Ambolina—his sorceress was the real threat to be countered.
The demons inched their way forward. After a bell and a half the trees and brambles grew thicker, and Ebon was forced to dismount and lead his destrier by the reins. To his right he caught sight of the body of a stag in the midst of a knot of nettleclaw, its antlers snared in the undergrowth, its sightless eyes rolled back in its head. There were other shapes too, apparently trapped in the brush, little more than shadows in the deepening gloom.
The ground underfoot became boggy, and gray ooze sucked at Ebon’s boots as he trudged through scum-laden water. When he finally reached dry ground again he saw scores of objects sunk into the mud ahead: doll-like figures made of twigs and dried grasses; scraps of colored cloth; feathers and fragments of flint tools. And bones, the king noticed with a jolt. Animal? No, the skulls were clearly humanoid. Why, then, had their owners not been resurrected like the Vamilians? Ebon pictured the bones moving across the ground, rattling together to form skeletons, flesh and skin materializing as the undead rose …
A needlefly buzzed in front of his face, and he raised a hand.
Then stopped. A needlefly? If his memory served him right he had not seen an insect for days. Watcher’s tears, is the power of the Book fading? Had Mayot Mencada already fallen?
A whisper of derisive humor from Galea gave him his answer.
The carpet of detritus extended for several hundred paces. Ahead the boles of the trees were marked with runes. Ebon passed a fallen trunk with shackles fixed to it. The wood and the ground beneath it were stained black, and he felt a tingle across his skin—a sensation he had felt before, he realized, though he could not recall where. Turning in his saddle, he beckoned to Mottle. The old man guided his horse forward.
“Mage, what is this place?” Ebon said.
Mottle wrinkled his nose. “A Kinevar holy site. The stink of earth-magic is still strong here, yes?”
“Strong enough to hold the death-magic at bay?”
“For a while longer, Mottle laments.”
“Laments? You prefer death-magic to this?”
The old man threw up his hands. “Of course Mottle prefers! Earth-magic is the bane of his existence, the very scourge of his wondrous art! Your humble servant is blind, do you hear me? Blind and deaf besides! The Currents dare not stir in this cursed place, yet here is Mottle, most beloved of the Furies, tainted by its filth! Fouled by its … foulness! Woe is Mottle!”
Ebon left him to his grumbling. Glancing up, he saw the consel was peering at the ground with his tarda, Gen Sulin. Ebon crossed to join them.
“Tracks,” the tarda explained as he approached. “Fresh, too.”
“One set,” Garat mused. “Heading in the same direction as us. See how small the impressions are? The length of the stride?”
“A child?” Ebon said.
“Incisive as ever, your Majesty. One of the undead, we must hope.” The consel looked at Ebon pointedly. “I’ll be damned if I’ll take on any more baggage…” His voice trailed away.
“Consel?”
Garat rose, his gaze fixed on something over Ebon’s shoulder.
Turning, the king saw the four demons staring south into the forest. His hackles rose. There was something in their bearing, the way they clutched their axes perhaps, that spoke to him of … readiness. Ambolina stood behind them, hands hidden in the sleeves of her robe.
Garat said, “Sorceress, what is it?”
For a dozen heartbeats Ambolina paid him no mind. Then she swung to face him. “Wait here.”
Without any command from the woman, the demons lurched forward into the gloom. Ambolina followed, a pace behind.
The consel stepped into the saddle, then wheeled his horse round and made to follow. A whisper of steel sounded as the Sartorian soldiers drew their swords. Tarda Gen Sulin had moved ahead of Garat and called orders to his troops in a low voice.
Ebon unsheathed his own blade. The Vamilians—they’ve caught up to us at last. And yet, could the undead enter a place such as this, where earth-magic held back the power of the Book? When they set foot here, would not the threads controlling them wither? Questing inside for Galea, he was confronted by the wall she had put up between them. Through it he detected a sense of … expectation … from the goddess. Ebon realized he had begun treating her like a weathervane, using her emotions to judge which way the wind of fortune was blowing. Not good enough. He closed his eyes. “Galea, attend me, please,” he silently said.
There was no response.
“Goddess,” he said, more insistent this time.
Nothing.
“We had a deal, my Lady. Will you dishonor—”
The force of Galea’s outrage struck him like a blast of arctic air, strong enough to drive him to his knees. For several heartbeats her anger crushed him. His chest felt tight, and he struggled to draw in a breath.
Abruptly the goddess was gone from his mind.
For a while Ebon could do nothing but wait for his breathing to settle. The cold of Galea’s touch lingered, yet his cheeks burned hot with indignity. It seemed his pride could still be goaded after all. He opened his eyes to see Vale in front of him, a sober expression on his face.
“You still with us?” the Endorian said.
The king nodded stiffly. Ignoring the hand Vale extended to him, he rose and stumbled to his horse. The Sartorians had gone, but Ebon could see the direction they had taken from the trail left by the demons.
Remounting, he set off in pursuit.
CHAPTER 17
THEY CAME in a silent rush from the shadows. Riding at the rear of his party, Luker had time only for a half shout to his companions before the white-robed attackers, twoscore in all, were on them. Drawing his swords, he struck out with his Will at the figures approaching from the left. The lead runners were hurled backward, bringing down those behind, and the charge on that side faltered. From the right, a wave of warriors rushed in.
The first attacker, a dark-haired man with sunken eyes, came within range. The Guardian parried his sword thrust and kicked him in the face, knocking him down. Two women took his place. A swing from Luker’s right blade sent the first woman’s sword arm tumbling away, then a reverse cut connected with the other assailant’s temple, shearing away the top of her head. Expecting the woman to fall, Luker was almost taken by surprise by her counterattack, and he raised his second sword just in time to turn aside a cut to his abdomen.
Shroud’s mercy, what is this?
Just then Luker’s horse pitched into the woman and sent her stumbling into one of her fellows. The Guardian felt something rub against his side, and his gaze fell on the rope tied round his saddle horn. It was drawn taut, and he suddenly remembered the spare horse. For a heartbeat the line went slack before stretching tight again and jerking Luker’s mount about so it faced back along the White Road. A score of paces away the spare horse—a gray—was tossing its head as it tried to pull free of the rope holding it.
A sword glanced off one of the scabbards at Luker’s waist, then another skittered across the leather armor at his back. All around him was a shifting sea of bloodless faces, grasping hands, thrusting swords. Cursing all the while, he struggled to keep his seat as blows rained down on him.
A blinding black flash, then a wave of sorcery cut a swath through the attackers to his left. It seemed Chamery had woken up at last. Moments later there was a groan of wood followed by a crack as a tree crashed down across the road behind Luker. Close enough for him to feel the wind of it as it fell, but then no doubt Chamery would have counted it as good luck if it had hit him. Leaves were thrown into the air before falling back down to settle not on the White Road but on the mud to either side.
Another tug from the spare horse.
Luker tried to gather his thoughts. If he cut the gray loose, it would take most of their supplies with it. No choice. Before he could deal with the animal, though, he needed to buy himself some breathing space, and so he tugged on his reins and brought his mare sidestepping to the right. The rope, now drawn tight between his mount and the spare horse, struck the white-robed figures on that side with enough force to sweep three of them from their feet. Even as they fell Luker lashed out with his Will at the enemies to his left. The weight of attacks eased for a heartbeat, and he switched his focus to the rope.
He swung his right sword to sever it.
Just as it went slack. His blade cut a shallow nick along his mare’s neck, before tangling in the an
imal’s mane. The rope itself was unmarked. His horse whickered.
Luker let off a stream of curses. A white-robed swordsman sprang at him, and he raised his blade to defend, only for a jerk from the gray to pull his sword round. His enemy’s weapon missed Luker’s own to flash a finger’s width from his knee cap. Struggling to control his temper, the Guardian leaned forward and aimed a backhand cut at his assailant’s head, adding a touch of the Will to strengthen the attack. When the swordsman parried, his weapon was torn from his hand. Luker’s follow-up caught him a blow to the chin, spinning him from his feet.
Now was his chance.
Shifting his attention to the spare horse, Luker unleashed his Will again, this time at the gray itself. The animal’s head snapped back, and its legs gave way—back legs first, then front. When Luker tugged on his reins to make his mare retreat, the rope came taut and stayed taut. He swung the sword in his right hand.
The rope parted at the second cut.
Using his calves to exert pressure, Luker turned his horse in a circle, hacking down at the white-robed figures encircling him. Grisly work this, but work that needed doing. His assailants fought in unnatural silence, not a cry escaping their lips as the Guardian took pieces out of any who came within reach. Up and down his swords went until his muscles began to burn. He recognized a face among the press: one of the women he’d struck earlier, now missing half her head. Shards of bone clung to her scalp, but there was no hint of pain on what remained of her features.
Luker risked a look at his companions on the other side of the downed tree. Merin and Jenna had steered their mounts to take up positions flanking Chamery, and as a knot of white-robed figures bore down on them, the mage raised his hands and released a wave of black sorcery. The enemy went up in flames. More fighters were gathering in the trees behind, though, and they now came pouring onto the White Road.
