by Angus Wells
“I can take a fleet,” Talan said, “and you. Surely that would be protection enough?”
“Of course,” Nestor agreed, “but do you return to Danant, shall folk not say you fled?”
“I flee from nothing!” Talan glared at the sorcerer.
“I know that.” Nestor’s voice was oily, his smile unctuous. “But with Ellyn—Chaldor’s heir—abroad, folk might think you fear her.”
Talan looked to Dival, who said, “Danant prospers, all despatches report that the land fares well. The harvest is in, and …”
“I know all that!” Talan snapped. “And I’d go home. What do you think, Egor?”
Dival hated to agree with the Vachyn, but in this he felt no choice, so he said: “It might be as he says. I think you should remain here, at least until spring. Rebuild Chorym, and let all Chaldor—all the world—know that you are now the Lord of Chaldor and Danant, both.”
Talan grunted irritably. “And Ellyn?”
“I’ll send embassies to the Highland clans,” Dival said, “offering reward do they bring her to us.”
“Save my hunters shall find her first,” Nestor said, “and slay her. Her and Gailard.”
Egor Dival shrugged. “Either way, I deem it wise you remain. You must let Chaldor know that you rule now, and fear nothing.”
“I agree,” said Nestor.
“By all the gods!” Talan began to laugh. “ I’d never thought to see you two in agreement.”
Nestor beamed; Dival scowled.
Talan said, “Very well, I shall remain until winter’s ending. But is Ellyn not found by then, or dead, I go home.”
Dival said, “She’ll be found by then, I’m sure.”
Nestor said, “She’ll be dead by then, my word on it.”
“I am Pawl of Danant, sent by my lord Talan, who now commands all of Chaldor.” The emissary bowed deep for all he felt scant respect of this Highlander savage. “My lord holds Chorym and all the lands around, and he would make alliance with you.”
Eryk smiled, glancing sidelong at Rytha. “So Talan would make us his friends, eh?”
“He would,” Pawl said, taking the chair offered by one of the barbarians who served this overweight lordling. “He would offer you much—in return for …”
“Ellyn, no?” It was Rytha who spoke, interrupting her husband and the emissary. “He’d have the child now that he’s lost the mother.”
“Ryadne is indeed dead,” Pawl said evenly, “and my lord Talan would confirm the succession.”
“He’d own the throne,” Rytha declared. “And to lay claim to Chaldor, he must own the daughter.”
“It would,” Pawl said carefully, “render the … transition … easier.”
There was a threat in his words that the Highlanders ignored, or failed to comprehend. Rytha snorted laughter and turned to her husband. “You see? They come to us as I promised you. Talan would have Ellyn—and to have Ellyn, he needs us.”
Pawl sipped the foul liquor they’d given him. It was fierce as fire and sat uneasy in his belly, but he supposed it was their way and he must accept it as part of their disgusting hospitality. They were undoubtedly savages—the gods knew, they lived in squalid tents and stank as if they’d not bathed in weeks, if ever. But he was charged with this embassy, and it were better for Danant that the Highland clans accepted Talan’s rule—else likely another war must be fought—so he must smile and play the diplomat, and bring this petty chieftain to Danant’s cause.
“My lord would know where Ellyn is,” he said, “and—all well—see her returned to Chorym”
He hesitated as Rytha laughed, joined by her husband. He sniffed, wishing that he might take out his handkerchief—which was scented—and press it to his nostrils. The air seemed filled with the odor of fresh-butchered meat, and dogs and horses, and sweat. He glanced sidelong around. He had only three men with him, and these barbarians could cut them down in moments. He wished Egor Dival had not entrusted him with this mission.
“I’m sure he would,” Eryk said. “The one or the other, eh? Or know that she’s slain.”
Pawl could not resist asking, “Is she? Your message said you held her.”
And saw a cloud descend on Eryk’s face.
“No. She escaped.”
“To where?”
The Highlander gestured to the north. “She went away with the Dur. They went into the Barrens.”
“And you did not follow them?”
“No sane man ventures into the Barrens.”
Pawl sensed something more here than just clan warfare. There was something hidden behind Eryk’s pouchy eyes that the chieftain would prefer remain concealed.
“What else? Are we to be allies, I must know.”
“Helig came.” It was Rytha who spoke. “She came with Gailard’s ghost and her hell-pack, and took Ellyn away.”
Pawl wracked his memory for what he knew of Highland lore, and sighed. “So a goddess came with a ghost and stole Ellyn away?”
Eryk nodded. “And then the Dur attacked us, and they escaped.”
“And what happened to the Dur?”
“They fled into the Barrens”
“And you’ve no idea where Ellyn is?”
“No.”
“Save she fled with Gailard’s ghost, aided by this goddess.”
“Yes. But we shall find them!” Eryk slapped the sword buckled on his fat side. “We shall slaughter the Dur when they emerge, and if Ellyn is with them, I’ll give her to you.”
“I am not sure,” Pawl said cautiously, “that I can stay that long.”
“Then go back to Chorym,” Eryk said, “and tell your master that I’ll give him Ellyn—or proof of her death—in return for his support.”
“Which should be?” Pawl asked.
“Acknowledgment that I am lord of all the Highlands,” Eryk said. “And soldiers to aid me, do I need them. No trade from here to there, save I am paid a tithe. I’d see your men and mine in Cu-na’ Lhair, and have the half of all that passes there.”
“You ask for much,” Pawl said.
Eryk said, “You ask for Ellyn.”
The emissary nodded. “I believe my lord Talan might agree.”
“Save he does,” Eryk said, “he’ll not see Ellyn.”
“There is that,” Pawl allowed.
“There is most definitely that,” Rytha said. “And without us, you’ll not have her.”
“I must report this,” Pawl said. “Shall you wait on my king’s word?”
“May it not be long in coming.” Eryk waved a dismissive hand. “Go back and tell your king that we are in agreement—then deliver me soldiers.”
“In return for Ellyn,” Pawl said.
“Alive or dead,” Eryk promised.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The pretty plain and little copses gave way to pine-clad foothills that rose like blue-green waves lapping against the vast heights of the Styge. Those mountains loomed above us as if they walled the world; their crests were wreathed in cloud and they stretched imponderable, and seemingly impassable, from horizon to horizon. The air was already chill, and I thought that on the flanks of those summits it should be very cold indeed. I wondered where Shara’s broch lay—and how we would reach it, for I could see no trails or passes, nor imagine who would build a broch in so lonely and inaccessible a place. But when I asked her, she only laughed and promised me surprise, and took us onward.
So we climbed through the foothills and left the woods behind where they gave up their hold on the rocky ground, and climbed some more, over bare stone cut through with little rushing torrents that reminded me unpleasantly of that strange riverbed, until we came to a sheer rock face. Shara turned north there, following a narrow path that demanded much concentration, for as it rose higher so it was walled vertically on our left and dropped away sheer on our right. Ellyn squealed when she saw it.
“Another precipice? Shall we ever reach this hold of yours?”
“Soon enough,” Sha
ra promised.
“Save we fall off!”
I said, “Are you careful, you’ll not.”
“A mountain goat might fall off this!”
“Then be very careful.” For all I cared for her, I grew weary of her carping. Indeed, I thought that were we alone I might well set her across my knee and at last deliver that old promise. I could not understand her irritation. It seemed as if she resented Shara’s aid, and found reasons to complain her life was saved. I could not understand the workings of a woman’s mind.
“It’s not so far now,” Shara said.
Ellyn snorted and heeled her chestnut so that the horse snorted in turn and sent loose stone tumbling over the edge.
“Careful!”
Ellyn turned a moment to glower at me, then gave all her attention back to the horse. I sighed and followed her upward, feeling that we climbed into the sky, wondering where we would camp this night, for I could not imagine finding any suitable place on this fly’s walk.
But we did: a bowl that seemed cut by unnatural means into the side of the cliff. Thin grass grew there, and little bushes that sported red berries the horses found edible. A waterfall cascaded down the inner wall, gathered in a splashing pool, and ran out through a channel into a hole in the southern wall. It was a pleasant site, and I erected our tents and gathered wood for a fire. Shara set a kettle to brewing and, together, we prepared a meal. Ellyn rubbed down her mare (something I’d taught her along our way) and settled on the grass, a little distance apart. Her face was dark and she refused to look at either of us. Like, I thought, some child caught out and unwilling to admit her guilt. Shara passed her a plate that she took with ill grace. I handed her a cup—tea laced with brose—that she took with no more admission of gratitude.
It was a pleasant site and a surly evening. Ellyn ate in silence and, when she was done, tossed her plate and cup aside and rose, announcing that she’d retire. She retreated into her tent like some grumbling bear into its winter hibernation. I watched the entry flaps laced tight and looked to Shara, who shrugged and reached for the discarded utensils.
I stayed her hand and picked them up myself. “I’ll do that,” I said.
“Why?”
I shrugged. “I’m used to it. I’m a soldier, remember? I’m used to doing things myself.”
“You’re a strange soldier,” she said. “Most would welcome a woman tending them—and leave such chores to her.”
“Perhaps.” I took the plates to the channel and scrubbed them clean. “But not me.”
I looked back and found her studying me; I could not interpret her expression. The moon was risen now, and it seemed that the stars were reflected in her hair. Her eyes were large and lustrous, and I felt desire again. I returned to my scrubbing.
“I think they’re likely clean enough by now,” she said.
I grinned and set the stuff out to dry.
“We’ll reach my broch on the morrow,” she said, “do we leave early.”
I ducked my head and watched her go to her own tent.
I watched the stars a long time that night, sipping the last of Mattich’s brose.
We quit the bowl at dawn. The heights of the Styge hid the sun from our view, but I saw great rays of red and gold strike out across the plain below us, spreading light over the Barrens. Curtains of mist hung about the cliffs as we found the trail again, and it was as if we rode for a while through water, like misty swimming fishes.
I was in a state of some bemusement, for I’d had a most curious breakfast.
I had wakened and found the stream to perform my ablutions, then gone back to blow the fire to fresh life. No sooner had I done so than both Shara and Ellyn emerged from their respective tents, busying themselves with the kettle and the pan, so that I need only sit and wait to be fed. They worked in unison, but without speaking much beyond the daily pleasantries, and it seemed to me that they raced to be the first to finish. So it was Shara who delivered me a plate of porridge laved with honey, and Ellyn who brought me tea and a hunk of bread. And I could only sit back and wonder what prompted such attention.
Then we struck the tents and loaded the horses and mounted as I wondered what went on.
I cannot understand women.
And gave up the contemplation as we rode ever higher, the sun emerging over the rimrock to dance bright light down the cliffs, dispelling the mist so that it seemed as if a great wave of radiance rolled from the heights of the Styge to spread across the Barrens, lighting the plain then darkening as it reached that strange riverbed, after which there was only darkness—roiling clouds and flashes of lightning, then a hint of light beyond. I chose to look upward, for the brightness there seemed to offer hope, and I was confused and needed that.
We rode out half the day; slowly for the climbing, which was now steeper than before, our path winding around crags and bluffs that thrust like disconcerting fingers from the slippery walls of the Styge. Oft as not, we must dismount and lead the nervous animals over rockfalls and gaps in the trail where ancient and recent avalanches had cut avenues down through the path.
I saw eagles soar past us, and flights of choughs, and thought their yellow eyes surveyed the prospect of carrion.
Then Shara disappeared.
I was looking up, fearful that Ellyn—who seemed in no better temper, and had not spoken since we’d eaten—might fall, and then Ellyn was gone, too.
I urged my bay to a faster pace and saw a thin gap in the cliffs. It was barely wide enough to accept a horse, but I heard hoofbeats echoing off the walls. I turned in, and found myself surrounded by vertical darkness. The cliffs were black and hid the sky. The sun did not penetrate there, and I rode awhile quite blind.
Then came out onto a small plateau that hung like some fantastical balcony over the unimaginable.
Shara and Ellyn waited for me. Shara was smiling, girlish as if she introduced her lover to some secret place that was only hers. Ellyn stared in rapt amazement, and I joined her.
Beneath the shelf there spread a canyon. It was kilted in grass, from which sprang such an array of flowers as I’d never seen—all blue and yellow and white and red and gold, and all lit by the sun and brushed by a warm breeze so that it was as if waves rippled there and turned the flowers toward us in welcome. A stream came from the farther end and meandered down the canyon into a cavern below us. Stands of hickory and beech and oak grew there, and deer—which surely could not exist at such altitude—were browsing. And toward the farther end was a broch such as I’d never seen before.
The brochs of the Highlands are all defensive: thin towers that hold men and horses and food against siege. Perhaps—is the clan strong enough—surrounded by an outer wall, where there might be some few, poor buildings. Chorym was all walled and massive and impressive, but not like this.
This was such a place as I’d never seen before, or could imagine. I had thought Chorym the mightiest hold in all the world, but this—for all it was not Chorym’s size—seemed somehow greater. In large part because of its curious location, but mostly for its odd design.
It was ringed by a moat tricked out from the stream so as to surround the square walls. The moat was wide and, I suspected, deep. Two small towers, square as the main structure, stood on either side of a fading roadway that ended on the edge of the water. Beyond, there was a short span of grass that, in turn, ended against the high walls, where I could see an entrance barred by a great wooden door. From the corner of each wall there protruded great bastions into which I guessed, from the portals I saw, were set walkways from which archers might fire down onto anyone who succeeded in crossing the moat. I could see higher towers beyond the walls, but they were like spectators seated beneath the highest of all, which, at its topmost level, equaled the surrounding cliffs, with balconies and portals that might be defensive or merely designed for the pleasure of the broch’s inhabitants.
I could not imagine anyone attacking such a castle.
“This is my home,” Shara said, and tur
ned her horse down a wide trail that seemed to me to be cut from the raw rock by skills I could not comprehend.
Ellyn and I followed her down, onto the grass below. I saw rabbits watching us as we passed, foxes sitting beside them in harmony, and as we rode through the little hursts I saw deer browsing unconcerned with our passage. I could not understand it, but I remembered how Shara had called the dogs in Eryk’s camp to our aid. Then forgot that as I gazed in closer proximity at the broch.
Shara raised a hand and called out, and the great wood door trundled down on greased chains to deliver its weight across the moat. Beyond it I saw a metal curtain rise to grant ingress to the hold’s bailey. I could see no guards, nor soldiers or servants, but the courtyard that faced us past the walls was well kept, its flags swept clean, and flowers growing in stone trenches and from little metal buckets hung about the walls.
I heard a clanking sound from behind, and spun my horse around in time to see the metal curtain falling and the strange wooden door rising, cutting us off from the outside. I must admit that I was unnerved by this and touched my sword’s hilt, but not so unnerved as Ellyn.
She dragged her chestnut around in a tight circle, shouting, “We’re caught! By the gods, she’s trapped us! Now the Vachyn shall slay us!”
I found my blade halfway from the scabbard before Shara spoke.
“There’s no harm here. The broch works thus. See?”
I stared about. There were no armed men come to greet us, nor archers on the towering ramparts.
“Who lowered that … ?”
“Drawbridge,” she supplied, “and the gate’s called a portcullis. They’re both workings of an older magic than mine; but they answer to my call. And, Ellyn, there are no Vachyn sorcerers here.”
I returned my blade to its sheath and looked about. I could still see no retainers, but the broch was in excellent repair. There were smithies inside the walls, and stables, granaries—but none to tend them or keep them in such fine condition. No one to tend the plants or sweep the immaculate flagstones of the courtyard.
Save, from the corners of my eyes, I thought I saw shadows flashing in the sunlight, like those half-understood images you see in dreams and then forget. I felt nervous—Shara was, after all, a Vachyn, and perhaps all this journey had been only some devious entrapment. I dismounted.
