by Angus Wells
“We’ve a score of warriors to thwart ambush,” Gart said. “They’ll meet us at the gate, at dawn.”
“And halt any ni Larrhyn messengers,” added Kythan.
“But still you’ve Jehenne to fear,” said Gart.
They spoke in Lyssian now, that Katya might understand, and she nodded, staring at the lines etched across the table.
“How many days?” she asked.
“While the ni Larrhyn might halt us?” Bracht thought a moment, glancing to Gart and Kythan for confirmation. “Twenty if we ride hard and fast, without delay. If we must hide or fight . . .”
He shrugged and Gart said, “What little is left of your life,” in a low voice.
“Skirt round,” urged Kythan, tracing a path east of the Lykard lands. “Go through the pass and cut eastward into Asyth grazing, then ride north. Cut back westward into the ni Brhyn’s territory.”
“Too long.” Bracht shook his head. “Each day brings Rhythamun closer to his goal.”
“Ahrd!” Gart grunted. “You’ve not the least idea where he goes, save that it’s likely beyond the edges of the world, beyond even the Borrhun-maj.”
“Aye”—Bracht nodded—“and so we must look to find him, or find his trail, soon as we may.”
“Shall you hunt him ghostly?” argued the older man. “For does Jehenne find you, it shall be your spirits that are left to quest—your bodies will hang on a tree.”
“We’ve no choice,” Bracht said.
“And godly promises to aid us,” said Katya.
Gart shook his head at that and said, “Ahrd holds sway in Cuan na’For, and to reach his domain you must still cross ni Larrhyn land.”
Bracht toyed with his dirk, turning the blade between his hands, then looked in turn at Katya and Calandryll. “There’s much in what they say,” he murmured, “and hazard aplenty on the faster path. Jehenne’s quarrel is with me, not you, though if she finds you in my company you’ll likely suffer the same fate. Would you then ride east, find the safer way?”
“And risk losing Rhythamun’s trail?” Katya shook her head, her face empty of any doubt. “We’ve faced hazard ere now and likely shall again. I say we put our trust in the gods and our blades and ride the swifter way.”
She and Bracht looked to Calandryll for an answer and he ran a finger along the scratch indicating the Gann Peaks, the boundaries of the clan territories, up and across to the Cuan na’Dru.
“To reach the Asyth lands, what? Three days, four? Then northward before we may go west again—fourteen, fifteen days?” Like Katya he shook his head. “We’re far enough behind already—I say we take the chance.”
Bracht’s smile was fierce, approving as he ducked his head and grunted what might have been a laugh, fixing Gart and Kythan with a stare both kindly and determined.
“You see? I ride with warriors!” He sheathed his dirk, leaning forward across the table. “We chase the world’s ending and none shall stand in our way.”
Gart sighed; Kythan shrugged. “Then we’ll come for you at first light,” said the older brother.
“There’s more I’d ask of you,” Bracht said. “I’d purchase a packhorse for our gear. We’ve tents and blankets, but I’d lief carry sufficient food we need not hunt. And bows might well prove useful.”
“You’ll have them,” promised Gart.
“How long shall we hold the pass?” asked Kythan.
“Three days,” Bracht said. “Longer if you can.”
Kythan nodded. “You shall have it.”
Gart said, “You’re set on this course?” and Bracht answered, “Aye, we’ve no other choice save to concede the game.”
“Then may Ahrd favor you,” Gart returned solemnly, beckoning to his brother. “Come—we’ve a horse to find, provisions to purchase.”
The two men rose, bowed formally to Katya, and said their farewells.
“Until first light,” Bracht said as they quit the common room.
When they were gone he called for more ale, his dark face pensive. He appeared momentarily lost in thought and Calandryll, himself musing on what lay ahead, felt no great inclination to speak. He had not thought their pursuit of Rhythamun would be easy, but neither had he anticipated the enmity of an entire Kernish family. The odds, it seemed, stood heavy against them and he wondered pessimistically if their quest should end in Cuan na’For, thwarted by a vengeful woman. But there was, as Bracht had said, little enough choice in the matter, save to give up, and that was an alternative none could countenance. They must, he decided, thinking on what Katya had said, place their trust in the Younger Gods—to rely on blades alone seemed foolish optimism.
He was brought from his contemplation by Katya’s voice. She alone appeared undeterred by the prospect of Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s wrath, and he wondered if this stemmed from her encounter with Dera, or Bracht’s revelation of his past, the dissolution of that sudden, unexpected doubt seeming to firm the bond between them, to infuse her with renewed determination. It was almost, he thought, as if she regarded Jehenne as a challenge.
“Why did you not warn us of this?” she asked. “Of your enemies in Cuan na’For?”
Her tone was mild but still Bracht grew somewhat shamefaced as he replied, “I had hoped there would be no need. I had hoped the affair would be forgotten—or that the coin I took from Rhythamun would settle it.”
He held his mug a moment, swirling the dark ale, then added: “I went against my father’s will, and that is not a thing I am proud of.”
“But she beat her horse,” said Katya lightly.
“Aye,” Bracht agreed with a tight grin, “but even so . . . What I did was like to spark clan war. Mayhap I should not have taken the horses.”
“Perhaps you should have followed your father’s wishes,” said Katya, “and wed this Jehenne. Horse beater though she be.”
She teased him, Calandryll saw, and that Bracht mistook her bantering tone. The Kern’s look darkened, his eyes opening blue and wide, the expression on his face intent as he stared at the warrior woman.
“Then I should not have met you,” he said.
“No,” Katya said, and smiled.
“Perhaps there was always some design,” offered Calandryll. “That we three should meet.”
Katya nodded slowly. “I think it must be so,” she murmured. “And if it be so, then surely we are fated to find Rhythamun, no matter what stands in our way.”
“Ahrd grant you’re right,” Bracht said fervently. “But once through the pass we must ride wary.”
“Then let’s to bed,” Katya suggested. “I’d enjoy one last night’s safe sleep.”
It seemed sound advice and they emptied their mugs, settling their account with the landlord before retiring, adding a few extra coins that he warn them should any hot-headed Lykard come seeking them, and keep his mouth closed concerning their departure. Bracht paused a moment when they reached the stairs, bidding the others go on as he went to the kitchen. Calandryll thought perhaps he looked to arrange them breakfast and in his own chamber lit the single candle and voiced a prayer to Dera that she grant them what aid she might, even though they traveled beyond the boundaries of her aegis. That devotion attended, he settled to honing his sword and dirk, his mind too occupied with all he had learned that day to yet find sleep. He was interrupted by a knocking, Bracht’s soft voice calling for entry.
He set his weapons aside and unlatched the door to see the Kern standing with a steaming bucket in his hand.
“Your hair,” Bracht said in explanation. “Do we encounter the Lykard, they’ll take unkindlier to one disguised as an Asyth. Should worst come to worst, they might hesitate to crucify a Lyssian.”
Calandryll’s hands clenched involuntarily at the thought and he motioned the Kern into the room. Bracht set down the bucket and brought a gallipot from inside his tunic, tossing the small container to Calandryll.
“This, so I was told, will wash out the dye.”
Calandryll nodded, murmuring than
ks, and Bracht bade him good night, leaving him alone again.
He latched the door once more and stripped off his shirt, shivering in the chilly night air as he spilled hot water into the basin surmounting the solitary wash-stand. He undid his ponytail and doused his head, opening the gallipot to scoop out thick paste, a creamy white and smelling faintly of roses, that he worked into his long hair. The water in the basin turned a dull grey, then black. He emptied the contents out the window and repeated the process until all the cream was gone: it was difficult to be sure by candlelight, but when he studied his appearance in the little metal mirror, it seemed he was once again fair-haired. It occurred to him then that their early departure would likely be marked, and that if Tobias questioned the soldiers of Gannshold closely enough his brother would learn that he had passed through the city ahead of the ceremonial procession. Might Tobias then recall the Kern he had seen on the road? The thought prompted Calandryll to chuckle as he contemplated his brother’s frustration and, still grinning, he finished the edging of his blades and climbed beneath the sheets.
The bed was pleasantly warm, soft, and comforting after the nights spent in the open—and the nights to come, when, he surmised, they must sleep light, with one of their party likely on guard. Even so, he could not at first sleep, for it seemed they passed from one chapter of their quest into another, and that set in an unknown land where a jealous woman threatened to halt their endeavor. And did they succeed in avoiding Jehenne ni Larrhyn, still they must find Rhythamun among the ni Brhyn, or pick up his trail, which, in the vastness of Cuan na’For, could surely be no easy task. Somehow, he told himself as moonlight filtered pale through the shutters, layering thin bands of wan radiance across his pillows, they would; they must, lest Rhythamun triumph and the Mad God rise. And should the warlock succeed, then he and Bracht and Katya, surely, would be dead, for in the midst of all the uncertainties fate set before them there remained a single constant thing, the one immutable fact—that whatever hazards faced them, whatever obstacles they might encounter, they would go on, unto death if needs be.
There existed no doubt of that and it was a strangely comforting thought: one that, finally, lulled him into dreamless slumber.
DAWN, he saw when Bracht’s knocking woke him, came late to Gannshold. The walls of the pass held off the early sun and the sky above the city only hinted at the approaching day, night still clinging tenebrous against the roseate wash that outlined the eastern rimrock. He sprang from the warmth of the bed cursing the chill that gritted his teeth, and flung the door open with a mumbled greeting. Bracht entered, dressed for departure and cheerful, watching as Calandryll lit the candle and swiftly performed his morning toilet.
“It worked well.” The Kern gestured at Calandryll’s hair as he bound it back in the tail that now felt natural. “You look yourself again.”
Calandryll grunted an inarticulate reply, shrugging into his tunic. He belted on his sword and flung his cloak about his shoulders, taking up his saddlebags, hoping they might find time for breakfast.
Bracht quashed such optimism. “Gart awaits us below,” he said. “Come, Katya should be dressed by now.”
She was, and they went together from the inn, out to the courtyard where Gart waited with six or seven sturdy Kerns, watching the silent street. “Kythan waits with the rest by the gate,” he announced as they saddled their animals. “The packhorse is there, with bows, shafts, and sufficient food to last you a goodly while.”
“And you came unseen?”
Bracht’s question was answered with a brief smile, Gart’s teeth white in the gloom, wolfish.
“There were two of the ni Larrhyn set to follow us.” He chuckled, low. “They’ll have sore heads when they awake.”
“Again you’ve our thanks,” Bracht said, and Gart shrugged, shaping a dismissive gesture. “Swift now,” he advised. “The ni Larrhyn may well anticipate this and look to find us at the gate.”
They heeded his words, cinching girths tight, and mounted and rode out, onto a cobbled street that sent the clatter of their hooves ringing off the surrounding buildings. Like a clarion, Calandryll thought, announcing their furtive departure. He peered about, right hand light upon the straightsword’s hilt, his desire for breakfast forgotten now, anticipation filling the hollowness in his belly, but in the darkness that still filled the alleyways and avenues there was no sign of ambush; nor any sound other than that made by their horses, and the barking of dogs disturbed by such early travelers. Kerns came out of the shadows to either end of the street, whispering assurances that they were not followed, and Gart led the way toward the north gate. Above, the sky began to pale, the dull grey brightening as the rising sun began its contest with night’s rear guard, an opalescent glow extending westward. Birds set to singing, and where the massive bulk of the central fortress rose over the city, the black shapes of choughs and ravens launched themselves, swirling raucous about the heights.
They reached the gate just as the line of light along the rimrock became a reddish-gold and a horn sounded from the ramparts, announcing the commencement of a new day. Shadow still clustered dark about the foot of the great wall, filled with the protesting rumble of the opening portals and the shouts of the soldiery as watches were exchanged. Mounted men came toward them, Kythan calling soft greeting, his fellow riders gathering protective around the three.
“No trouble?” asked Gart, and his brother shook his head, saying, “None.”
“Then come.”
Gart took the lead as they moved across the square confronting the gates. Overhead, red gave way to gold, pushing across the mountaintops, driving a wide band of brightening blue across the sky. Calandryll looked to where the gates stood open on the pass and saw the way as yet still shadowed by the walls. He saw Gart halt as soldiers came out, exchanging a few words: the soldiers fell back, watching as the column went by.
Stygian darkness descended once more while they traversed the tunnel through the walls, briefly as horses were lifted to a canter, giving way to steadily increasing brightness as they emerged into the pass. Gart speeded their pace to a gallop, the canyon ringing with the magnified thunder of hoofbeats, and as if approving of their venture, the sun rose over the heights, spilling golden light down the length of the cleft.
There was no formal road here, but rather a natural path of time-smoothed stone, wide and flat, bordered on either side by the near-vertical slopes of the Gann Peaks. Scrub clung tenacious along the edges, and higher up Calandryll saw pines thrusting out from the cliffs, a stream tumbling silvery over the rock. The air grew warmer, bird song louder, the blue band of sky streaked with tails of white cirrus. They rode hard along the flat, looking to put distance and time at their backs, defense against pursuit.
The canyon began to rise, climbing toward an apparently blank wall of sun-washed blue-grey granite. It was the foot of a lesser peak, and about the apex, snow shone brilliant. Their way curved around the base, still rising, narrowed between steep faces of naked stone. It was a long climb and after a while the horses began to blow, affected by the altitude, and Calandryll experienced a mild dizziness, squinting as the snowed caps of the higher mountains wavered and shimmered, as if seen through water. They slowed on Gart’s command, cantering the last league to a place where the road widened again, the pass opening out into a broad bowl, its width grassy and ringed with larches, a shallow stream splashing along the perimeter. The wind whistled a chilly tune through the branches, and where they shaded the ground most deeply, Calandryll saw patches of half-melted, icy snow. He was surprised to see the sun risen halfway to its zenith. Gart reined in, beckoning them forward.
“This will make a comfortable enough camp.” He turned in his saddle, surveying the mountain meadow, grinning ferociously as he added, “And a good place to fight, do the ni Larrhyn come after you.”
Bracht nodded and they clasped hands. Kythan approached, leading a dappled horse, its back bulky with gear.
“All you’ll need,” he said.
“The bows topmost. Ahrd be with you.”
“And with you,” Bracht returned, taking the rope Kythan offered and looping it about his saddle horn. “All of you.”
Kythan smiled, no less fierce than his brother. “It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a good fight. And do they give chase, we’ll earn a place in the tale the bards make.”
“Ahrd willing,” said Bracht gravely, and took Kythan’s hand.
In turn, the brothers clasped hands with Calandryll and Katya, bidding them good fortune. “Come,” Bracht said, and they followed him across the meadow. Behind, the assembled men of the clan Asyth set to building their camp, setting watch over the egress of the road where it emerged onto the grass.
“Do the ni Larrhyn look to chase us,” Bracht murmured, “or send word to Jehenne, they’ll have a hard time of it.”
His voice was proud and Calandryll nodded, thinking that it was heartening to find such stout friends among so many enemies.
ACROSS the meadow Bracht ignored the wider way, leading them instead to a narrow gorge that ran level awhile before rising again, and they allowed the horses to find their own pace, moving at a walk up a goat trail that meandered about great sweeping flanks of rock, often enough shadowed by the overhang of ledges and walls that jutted like broken dragons’ teeth against the cloud-streamered brightness of the sky. The air was thin and they spoke little, concentrating on the slow, steady ascent. They must, Calandryll thought, climb over the backbone of the Gann Peaks, and how long before they descended into warmer, more breathable air, he was not sure. Soon, he hoped, for this was a high, cold place, lonely and oddly depressing, the sheer weight of stone and sky all round serving to emphasize that they were but three, setting out for hostile ground.
They halted at noon, sheltering from the wind in the lee of jumbled slabs fallen down from the peaks above, opening the dappled horse’s pack to find oats for the animals, dried meat and hard biscuit for themselves. After they had eaten, Bracht inspected the bows Kythan had secured, and the arrows, distributing the weapons with a grunt of approval.
