by Angus Wells
They were of a type favored by the Kerns, wood reinforced with bone, much shorter than the yew longbows common to Lysse, and curved deeper: more effective from horseback. Calandryll tested his, grateful for the hours spent practicing on the warboat, for the shortbow was no easy thing to draw, the plating of bone lending it a power its lesser size might otherwise have denied. Satisfied, he unstrung the weapon and stowed it alongside the quiver, in a case of soft hide against the elements, beside his saddle.
“How long before we reach Cuan na’For?” Katya asked as they prepared to leave.
“This is Cuan na’For,” Bracht answered. “Though no clan lays claim to these highlands.”
“Why not?” The warrior woman frowned her surprise as she looked about. “These little hills remind me of Vanu.”
“Ahrd!” Bracht shivered, grimacing his distaste. “Little hills? These are mountains.”
“In Vanu we’d name them hills.” Katya smiled.
“And I’m vowed to go there,” said Bracht, grinning ruefully.
“Shall you change your mind then?”
Katya’s smile became challenging; Bracht shook his head vigorously. “No,” he said, laughing. “Though I must climb the clouds, still I’ll climb them with you—for you.”
Calandryll wondered if wind and cold reddened Katya’s cheeks, but she said nothing more, only shook her own head, chuckling as she swung astride the grey gelding.
“Why do none claim them?” Calandryll wondered.
Bracht waved a dismissive hand. “Do you see grazing up here? For goats, perhaps; but for horses? No! This is no-man’s-land—the grass is our domain.”
“Then I ask—how long before we reach the grass?” Katya said.
“Two days.” Bracht looked skyward. “Spring’s well enough advanced well not find rain or snow to hinder us.”
“Only Jehenne ni Larrhyn.”
“Aye.” Bracht replied, sobering. “Only Jehenne. Or any other of her family.”
“I think shell not halt us.”
Katya’s voice was fierce, her grey eyes resolute. Bracht’s, Calandryll saw, were less confident. He looked at his hands, gloved, and thought that beneath the leather he felt his palms prickle with unpleasant contemplation. “Would she truly crucify you?” he asked. “Crucify all of us?”
“Me, certainly.” Bracht nodded grimly. “Katya and you . . . perhaps; because you ride with me. The Lykard favor that punishment—they’d nail me to an oak and leave my fate to Ahrd.”
“To Ahrd?” Calandryll gasped. “How should Ahrd decide the fate of a man with nails through his hands?”
Bracht shrugged and said, “They claim that should the punishment be unjust Ahrd’s oak will reject the nails.” Calandryll watched aghast as he snorted cynical laughter, spat, and added, “As best I know, Ahrd has found none innocent yet.”
It was a daunting thought and Calandryll sought comfort in the reminder that they had faced like dangers and survived—they had escaped Anomius, defeated the cannibals of Gash, won through the perils of Gessyth’s dreadful swamps, found safety from the Chaipaku. They must, he told himself, trust in the benign assistance of the Younger Gods, that and their own skills. Surely they must elude Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s vengeance. But still he could not resist clenching his hands: crucifixion seemed somehow a worse death. He wondered if his companions felt the same trepidation. If so, they gave no sign, Bracht taking the lead as the trail wound through a stand of wind-twisted pines, Katya behind him, looking about as eagerly as though they embarked on some pleasurable jaunt. He elected to hold his own counsel and endeavor to hide his sudden anxiety.
Past the pines the trail rose up a wide slope, curving around a sweeping shoulder of bare rock to enter a couloir that ran down steep enough his mind became entirely concentrated on the descent. Snowmelt rendered the footing treacherous, the gulley smooth-floored and high-sided, shadowy as the day passed into afternoon. They emerged onto a plateau where more trees grew, bent like old, rheumatic men by the wind. Birds wheeled overhead—more choughs, ravens, sometimes an eagle, proud above the lesser avians. Pine martens darted through the timber at their approach and farther up the slopes ibex and huge-horned sheep grazed the crannies. The sun shone bright, but the air was cold and thin, their progress slow, retarded by altitude, the level ground of the plateau a welcome interruption of the seesaw climb that seemed to answer each descent with a longer upward slope.
At such a height the day lingered, as if they clambered closer to the sun, and Calandryll was thankful when Bracht called a halt where a pocket of grass grew, surrounded on three sides by walls of stone. It seemed they sat atop the peaks, for few now rose above them and the egress from the pocket afforded a view of lower elevations, jagged stone spreading to north and east and west. They pitched their tents and got a fire started, blankets spread over the horses against the cold that grew as the sun fell toward the horizon. The sky in that direction burned fiery, defying the blue darkness that spread inexorably from the east, like a cloak trailed behind the risen crescent of the new moon. Stars pricked through the velvet panoply and the wind dropped, tricksy, before blowing again, fiercer and colder. The fire fluttered, sparks streaming into the night, and from the lower slopes wolves howled, setting the horses to snickering and stamping, the black stallion screaming a challenge. Bracht set meat to roasting and they huddled in their cloaks, savoring the smell, their appetites sharpened.
“Is Vanu truly so”—the Kern gestured at their surroundings—“bleak as this?”
“Bleak?” Katya pushed a strand of flaxen hair back from her face, her expression quizzical. “This is not very bleak. In Vanu, now, the mountains will be still snow-covered. These are just a little cold.”
Bracht grunted noncommittally; Calandryll frowned, thinking that these seemed to him mightily chill. Vanu, he decided, must be a hard land if Katya dismissed these mountains so casually.
“Do we need to cross the Borrhun-maj . . .” She shrugged expressively, firelight emphasizing the mischievous smile that curved her full mouth. “Then you shall see real mountains.”
“Ahrd grant we may seize the Arcanum in Cuan na’For then,” said Bracht, “for these are high enough for me.”
That reminder of their purpose drove the smile from Katya’s face and she nodded soberly, reaching out to turn a piece of meat. “I wonder where Tekkan is now,” she murmured.
“Likely closing on Vanu,” Bracht said firmly, “to alert your holy men to what we do.”
Katya nodded, her smile a little restored by that reassurance. Calandryll said, “And Menelian. I wonder how he fares?”
“Aye.” Now the Kern’s face grew somber. “Has he found the means of halting Anomius’s revenant?”
Calandryll had near forgotten that threat: of the sorcerer’s creation there had been no sign, and all that had passed since they quit Kandahar had served to drive that hazard from his mind. He shrugged and said, “Likely he has, else surely the creature would have found us.”
Bracht ducked his head. “I know little enough of revenants, but soon we’ll be in Cuan na’For, where the finding of us will be harder.”
“That’s a bone to gnaw on when it comes,” said Katya. “We’ve enough ahead to think on without our looking back.”
Mention of bone appeared to remind Calandryll’s stomach that it was still empty, for it promptly vented a prodigious rumbling; Katya and Bracht began to laugh. “I think”—the Kern chuckled—“that perhaps this meat is ready.”
“Roasted or raw”—Calandryll rubbed his complaining belly—“I’m ready for it.”
Still chuckling, Bracht fetched the strips from the fire and they ate. For all that blood dripped when his teeth broke the charred skin, it seemed to Calandryll a banquet, and he gorged, lying back when he was done with a sigh of pure contentment.
“These little mountains,” Bracht said with a grin in Katya’s direction, “would seem to edge our comrade’s appetite.”
“And render him somewhat ba
rbarous,” she returned, dabbing fastidiously at her mouth.
Unconcerned, Calandryll licked blood from his lips, wiped grease away with a careless hand. “Dera,” he remarked cheerfully, “I think I’ve never been so hungry.”
“You’ll find it so awhile,” Bracht told him, “until we reach the lower slopes.”
“When shall that be?” Calandryll lifted on his elbows, deciding his feet could remain a little longer by the fire.
“We climb no higher.” Bracht tossed a fresh branch into the flames. “From here, the way runs down. Two days will see us on the grass.”
“And those wolves?” Calandryll cocked his head, listening to the eerie howling. “Shall the horses be safe, or must we mount a guard?”
“No need.” Bracht shook his head. “They’re below us yet—where the hunting’s better—and the fire will hold them off. That and my horse: he’s match for any wolf.”
Calandryll nodded and yawned. With his hunger satisfied he realized he was mightily tired. Idly he murmured, “Did your Lykard friends pursue us? I wonder.”
“No friends of mine.” Bracht’s voice grew harsh. “And if they did, they’ll have a hard time of it.”
“Gart and Kythan proved true friends,” Calandryll murmured.
“They’re Asyth,” Bracht said, as if that were all the explanation necessary.
“True friends,” repeated Calandryll drowsily.
“Clan,” Bracht said. “That bond runs strong.”
“And the tokens you bought?” asked Katya. “Shall they prove as sound?”
“Aye.” Bracht used his dirk to return a fallen log to the fire. “Once given, they may not be reclaimed. With those, we’ve safe conduct over all save the ni Larrhyn grazing.”
Katya nodded, her face thoughtful. “Even the ni Brhyn?”
“Even the ni Brhyn,” Bracht confirmed.
“Then the Lykard cannot know that Daven Tyras is Rhythamun,” the woman murmured.
“I doubt even the Lykard”—Calandryll heard contempt in Bracht’s voice—“would give Rhythamun aid. Did you think it so?”
Katya shrugged a vague negative. “I know as little of Cuan na’For as you know of Vanu,” she said pensively, “but it would seem that if Rhythamun hides his identity, he must travel slower—at whatever pace the ni Brhyn set. Also, he cannot suspect we chase him—if he did, surely he’d have fabricated some tale, that the Lykard hold us back.”
“Likely,” Bracht agreed.
“Then I believe we’ve a better chance than any yet of halting him.” Her tone was enthusiastic enough; Calandryll shrugged off his weariness, concentrating on her words. “We’re agreed he’ll not risk facing Ahrd in the Cuan na’Dru—that he will look to go around the forest?”
Bracht nodded; Calandryll waited.
“And Ahrd lives in every tree?”
“The forests and woodlands are his,” Bracht said. “The oaks more than the rest.”
“Then shall Ahrd not know where he goes?”
Again Bracht nodded.
“While the ni Brhyn are unlikely to give him up, save he reveal himself for what he is.”
“Even the ni Brhyn despise a gharan-evur,” Bracht said.
“Then I think that if we’ve Ahrd’s help we can find him, away from the ni Brhyn. When he travels on—around the Cuan na’Dru.”
Bracht frowned as realization dawned, doubt—and perhaps, Calandryll thought, a measure of fear, too—in his eyes. “You’d go through the Cuan na’Dru?” he asked.
Katya nodded: “Did Ahrd permit, then we’d likely emerge ahead, with the god to tell us where we might cross Rhythamun’s path.”
“Did Ahrd permit,” Bracht said slowly. “And the Gruagach.”
“Burash aided us,” Katya reminded the Kern, “and Dera. Why not Ahrd? And these Gruagach?”
“The Gruagach are strangeling creatures.” Bracht’s voice was wary. “No man has seen them and lived. They guard the Cuan na’Dru fiercely. I’d not count on their permitting it.”
Katya shrugged. “I say only it is a way. Mayhap the best way.”
“I’d sooner face him among the ni Brhyn.”
The Kern spoke low, clearly troubled by the thought of encountering the mysterious Gruagach. It came to Calandryll that it was the first time he had seen hint of fear in Bracht. “You spoke of drachomannii recognizing him,” he offered. “What are they? Would they aid us?”
“Did they recognize him,” Bracht said, “but they are not sorcerers. The word means ghost-talkers—you’d name them shamans, I think. They guide the clans, speak with the spirits, make the offerings to Ahrd. They might discern what Rhythamun is and cast him out, but more than that . . .” He gestured helplessly. “No, I think we must rely on that power in you to win this fight.”
“And in the Younger Gods,” Katya insisted. “In Ahrd.”
“Aye,” Bracht allowed, somewhat reluctantly. “But still I’d not go among the Gruagach, save we’ve no other choice left us.”
He was obviously discomforted by the thought, rising to check the horses as if he sought those few moments alone, forcing an end to further discussion of the prospect.
“At least,” Katya murmured as she watched him, “we’ve the advantage of surprise. Rhythamun must surely believe us trapped in Tezin-dar, and thinking that will leave no ambush behind.”
Calandryll grunted sleepy agreement, neither then knowing Katya was wrong.
MORNING found the wind dropped away and the grass frost-rimed, glittering silvery under the harsh blue of a cloudless sky. The sun was a hazy disc far off to the east, hurling long shadows from the peaks and crags, outlining soaring birds stark against the azure. Breath steamed, and Calandryll hurried to build the fire as Bracht tended the horses and Katya retreated behind the privacy of the rocks to attend her toilet. They boiled tea and ate more of the dried meat, crouching, wrapped in their cloaks, about the fire as the sun climbed a little farther up the sky, then kicked the smoldering logs submissive and saddled the animals, riding out of the hollow’s shelter onto a trail that slanted precipitously down across a face of smooth stone.
As Bracht had promised, they had crested the backbone of the mountains now and their way was a steady descent, though still by no means easy. Lesser tors lay below them, cordillera that ran like telluric waves washing against the distant blue-green mistiness that was the flatland of Cuan na’For, and the trail wound a tortuous way down shale-strewn gradients, along gullies, cliff faces, and couloirs. The few level places they crossed were a welcome relief, the gradients they climbed fewer and less steep, the road mostly finding a way around the heights, or between them. Timber grew thicker, spruce and hemlock and cedar spreading over the slopes, and they rode over more mountain meadows, an ever-increasing number of streams running cold and silver toward the foothills, like pointers to their destination. Squirrels chattered at their passing and the birds of the high mountains were gradually replaced with crows and kestrels, peregrines and buzzards. The air warmed and they shed their cloaks as the sun approached its zenith, donning them again as the day aged, the sun westering, allowing the new moon’s sickle dominance of the heavens. That night owls hooted in the trees sheltering their camp, pine needles affording a springy mattress, the fire giving off the sweet scent of cedar as it crackled cheerfully, coruscating sparks toward the overhanging canopy of branches. The moon hymn of the wolves sounded closer and Calandryll fingered his bow, wondering aloud if they need mount a guard.
“No.” Bracht shook his head, tossing a flesh-stripped bone onto the fire. “They’ll not trouble us.”
“But they hunt nearby,” Calandryll protested.
“But not us,” said the Kern easily. “What do you know of wolves?”
“Not much,” Calandryll admitted. “That shepherds hate them, and farmers . . . In Lysse they’re sometimes hunted. Folk say they’ll attack unwary travelers, be the pack large enough.”
Bracht laughed. “Shepherds hate wolves because they threaten the flocks,�
�� he said, “and so they weave tales of their ferocity. But never have I known a pack—no matter how large—attack a man. Rather, they avoid men, and men’s fires. They might, were they hungry enough and in sufficient number, try for a horse, but I think we’re safe enough.”
“And the horses?” Calandryll frowned, still toying nervously with his bow. “Shall they be safe?”
“This close to us and our fire,” Bracht answered, “aye. Those wolves you hear can fill their bellies readily enough on the game in these hills. And as I said before—my stallion is match for any wolf.”
Calandryll bowed to the Kern’s greater knowledge. His own experience of the lupine predators was, he allowed, limited mostly to folklore. In Secca he had taken little enough pleasure in hunting, preferring his books, his scholarly pursuits, to the chase, and had largely refused the invitations extended by his father and brother to join them on their forays, from which they would sometimes return with the carcass of a wolf, and lurid tales of the dead creature’s ferocity. Bracht must know, he thought; but still, as he lay in his tent, he found sleep hard to find while the pack chorused, and kept both blade and bow to hand.
The dawn reinforced Bracht’s assurance, for neither had the horses suffered attack nor could any sign of wolf spoor be found nearby; there was, Calandryll thought not for the first time, learning to be gleaned outside the books he had loved so well, in the observation of things beyond the confines of the palace library or the dissertation of scholars. It came to him then, as he squatted among the trees, that he had not held a book—save for that cursory examination of Varent den Tarl’s library—in over a year now. Nor—this to his surprise—much missed the lack. A year ago he would have believed that unthinkable, but now the tomes over which he had doted, the scrolls and parchments and leather-bound volumes that had comprised the major and undoubtedly most important part of his life, seemed little more than a nebulous memory of a life left behind, like Secca’s walls and Nadama, Tobias’s scorn and his father’s contempt. He rose, smiling and stretching, listening to the bird song in the surrounding trees, able now to identify far more than he had known that long-ago day when he had ridden out through Secca’s gates to find—he now recognized—a freedom he had not known existed.
