Hinterland g-2

by James Clemens

  She quickly reached the fieldroom’s level and headed down the hall to the open door. It was unguarded. There were no knights to spare for such duties. She entered to find the rally already under way.

  She was surprised at how few were here. Argent held a dagger in his fingers and made deft instructions on the pinned map, cutting into the ancient vellum in his urgency and fury. He was instructing his second-in-command. Kathryn didn’t know his name. The former second had died during the third bell; there had been no time for introductions after that.

  Hesharian stood against the back wall. Unmoving, eyes glazed.

  Gerrod was at Argent’s other elbow, suggesting a few improvements with a bronzed finger. “They are particularly sensitive to loam. If we paint the stairs here…and here…with an alchemy of bile and loam, they should weaken before they hit the line.”

  The warden nodded.

  All their eyes lifted when she entered. Something in her face made them all straighten with concern.

  “Did the line break again?” Argent asked.

  “It holds,” Kathryn assured him, putting steel in her voice and hardening her face.

  Argent looked relieved. Gerrod’s face was impossible to read, armored as it was, but he continued to stare at her.

  She nodded to him, indicating she was all right.

  It was a lie they all needed to believe for the moment.

  There was only one other participant in the rally: the lithe and pristine figure of Liannora, Hand of Oldenbrook. Like Hesharian, she also stood to the side, her hands tucked into a snowy muff. For a moment, Kathryn could not make sense of it. Then she remembered the stone-casting among the Hands, the selection of a representative to the council.

  Or rather two representatives.

  Kathryn searched the room. “Where’s Delia?” she asked Liannora.

  A flash of guilt wavered across her pale features before vanishing. The woman shook her head, indicating she didn’t know. Liannora must have been caught here when all fell apart. She must have felt safer here, leaving Delia to deal with all the Hands. No wonder the guilty demeanor.

  Kathryn turned her back on the woman.

  Argent spoke. “If the line is finally holding, then perhaps we have a chance.”

  “We can’t win this war,” Kathryn said, not letting her steeliness drop, making it plain that it was not despair that prompted her words.

  Argent, ever the campaigner, still bristled.

  “She is right,” Gerrod said, supporting her. “We can hold out, but night will fall soon. The sun already sets.”

  “So?” Argent turned his eye upon Gerrod. “Locked in our tower, what difference does it make if the sun is up or not?”

  “You forget Eylan?” Kathryn asked. “What have we faced so far? Wraiths and stormfire.”

  Argent frowned.

  Kathryn continued. “Eylan came cloaked in an icy Dark Grace, impenetrable. Though the wraiths are fearsome, they can be struck down with steel and alchemy. What if he brings the same icy Dark Grace upon us again?”

  Argent’s face grew troubled. She read the dawning understanding in the furrows of his brow. He was stubborn, but not beyond reason-if you could get him to listen.

  “Perhaps Ulf weakens,” he said. “The storm must sap him greatly to keep it locked around our town for so long.”

  “No,” Gerrod said and stepped to the window.

  They followed.

  The wide windows were shuttered tight. Gerrod pointed to an opening in the shutter, only a hand’s breadth tall but wide enough for all three to gather.

  Kathryn searched outside. The day was indeed almost gone. The storm swallowed the world, but the gray clouds were darkening. They were losing the sun. Beyond the window, a sweeping view of fields and outer towers was shrouded in swirls of snow. Still, she saw shapes winging about and boiling and crawling amid the towers.

  Still so many…

  “Lord Ulf is not weakening,” Gerrod continued. “The wraiths were only the beginning. He’s been waiting for nightfall, for his wraith legion to drive us tighter and tighter together.”

  “Why?”

  “Whatever icy Grace protected Eylan, it must not be limitless. Or else he would have used it to shield the wraiths already. I suspect it is an arrow best shot with some marksmanship.”

  Kathryn understood. “He intends to have us all confined to one place.”

  “So to inflict a killing blow,” Argent said.

  Gerrod nodded. “And when that ice comes and we lose the flames of our lower levels, it will open our other flank, where Mirra awaits. Wraiths above, daemons below, and ice all around.”

  Argent stepped back, the fire in him kicked to ashes. “When?” he asked, knowing this was the most important question.

  Gerrod merely turned to the window-and the setting sun.

  Kathryn stared out the window as the darkness deepened.

  “We’ll never last ’til dawn,” Argent muttered.

  The pyre spit and hissed, scattering sparks toward the roof. The barred door glowed in the flames, revealing every grain in stark relief, as if the fire did not tolerate any shadows.

  “To the center of the room,” Orquell ordered, waving his hand.

  Laurelle shifted to obey, crowded by Kytt and Delia.

  “Stay there until I tell you otherwise,” Orquell said, stepping toward the door.

  The other three pyres in the room’s corners caught the excitement of the first and danced higher. Soon the room shone as brightly as a summer day.

  Laurelle glanced at her toes, avoiding the flaring glare. She noted that none of them cast any shadows on the floor. With flames burning on all four sides, they were bathed in light from all directions.

  She remembered Master Orquell’s earlier words.

  Every flame casts a shadow.

  Orquell reached to the door’s bar and lifted it free.

  “What are you doing?” Delia asked harshly. Suspicion still rang sharply in her.

  “We invited the witch here. It would be impolite to refuse her now.”

  Orquell tugged on the latch and fought the stubborn hinges to pry the door open. Beyond the threshold, the dark hall waited.

  The unnaturalness of the shadows was plain to all. The blaze of the pyre failed to penetrate the darkness, as if the hallway were flooded to the roof with black water.

  Orquell stepped back and beckoned. “Castellan Mirra, please come inside. Your black ghawls will have to remain without, of course. The flames here will not let them pass.”

  “What do you want, rub-aki?” a reedy voice asked from the darkness. “Your flames foul the hallways here.”

  “Ah yes, my rys-mor, the living flames.” He waved to encompass the pyres. “Born from a powder of crushed lavantheum, bearing the blood of four aspects-it attracts them, does it not? Where ordinary flame chases them off with warmth and brightness, my flames are like the fresh beating and bloody heart of the most delicious prey. They can’t stay away. In fact, I wager they are being a bit stubborn about obeying your wishes. Of course, eventually they will, but it will take much effort and concentration on your part.”

  “Why are you interfering? Takaminara has never meddled in the affairs of the outer world.”

  Orquell took another step back, bowing slightly. “Exactly. So fear not my threshold. I swear your safety here.”

  Laurelle heard Delia hiss under her breath.

  The darkness parted and a gray-haired old woman slipped out and into the firelight, dressed in a robe, sashed at the waist. She seemed more a kindly great-mother, maybe a bit stern around the edges, but certainly no witch. She entered the room, leaning on a smooth cane. It was only once she stepped across that Laurelle saw her cane was actually some creature’s legbone, carved with Littick sigils.

  “Again, what do you want, rub-aki?”

  “A bargain for my safe passage. Nothing more. Allow me to reach the central stair, and I’ll douse my flames. You know the word of a rub-aki is invio
late. We cannot go back on our oath.”

  “And I also know that the rub-aki are skilled at using their words to the fullest and in a most sly manner.”

  “Then I’ll speak plain. I walk”-he mimicked a man walking with two fingers across his open palm-“and once I reach the stairs, I’ll douse all of my pyres. I will tell no one of your presence. But betray me and I’ll use my dying breath like a bellow to fan my four pyres. You won’t like that.”

  Mirra studied Orquell, attempting to see a trap.

  “To sweeten the deal,” he pressed, “I offer you these three to take.”

  He waved over to them.

  “What?” Delia snapped and lunged a step forward.

  Laurelle grabbed her elbow, instinctively. The master had told them not to leave the room’s center for any reason. He had also asked for their trust. Delia fought her hold. Only then did Laurelle realize Delia was feigning her struggle, for the show of it. Still, Laurelle also read a vein of real suspicion in Delia’s eye.

  Could they truly trust this one?

  Orquell ignored them. “As you’ve said, servants of Takaminara have no concerns for the wider world. I have no use for these three-a wyld tracker and two Hands.”

  Mirra’s eyes shifted closer to study them, stepping to the side to view them better.

  Orquell leaned slightly, assuming a pose similar to Mirra’s.

  “And not just any Hands,” he added. “But the Hands of Tylar ser Noche, regent of Chrismferry. I believe you are still searching for him.”

  Delia swore, almost raising a blush on Laurelle’s cheek with her sudden and vitriolic vulgarity.

  “And for assurance, I’ll cross to the stairs without raising any fire, so that you may feel safer. This I swear. I will trust your darkness to cloak us and seal our bargain.”

  Mirra was plainly tempted, weighing the odds of just taking them. But there were risks in attacking a master of fire. Finally she spoke slowly, summarizing the bargain. “So if I allow you to proceed to the main stair, you’ll raise no fire against me, tell no one of my presence, and once you are free, you’ll stanch your pyres.”

  He nodded.

  “And I can take these three,” she added firmly.

  “I will not stop you. All this I swear on my crimson eye.”

  Mirra surveyed the room one more time. A bell echoed from some distance away, marking the passage of time. Finally, she nodded. “So be it. You are sworn safe passage.”

  Orquell bowed. He crossed to each pyre, spread a bit of powder, and whispered over it. He returned to the door. “The flames will obey my will. Once safe, I will extinguish them.”

  “Then let us be off. Sunset draws near.”

  “I want my hostages kept close,” he said. “No slipping them off in the dark. I will know.”

  She waved her arm impatiently.

  Orquell raised a palm to the pyre by the door and lowered his hand. The flames died down, while the others still flickered brighter. With no light ahead, Laurelle saw their shadows stretch toward the open doorway. Once they crossed the threshold, the darkness surged inside, sweeping around with a rustle of cloth.

  They were forced to follow Orquell. As soon as they stepped over the threshold, all light vanished. Laurelle gasped at the suddenness of it, as if someone had slammed the door on the firelit room behind them.

  She reached out a hand and touched a warm body. Kytt found her hand and grabbed it. Delia bumped against her, then their hands were locked. Together they were ushered ahead, surrounded by a darkness that stirred.

  They followed a zigzagging path that had Laurelle all turned around. She remembered Orquell’s description of a darkness so complete it strained the eye to the point of blindness. Her eyes ached, searching for light.

  She heard Orquell whisper under his breath. So faint she could not make out his words. But they had been intended for sharper ears, those of a wyld tracker.

  Kytt leaned forward, his lips finding Laurelle’s ear. He breathed so very faintly. “Be ready.”

  Laurelle nodded and squeezed Delia’s hand, silently warning her.

  Orquell spoke again, but this time loud enough for all to hear. “I believe I never answered your question, Mistress Laurelle. Before I go, I might as well satisfy your curiosity. You had asked what I see when my inner eye opens in the darkness.”

  Laurelle swallowed to free her tongue. “What do you see?”

  “Flames…”

  Suddenly a door burst open to the right, yanked by Orquell. Firelight blazed out of the room, sealed so tight that not a flicker had reached the hall. The one who hid in the room had plainly not wanted to be found, but did not dare sit in the dark amid a legion of ghawls.

  A cry rose inside.

  Laurelle spotted a familiar figure cowering near the back of the room. A thick torch in hand, bright with flame. He held it toward the door like a sword.

  “Sten…” Laurelle said.

  It was the captain of the Oldenbrook guard.

  His eyes widened at the sight of them-then he must have noted the surging shadows around the group. He suddenly sank to his knees in terror.

  “No!”

  Out in the hall, the firelight cast back the shadows, leaving Mirra standing only a few paces away, stripped of darkness.

  Orquell cupped his hands toward Sten’s torch. The flame leaped like a deer from the end of his brand and flew to the master’s hands. At the same time, he turned and cast the fire at Mirra.

  The flames struck her, bathing her face, lighting her gray hair like the driest grass. She screamed and fell back into the darkness of the deeper hall.

  Orquell shoved them all in the opposite direction.

  With the witch maddened by her agony, her ghawls were in disarray. They fled to the end of the hall and around the corner, where more firelight glowed at the end of the next passage. They had reached the habited sections of the tower.

  They ran in a wild dash, fearful of what might be rallying at their back. But it seemed the ghawls had found another target upon which to vent their rage and their mistress’s pain.

  Sten wailed behind them, the sound barely human.

  Laurelle fled from his cry as much as from the ghawls.

  Finally, they reached the light. Rooms to either side echoed with voices, moans. Some doors were open, blazing with light. The smell of blood and bile was heavy. They had reached some makeshift healing ward set up on this level. Passing through, they found a gathering of knights at the stair’s landing. The knights eyed the strange and breathless bunch, but recognized a master’s robes and parted the way.

  Orquell stepped to the stairs and resoundingly clapped his hands. Laurelle noted a wisp of smoke sail between his palms. She eyed him inquiringly.

  “To douse the pyres. As I swore-when I reached the stairs, I would put them out.”

  Delia stared at him. “And you also swore not to raise a fire against Mirra.”

  “And I didn’t. What burned her was not a flame I cast or kindled. It was borrowed fire, already burning. It didn’t need raising.”

  Delia shook her head. “The witch was right. The word of rub-aki is as slippery as any lie.”

  “Before we stepped into the hall,” Laurelle asked, “you already knew about Sten’s fire?”

  Orquell tapped the mark on his forehead. “The inner eye is sensitive to fire. While communing earlier, listening to my pyres, I sensed a fire hidden near the edge of the witch’s darkness. I needed her cooperation as a bridge to reach it.”

  Delia turned to the upper stairs. “Before Mirra heals and collects herself, word must reach the warden and Castellan Vail.”

  Orquell remained where he was. “I cannot speak of it. This I also swore. But I know where I may prove of more use.” He took a step down the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” Laurelle asked.

  He pointed below. “With Mirra and her legion already above, her buried lair is most likely unguarded. If what I suspect is true, there may be something a
rub-aki can accomplish that no one else can do.”

  “You’re going into the cellars?” Kytt asked, taking a step after him. “Down into her secret passages?”

  “If I can find an opening.”

  Kytt took the other steps. “I’ve been down there. While chasing the wolfkits. I can lead you.”

  Laurelle stared from Delia to the young tracker. Then she slowly took one step down, and another, almost disbelieving her legs. But she knew the truth. They would need her help more than Delia would, if only to carry another torch. And after all that had happened, she was not about to hole up in some room again, waiting for the end. She’d had enough of that.

  “Get word above,” she said to Delia. “To your father. To Kathryn. They must know what lurks here and where we are headed.”

  The woman hesitated-but she read the certainty in Laurelle’s eyes.

  Turning, Laurelle found Kytt gaping at her.

  “No,” he said firmly.

  Laurelle simply strode past him, rolling her eyes.

  Boys.

  When would they learn?

  A PACT WITH A DAEMON

  At the foot of the cliff, Tylar stepped off the vine ladder.

  He had never set foot in a hinterland before, but he had heard tales. Other knights, older knights, told gruesome stories of campaigns against hinter-kings and raving rogues. He almost expected his leg to sink into muck, his skin to peel, and his clothes to burn. But his boots found only loose scree.

  He moved away from the cliff, making room for the rest of their party. The way down from here was still steep, barely less of a slope than the cliff itself. Below, another dark forest beckoned, ready again to swallow them up under a canopy.

  But here, on this thin beachhead, the stars shone overhead. As Harp had predicted, the sun had sunk to a glow at the western horizon. The lesser moon hung full and low, as if wary of showing its face too high above this sinister land. Perhaps it would be braver when the greater moon rose later. Still, the meager moonlight did cast the spread of forest in a silvery light.

  Distantly, large pinnacles of rock protruded, looking like foraging beasts lumbering across a meadow. But Tylar knew they were just the broken landscape of the hinter, a shattered tableland, as if struck by a mighty hammer and upended in crumbled sections.