A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1)

by Freda Warrington

  Estarinel felt they were puppets that had been put a million times through this motion. He had always been here; this was where he belonged, a spectre running beneath the string of diseased flesh that hurtled overhead, leaving him behind but never ending. Then he saw that something fled before it.

  It was something tiny, a small blackbird, and it wept as it fled, tossed like a cinder on the Serpent-winds. Its cry rang across the world, and it seemed an ash of hope and bravery. But the Worm never quite caught up with it.

  The Gorethrian, remotely, realised what the bird was. Medrian knew also, but her whole body felt like lifeless white crystal and she thought she would never come down from the sky.

  Only when the horses began to prop and swerve did reality re-establish itself. They saw that they were at the brink of a drop. The Gorethrian cursed and urged Vixata forward, but she stood on her hind legs, forehooves flailing at the red and silver rain, bright gold. And as Ashurek forced her over the drop, his black hair flying, he laughed wildly like some demon of darkest hell.

  Skord’s mare shied in terror and bolted down the drop. There was a sinister rumbling, and a great red fireball rolled along the underside of the sullen clouds. The other horses, in a panic, raced headlong after Skord.

  It was a tall, steep face of stones and earth, with tough bushes and roots sticking from it. In that breathless gallop down, it was a miracle that the horses kept their feet; their hooves were a blur, barely contacting the ground.

  Then there was an ear-splitting, howling screech and from the fireball shot a barbed spear of white fire, bright as a magnesium flare. It struck the top of the drop, then leapt from top to bottom of the face in an arc of blinding light to stick as a blazing sword of electricity stretching from sky to earth, where the riders had been a second before. All the charge of the sky poured down it.

  Then it was suddenly gone. The wind still howled and the rain continued to pour, but the storm had drained itself, and the clouds were calmer, higher. The thunder and blood-red lightning ceased. The ground tingled a little beneath the horses’ hooves for a moment. A fork of pure white lightning was followed by a distant crack of thunder. It was a normal storm, fading and rolling away.

  Gradually the horses slowed and allowed themselves to be stopped, still breathing fast with fear. The riders turned and looked behind them. Where the fire-spear had struck, the drop had crumbled and a great blackened, burnt-out crater was left. They stared, collecting their wits.

  It was apparent from the dreadful look of horror in Skord’s eyes that he had not been immune to the strange illusion in the storm. But he covered his fear with forced amusement.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he laughed. ‘We have the most appalling weather in Belhadra at this time of year. That forest has been hit by lightning so many times I should have known better. You saw how blackened it was by fire. The lightning will strike anything tall, or better still, something moving. I do apologise.’ He looked insolently round at the three, enjoying the disruption the storm had caused.

  ‘So you thought it amusing to lead us into deliberate danger of being killed by lightning?’ Ashurek said acidly. ‘Don’t apologise. Anyone who will risk his own life to play a joke has my utmost admiration.’

  Skord gave an offhand shrug and rode on, smiling to himself.

  The storm persisted for some time as they rode on towards Beldaega-Hal. Dawn melted through the clouds, leaving the world in a sleepy, silvery twilight. It was a weird light, deep and stormy although the worst onslaught was past. Towards the afternoon they came upon the first straggling red buildings of the town, and later a paved road leading into the centre of Beldaega-Hal. They joined the road and as they jog-trotted down it they passed flat, unfenced fields and the occasional cluster of peasant dwellings. All were built in blocks of red stone, squat and square in shape with reed roofs.

  The buildings grew more numerous, forming untidy rows on either side of the road. Raggedly dressed children stared at the four riders. Peasant men and women looked on with curiosity. Carts were in the street, mangy horses stood half-asleep, thin dogs ran among the piles of rubbish that lay about the houses.

  As they went further into the town, the oddness of the buildings struck them. They were like cube upon cube of red stone piled up, with rounded corners; scarred and pitted with age. All the buildings seemed crowded together, split by dingy paved streets barely wide enough to let a cart through. It was as if a child had thrown building blocks together at random. And as they drew closer to the town centre, a whisper of their coming preceded them. ‘It is Her favourite… with three black-haired strangers… one a Gorethrian!’

  Skord paused to attract the attention of a small boy. He pushed a silver coin into his palm. ‘Run to the shop of the merchant Mel Skara, tell him I am coming with three guests, and he is to display his best wares: clothing, weapons. Go on.’ The boy, with a look of delight, shot off down the street and vanished round a corner.

  Meanwhile, people were greeting them with mixed feelings. Everyone seemed to know Skord, and saluted him, but there were grumblings of suspicion when they saw Ashurek. By now it seemed that the entire town knew of their arrival. ‘Her favourite, with a strange, pale woman… a handsome knight… a Gorethrian… all riding bareback!’

  All three, Ashurek especially, were now regretting coming to the town. They rode at a painfully slow walk, twisting and turning through the streets until they were sure they would never find their way out again. A variety of smells filled the air. Dogs barked. Children shouted. Babies wailed. It seemed overcrowded, claustrophobic; a town where no one could have any secrets.

  Ashurek was reminded of the sad, terrified people he had seen when the Gorethrian army had occupied parts of Tearn. Bitterness awoke at the memory of those days, when the Egg-Stone had moved him like an automaton to crush such cowering mobs. But he still felt no pity for them. Better the fierce, single-minded rebels of the Empire than these pathetic folk; at least the rebels had something in them he could recognise.

  Up a twisting alley Skord led them. Then, at last, they reached a building with a square plain entrance, the only decoration a sign in beautifully painted black-letter, reading, ‘Mel Skara: Merchant’. They dismounted and tethered their horses in a small paved yard at the side.

  ‘Here,’ said Skord, ‘we do our shopping here.’

  ‘But–’ Estarinel began.

  ‘Before you say again that you have no money,’ Skord interrupted in a confidential tone, ‘I do not have to pay for my requirements in this town. I just ask, and it is given… if you understand my meaning.’

  ‘No, I don’t, and I don’t think I want to.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Skord. He beckoned with an affected gesture and, dubiously, they followed him into the shop.

  Ashurek whispered to Medrian and Estarinel, ‘Let us humour him for now, but be on your guard. His generosity is in a good cause.’

  The merchant was waiting for them, like some bloated creature of prey, as they entered. He was a gross man, his brown hair and beard neatly oiled and groomed around his doughy face. Rich brocaded robes of red and gold ballooned around him.

  ‘Greetings, noble sir,’ he welcomed Skord. ‘I have been expecting you. I sincerely hope I can have the pleasure of being of service to you.’

  ‘I sincerely hope you can too, Mel Skara,’ replied Skord. ‘I have three companions who require travelling clothes, maps, good weapons; the best weapons, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, the best weapons in Belhadra – nay, in Tearn! – are to be found here–’ The merchant broke off in mid-sentence, mouth hanging open as he took in Skord’s fellow travellers.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Skord, ‘allow me to introduce my companions: Estarinel of Forluin; the Lady Medrian; and, ah, Prince Ashurek.’

  Mel Skara swallowed nervously and cleared his throat.

  ‘Er yes – the best weapons. Would you be so kind as to come through to the back?’

  They let him lead the way, following slowly
and looking about them. The shop was a large, square, dusky room, red-tiled with an exotic fringed carpet. The merchant’s goods appeared unusual, expensive and select. Furniture of fine, dark wood; richly-bound books; tapestries and rugs of intricate design; ornaments of silver, gold and platinum. Yet, in this poor town, it seemed more a museum than a much-used shop.

  They were led through an archway to a smaller room, lined with red velvet curtains. Here was everything a traveller could need: strong riding clothes, saddles and bridles, swords and shields. The scent of leather was evocative.

  ‘Here, good sirs and lady, you may choose whatever goods please you,’ said Mel Skara with an obsequious smile. ‘As you will observe, all are of the finest quality…’

  ‘Mel Skara,’ interrupted Skord in his cool, arrogant tone, ‘when my guests choose their clothes, allow them to use the mirror.’

  An oily grin seeped over the merchant’s face. He bowed slightly. ‘Certainly, sir,’ he smiled.

  Estarinel looked at Ashurek, who shrugged.

  They were uneasy in the shop, yet there seemed to be no plot to imprison them. A side door was opened so they could fit their horses with saddles and bridles. And Skord sat on a pile of material in a corner, watching impassively as they chose weapons.

  Ashurek noticed that although the weapons were fine and unused, all lay under a layer of dust. No one had bought a weapon here for many months, even for a few years. Belhadra no longer had an army then, and even knights and squires went unarmed. And a farmer’s son rode through the streets, lording it over a cowed populace. What was his source of power?

  They each chose a keen steel sword and a long knife, and Medrian also took a good bow and a quiver of arrows. They all took shields of bonded leather and steel.

  ‘And now, most excellent lady and sirs,’ said Mel Skara, ‘I have clothing of the most superb quality, fine brocades in the Gorethrian style, tunics of silk, gazelle-skin boots…’

  ‘So we see,’ Ashurek remarked. ‘We just need strong travelling gear.’ He picked out a tunic of black linen, dark breeches, and boots of a soft black hide. The others chose equally undistinctive clothing; Estarinel a shirt, tunic and breeches of bronze-brown, with boots of russet leather, and Medrian similar garb in dark reds and greys. Then she and Ashurek chose full-length black cloaks with high collars; Estarinel took a similar one, slate-coloured.

  ‘Perhaps you would do me the honour of stepping behind this curtain, where you will find cubicles in which to try on the fine clothes you have so wisely–’

  ‘Spare us,’ Ashurek grimaced. Mel Skara’s face twitched nervously, but the three made their way between the red velvet hangings. He looked across at Skord, who gave a small, purposeful nod. Mel Skara reached out a portly arm and grasped a cord of maroon silk.

  As the three re-emerged, tying laces and tightening belts, the merchant smiled graciously and waved towards a rich velvet curtain.

  ‘Allow me to reveal a mirror for your convenience.’ His plump hand pulled the cord. The red curtain slid back soundlessly and Estarinel found himself facing a large looking glass with a decorated rim; a still, silver lake waiting for their reflections to plumb its depths.

  Then he stared at the mirror. What he saw was not his own reflection. Instead was looking at some other scene, something that should not have been in the mirror. He saw whiteness, like the White Plane, or like snow; he saw a scrawny bird of black; he saw an indistinct streak of silver, like a needle. And the nameless fear returned, and the words came to him, ‘A loss beyond bearing’. He did not see them, nor did he hear them; but the words were there.

  It was as if the glass had found the core of his soul and reflected it with cruel incandescence; and it was calling him, sucking him down into its sweet silver-and-green depths to meet a cheerless fate. From a great distance he heard Ashurek cry, ‘Damn you!’ and then ‘Silvren!’ and Medrian uttered an inhuman groan of despair.

  In an instant, everything they had seen was forgotten, even the mirror itself. Estarinel found himself staring at a velvet curtain, conscious of a slight headache. He felt faintly disorientated, but otherwise unaware that anything had happened.

  ‘The clothes look magnificent!’ the merchant exclaimed with too much feeling. Pearls of sweat stood on his face. He had served Skord well.

  ‘Mel Skara,’ the youth said, ‘rest assured that you will receive full reward for your services today…’

  Mel Skara virtually prostrated himself with gratitude. He had had little trade in recent years, but his work for Her had more than recompensed him.

  ‘You are well pleased?’ Skord enquired of the three travellers.

  ‘We’re grateful,’ Estarinel said quietly.

  ‘Excellent!’ the merchant exclaimed. ‘And now I have maps, accurate and up-to-date, hand-drawn on finest linen…’

  Chapter Eight. Nemen from the Abyss

  It was night in that dusty, disease-ridden town when they entered the inn. Skord had insisted generously that they guest there at his expense, and although they felt that they should leave Beldaega-Hal as soon as possible, they gave in without argument. The awful dehydration of Hrannekh Ol had taken its toll, and after two days’ riding they knew they must rest.

  The inn was a square, red building without even a sign outside to distinguish it. Within the dimly-lit public room there was a low murmur of voices which abruptly died as the four entered. Skord strode across to the wooden bar that faced the entrance, but the others paused in the doorway and looked about them. Their gaze met pair after pair of sick, glazed, half-dead eyes, until their skin began to creep under the collective stare of the townspeople.

  Almost every table in the inn was full, and every person there gazed unblinkingly at them; except for one woman who sat near the door, and she was weeping, slumped across the table with her head on her arms. She sat alone and the others ignored her.

  ‘I want four rooms for the night,’ Skord was saying to the landlord, a bulky, grey-haired man with a bitter face. The man paused in polishing a glass.

  ‘And who are your guests, sir?’

  ‘A knight, a lady, and a Prince,’ replied Skord in a tone that warned him not to pry.

  ‘A Gorethrian, sir?’ The landlord’s big-boned arms flexed as he began to work at the glass again. He had the air of a servant trying to pluck up courage to rebel against a despotic master.

  ‘Just ready the rooms and prepare us a meal, Skarred,’ Skord insisted. The landlord stammered, as if he must have an answer although the consequence of asking the question might be disastrous.

  ‘But the Gorethrians are our enemies, sir…’ and his face hung as if his very last hope of life had been dragged from him.

  ‘How can you have enemies, Skarred,’ said Skord, smiling, ‘when you have not a single friend?’ And he put three gold coins on the bar.

  ‘What do I want with your filthy money!’ cried the landlord. ‘Our only enemy is She, She whom we worship as a goddess, who is no better than the Worm! And She is your enemy too, whatever you tell yourself!’

  Skord went white, as if Skarred had hit some truth.

  ‘Another word and you will be removed to a Region which will make this place seem like the fields of paradise.’

  ‘Do it then!’ the landlord cried, losing all control. ‘I would rather a million years in the Dark Regions than another minute looking at your wicked face, child! And word is your own father felt the same–’ he was trembling, possessed by fury and fear. But as Skord made to reply, he was silenced by Ashurek’s icy grip on his elbow.

  ‘Skord,’ the Gorethrian broke in, ‘perhaps I had better explain to Skarred. The Gorethrians are my enemies too. I have rejected them and all I perpetrated for them. We are only innocent travellers pursuing a personal goal. You have nothing to fear from us.’ He looked at Skord. ‘And I fail to see why you all exist in living terror of this boy.’ He glanced round the townspeople who had suddenly broken into a murmur of astonishment.

  Skord began, ‘How dar
e you–’

  ‘Be silent,’ Ashurek commanded, and to the people’s surprise, he was. ‘Does he often carry out his frequent threats? By what power can he do this?’

  ‘By Her power. She To Whom We Pay Tribute,’ muttered the landlord. Skord folded his arms with an air of condescension.

  ‘So,’ said Ashurek, ‘this country is in the power of some sorceress and you are her servant?’ He stared unnervingly at Skord. ‘You speak with light abandon of the Dark Regions, but you are playing with fire. One slip and you will be down there yourself!’

  And Skord began to look afraid. He turned on his heel and made quickly for a flight of stairs, disappearing upstairs without another word.

  At once there was a relaxing of the atmosphere, as if the townspeople were silently celebrating Ashurek’s humiliation of Skord. With a gloomy expression, his mouth turned down at the corners, Skarred showed the three to a table and brought them a meal of dry bread and cheese so sour that it stung their mouths like acid. They ate swiftly, anxious to be out of the townspeople’s gaze.

  ‘I will show you to your rooms,’ the landlord said. They began to make their way to the stairs; but as Estarinel mounted the first step, Skarred took his arm. ‘In the name of mercy,’ he whispered, ‘don’t let your companion go on angering Skord. If he’s humiliated before us now he’ll bring all hell down on our heads later – and I’ve just signed my own death warrant for my loss of temper. We’re all sick of his terrorizing, but defy him and disaster follows.'

  ‘Do you know of a way we can stop him?’

  ‘No. There is no way. Kill him and She will just send another, a worse. And if She were in league with Gorethria, it would be the end for us…’

  ‘I don't think there’s any chance of that.’ Estarinel tried to reassure him. ‘We are only three travellers. We know nothing of Skord or the purpose for which he has befriended us.’

  The landlord’s weary grey eyes widened. ‘Then don’t trust him – get away from him. He’d sell his own parents if the price suited.’