by Bill Fawcett
His surprise made him careless. The eastern magic-user failed to completely break his link to the net. To him it had looked like a flaming ball falling through that nebulous firmament the power came from, growing with alarming speed. Cwynid barely had time to deflect the bolt of power that spun down toward him. The blast was great enough to scorch the wall of the deserted warehouse he was crouched in.
He could sense more than see the second blast gathering.
It had taken too much to block the last one. He didn’t have enough power left to survive another.
Calming himself, he pictured a valley in the mountains far away. The fur on his back stood straight up as the bolt grew nearer, but Cwynid forced himself to remain calm.
With the last of his power, he willed himself into that valley. Even as he finished the spell, he could feel the darkness close around him. He lost consciousness, not knowing whether he had escaped. Inside the dusty warehouse there was a dull thud as the displaced air filled the space where the wizard had been.
•
In his familiar post by the Main Gate, Jremm had been dwelling on the unfairness of the universe. The light of all three moons reflected in the river. He had felt the drain as the others drew power from him. And had known better than to distract them with questions. Now it had ended and he wondered what had occurred.
When he had been a brickmaker his discontent had drawn him to Mithmid and the H’satie. Tired of the grinding routine, he had welcomed the chance to join the Council. Now he still made bricks, roamed the city at all hours, and so found he could be exhausted in a way he had never known existed.
If Mithmid suggested any more ways to better himself, Jremm decided he would decline.
•
Yesterday they had shivered crossing the high passes. Today a freak wind swaddled them in the heat of the Eastern Desert. Reswen, panting uncomfortably, couldn’t decide which he disliked the most. Not being back in a comfortable room in one of Ar’s better inns, he decided. From this high on the slope you could see for several days’ travel across the desert. Not that there was anything to see. Little grew in the Eastern Desert, and that which did was mostly cactuses. Sharpening his claws on the dried stump of a tree, the mercenary stood staring at the empty desert as the shadows of the mountains stretched across them. Behind him he could hear the sounds of camp being made for the night. Footsteps approached.
“Bleak out there.” It was Mithmid, the only paying passenger on the caravan. Few chose to travel through the mountains at this time of year, and fewer still ventured to Cragsclaw.
Reswen nodded.
They were not supposed to acknowledge they knew each other. The Council’s chairman had been clear about that. Still it would look perfectly natural for them to view the purpling desert together. Looking at the shorter mrem, Reswen wondered if the real purpose of this caravan was simply to escort the wizard to Cragsclaw.
“Look, I’ve felt something,” Mithmid seemed hesitant. “I can’t say what, but a presence. We are getting closer.”
“An ambush?” Reswen was suddenly attentive.
“No something more... or less. That way,” he gestured down the slope.
“Magic?” The mercenary found that worried him.
Mithmid nodded gravely.
•
Ten mrem followed Reswen down the slope. Nine were his pick of the caravan guards. The “owner” had been well paid by the Council and had agreed easily to the suggestion of a scouting party to check the area near the camp. Each carried both a bow and a sword. The tenth mrem was, against the mercenary’s wishes, Mithmid. They had nearly fought, but there were too many things they had to leave unsaid. Finally it had come down to a staring match, both standing silent, ears back.
A sudden pain in his shoulder had broken Reswen’s concentration. He looked down, expecting to see nothing less than an arrow, but there was nothing. From the other’s smirk, he could guess what had happened. Again there was nothing he could say. He could hardly accuse Mithmid of cheating without exposing how. Besides, if there was another wizard, Mithmid had demonstrated why he would be needed.
Halfway down they found a steep trail. It was mostly switchbacks and hard scrambles over rocks, but still a trail. Following the trail they found the other wizard’s party camped at the very bottom of the mountain. Signaling for the other mrem to wait, he and Mithmid crept forward.
There were over a dozen mrem in the camp. In the light of the fire their fur appeared black. One was being served by the others. As they watched, he took his choice of the meat. There was one guard posted a short distance from the camp, but he was currently mostly concerned with having someone bring him his share of the meal.
Reswen was about to suggest they circle and attack from all sides. Instead he froze when the magician suddenly gasped and held his head. Down below the wizard stood, dropping his plate and goblet.
“Get the wizard,” Mithmid gasped between gritted teeth. A moment later in the camp below the wizard fell to his knees and clasped his head as well.
Hurrying back, the mercenary hissed his instructions. Half the mrem were to follow him down the trail. All were to aim first at the kneeling mrem. The second group was to move to one side. When the dark-furred mrem below attacked his group, they would withdraw and then turn, trapping the dark mrem on the narrow trail and in a crossfire.
Mithmid was pale and drawn when they reached him. Three of the dark mrem were also rushing toward him from below. Ordering the others to continue firing on the dark wizard, Reswen placed himself in front of their wizard and prepared to defend him.
The first arrows they fired never found their mark. Something deflected them harmlessly into the sand several paces from the enemy wizard. As the second shafts flew down the hill, Reswen heard a gargling hiss emitted from the mrem behind him.
Below, the dark-furred wizard suddenly screamed and grabbed at his throat. The arrows flew true and two found their mark. The dark magician writhed on the ground near the fire with an arrow in his stomach and another in his leg. Five more shafts landed with a thud, two more finding his back as he rolled in pain. The body quivered twice and then sagged.
Mithmid’s breath suddenly came easily. It was just as well, for the three dark warriors were almost on them. Below, the others had scattered with screams of fear when their magician died.
Almost dragging the exhausted wizard, Reswen dashed up the trail. Seeing him coming, the five mrem stopped firing and retreated. The dark warriors followed, gaining on the encumbered mercenary.
They had almost caught up when the four archers in the second group opened fire from above the side of the trail. There was no honor to it, but all three fell within seconds, never seeing where the deadly shafts came from. They waited several more minutes, until Mithmid had recovered enough to walk, but there was no sign of the others.
A brave mrem slunk into the enemy camp and brought back word that there was nothing there but dried meat and sleeping furs. He had searched thoroughly, and no one had returned to contest with him.
Leaving three guards to warn if the dark mrem returned, they climbed back to the caravan.
•
In the remains of a burned-out inn, Cwynid badgered Crethok once again. He had been trying for days to persuade the stubborn highlander to declare himself the head of his own clan. Instead the fool could only think of unseating Arklier.
All he needed, Crethok whined for the hundredth time, was a great victory. Then Arklier would be deposed by his chiefs and Crethok would be asked to lead. To declare a new clan would end all chance of claiming his rightful place as Peorlias’ heir.
“You are a...” the tan wizard’s voice trailed off. Crethok looked up expectantly. This was a break in the pattern of their almost nightly arguments. The other mrem’s ruff had risen and his claws extended.
For a horrible moment the highlander thought he had somehow
provoked an attack. But Cwynid wouldn’t use claws. He would use his magic. His worry turned to concern when he saw the wizard’s eyes. Whatever they saw, it was not in this room. Both mrem stood frozen for many heartbeats.
Then just as quickly it was over.
“Are you hurt?” Crethok asked as the other collapsed onto a pile of sleeping furs.
“There has been... a death,” Cwynid began to explain. Then he brightened. “Not the worst of eventualities either.”
“Who?” the highlander was now both worried and confused. He needed the power this mrem’s magic brought him.
“A rival,” Cwynid answered. He rose again, smiling and relaxed. “You might say one of my problems just solved another. But I need your mrem ready in the morning.”
“It is winter!” Crethok protested. There was nothing to raid in the winter but villages, and they had left none within many days’ walk unburned.
“A caravan moves toward Cragsclaw,” the wizard explained. It was obvious he didn’t appreciate having his order questioned.
But I am the ClanMrem here, Crethok reassured himself and then spoke. “My scouts have seen nothing.” There was a twinge between his legs where a tenderness remained. He would not push too hard, but he had to retain his honor.
“They travel the desert side, using the older trail.” Cwynid’s voice was both cheerful and annoyed. “If you will not accept this, I can find others here who will.” He said this as if it was a trivial matter.
Crethok literally bristled at the threat, but couldn’t deny its truth. Many followed him, but they were mostly outcasts and worse. Those whom the chiefs had sent were mostly dead.
“We leave at first light,” Crethok tried to make it sound like his decision.
Cwynid did not care and turned back to his furs, gesturing for the highlander to leave.
•
Sleisher, Lord of Cragsclaw, stood atop the battlements that faced to the west of his fortress. He marveled, as he always did, at the beauty of the setting sun, but he shivered at the thought that tomorrow would be cold. Winter was early, even this far into the mountains, and already the castle’s supplies were starting to diminish.
For a while, of course, there was nothing to worry about. The storerooms were filled, and the last of the garden produce was still edible. But the granaries, which usually stayed full until year-end, were almost down to half. With the coming of the cold, the animals needed the grain for food, and the people needed bread for nourishment.
The caravans had almost stopped completely. With money raised from taxes, Sleisher sent them out each month, and they were to travel to the villages and to the cities for grain and the castle’s many other requirements.
Far larger than an outpost, yet smaller than even a small city, Cragsclaw depended for its survival on the maintenance of its army: six hundred soldiers Sleisher commanded. Four hundred stayed in the fortress and the rest were in his son’s mobile force. It was only a small army, but capable of holding the fortress against several times its number. At least so long as it had adequate food and weapons.
Where had the caravans gone? What had happened to them? Raiders, his son Keth had told him, but that answer seemed hardly likely.
Always in the past he had lost one caravan a year to raiders, and always he had sent Keth to exact revenge. He had never found the raiding force, but the sheer presence of his army had stopped the raids completely.
Since the end of this summer Keth had ridden against half a dozen raiding parties, but still they kept coming, and still they disrupted Cragsclaw’s supplies.
The first three battles were against the highlanders, the dwellers of the mountains to the northwest.
His mrem had lost several guards in these raids, their replacements difficult and expensive to train. Furthermore, Keth himself had lost a third of his force, and these were not replaceable at all. In one battle, he had explained, one highlander clan swept down on him while he was on the verge of destroying another; the retreat from that skirmish had been long and costly.
But now, if his son was to be believed, a new raider had entered Cragsclaw’s lands.
Three times Keth had battled him, and several more times he had watched him.
This mrem’s fur was darker than most, and they said that his eyes shone gold.
Silent yet forceful, this new leader and his fifty mrem or so showed an efficiency and a ruthlessness Keth had never seen before in bandits.
The darkfur’s name was Talwe.
More than that, nobody knew. Not even those mrem from his band that they had captured.
He rarely spoke, this bandit leader, and he ruled over his mrem with an iron claw. Each mrem swore that he was always alert, even in sleep. He raided and fought like a thing possessed by an elemental.
His eyes ablaze, his word held high and motionless in the air, he would stand upon a rock in the middle of the battlefield and yell the Cry of the Hunt. Perhaps this was a clue: the cry was similar to that used by the more backward hill tribes. The first time he heard the cry, Keth told his father, he had come within seconds of turning and running away.
But he hadn’t.
Instead, he had fought as well as he could. Yet, skilled as he was, he could not match the darkfur. The raiders fought rings around Keth Sleisher’s defense force, and when all was over, Keth’s losses far exceeded the casualties of their enemies.
More soldiers lost, more replacements to be found... if there was time.
At last, Sleisher himself had ridden against the darkfur. Four of his guard towers had fallen to the raiders, a situation both uncomfortable and dangerous. For three days he had ridden, out to the foothills of the mountains to the north.
There the darkfur had last been seen, his special trademark evident on the tower.
This mrem, unlike most Sleisher had known, knew how to fight with fire.
This, of course, is what made him so fearsome.
Fur burned. When it did, it tortured.
More than any of the elements, mrem feared fire. And because they feared it, they feared the liskash as well. Liskash of old, the legends had taught, breathed all-consuming fire.
•
Keth was out there now, somewhere in the west. Searching, as always, for the darkfur who kept thwarting him.
Impatiently, Sleisher waited for him, wondering how long this Talwe would let his son live.
Keth’s plan was to overwhelm the darkfur, to catch him in a trap where he would have no defense. If the enemy knew what he was doing, they could turn his trap into one of their own.
Slowly Sleisher turned.
With his arms folded, he walked in short strides atop the wall toward the other side of the fortress.
It was dark in the east, but he longed to look out over the eastern borders of his land.
There, too, his hold was uncertain.
No attack had yet come, and most said none ever would, but Sleisher could not help but think that was wrong. What lived in the east he did not know, yet every part of him felt he would one day find out.
When that day came, he knew he must be ready. If that day was soon, Cragsclaw would surely be lost. And so he waited for the battle he felt was coming. Confident in Cragsclaw’s stone walls, but worried.
Yet tonight he wanted only peace.
When the air was cold, his head throbbed and his legs felt stiff.
When that happened, battle was the last thing on his mind. He was old and didn’t need aches to remind him. After a lifetime on the border, he was tired.
THE VALLEY WAS tree-filled and they stood in the only clearing. It was a narrow valley, less than a bowshot wide. On all sides the hills became steeper until they ended in snow-covered heights. The wind was cold, but the setting sun had been warm. The road between Gerve and Mymdon wove through those woods, making them an ideal place for an ambush. Paralan gl
anced around, counting the enemy and enjoying the view. His whiskers perked as he breathed deeply of the allgreen-scented air.
The first black-clad soldiers had swept down on them while they were first approaching the wagons and guards of a well-stocked caravan. Among the thick trees bows were useless, and both sides had drawn their swords. Sleisher’s mrem came rushing off a tree-covered slope without a sound beyond the clatter of their weapons. These were only thirty soldiers, and the mrem Paralan led had still outnumbered both them and the guards. He had signaled a slow approach and the guards had fled. Paralan had been sure they had won.
He was wrong.
With him were half the band, over sixty mrem. Talwe had ordered them to raid this caravan while he waited for a second force coming from the other direction. Had they been allowed to camp together, the losses taking them would have been too high. Paralan had been proud of Talwe’s trusting him to lead so many mrem. Just before he ordered the black-cloaked mrem overwhelmed, over eighty more black-robed swordsmrem burst from the woods. High on the hill above Keth, Sleisher signaled for them to halt. When the soldiers did, the bandits were surrounded.
Paralan knew they were in serious peril. The mrem of the band were not real soldiers. He doubted they could stand in an open battle against the black-cloaks, especially when the terrain provided no anchor. Against a mountainside, or even a steep hilltop, he could turn his warriors’ backs to the shield and concentrate their efforts on an attack from the front. In a fortress or a guard tower (and he had fought in both in his long life), so slow was the attackers’ rate of advance that the defense could deal with them almost one at a time.
