Chasers of the Wind

by Alexey Pehov

  We’ll meet in Haven (a neighborhood of Al’sgara next to the sea), where we agreed. If I don’t come after an hour, leave without me.

  You know very well that I won’t go anywhere without you!

  We were intending to leave the city, but not in the way the client had planned. There was far too great a chance that he or she would decide to kill off the people who had done the dirty work. Layen had come up with her own plan and was now prepared to put it into motion. Only she and I knew where we were going after the task. For everyone else, Gray and Weasel would just disappear. They would die.

  I rested the arrow on the bowstring and did not take my eyes away from the snow-covered street. Twilight. The idiot lamplighters are late again. Damn it! I need light right now!

  The wind’s still moving to the northwest. Half a finger. After a minute it will change to the north.

  I’ll keep that in mind.

  Good luck. There they are!

  And then I saw them. A group of people walking quickly toward Sacrum Square. In the front were two Guardsmen, followed by a woman. Then two more people behind her. The procession was tailed by a pair of soldiers.

  The tip of the arrow suddenly gleamed with a purple light. I almost dropped it.

  Layen! The arrow is glowing!

  Don’t worry. It senses the spark of the target. One hundred and five yards.

  Don’t worry? If they got it into their heads to look over in my direction I could forget about luck.

  Which one of them? The first one?

  Ninety-five yards. No. The second to the left.

  Are you sure?

  Yes. Listen to me. The one in the sable coat. Ninety. As soon as I say.…

  I watched the small female form in the sable coat. They were approaching the minimum distance but I didn’t shoot. It was a bad angle. After a moment the second woman obstructed my view of the victim.

  Ninety-five … one hundred … one hundred and five …

  She was walking farther and farther away from me. Another twenty seconds and the nearby house would block my view.

  To the north. A quarter of a finger. A wagon is coming toward you. It will hide the target in eight seconds. Wait. One hundred and ten.

  I watched her back as it withdrew. But I fully trusted Layen’s instincts. There was the wagon. A moment and it was gone.

  One hundred and fifteen.… Now!

  Years of training took hold. I acted without thinking. I raised the bow up, drew explosively (a shot from a powerful bow generally has to be made without a long pause while holding the string taut and aiming. Because of the great force of the tension the shot proceeds like a so-called explosion since both hands jerk away from each other) and shot.

  Twang!

  I immediately jumped back from the window to the wall, having noticed that the arrow darting toward its target was leaving behind a purple trail.

  Layen acted simultaneously with me. Of course, I didn’t feel anything but I knew that the protection of the unsuspecting Embers had been crushed.

  Thwack!

  For a moment the street was illuminated with the purple light. The arrow had found its target.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The din from outside made it clear that the Embers had recovered and were striking out at random. Layen was quiet, fearing that now the sorceresses might be able to hear our silent communication. I hoped with all my heart that my sun had already fled.

  I dropped the bow and, slipping off my gloves as I ran, fled from the attic. I descended to the second floor by way of a rickety ladder. I opened a door and entered the room I had rented out earlier, where I changed quickly into an apprentice baker’s smock that was lying on top of a loaf of fresh bread. I did not neglect to rub my clothes and hands with flour.

  As I walked, I bit off a chunk of bread and, chewing, opened the window that led out onto the backyard. Having measured off the distance, I leaped onto the shed. From there I dropped down into a snowbank. I stood up and looked around.

  The yard was empty. I ran up to the low fence, easily hopped over it, and passed through a breezeway that emerged into a narrow alley. And then, without any undue haste, I strolled away. I could hear shouts, muffled by the distance, coming from Rukovits.

  From my spot all I could see was the looming bell tower. Or more precisely, what remained of it. The Embers had gone berserk and, without pausing to think, were focusing their magics along the upper floors of the nearest buildings, hoping to wound the assassin.

  Well then. It’s a good thing I made my nest in a less noticeable spot, otherwise I would have been flattened. By the time they understood the what and the how, Layen and I would be far away, and our alleged corpses would be found burnt to a crisp in the old hideout of Jola and Ktatak. I hope my friends will forgive us for burning up one of their storehouses.

  I left the scene with brisk strides.

  * * *

  “I’ll get ready,” Layen sighed, and stood up from the steps.

  I shook my head, banishing the recollections. Seven years have gone by, but I remember it as if it were yesterday.

  “Yes. You’re right. We’d best ditch the village by tomorrow evening. I won’t be able to pick up the money.”

  “I’ll fetch it. But I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Alone? Are you sure you’ll manage?”

  “Quite sure. Will we tell Whip?”

  Whip was not a bad man, but it would not do to stay too close to him.

  “No.”

  I frowned. I really didn’t like the idea of her going into the forest alone. But only she could get at the money. That was the truth.

  “And if he figures it out and decides to keep us company?”

  I considered the alternatives and declared, “It would be better for him if he didn’t find out.”

  Layen smiled tightly and went back inside the house.

  3

  Ga-Nor leaned toward his captain’s ear and softly whispered, “I don’t like this.”

  The shaggy-haired Da-Tur said nothing in reply. Ta-Ana answered for him, “The whole time we’ve been cooling our heels here, not a single one of those six men has budged. They sure sleep soundly!”

  The Children of the Snow Leopard (one of the clans of the northern part of the Empire) were crouched on a low rocky ledge. Below them a small fire was burning, around which lay their adversaries, bundled up in tattered blankets. The cautious highlanders usually set a watch, but this time they hadn’t. And this fact did not sit well with the squad’s tracker. One might have thought that Ga-Nor had overlooked an ambush, but the captain of the redheaded soldiers would sooner chop off his own hand than believe that his blood brother could have missed a warning sign.

  The uncertainty was throwing him off balance. Da-Tur thought yet again that their reconnaissance mission was cursed. The northerners who served at the Gates of the Six Towers knew the gorges and trails of the Boxwood Mountains like the backs of their own hands. They were the best scouts in the Empire. No enemy patrol could possibly slip through the mountain passes unobserved while the Children of the Snow Leopard watched over them.

  When Da-Tur’s ten had left the Gates of Six Towers, they hadn’t thought they would encounter any trouble. Everything had been quiet as the squad descended into the valley beyond the primary ridge. But every settlement, every square inch of land had been swarming with Nabatorian soldiers. And then Ta-Ana had noticed the white robe of a Sdisian in their midst. The scouts returned back the way they had come without hesitation. They had to report what they had seen to the commander of the Gates as soon as possible.

  On the return trip, in one of the gloomy ravines, they had been attacked by a mountain gove. They had acted foolishly. They should have bypassed the old watchtower that had been abandoned by the Empire’s soldiers back during the War of the Necromancers (fought over five hundred years before the events described here, after the Dark Revolt of the Damned. After the war the Empire gave up the lands that lay beyond the Gates of
Six Towers and, having retreated across the mountain range, began a war with the Highborn for the forests of Uloron and Sandon). But the northerners were in a hurry, so they decided to cut their journey short and they did not take the detour. And so it was that they chanced upon the ravenous creature, which had just emerged from its summer hibernation. Only three of them survived: Da-Tur, Ga-Nor, and Ta-Ana. Seven Children of the Snow Leopard remained forever in that narrow gorge.

  Ga-Nor, a tall, tanned man with red mustaches, raised himself up on his elbows and looked below. He contracted his bushy eyebrows. It really was strange that the highlanders hadn’t bothered to set up a watch.

  Nothing. No movement at all. There was no sound except for a distant measured droning—a mountain river thundering through the shallows. There was no cause for alarm. If this was an ambush, it was very skillfully done. But skillful ambushes were beneath the dignity of the impatient highlanders. In any case, the Chus, as they called themselves, could not lie still for so long unless they were dead.

  Suddenly Da-Tur understood.

  “I swear by the hide of an ice demon! They’re dead!” he said, stunned.

  “Let’s get out of here,” whispered Ta-Ana, marveling at herself. She had never been afraid of corpses, but everything that was happening right now seemed strange. “We shouldn’t disturb their souls.”

  Ga-Nor nodded grimly and backed up the archer. “Dawn is still a long ways off. We can cover a lot of ground.”

  Da-Tur stood up quietly, walked along the rocky ledge for about ten yards, getting as far away from the fire as possible, and then jumped down below. His comrades followed him. Glancing backward, they tried to hurry away.

  A green glow suddenly flared up on the western side of the twin-peaked mountain. It turned into a ball of fire, which soared up into the sky in a steep arc, paused for a moment at its highest point, and then fell toward the spot where the carcasses of the Chus were lying. It burst soundlessly when it hit the ground, scattering emerald flames in every direction.

  “A Sdisian sorcerer!”

  This was an ambush, and it was made just for them. The White, the one Ta-Ana had spotted among the Nabatorians, had probably noticed the interlopers and decided to intercept them. Why risk letting the garrison at the Towers be forewarned?

  “Let’s go! Quickly!”

  Da-Tur could feel it in his gut as danger flooded into the ravine. He really hoped that the trap that had been set had not yet snapped shut and that there was a chance they could escape the necromancer’s grasping fingers.

  “Look out! Behind you!” shouted the archer, who was standing on the ledge.

  The captain of the squad turned around and recoiled. He swore loudly. The corpses scattered around the bonfire were standing up. Ga-Nor pulled his sword from his back. These creatures were surprisingly agile. The northerners barely had time to prepare for the fight.

  Two set upon Da-Tur, and yet another one engaged the red-mustachioed Ga-Nor, but the last four headed straight for Ta-Ana at a brisk trot. The woman let loose an arrow into the face of one of the magical creations, but it had no effect.

  The deformed faces shining in the moonlight, the bared teeth and the eyes burning with green fire would terrify anyone. Da-Tur pierced the chest of one of the Chus but it made no impression on his opponent. Ga-Nor, who had dispatched his adversary, ran to his aid.

  “Cut off its head!” barked the tracker, deftly striking at the nearest corpse’s legs.

  The captain spun about, split the skull of the Sdisian’s servant in half, and lunged forward to help the woman. After a minute everything was over.

  The two men were panting heavily. Ta-Ana pulled an arrow from a stilled corpse with trembling hands. Da-Tur grabbed the small archer by the scruff of her neck and lifted her from her knees to her feet.

  “To Ug with your damned arrow! We’ve got to try to get out of this ravine and lose ourselves in the mountains.”

  * * *

  They were racing along a stream, ghosting across the wet stones, their feet barely touching the ground. The ravine had turned into a narrow canyon, and the canyon walls shut out the sky. The moon was obstructed by clouds, and they had to run under the light of the stars. In the darkness all that could be heard was the heavy breathing of the scouts, the murmur of the stream, and the ever-increasing rumble of an unnamed river. After an eternity Da-Tur ordered a halt. Ga-Nor dropped down right where he stood and pressed his ear to the ground.

  “No one,” the tracker breathed out finally, rising up from the stones. “They’re driving us into a trap, brother. There’s no escaping it.”

  He was right. Only a mongoose could scale such steep cliffs. If they cut off the entrance and exited to the canyon, they would not escape.

  “If we could get to the river,” Ta-Ana put in hopefully, “we could get away by the water.”

  “We’ll get there,” said Da-Tur, his eyes glinting resolutely.

  * * *

  The current along the shore was strong, and they emerged from the water with difficulty. Only people ready to commit suicide or the Children of the Snow Leopard would dare swim in the dark through such a swift, icy mountain river. The former would crack their skulls against the shoals, but the latter pulled through. The soldiers had swum for more than half an hour and, thanks to the swiftness of the current, had left the danger far behind.

  They collapsed upon the river stones, catching their breath. However, Ta-Ana immediately pulled herself up into a squat and pushed her hair out of her face. Then she attached a new, dry string to her yew bow, opened up a large wallet made of leather, and unfolded the oiled paper where she kept her arrows. The archer understood that without her bow things would go poorly for her and her comrades.

  Ga-Nor had swallowed water while they were swimming and was now coughing it up.

  The wind drove away the clouds, the moon emerged anew, and the northerners beheld the bleached and majestic ruins of an ancient city. People had abandoned the mountain capital of this former Imperial province when the War of the Necromancers began. Since then more than five hundred years had passed. No one had ever returned to live in Gerka, the City of a Thousand Columns, as travelers called it. The centuries had transformed this former pearl of the highlands into a dead kingdom of cold wind. It came here every evening from the snowcapped heights and mournfully wailed through the ruins of the ancient buildings. This place was known as a ghost town. The highlanders detoured around its borders and did not rest for the night if there was a distance of less than a league between them and its white walls.

  But the northerners weren’t superstitious. The way through Gerka was five times shorter than any other. At the southernmost tip of the city a trail commenced, and that trail led to a pass, and from there it was no distance at all to the Gates.

  They passed through a tall arch that had once been the main gate, and came out onto a wide street. Wherever they looked there were crumbling houses and hundreds of marble columns stretching toward the sky. The moonlight sparkled on them, enlivening them, making them seem as dazzlingly beautiful as they had been in those years when life teemed here. The silver-blue light gleamed in the gaps of the empty street, the old buildings cast dark shadows, and faint bluish wisps of incipient fog crept along the time-ravaged pavement.

  Gerka stared impassively at the outsiders from the gloomy ruins of her buildings. She had no care for who came to her or why. She only sang her song with the wind. The wind was her eternal friend, but people always left and betrayed her. She had no desire to take vengeance on them for their treachery; she only desired one thing—to be left in peace. So the once great city let the three warriors from the far north pass through her without inflicting any harm on them.

  Just as she would let those who followed after the redhaired warriors pass through.

  * * *

  The trail skirted the edge of a precipice. To the left of it was a basalt wall. To the right—a chasm. The scouts had been climbing for more than an hour already, and
the valley that held the City of a Thousand Columns was far below. Da-Tur kept casting his eyes up at the faint stars. Dawn was not far off. By the time it arrived they needed to be at the pass, or better yet, beyond it.

  Inhospitable, biting, icy wind; snow on the path. The pass was just a stone’s throw away. The night had robbed them of all their strength, and they were tired, but they continued to move forward doggedly. Ga-Nor repeatedly stopped and looked back. He didn’t really believe that they’d succeeded in deceiving the necromancer.

  Ahead of them, a figure appeared on the path. Against the background of the rapidly brightening sky and the white stain of the snow only his silhouette was visible—tall, compact, wide-shouldered. He was walking from the direction of the pass. He was not hurrying, but ambling, as if he were out for a stroll.

  Ta-Ana was in the lead. She took aim.

  “May a snow gove take me! Who is that?” said the archer nervously, biting her lips.

  “I don’t know,” replied Da-Tur tensely. “No one but the servants of the White could be here. In the leg.”

  The woman smiled wolfishly and pulled back her bowstring. The stranger was almost upon them. Ga-Nor strained his sight and saw that the entire body of the man was covered in scaled armor.

  “Don’t shoot! It’s a Fish!” he shouted at the exact same moment that Ta-Ana let loose her arrow.

  An earsplitting crash rang out.

  The stranger burst like an overripe melon. A warm shock of stinking air threw Ga-Nor, who had not been holding on to anything, into the chasm. Ta-Ana was also unlucky. As soon as the thing exploded hundreds of sharp metal scales flew from it in every direction. At least ten of them sliced through the woman, killing her on the spot.