Chasers of the Wind

by Alexey Pehov

  Da-Tur had been standing by the wall, and it was only because of this that he did not fall below. One of the scales grazed his head, another left a deep cut along his forearm. The air stank of burnt flesh, hair, and something else. Something strange. Something repulsive.

  On shaky legs the northerner walked over to Ta-Ana and fell to his knees beside her. He felt sick; blood was flowing down his arm. His head felt like it was splitting. Chunks of flesh that had very recently belonged to that deadly creature were scattered all around.

  It was already light out, but still he was kneeling over the body of the woman. Finally he woke from his stupor, ripped his clan scarf from his neck, and wrapped it around the wound on his arm. He planted his sword into the ground, rested his weight upon it, jumped to his feet with a jerk, and … came face-to-face with three Morts.

  They were ghastly, bony creatures, with long arms and legs, slender necks, and lustrous skulls. Sleek ebony skin stretched tightly over their protruding bones. Their amber eyes seemed to flash above the dark pits where their severed noses should be. They wore no armor at all. They held skeem-swords in their hands. They were the necromancer’s bodyguards, come to fetch their trophy.

  Da-Tur roared and raised his blade, planning to sell his life dearly. The path was so narrow that his enemies could only come at him one at a time. This gave him a chance, if not to live, then to draw it out for as long as possible.

  The redhead dealt with the first of his opponents quickly, despite its skill, by seizing the moment and simply tossing it into the chasm. Then he sprang forward, swinging his sword in a backward arc, forcing his enemies to retreat.

  From somewhere below an all-too-familiar ball of green light came flying upward. It burst apart behind his back. The sorcerer was below, in the valley, by the exit from Gerka, and it would take him a long time to reach the Son of the Snow Leopard. By that time Da-Tur would have already won or lost.

  A Mort lunged for his neck with his blades crossed like scissors, but Da-Tur dropped down and impaled the creature through its chest. He kicked at the body, freeing his blade and … choking on his own blood, fell onto his side.

  At first he did not understand what had happened. He tried to get up but he couldn’t. For some reason his legs weren’t obeying him. Ta-Ana was standing over him. Her eyes were blazing with green fire.

  * * *

  When they had stumbled upon the Fish, Ga-Nor was the one standing closest to the edge. This circumstance actually saved him. As the explosion unfolded, the northerner was tumbling down below and so managed to escape being shredded by the steel scales.

  He didn’t fall very far. His journey into the chasm was cut short by a most welcome white cedar. The dense, tenacious boughs of the atrophied little tree, which had driven its roots right into the cliff, took the force of the falling human body unto themselves and snapped. But they saved the Son of the Snow Leopard. Two yards below the cedar there was a narrow ledge. It was there that Ga-Nor’s fall came to an end. A fall from such a height onto a hard surface should have broken Ga-Nor’s bones, but thanks to the tree he only lost consciousness.

  When the tracker regained consciousness, he let out a low groan. He opened his eyes and lay there, trying to figure out where he was. The sun was at its zenith. Quite a bit of time had passed since their encounter with the Fish. The memory of the sorcerer’s creature caused him to cautiously move his arms and legs to check if they were still whole. Everything was in working order.

  It didn’t take him long to figure out where he had fallen. Ga-Nor gave sincere thanks to Ug for his survival. If not for this ledge, beaten into the cliff by wind and rain, the northerner would have fallen and fallen. And from this height the City of a Thousand Columns seemed no larger than his palm.

  Ga-Nor examined the cliff closely and came to a disappointing conclusion. There were, of course, plenty of cracks, but he wouldn’t be able to stick his fingers in them. Just a bit higher was the cedar with its broken branches. If he could grab it with his belt, he might be able to reach it. But would the roots be able to take his weight? Unlikely. And even if he did manage to climb up there, what then? He still wouldn’t be able to get to the trail.

  There was nowhere to go from this bird’s ledge. Going up was impossible, and you’d only go down if you wanted to end your own life. So he’d meet death alone with the mountain wind, the sky, and hunger.

  The tracker tried not to think about what might have happened to his comrades. Ta-Ana had been standing closer than any of them to the Fish; it’s unlikely she managed to survive. Da-Tur, even if he’d remained whole, would most likely assume his kinsman had perished. If so, his blood brother was probably already beyond the pass and on his way to the Gates of Six Towers.

  During the fall, Ga-Nor had lost his sword and all he had left was his dagger. If he had two of them, the northerner would not hesitate to climb the wall with them. He’d performed similar feats before, and once he’d even climbed up the sheer wall of the Tower of Rain on a bet. But there was no point in dreaming of getting to the top with just one dagger. It’d be easier to sprout wings.

  The entire day passed by in fruitless efforts to find a way out of this trap. Ga-Nor paced his little platform from edge to edge but it was all in vain. Curses and prayers were no help.

  Toward evening, when there was not more than an hour left until sunset, the tracker was leaning against the wall, picking up stones lying around him and chucking them into the chasm. Realizing the hopelessness of his situation, he was numbly counting the remaining days Ug had given him. He figured that he’d suffer quite a bit before he died of starvation. It was a chilling prospect.

  His emotions got the better of him and the northerner began to swear. Loudly. And as he expected, nothing happened. Then he felt a shower of dust and small pebbles come down on his head and the nape of his neck. Ga-Nor leapt to his feet, fearing a potential rockslide. But nothing of the sort happened. The northerner gazed upward tensely and waited. Finally, pebbles showered down on him again, and then a few slightly larger stones. All the signs pointed to the fact that someone was walking up there. At this point the Son of the Snow Leopard couldn’t care less whether it was friend or foe. Forty was too young an age to die like a winter squirrel caught in a snare. It would be far better to die by an enemy’s blade and have a little vacation with Ug than to turn into a pale ghost.

  “Hey!” he yelled with all his strength. “Hey! I’m here! Down here!”

  At first no one answered. But then he saw a person looking down at him from above. Drawn by his cries, the stranger had lain down on the edge of the trail, peering down into the precipice. Ga-Nor wanted to shout yet again, this time from joy, but then he examined the stranger more closely and the shout stuck in his throat. He knew that face. Neither dirt nor blood could change it. The sharp jaw, the shaggy red hair, the scar on his brow. Da-Tur. But his upper lip was twisted into an evil grimace, baring his straight white teeth, and his eyes … his eyes were green.

  The creature who had been his blood brother stared at him unflinchingly. Without taking his gaze from the corpse, the northerner reached for his dagger and this served as a signal. The corpse, bristling with the enchantment of the Sdisian, pounced on Ga-Nor. Splaying his arms and legs like a spider he fell to the spot where the soldier had just been.

  The sound the body made as it met the ledge caused the Son of the Snow Leopard, who was long accustomed to both death and blood, to shiver violently. It seemed like the crunch of the bones could be heard even in the Golden Mark. Despite the broken ribs protruding through both flesh and clothes, the shattered arms and the right leg that was sticking out of its socket at an unnatural angle, the dead man tried to get up.

  Ga-Nor did not hesitate. Pulling out his dagger he slipped behind the creation of the Sdisian sorcerer and grabbed hold of its bloodstained red mane, pulling the head of the dead man back and cutting open its neck with one swift motion. The weapon made a vile sound as it scraped across the creature’s vertebrae.
The tracker stopped only when the green light faded from Da-Tur’s eyes.

  Breathing heavily, he took his prize—a broad dagger—from the twice-dead body and with his foot he pushed the corpse over the precipice. Ga-Nor was not going to risk having that thing next to him. The Son of the Snow Leopard did not feel any regret over his actions. Da-Tur was long dead, his soul in Ug’s halls, and the thing that remained in this world was only a shell subject to the Sdisian’s whims.

  The sun had almost reached the mountain peak and long shadows were covering the valley below. Ga-Nor quickly began his climb.

  It was all much simpler than he had expected; the northerner easily found holds with the help of the daggers. He saw a crack, drove the dagger into it, pulled himself up by one arm, planted the second knife just a bit higher, and pulled himself up again. Over and over again. The Son of the Snow Leopard had no fear of heights and he was slowly but surely coming closer to the edge that would be his salvation. When no more than two yards remained until he reached it, the tracker paused and allowed himself a short rest. The top part of the cliff was far more difficult than all that had come before. The cracks were smaller. And the wind had picked up, too, threatening to blow him into the chasm.

  Ga-Nor reached the very top just as darkness fell. Recalling Da-Tur’s fate he cautiously raised his head over the edge. Allowing his eyes to get accustomed to the darkness, he studied the area thoroughly. No one there. Wheezing in relief, he rolled over the edge and immediately sprung to his feet, menacingly clutching a dagger in each hand.

  There were neither corpses nor Sdisian sorcerers. It was empty. Quiet. Ta-Ana’s body was nowhere to be found. That caused his hackles to rise. The tracker peered intently into the darkness, prepared to do battle, but no one attacked him. Whatever had become of the archer, she wasn’t here.

  Ga-Nor saw Da-Tur’s sword lying right there on the trail. He picked it up and set off at a brisk pace for the pass, looking around constantly. The Son of the Snow Leopard had not yet given up hope of reaching the Towers and warning the commander. Perhaps it was not too late.

  * * *

  Before the War of the Necromancers the lands of the Empire stretched into Nabator itself and did not end at the Boxwood Mountains. All of what was now called the Borderlands had been part of the Empire. Cities and villages grew up in the valleys through which the trade routes wended their way. But everyday life shattered when the Damned appeared. From that point onward, these lands were abandoned by the Empire. Their dark fame spread too wide. Only the highlanders dared to live in the cheerless, cold valleys.

  The people left, but the cities like Gerka remained. Eight of the Spires, watchtowers built by the Sculptor himself, were also abandoned. Only the ninth, dubbed the Alert Tower, was still used by the armies of the Empire. The ancient books tell that the Sculptor carved out these towers at the same time he created the legendary Gates. Soaring upward of sixty yards in height, constructed of black stone, with a multitude of arrow loops, they had stood for a thousand years.

  From the outside you would never be able to tell that the last Spire in use had experienced many wars over the years. It looked exactly as it had the day its construction was finished. It seemed fragile and lovely, as if the Sculptor had not been a human, but a Je’arre. Some people said that the legendary master took a flow of mountain air into his hands and fashioned it into this shape of celestial beauty. And then he turned that air into stone.

  In the stories told to us by our elders, it was said that until the War of the Necromancers, the watchmen in the towers could easily converse with their colleagues who were located in the other eight Spires. Perhaps there was an element of truth in these stories, but at the present time they seemed like fairy tales.

  There were similar whispers that there was a vault under the tower, sealed nowadays, where the Paths of Petals slumber. Through them, a soldier could instantly travel to the Spire that required his assistance. But this too became legend long ago. The Walkers can no longer control the Petals.

  The Sculptor built the Alert Tower not far from the road that led to two passes. Ga-Nor reached it at midday. From a distance, the tracker could see that there were dozens of vultures circling over the cliffs beyond which the Alert Tower was located. The Son of the Snow Leopard stopped and frowned. To an attentive man, such a congregation of scavengers spoke volumes.

  The reality confirmed his worst fears. A gallows had been constructed in front of the Spire, and three dead men in the uniform of Imperial soldiers were dangling from it. All the rest were scattered below the walls; they hadn’t even found the time to bury them. Replete with the meat of the fresh corpses, the vultures were shrieking nastily at one another, fighting over the tastiest morsels.

  The tower had new masters.

  Nabatorians.

  Ga-Nor hid behind some rocks and studied his enemies. What had happened was beyond his comprehension. Apparently a detachment of enemy troops had slipped through the pass and slaughtered the watchmen. The last part didn’t really surprise Ga-Nor. In former times, two hundred of the most select soldiers had served here, but recently the commander of the Gates had been sending about twenty. And sometimes not even that many.

  The long years of peace had given them the impression of security. And as usual, it was a false impression.

  And now it had come to a head. The watchmen had been caught unawares. They hadn’t even managed to raise the alarm. Twenty soldiers had no chance whatsoever against a hundred well-trained black-haired warriors.

  The Nabatorians were making themselves at home and had already begun to settle into the Spire. That could only mean one thing—they weren’t expecting any danger from the direction of the Gates. What had happened to the fortress?

  Ga-Nor stopped losing himself in speculation when cavalry appeared on the southern road. The northerner began to count, but he gave up at six hundred. A large squadron of pikemen and crossbowmen passed by next. Apparently, an entire army was gathering beneath the walls of the citadel. Ga-Nor wondered what the King of Nabator was expecting. The Gates were not so easy to take.

  Throughout the day, companies of soldiers kept passing along the route. Ga-Nor also saw a group of six Sdisian sorcerers and dozens of their acolytes. A score of Fish slowly lumbered by, and nearly eight hundred Morts ran past swiftly. Two hundred creatures, equipped with enormous, powerful bows, floated past him, hovering over the ground. He recognized them as Burnt Souls. Judging from everything he had seen, the perpetual enemy of the Empire, the Kingdom of Nabator, had signed a treaty with Sdis and amassed a considerable force.

  The tracker could not figure out what to do next. It would be sheer idiocy to remain where he was. They’d see him sooner or later. Fleeing into the mountains and waiting for it all to be over was unbefitting a Son of the Clan of the Snow Leopard. Should he try to make for the Gates? That was the most insane course of action he could think of. There was no way he could break through the enemy lines.

  He put off the decision for the time being and remained where he was, having decided that it was best to take things slowly.

  Toward nightfall he began scowling. The weather had turned cold and severe, and leaden clouds had enveloped the valley in a thick veil. And then the clouds burst, and the driving rain chased the enemy soldiers into the tower. The birds feasting on the corpses took to the air with indignant squawks. Stumbling and slipping in the greasy mud, a hundred corpses under the supervision of five Whites marched by, awkwardly keeping pace with the sergeant’s drums. Then the road was empty.

  The northerner was beginning to think that under the cover of the inclement weather it might be worth the risk to try to sneak into the town by the Gates at the very least. There he could see what was happening and then decide what to do next.

  At that moment two men exited the tower. Wrapping their cloaks around themselves, they picked up some shovels and headed in the direction of the hidden northerner. All he could do was try to refrain from bringing attention to himself. It sh
ouldn’t really be all that difficult. It’s not particularly easy to catch sight of someone who’s lying up to his ears in mud.

  The men halted about ten paces away from the Son of the Snow Leopard and began digging a pit.

  “Damn that sergeant! He’s inside warming his ass up, and what about us?”

  “We’re on the outs, like always!” agreed the second man. “I’d like to choke the life out of that bastard.”

  “Oh yeah, you’ll choke him!” grumbled the first. “He’ll outlive us all, the rascal. He should be the one trudging about in the rain, digging a grave. I didn’t sign up for this!”

  He huffed, angrily cast his shovel to the ground, grumbling curses, and walked over toward the place where Ga-Nor was hiding. Standing over him, the man began to untie his trouser strings. The Son of the Snow Leopard, realizing that he would soon be inundated not just by the rain, but by a much more unpleasant stream, rose up to his full, not insignificant height.

  The Nabatorian thought that a demon had risen from the earth and he pissed his half-undone trousers with fear. The northerner swung his sword blindly and then leaped over the body as it fell into the mud and rushed toward his second adversary.

  When it was all over he cast a quick glance at the tower. Grabbing the first body by the feet, he dragged it behind the cover of the rocks. Then he hid the second corpse. All this took about a minute. Sooner or later someone would come out into the rain to see how the gravediggers’ work was going. It would be a good idea to be as far away as possible at that moment.

  He’d killed the second Nabatorian with a blow to the temple from his sword hilt. It would be thoughtless to soil the man’s clothes with blood, especially when they would fit so well. The redheaded warrior exchanged his clothes for the other’s quickly, and then he concealed his face beneath the hood of the cloak. He folded up his kilt and clan scarf and took them with him.

  Four dozen horses were standing beneath an enclosed canopy attached to the side of the Alert Tower. Three of them were still saddled. He took one of the animals by the reins and led it out onto the road.