Chasers of the Wind

by Alexey Pehov

  “What are you on about?” Seated on the other bed, Luk even stopped tugging off his boots.

  “I’m talking about you. You were dumped in my lap and now I have to babysit you.”

  “Excuse me!” said the soldier, offended. “I didn’t ask you to make a fuss over me. That was your wish. If you’d passed me by, I wouldn’t have said a word.”

  “You act all high and mighty now, but then you were barely holding your own against the dead. If I hadn’t helped you, you’d be with them now.”

  “Nothing of the sort. I could have dealt with them myself.”

  “I swear by Ug!” Ga-Nor was so indignant he sat up. “You’re the most ungrateful pig on the face of the earth, Luk! It’s not enough that I saved your hide and we tramped through half the south to get to Al’sgara. What am I doing here? The war is going on in the east and in the north, but I’ve been lazing around here, futilely knocking on the doors of the Tower for the past week.”

  “Do you know why you are so angry?” Luk collapsed into his bed, which creaked under his weight. “Because you’re used to the northern forests and trekking through the snowy tundra, and the city frightens you.”

  “Ass. Where would I be without you?” Ga-Nor sighed.

  “The Nabatorians would probably be playing catch with your red-haired noggin. You heard what’s happening, screw a toad! Gash-Shaku is under siege; Okni has been taken and given over to fire and the sword. In less than two weeks, battle will break out at the Steps of the Hangman. From there a straight path will be opened to the center of the Empire and the capital. Don’t think I’m a coward, but it’s better here than in that inferno, with necromancers all around.”

  “I’ve never considered you a coward,” said the tracker and then immediately added a spoonful of vinegar to his compliment. “Just a fool, and those are very different things. I’m a warrior. It’s my business to wage war, not to crawl on my knees to the Walkers, waiting for the silly quails to hear us out. How many times must we ask for this, for your audience? Do you really not get that no one wants to see us?”

  “If you’re so eager to fight, the war will descend upon us soon enough. Then you can swing your sword around until you burst, friend.”

  Or until a Nabatorian more clever than you cuts you down, Luk concluded to himself.

  “Let’s do this,” said Ga-Nor, gazing at the ceiling. “If after five days everything is just the same as it is now, and we are being shown the door every time, I’m leaving.”

  “Where, if I may ask?”

  “To where our troops are fighting. And if that doesn’t work out, I’ll go home. I swore an oath to my clan; let the elders decide how I should serve.”

  “Don’t be dumb, Red. Your north is too far away from here, and the Nabatorians are at the Steps of the Hangman. You won’t break through.”

  “There’s always the sea.”

  “I don’t think the situation’s much better there. They could have besieged the Cape of Thunder on the western passage from Losk. There are two good routes into the center of the Empire, and both may be closed. You can’t get anywhere from the south. Not right now, at any rate.”

  “I’ll try, man. You know I can do it.”

  “Maybe,” Luk agreed reluctantly. “The Children of the Snow Leopard are a persistent people. Do what you will. But I’m going to do what I came here for. I must tell the Walkers about Rubeola.”

  “Do you really think they don’t know?”

  “What does that matter? I must.”

  “I swear by Ug. You’re a real soldier,” said Ga-Nor mockingly. “Stupid and stubborn.”

  “Not like you, that’s for sure.” Luk didn’t get angry when the northerner taunted him, although he himself didn’t know why. “Okay, I want to sleep.”

  “You didn’t tell me where you were.”

  “I was playing dice,” the soldier replied unwillingly.

  “Of course. With the money Layen left us?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what will we live on when it’s all drained away?”

  “I won, screw a toad!”

  “Really?” Ga-Nor was surprised. “I don’t believe you. You usually lose.”

  “Not always.”

  “I suppose you cheated.”

  “A little bit.” Luk couldn’t deny it.

  “Tomorrow you will give all the money to me.”

  “Why?” The soldier shot up like a scalded cat.

  “Because at any moment you might sit down to play with someone who cheats better than you. And I don’t want to be stuck in Al’sgara with empty pockets,” said the northerner adamantly. “Besides, you still owe me.”

  The mention of his debt caused Luk to shut up. He huffed aggrievedly, wiggled around on his bed to find a comfortable position, and then settled down for the night. Ga-Nor silently thanked Ug that his talkative companion had finally quieted down. The northerner lay there for some time, thinking that they needed to head out for Hightown earlier tomorrow, and that if the secretary of the Tower once again tried to lead them around by the nose, he’d grab him by his throat and squeeze until Luk was sent to someone in the Council.

  But the quiet didn’t last long.

  “Ga-Nor, are you asleep?”

  “I’m trying,” the northerner hissed without opening his eyes. He was silently calling down all the curses he knew on Luk’s head, up to and including the icy axe of Ug.

  “I was thinking about Layen. I regret letting her go. How do you think she’s doing on her own?”

  “I think she’s doing just fine. Far better than us. Sleep.”

  “I wonder if she met up with Ness? Did they even escape Bald Hollow at all? We really don’t know anything about them. Not about Ness or Gis or Shen. What do you think, were they lucky like us?”

  “I don’t think anything, Luk. I want to sleep. Their fate is in Ug’s hands. He usually protects good soldiers.”

  “You might laugh, but I got used to their company. I think it would have been easier together—”

  “There was never any ‘together.’” Ga-Nor abruptly broke off his friend’s musings. “It’s unlikely the assassins would have stayed with us for long. And from what I understand, they have their own business in the city. And you have yours.”

  “Who are you calling assassins?” asked Luk, dumbfounded.

  “Ness and Layen.”

  “What for?”

  “They are Giiyans.”

  “What?”

  “They are masters. They kill for money.”

  “I know what Giiyans are. It just seemed to me that you called—”

  “Our acquaintances are Giiyans,” the Son of the Snow Leopard interrupted him.

  A brief silence hung over them. Luk was digesting this news.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—”

  “I swear by Ug, I’m telling the truth. Can we sleep now?”

  “Sure. Listen, is Shen one, too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  After a minute Ga-Nor was already asleep but Luk kept staring at the ceiling, still unable to believe his companion’s words.

  18

  Tia got to the Ors when it was getting dark. She stopped in a grove of willows along the bank, a few yards away from the water, and sat down without taking her eyes off the opposite shore. The mighty river was leisurely flowing toward the sea and it gleamed with the nighttime lights of Al’sgara reflected on the water. Right now the southern capital reminded her most of the great city of Sdis, Sakhal-Neful, when it was being approached after sunset from the Great Waste.

  Typhoid gazed through Pork’s eyes and could not believe what she saw, even though she should have expected it. The last time she had beheld these walls and towers was five hundred years ago, on the day when one part of the Council rebelled and decided to destroy the other. Twenty of them opposed the Mother and her supporters, and only eight, those who would later be known as the Damned, survived the night to le
ave the city, fleeing after the failed rebellion. Yes, they killed many, including the Mother herself, but they wasted too much energy fighting those who came from the Rainbow Valley to help Sorita.

  Pork gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, remembering that time along with his Mistress. Since then none of the Sextet had seen the great city. The War of the Necromancers devastated the Empire over the course of fifteen years, and then they had to go beyond the Boxwood Mountains and Nabator. To Sdis. To the Great Waste and beyond.

  And now, after so many years, here she was on the shore of the river, looking at the city once more, the city in which she had lived a part of her former life. Al’sgara was the same and yet completely different. Foreign. True, even from this shore it was possible to see the walls, towers, and spires of Hightown. The Sculptor’s walls and the temples to Melot were the same as before, but much that was new had appeared. The city had grown. It had expanded along the coast, overgrown its walls, spawned new districts, new buildings, new homes, new people, and had become much more unsightly, dangerous, and frightening. Typhoid felt like this enormous creature was breathing, defecating, and seething with thousands of people, alive with the magic of the Walkers. If Retar were alive, he would have put it differently. But he was long gone, even though she could still recall his face and his smile quite well. She had loved him more than life—she’d followed him into the Abyss and been left alone.

  Deep-rooted hatred toward the idiots sitting in the Tower stirred within her, and Pork, twitching with fear, began whimpering. Typhoid suppressed his will. Once again she contemplated the Walkers and stared grimly at the city. She was sure that the archer, who had unfortunately escaped her, was beyond the walls that towered over the other side of the river. And the girl with the spark and the boy Healer would be with him. That meant she needed to get into Al’sgara.

  But it wasn’t that simple. Tia was sure that the gates were being watched by the Tower and she wouldn’t be able to pass through them. The Walkers might sense her Gift, even though her spark barely glimmered in Pork’s body. Even the smallest hint of a spark was enough for some experienced mages. And then …

  Tia knew that she would not be able to deal with all the Walkers and Embers of Al’sgara when they inevitably descended on her, drawn like wasps to molasses. And descend on her they would, if she so much as touched the gates. That meant there was only one way—by water. It was unlikely the entrance to Haven was guarded as closely as the walls. She had a greater chance of sneaking in there. But even if she succeeded, she would still need to be on the alert and not be seen by the bearers of the Gift. Or by the Scarlets, for that matter. Though the Damned could more or less fight against the former, she would be completely powerless against the wizards. Anyone wearing a red robe could bind her hands and feet with a snap of his fingers. It had already happened once in that foggy village and, if she were honest with herself, she was still shocked at how easily the old man had bested her.

  At the time Tia had been out of her wits because she had finally caught the archer who killed her body, and so she saw the twisted, ruby-covered wand too late. It seemed to the Damned that she’d been hit over the head with something heavy. Her vision darkened and she only regained consciousness after a day, when the fool was wandering through a field. Typhoid was so enraged that she vented all her anger on Pork.

  She had to go back to the deserted village on foot, and there she found out that the horses had disappeared. The archer and the wizard had probably taken them. In an extremely foul mood, realizing that with every minute she was falling farther behind the people she was pursuing, the Damned walked on, and in the next village she stole a horse.

  Suddenly a nasty burning sensation pierced Pork’s spinal column and Tia grimaced as if she had a toothache.

  A Summons!

  The Abyss take her, a Summons! One of the Sextet wanted to talk to her. The burning increased, spread from her back to her shoulders to her neck, and then it started creeping up the back of her head.

  Typhoid knew, of course, who was calling her.

  Rovan.

  Only his summons burned like the venom of a red scorpion or a fiery hot brand. Curse him three times over! What did that tomb worm want? They didn’t talk often and tried to be as far away from each other as possible. Consumption was a dangerous opponent. Especially now, when the Damned had lost most of her powers. Rovan would gleefully take advantage of this opportunity to destroy her.

  The burning increased.

  Rovan was not going to give up. He was demanding a conversation, and with each passing second resisting him became increasingly difficult. Before Typhoid could have simply brushed aside his intrusiveness, tearing up the weave, but not now. She didn’t have enough strength, and the damned maggot would not let up. The burning sensation was bordering on pain. Rovan strengthened it and then suddenly eased up on the pressure, and when her body relaxed, the next painful sting hit her. Tears poured from Pork’s eyes, and Tia realized that this pathetic shell simply could not withstand such abuse.

  She forced the half-wit to stand up, and she hurried over to the river on his trembling legs. Falling to her knees at the water’s edge, she looked around. There was no one. With all her strength she struck her fist on the surface of the water. A splash shot up into the air and hung there, the drops shimmering with silver in the uneven light of the half moon; then they merged together and formed a wide, flat mirror in front of the Damned. It was translucent, but, in obedience to her command, it shone with a dull light, and Typhoid saw her interlocutor.

  Rovan was reclining on soft satin pillows scattered haphazardly over an expensive Sdisian carpet. Next to him was a cuirass, polished until it gleamed, and a sword with an expensive hilt; a bit farther away was a table piled high with papers. Enough candles were burning that Typhoid could see that he was in his tent.

  Rovan Ney, Lord of the Tornado, Son of the Evening, Axe of the West, known as Consumption, seemed about five years older than Tia. He had a purebred, somewhat pale face, large brown eyes, arrogant, thin lips, and a perfectly straight nose. Very light blond hair and eyebrows, a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Thick, long eyelashes that any woman would envy and a dazzling smile. He was of average height, fairly broad in the shoulders and well muscled enough to be intimidating. He had narrow, elegant hands with long fingers, such that you rarely encounter in good soldiers. And yet, he could run rings around any living thing when it came to his mastery of the blade. Only Retar had been able to compete with him before.

  Consumption was dressed in a black silk shirt, which was lying open on his broad chest, and loose trousers of the exact same color. No jewelry, no weapons, no shoes. At his feet was perched a short, and quite young, woman of the Je’arre nation. She could have been called beautiful, even taking into account her shaven head, but one of her snow-white wings was broken and, apparently, it had happened recently. The flyer did not take her adoring gaze off her master. In contrast to the Damned, a small knife hung on her belt, but she obviously had no thought of putting it into action.

  It was a familiar scene. Rovan delighted in the pain of others. He elevated it to a kind of worship, a daily requirement of gratification. He loved to torment, loved to feel the terror of his victims. He loved to hear them beg for mercy, choking on their tears, crawling at his feet. But most of all Consumption loved to subjugate. To convert pain into blind love, adoration, slavishness. With magic and pain he broke others’ wills and reforged them to bend only to his own. He turned the proud into sycophants and ciphers, his enemies into servants and the dead. Oh! No one in the world knew how to surround himself with dead bodies and to derive true pleasure from it like Rovan did!

  “You took your time answering,” he said by way of greeting. “It’s not very polite of you to treat your friends like that. Don’t you agree?”

  “I see you’re not at all surprised to see me looking like this.” She ignored his question and forced Pork to stretch his lips into a smile.

  “
Just imagine.” Rovan barely moved his finger, and the Je’arre was already offering him a cup of wine. A well-trained girl. “Although you must permit me to say—you looked much better before.”

  At this Typhoid could only smile sweetly. Or at least try to. Right now she was occupied with a far more important matter—she was feverishly wondering why the maggot was so calm and sarcastic, and why he didn’t even raise an eyebrow at seeing the stupid mug of a village cowherd instead of Tia’s usual face. There could only be one answer—Rovan knew what he would see before he made the Summons.

  Damn Tal’ki!

  “What do you want?” she asked sullenly.

  “You don’t sound very happy to see me.”

  “Enough!” she snapped. “Tell me what you want!”

  “I see that some things never change. You’re just as rude as before, Typhoid. Even in that body. I just wanted to inform you that I’ll arrive soon.”

  “Where, if it’s not a secret?”

  “In Al’sgara. I’m hastening there as fast as I can.”

  “As far as I recall, you’re stuck in the east.”

  “You have outdated information. Leigh and I managed to conquer the Isthmuses of Lina. He went to Okni to meet up with Alenari and head for the Steps of the Hangman, while I and my army are going to crack the sweet nut that is Al’sgara.”

  Rovan smiled blindingly and stroked the cheek of the Je’arre. She shivered with delight.

  “I don’t recognize you, Son of the Evening. You were never so unreasonably flippant. The nut is sweet, but hard. Or do you think that the walls, delighted by your beauty, will fall and the gates will fling themselves open? You’ll meet an army of the Imperials. Plus, there are no fewer bearers of the Gift here than in the capital.”

  “My regiments will capsize the army into the sea.” Rovan shrugged nonchalantly. “Don’t look at me like that, Rider of Hurricanes. I know they are good soldiers, but the battles have not been going in their favor. And there are far fewer of them. The Sdisian spies did their job well. Soon I will crush Crow’s Nest and open a direct route to Al’sgara. How do you like my friend?” he asked suddenly.