by Jack Massa
Eben grunted.
“Wilhaven is right,” Glyssa said. “Remember, we travel in the morning.”
“I suppose.” Eben reluctantly set down his cup. He stretched out with a groan. “I’ll sleep well enough. Too bad we couldn’t have a bath though.”
“Yes, too bad,” Karrol grumbled. “It seems bathing is a custom not yet invented in these parts.”
When the fire burned low, the villagers rose and took their leave. As Izgoy’s family made up their beds, Amlina joined the Iruks and Wilhaven on their side of the fire. They all lay down to sleep, except for Lonn who took the first watch, his sword resting on his knees.
Eighteen
In the morning white mist clung to the hills, and a cold drizzle drifted down. It was the fourth day of Second Summer, 15 days till the alignment of the moons.
Amlina and her companions returned to their boat, accompanied by Izgoy and one of his sons, Durfsky, who would be their guide into the mountains. Durfsky was a sturdy young man, with the same curly hair and heavy eyebrows as his father. He stood head and shoulders taller than Izgoy, but bowed his head and listened deferentially when the elder man spoke.
Wilhaven and the Iruks lashed down the oars and gathered the last of their baggage for the march inland. Amlina took the opportunity to weave extra protection over the craft, envisioning a cloud of awe and apprehension to descend on anyone approaching the boat. She gave explicit instructions to Izgoy regarding the watering of the bostulls. Windbringers were a rarity this far from the sea, so she made sure their needs were clearly understood.
When the witch finished speaking with the headman, Glyssa was crouched in front of Kizier, saying farewell. Amlina knelt beside her.
“Once again, my friend, we must say good-bye.”
Kizier eyed her gravely. “Yes. I shall miss you both. But I take comfort in the knowledge that you will look after each other.”
Amlina caught Glyssa’s eye, and both of them smiled. The witch thought again of how strong in spirit Glyssa was, and how dedicated she had proven herself to the hard disciplines of training. Yet, in that moment, Amlina also glimpsed a cruel vulnerability. Glyssa had been badly damaged by her enthrallment to the serd. No telling how long that wound might take to heal. Amlina gripped Glyssa’s hand and they stood up together. They left Kizier with the other bostulls, humming quietly in trance.
Izgoy led the party to a corral at the edge of the settlement. Inside the enclosure stood a small herd of aklors—wooly, six-legged beasts with long necks and barrel-shaped bodies. They were shorter and stouter than the breeds Amlina had known in Larthang and the Tathian Isles. Izgoy pointed out two that he recommended as excellent pack animals. The witch called on her intuition and selected two others instead.
Durfsky fitted reins on the chosen animals and led them out of the corral. Assisted by the Iruks, he loaded and tied the group’s baggage onto the creatures’ backs—bed furs, the canvas sleeping tent from the boat, the witch’s trunks and bags, enough food and oil for several days march. The travelers expected to purchase more food from herdsman in the hills, while streams and springs would provide fresh water.
With the gear secured, they bade Izgoy farewell and set off. Durfsky led the way, Amlina a step behind, then the Iruks single file. Lonn and Wilhaven brought up the rear, each tugging the reins of an aklor.
The trail curled into the hills. The mist dispersed, but the rain only fell harder. Before long they were trudging and slipping in mud, soaked and miserable. In the afternoon they came on a large herd of sheep and woolgoats huddling in the wet grass. Four herders sat sheltered in a lean-to and had a fire going. Amlina gave them a coin in exchange for cooked meat and an opportunity to rest under their roof.
Having eaten and dried out a little, the travelers set off again. The rain fell unrelenting and the path, already slick, grew steeper. The sure-footed aklors had no trouble, but Amlina and her friends often slipped, and sometimes had to scramble on all fours, muddying their hands and garments. To keep their spirits up, Eben started a chant, and his klarn mates soon joined him. Presently, from the rear of the train, Amlina heard Wilhaven’s baritone, matching the Iruk words, though he did not know their language. The Iruks seemed to find this funny, and laughed grimly amid their chanting.
Their song is binding us together, Amlina thought. Hesitantly, she too joined in.
Finally, the rain slackened. A fresh breeze blew from the west, and the clouds lifted, revealing a blue-gray sky. Snow topped peaks came into view, looming in distant hazes.
Exhausted from the long march, the party made camp early at a place where a freshet flowed through a stand of pines. With no hope of finding dry firewood, Amlina lit an oil lamp. In the twilight, Durfsky tethered the aklors and gave them feed and water. The Iruks unpacked bed furs and set the tent canvas out on the ground to make a dry place for sleeping. The travelers shared a small meal of mutton and hard bread. They were just preparing to sleep when a muffled voice sounded from inside the pile of luggage. Meghild was awake and demanding release.
Wilhaven and the Iruks glanced uncertainly at Amlina. Durfsky stared wild-eyed at the source of the noise.
Sighing, Amlina stood and addressed her friends in Tathian. “I am going to let the queen free. The sight of her will no doubt frighten our guide. Be ready to hold him, in case he runs.”
Kneeling, she laid a hand on Durfsky’s shoulder and spoke to him in Nyssanian. “Do not be frightened. You are about to see a wonder. I am a witch of Larthang, and a certain spirit travels with us. I am going to release her and let her walk free. You have nothing to fear. So long as you keep your bargain with us, no harm will come to you.” She stared hard into his eyes. “Do you understand me?”
Durfsky nodded, awestruck.
Amlina opened the trunk and took out the oilskin. She spread it on the ground, revealing the queen’s head. When Meghild’s eyes popped open, Durfsky gave a sharp cry and tried to rise. Lonn and Karrol pressed strong hands down on his shoulders, and Glyssa spoke to him soothingly. Wilhaven picked up his harp and strummed a mild tune.
Meghild’s eyes swerved around as Amlina cast the magic to formulate the eidolon body. The head rose on a column of pale light, which undulated and thickened as long arms and legs appeared.
Durfsky frantically made hand signs to ward off evil.
Meghild threw back her head and sighed. “It feels good to breathe again, my lovelies. Where are we now?”
That night the eidolon hovered and paced around the perimeter of the camp, the ghost-light making up for the lack of a fire. As usual, Wilhaven or one of the Iruks stood guard. At Amlina’s suggestion, the one on watch kept a particular eye on Dursky, lest he try to sneak off in the dark.
* O *
The weather held fair the next morning, with a chill mist drifting over the hills but no more of the pounding rain. At mid-morning, the party stopped at a stream where the Iruks insisted on bathing in the icy waters and scrubbing their muddy clothes. Amlina and Wilhaven settled for washing their hands and faces and changing into clean garments.
As they continued upcountry, they encountered scattered herds of woolgoats and aklors and flocks of sheep grazing on the hillsides, watched over by herdsmen and their dogs. At one point, Eben spotted paw prints in the soft ground, which Wilhaven surmised were left by gallwolves.
Late in the afternoon, they topped a ridge and came upon the ruins of a castle or temple—a half-circle of tumbled limestone blocks, partially buried and coated in moss. The witch identified the ruins as a remnant of the Nagaree Empire, of which Valgool had been the capital.
“The Nagarees were a race of powerful sorcerers, skilled in blood magic,” she explained. “Their domain once stretched all the way to the Bay of Mistral, as well as over the mountains and the high plateau. Their empire perished in the Age of the World’s Madness.”
“Aye, vanquished by the torms,” Wilhaven said, “or so the tale is told.”
They stood surveying the massive ruins and
the rugged landscape to the west.
“Indeed,” Amlina said. “The torms came into being during the Madness, when the world fell into chaos from the unrestrained use of magic. But the annals differ on the details. Some have it the torms were a tribe of mountain folk subjugated by the Nagarees, who performed pernicious experiments to blend their stock with birds. Others maintain the torms were originally a faction of Nagaree wizards, who sought to empower themselves with flight but whose efforts went awry. All we know for certain is that the torms now rule the mountains, and nothing remains of the Nagaree greatness but ruins.”
* O *
Two more days march brought them to the fringe of the mountains, the boundary of human lands. From a hilltop, Dursky pointed out a trail, the remains of a Nagaree road, that meandered through a steep valley and then up a rocky slope. Farther off, he indicated a gap between snow-capped peaks—the route to Valgool.
Suddenly he glanced at the sky and thrust his hand toward a distant winged figure that wheeled against the clouds. “Torm,” he said, then turned without another word and headed back the way they had come.
The companions stared mutely at the far-off winged creature—little more than a speck—as it glided down in a long, slow spiral and then disappeared behind a ridge. Glyssa glanced at her mates, who offered shrugs or fierce grins. Amlina nodded solemnly and led the way down the hill.
The trail led through the valley and onto a bare shoulder of rock. There Eben spied another torm, drifting high overhead. Presently, two more appeared, and the three circled, cawing at each other, before one flew off toward the peaks.
From that time on, two or more of the winged people were always present, gliding in effortless circles far overhead, watching silently as the travelers trekked higher into the mountains.
“Why don’t they come down and face us?” Karrol grumbled after a few hours. She was at the rear of the train, leading one of the aklors. “If they want a fight, we’ll give them one!”
“Perhaps they are curious about our intentions,” Wilhaven said. “They know they can attack whenever they please.”
“They seek to unnerve us,” Glyssa observed.
“Yes,” Amlina said. “I think that is so. When we finally meet them, we must show no fear and no aggression. Remember, Buroof will speak for us. He knows their language—or so I hope.”
“Well enough,” Karrol said. “But if they don’t understand the talking book, they can mince words with our spears.”
As they trudged on, Glyssa could feel her mates’ nerves fraying. Bred as hunters, the Iruks found the role of quarry a kind of affront, the inability to face their foes a nearly-intolerable frustration. The klarn’s unspoken stress added to Glyssa’s unease, which seemed to grow sharper each day. Often now, she had to compress a lump of fear around her heart as it threatened to burst into panic.
She woke late that night from a troubled dream in which some cunning, nameless beast was stalking her. She sat up, breathing hard. She reminded herself that, of course, all of them were being stalked, by the torms.
On the far side of the campfire Karrol stood guard, a spear resting on her shoulder. Queen Meghild had been set free at nightfall, and her shining body wandered the edge of the camp, flowing in its smooth, unearthly way.
Glyssa shut her eyes and tried to calm herself with meditation. But as her breathing slowed and her mind settled, she sensed someone watching. Blinking, she stared hard and spied a dark shape just outside the circle of firelight.
The torm had crept up unobserved. It had a slender human shape, covered in feathers, with boney arms and legs ending in claws. Its head was like an eagle’s, with fierce golden eyes fixed curiously on the eidolon.
Suddenly, it sensed Glyssa watching. The head jerked and for an instant the eyes caught hers. The creature hissed, spread its wings, and flew into the night.
The noise startled both Karrol and Meghild. Glyssa ran over to them.
“Did you see something?” Karrol asked, her spear leveled.
“Yes. It was a torm.”
“Bah!” Meghild cried. “My first chance to see a torm, and I missed it!”
“Don’t worry,” Glyssa said. “I don’t think it will be your only chance.”
* O *
When they struck camp in the morning, five torms circled overhead. As the travelers marched higher into the mountains, the number grew to over a dozen. The party walked mostly over bare rock now, with nothing to indicate the trail except an occasional stone marker left by the Nagaree. They kept on track by always moving in the direction of the pass, sighting it whenever they rounded a shoulder or topped a ridge. Occasionally, they spotted mountain goats, or a lone, wild aklor. Otherwise they were alone in the vast stony landscape—except for the winged men who stalked them. The air hung clear and eerily quiet.
Toward midday, they came to a deep gorge. Sheer cliffs rose on both sides, with a stream gushing far below. The pass they sought stood somewhere on the other side, but they could see no way across. After talking it over, they agreed their best option was to follow a ledge along the cliff, hoping it led to a crossing.
As they filed carefully along the canyon wall, more torms gathered. Many spiraled in the distant sky. Others glided down, cawing and screeching, to perch on the rocks above. The Iruks eyed them warily.
“It occurs to me,” Eben said, “that they are herding us into a trap.”
“Indeed, it seems that way to me,” Amlina answered, scanning the cliffs on either side. She made a decision and sidled back along the ledge. “If that is the case, we might as well show them something of our power.”
With Brinda’s help, she untied her trunk and lowered it to the ground. She removed Meghild’s head and called up the magic to raise the eidolon body. As Meghild’s light-form loomed into view, caws and squawks rose in a tumultuous wave, echoing through the canyon.
Meghild looked about in confusion. “Daylight? Where are we, my dears? And what is that maddening noise?”
“I was told you wanted to see the torms,” the witch answered. “They are all around us.”
“Aye, so they are!” Meghild surveyed the heights above, grinning. “Have they attacked, or are they inclined to parley?”
“Neither as of yet,” Amlina said. “But I think it will be soon now.”
Before shutting her trunk, Amlina removed the talking book. She carried it in her arms as the company moved off, Meghild now striding in their midst. The frenzied screeching of the torms diminished to a continuous, urgent chirping. More and more of the winged people were flying in to crowd the ledges and outcroppings overhead.
Presently, the path widened. Ahead stood an archway framed by ancient, weathered carvings. Amlina led the way through a short tunnel. They emerged on a wide shelf—a paved plaza bordered by tall, broken statues. Massive monuments and galleries, clung to the canyon walls on both sides, with the openings to numerous caves—the ruins of a Nagaree town. The space swarmed with hundreds of torms.
“There is our way across.” Amlina tilted her chin toward a stone bridge that spanned the gorge. A dense throng of the winged people stood on the bridge and in front of it, while others glided in the air above.
“Remember now: show no fear and no aggression. We must make peace with them if we are to survive.”
Spears shouldered, the Iruks stared with awe at the sheer number of their adversaries. Even Karrol made no boasts about fighting their way through. Amlina stepped to the front of the company and opened the book. She spoke to it in Tathian, so Wilhaven and the Iruks would understand their words.
“Buroof, I Amlina summon you. We are in the land of the torms.”
“Obviously” Buroof answered. “I can hear their unholy cacophony. I congratulate you, Amlina. I didn't expect you would make it even this far.”
“Never mind that. What are they saying?”
The book paused to listen. “Oh … burbling about who you are and who among them gets the honor of killing you. Also wondering about
the shining figure and if they can capture it alive.”
“Hah!” Meghild cried. “Won’t they be surprised if they try!”
“… And now they are talking about myself and arguing over what sort of creature I might be. Those birds on the gallery beyond the bridge seem to be elders. They speak with the most authority, but there is no real government here. They will make their decisions as a mob, and probably not peacefully.”
“All right,” Amlina said. “Speak to them as loudly as you can. Tell them this: that I am a mage with great power and these warriors are my companions. That all we seek is to pass unmolested through their territory. And that I will give them gifts of shiny coins in return.”
She lifted the book high and faced the open pages toward the noisy crowd. Buroof’s voice sounded high-pitched and loud, chattering and shrieking. The assembled torms hushed for several moments, then resumed their clamor.
“They say that no one speaks their language except themselves. They question if I am one of their tribe that you have imprisoned in this book.”
“Reply that you are not, but that we have vast knowledge and power. Repeat that we only wish to pass in peace and offer gifts in return.”
When Buroof had delivered this message, a lengthy and raucous debate ensued. Many of the torms screeched at each other, batted their wings, flashed claws. Finally, seven of the elders flew across the ravine and touched down in front of Amlina and her party. They flapped their wings and cheeped angrily until the noisy confusion subsided. The elders peered sternly at the witch and her companions, and then one of them made a pronouncement.
Buroof interpreted: “He claims to speak for all the torms and he declares this: No one may cross the land of the torms unless they be a torm. However, as we have the language of the torms, this presents a dilemma. Oh, and he admires those sparkling things that dangle at your ears.”
“Hmm.” Amlina set down the book, removed her earrings. “Glyssa, would you go please and lay these at his feet?”
