“The Swarm was created to patrol the border of death’s kingdom, to stop the dead from spilling out into Agaroth, and attempting to migrate back in the direction of the living lands. Whenever a breach in the border wall appears, the Swarm falls upon any of the dead who pass through it, and drives them back to their proper place. The larger the breach, the stronger the Swarm grows in order to contain it. But in the living world all of this goes awry. Death still attracts the Swarm, and death’s dark energy can still feed it and make it grow. Small or scattered deaths will pass unnoticed: their energy will still leave Alifros in the natural way, along with the spirits of the deceased. But a great catastrophe—a war, a famine, an earthquake—is quite different. The Swarm flies to such horrors, and if they are still unfolding, it drops upon them and makes them complete.”
“Complete?” said Big Skip. “You mean it kills everyone who hasn’t yet been killed?”
“Everyone and everything within its compass,” said Ramachni. “Trees, grass, insects, people. And then, like a sated vulture, it rises again into the clouds and moves on.”
“It has already happened at least once,” said Thaulinin. “Our scouts listened to the fireside grumblings of the enemy. Several times they spoke of a ‘cloud of death’ that had ended the fighting in Karysk, along with most of Bali Adro’s terrible Armada.”
“This Swarm sounds almost like a peacemaker,” said Corporal Mandric.
“It could have that effect for a time,” said Ramachni, “if all the warlords in Alifros somehow learned of their peril. But I fear we would not be safe for long. There is no way to be certain, but my guess is that the Swarm only ignores the little deaths because the larger call to it so loudly. If wars ceased, it would begin to harvest death from smaller conflicts, minor plagues. And in time darkness itself will become the killer, as crops freeze and forests die in its shadow.”
“Watchers above!” said Bolutu. “Surely it will never grow that large!”
“Will it not?” Ramachni glanced about the table, his eyes settling at last on the bowls of fruit. “Consider those grapes, Mr. Bolutu: how many would it take to cover the table?”
“Entirely?” said Bolutu. “That’s hard to guess, Ramachni. Thousands, surely.”
“Let us say ten thousand. And let us imagine that we start with one grape, and double the number each day. Think back to your early arithmetic: how long will it take?”
“Fourteen days,” said Neda. There were startled glances, but Neda shrugged. “Very simple problem. Only double and double: two, four, eight, sixteen—”
“And so on,” said Ramachni. “Fortunately even this scale is deceptive: if the table stands for Alifros, the Swarm today is still no larger than a grain of sand. And on many days it will feed on nothing, but merely fly toward the next battle or site of pestilence. We need not measure our time in days, just yet—but we dare not measure it in years. Six months from now, Arunis will have joined the Night Gods, and this world will be a black and lifeless grave.”
There were sighs and looks of horror, as though the mage had stabbed them with his words. Pazel thought of all the quiet days in Uláramyth and felt a pang of guilt. He had not wanted to hasten their passing. He had not wanted to think about the Swarm.
“At the very least, our task is clear,” said Hercól. “We must make haste to Gurishal, and give the Nilstone back to death.”
“This might be a good moment to tell us how,” said Thasha, “or at least how we’re to reach the coast.”
“Lady Thasha is quite correct,” said Lord Arim, “and here is the best answer we have found: it is true that Macadra is watching every sensible path. But there remains one, rather less sensible, that she may have forgotten.”
He rose stiffly from his chair and pointed northward. High on the crater’s rim, Thasha could just make out the dark triangular doorway in the mountain’s wall.
“The Nine Peaks Road,” said Lord Arim, “or as we call it, Alet Ithar, the Sky Road. It is a remote and treacherous path, though part of it follows the Royal Highway that linked the halls of the Mountain Kings. Ages have passed since those kingdoms fell. The Highway is lost in many places: bridges have fallen, forests regrown; earthquakes have changed the shape of the peaks. Today only the selk continue to speak of a road at all. Yet with skill and daring one can still pass that way—at least until the deep snows drape the mountains. And that is a third and final reason to hurry: as you can see, the snows have already begun.”
“The path is certainly treacherous,” said Ramachni, “but it is also a shortcut. By that path, and the wild lowlands beyond, we may come to the Gulf of Ilidron in a mere nine or ten days.”
Ensyl was gazing up at the distant doorway. “I thought we were forbidden to learn the way out of the Vale, Lord Arim,” she said.
Arim nodded. “You are indeed. But that door above you does not mark the start of the Nine Peaks: it is but a final shelter and way station for those leaving Uláramyth. You will climb to that station at midnight tonight, and I will go that far at your side.”
Ramachni looked startled. “That is very good of you, my lord, but need you tire yourself?”
Arim smiled. “There is power yet in this old selk, Arpathwin: even a spark of that fire we wielded at the Battle of Luhmor, should it come to that. Yes, I must make that climb, for not even you may pass the guardian we keep at that door, without my intercession.”
“Our plan is not without risk,” said Thaulinin. “Countless travelers have met their deaths in the Nine Peaks. It is even possible that Macadra has set watchers upon the high road after all. If so we must fight and kill them, and let none escape to sound the alarm. We will also, of course, bear the danger of the Nilstone.”
“That danger at least we have tried to reduce,” said Hercól. “Go ahead, Sunderling: tell us of your work.”
Big Skip nodded. “Time was, the Stone was encased in explosive glass, you know, and the glass embedded in the Red Wolf. Not very practical for traveling. Still, we don’t want any accidents—not when one little touch can kill a man. So Bolutu and I got to talking with the selk, and in the end we gave the Stone a new, thick skin of glass. Selk glass, made from sand drawn from the bottom of that dark lake of theirs. It quiets the stone down, you might say. You can touch it, although it still burns like a potato fresh from the oven. So we’ve fashioned a box for the Nilstone as well, out of solid steel. The top half screws down and locks against the bottom—and nothing short of Rin’s own hammer and tongs will get to it”—Skip held up a heavy key—“without this.”
“Needless to say,” added Bolutu, “the key and the Nilstone will be carried separately.”
“Always,” said Big Skip, “and just in case we need to take the Stone out of the box, the selk blacksmiths gave us a pair of their own gauntlets. I lifted the Stone myself, wearing ’em. It wasn’t pleasant, but it didn’t kill me either.”
“That is fine work,” said Hercól, “but let us return to the journey itself now.”
“I shall be your guide in the mountains,” said Thaulinin, “and if the stars are willing, I will see you all the way to the Ilidron Coves. There we have a secret harbor, a place of last flight, which long ago we prepared against the day when the selk might be forced to flee like hunted game. The world has changed since we hid those vessels; there are no more selk homelands to be reached by sea. And yet one ship remains: the Promise, we call her. She is too small to brave the fury of the Nelluroq, but she can bring you to a rendezvous with the Chathrand, if the latter still awaits you.”
“And if the Empire’s warships do not sink us first,” said Cayer Vispek.
“Five years ago, escape from Ilidron would have been unthinkable,” said Lord Arim, “but today the door stands open a crack. In the Platazcra madness, Bali Adro has slain Bali Adro, and most of her remaining ships have been sent east in the Armada, to face the delusional threat from Karysk. Of course terrible forces remain, especially the Floating Fortresses along the Sandwall, but the little Pro
mise may slip away unseen, if only you can reach her.”
“Lord Arim, how can you give us your escape vessel?” asked Thasha in distress. “Even if your homelands are gone, you might need to flee somewhere.”
Lord Arim shook his head. “Not over the waves—not that way, ever again. Nor can we go on risking the lives of those who guard the Promise away in the west. Bali Adro’s star grows dim, Thasha Isiq, but the assault on this peninsula has just begun. New people are coming: refugees from the war, and from the doomed cities of the Imperial heartland. Rogue armies, splinters of the great legions, warlords for whom the only rule is plunder. They will come afoot, or creeping along the shoreline in anything that floats. I cannot say if they will penetrate these inner mountains, but before the tide turns they will almost certainly devour the coast. Our harbor has waited many centuries, but it will not be a secret much longer.”
“Yet today we still depend on secrecy—and perfect secrecy at that,” said Ramachni. “Macadra cannot guard every port and cove in the peninsula, but should she learn the path we have taken, she will throw more enemies at us that we can possibly defeat.”
“We must be nimble and swift,” said Thaulinin. “Just ten selk warriors will accompany us, and we shall all wear white, the better to hide against the snow. We also have some plans for Macadra’s forces. Even now, bands of selk are leaving Uláramyth by several roads. They will try to draw the enemy astray. Nólcindar herself left three days ago, to see what trouble she might stir along the banks of the Ansyndra. If the Ravens and their sometimes-servants the hrathmogs come to blows, so much the better.”
“My two sons are with her,” said Valgrif. “If their work goes well they may even join us on the Nine Peaks Road.”
“Us?” said Myett, looking startled. “Then you are going too, Valgrif?”
“As far as the low country, little sister,” he said. “But I must turn back when I smell salt in the air, for I was born with blood-terror of the sea.”
Then a wolf appeared at the stone gate atop the stairs, holding a leather pouch in his teeth. “Ah,” said Lord Arim, “here is something I put aside a long time ago, for just such an expedition.”
The wolf descended, and Arim took the pouch and opened it upon the table. Pazel jumped. Within the pouch were a dozen or more scarlet beetles, dry and dead, each one the size of a mussel shell. “Zudikrin,” said Arim, “fire beetles from the deep caves under Uláramyth. You must each carry one in your coat, and guard it well. It is a last defense against freezing.”
“Zudikrin make dangerous gifts, Lord Arim,” said Thaulinin.
“So they do,” said the elder. “Use them only in the face of death: if the cold is winning, and your life ebbing away. If that time should come, bite down on the insect, break the carapace—and spit the beetle out. You will be warmed, I promise you.
“Now,” Arim went on, “there is a custom we must observe. If you would honor your time here, then honor this custom too, even if you cannot see its worth. The matter is simple: for thousands of years we have tried to make a haven of this place. When any living soul comes here in friendship, we name that one a citizen. And we recognize no one’s right to force that citizen to leave, for any cause whatsoever. Therefore I must ask if any one of you feels bound in your heart to remain here and abandon the quest. Silence, silence! Remember my entreaty! And remember too that every trial and hardship you left behind in this Vale may come again in the outer world. Fear no shame or censure. Only if you would stay here, for a week or a year, or to the end of your short life, bid your comrades farewell upon this terrace, in the sight of all.”
His words left a silence. Thasha glanced in wonder about the table. It was a strange custom, but a noble one perhaps. All the same it was rather unthinkable that—
“I will stay,” said Myett.
There were loud cries. Ensyl, grief-stricken, began to shout in the ixchel tongue the humans could not hear. Arim raised his hands high.
“No more! The choice is hers alone, and it is for no one to gainsay.”
“May I speak, my lord?” asked Myett.
“If such is your wish,” said Arim sternly, “but you who listen must do so in silence: that is my command, and I will not repeat it.”
Myett looked at her companions with a kind of misery. “I would stay, first because I found so few ways to be of use to this expedition. I am not as strong or swift as Ensyl. I can fight, but I was never trained like her, as a battle-dancer. I have been a burden, a thing to be carried, more often than a help. And I would stay because nothing awaits me in the North but solitude. Even if we somehow found the ship, the clan will not have me back. Even if we reach Stath Bálfyr, and find it still a homeland for the ixchel, Lord Talag will poison my name.”
How can you be so certain? Thasha wanted to scream.
Now Myett dropped her eyes, as though too shamed to look at them. “On the Chathrand I tried to take my own life,” she said. “I almost succeeded. Since then I have tried to be stronger, to turn my eyes to the sun. But I was failing. I could feel the sadness closing over me again like black water. Until I came here.”
She’s not acting on impulse, Thasha realized. She’s been thinking this over a long time.
“That is all,” said Myett, “save that—” She made a gesture of confusion. “Lord Taliktrum. He abandoned me without a thought, without even a spiteful goodbye. If I am to live I must forget that. Please try to forgive me, Ensyl. You will be the last of our people I shall ever see. I will live among the wolves, if they will have me. I do not think I can forget anywhere but here.”
Now Myett forced herself to look each of her comrades in the eyes. “You will be stronger without me,” she said. “Farewell.”
“Come, sister,” said one of the wolves. Myett leaped to his back. In three bounds the wolf ascended the stairs and vanished through the gate. Once again that morning Thasha found herself fighting tears.
“Guard her spirit if you can, Lord Arim,” said Ramachni. “Your realm’s power is very great, but I do not know if it will pierce the darkness within her.”
“She will be cared for,” said the selk, “and now we must conclude the business of this council, and you must return to Thehel Urred and rest. Would any of you speak?”
“Yes,” said Cayer Vispek. “I wish to know if Macadra herself is patrolling the seas off this peninsula.”
“That we cannot know, without some sighting of her,” said Thaulinin, “but we have told you already that with stealth we hope to reach the Sandwall unmolested. The Island Wilderness beyond is uncharted by the dlömu, but we selk still recall the way to Stath Bálfyr.”
“And that is priceless knowledge,” said Ramachni, “and our best chance of catching the Chathrand before she vanishes into the Ruling Sea. For while our friends on the Great Ship blunder about in search of that island, we will be sailing straight.”
Cayer Vispek laughed darkly. “Through what gauntlet we know not. After what carnage in the mountains we know not.”
Thasha glanced at him surreptitiously. What’s wrong with him today? Then she saw his eyes dart in Neda’s direction—and Neda look quickly away. Vispek’s part of it. Whatever’s happened to Neda is affecting him too.
“Lord Arim,” said Ensyl, still drying her eyes, “do my people truly reign on Stath Bálfyr? Do you know?”
“It has been theirs since my father’s day,” said Arim, “and that was before the first dlömic ships were built, when only selk went to sea, and the Bali Adro were a wild clan upon the Doámm Steppe. But two centuries have passed since any selk made landfall there. I cannot say who rules the island now.”
“Let us go together and find out, Lady Ensyl.”
The voice came from the stone gate above them, and even before she placed it Thasha felt a thrill of recognition. Everyone rose, shouts of joy and wonder on their lips. Descending the staircase, escorted by four wolves and a joyous Sergeant Lunja, was a tall and beaming dlömic man.
“Prince Olik! Pr
ince Olik!”
Chairs were overturned in the rush to greet him. And Prince Olik Bali Adro laughed and spread his arms in delight.
“How by all the roads of twilight did you find your way here?”
For some minutes the war-council collapsed into a joyous reunion. Olik had saved all their lives back in Masalym, and to most of the travelers he had become a cherished friend. He was leaner and harder-looking than Thasha recalled, but his eyes still held that hint of merriment she had first noticed on the deck of the Chathrand. A gray dog walked at his heels, looking as strong and weathered as the prince himself. Behind it, with somewhat less dignity, came Shilu, sniffing and prancing in delight.
“Welcome, citizen-prince,” said Lord Arim. “I have long been hoping you would return, for your last visit brought hope and song to the Vale, yet you departed in great haste. Do you remember what we were speaking of?”
“Less well than you,” said Olik, “for that was twenty years ago. But I swear to you that neither my first home nor the fairest estates of my family have I yearned for as I have this place. Alas, yearning alone cannot bring one back to Uláramyth. Perhaps nothing can, save dire need.” Then, noticing Ramachni, he said, “What is this, friends? You have lost a rat but gained a weasel.”
“Mink,” said Ramachni.
“Mage,” said Hercól. “Sire, this is our leader and our guiding star, Ramachni Fremken, whom the elders of the South call—”
“Arpathwin?”
Thasha could scarcely believe it: Prince Olik had dropped to his knees. His voice had come out a whisper, and it was scarcely louder when he continued. “Arpathwin! You came to us when I was but a child. To our house, to our table, when my cousin the Emperor turned you away. But you were not a mink, in that time. You looked like a human man.”
“That body perished,” said Ramachni, “but yes, I recall. Your father was far more hospitable than the Emperor himself.”
The Night of the Swarm Page 40
