“How many centuries ago was that?” asked Thasha.
Thaulinin smiled. “Just two. But there has been an earthquake since. We are fortunate: no man or beast appears to be moving on the Nine Peaks Road. The high country is empty, except for foxes and mountain goats. Perhaps Macadra has forgotten its existence altogether, or merely decided the way was too treacherous for anyone to use. If the latter, we must make haste to prove her wrong.”
Soon the party was back on the trail. At first it threaded a path between towering boulders, but Pazel could see bright sun ahead, and his spirits rose. Just before the trail emerged from the rocks Thaulinin called them together.
“We are stepping up onto the spine of the mountains, and a long stretch of the Royal Highway. This means we shall often be visible from afar. That cannot be helped, but there are measures we should take to aid our chances. Do not shout: echoes travel for miles if the wind is right. Your shields are wrapped in leather, and your scabbards, buckles and the like are all dulled with paint. But your blades will reflect the sun, so think carefully when you draw them.”
“And the dlömu must remember their eyes, which outshine silver,” added Valgrif.
Out they stepped onto the Highway. It was a relic, of course: the broad stones cracked and heaving, and ice and scree burying them in many places. Still it was pleasanter walking, for the Highway neither climbed nor descended much, and here at least it hugged no frightening cliffs. The snows had yet to claim this open land. Sinewy bushes and low, storm-blasted trees grew alongside ruined walls and broken colonnades. There were even patches of late wildflowers, yellow and scarlet, lifting their tiny heads among the stones.
Pazel and Thasha walked with Neeps, and Pazel found himself smiling. His friend was his old, cheeky self, teasing Thasha about the way she’d tried to blackmail him on the Chathrand, a lifetime ago it seemed, by promising to accuse him of stealing her necklace.
“If only I blary had,” he said. “Imagine if you’d never put that cursed thing around your neck again, never let Arunis get that power over you.”
“Don’t even start with the ifs,” said Thasha, smiling in turn.
“If, if, if.”
He was healed, at least for the present. But when he thought Pazel and Thasha were looking elsewhere he shot glances over his shoulder. Pazel knew why: Lunja was behind them, walking with Mandric and Neda. She had not said a word to any of them since dawn.
They rounded the second peak, just a few miles from the first, before the sun was halfway to its zenith. Nor did the third appear too distant. But now the destruction caused by the old earthquake grew more severe. In one place the ground had been forced up nearly twenty feet, road and ruins and all, only to drop again a quarter mile on. At another they were forced to leave the road and walk for miles around a gigantic fissure that had opened across their path. When at last they returned to the road Hercól looked back over the fissure and shook his head.
“Two hours to advance a hundred feet,” he said.
They were nearing the third peak when something odd happened to Pazel. For no reason he could think of he felt briefly, intensely unhappy, as though he had just thought of something dismal that for a time he had managed to forget. He looked down the ridge on his left, miles and miles, to lesser slopes dark with forest. The thought or feeling had something to do with that land.
His listened, and thought he heard a faint rumble echoing through the mountains. The feeling returned, stronger than before. Pazel shielded his eyes, but they caught nothing unusual in the landscape. Then Ramachni appeared at his side.
“You heard it, did you not?” asked the mage.
“I thought I heard something,” said Pazel. “What was it? Thunder?”
“No,” said Ramachni, “it is the eguar, Sitroth.”
Pazel jumped. “How do you know?”
“The same way you know a brig from a barquentine when you see one on the horizon, Pazel. Because it is your business to know. So it is with mages and magic, except that we feel better than we see. An eguar’s magic is unlike any other sort in Alifros. Sitroth is down among those pines, somewhere, trying to commune with others of his kind. There was a time when all the eguar in this world, north and south, could link minds and share their knowledge. But this linkage was a collective effort, and as the eguar’s numbers dwindled it became much harder. After the massacres Lord Arim spoke of, I would not be surprised if Sitroth is struggling to reach even the nearest of his seventeen remaining kin.”
“What do you suppose he wants to say?”
“My lad, how should I know? Perhaps he hopes one of them can offer him refuge, or tell him where best to hide from Macadra. Perhaps he is still venting whatever fury led to his betrayal. Perhaps he is asking advice.”
“I’ve seen two of them,” said Pazel, “and both of them killed before my eyes. I hope I never see another. But it’s horrible what’s happened to them, all the same. Ramachni, do you know why Sitroth wanted to kill Prince Olik?”
The mage looked over his shoulder at the prince. “No,” he said, “but I think His Highness does.”
The second night was even colder than the first, but they faced no tunneling, and were still dry when they took shelter. This time there was no roof above them: merely rough cold stone, the foundation of some long-ago ruined castle or keep. The travelers pressed tight into the chilly corner. Pazel fell asleep sitting up, back to back with the prince.
For the next two days the road was utterly abandoned. Of the eguar there was no further sign, and only once did they spot the enemy: a plume of dust revealed itself to be some twenty dlömic riders, galloping along a distant track, and vanished almost as soon as seen. They were alone here in these heights, in this wreckage of a perished kingdom.
On the sixth day the character of the road changed again. The Royal Highway turned north to begin its descent to the ruins of Isima, city of the Mountain Kings; but the travelers kept to the Nine Peaks Road, west by southwest, even as the road dwindled to a narrow, death-defying trail. Gone was the solid spine of the mountains. Everything became jagged and steep, and far more treacherous than the worst moments of the previous days. The path hugged spires that rose like crooked tombstones. It leaped between them on bridges as astonishing to look at as they were terrible to cross: ancient stone bridges, where the wind sighed through top-to-bottom cracks; hunchbacked bridges of impossible workmanship; bridges squeezed into canyons or wedged between eroding cliffs; bridges the Gods might have lowered from the sky. And when had the party climbed to such altitudes? There were clouds drifting eight and nine hundred feet below them, and entire ranges that reached away like fingers into the distance, their highest peaks a mile or more below the travelers’ feet.
The path twisted and meandered so greatly that they scarcely seemed to be advancing. Thaulinin swore that it was by far the quickest way through the mountains, however, and promised that they would be out of the maze by the next afternoon.
As if to spite him, a savage wind chose that moment to blow up from the south. Minutes later a driving sleet began. The treacherous path became quickly, obviously deadly. Stung by the downpour, the party huddled to confer.
Thaulinin had hoped that they would camp that night on Mount Urakán. “It cannot be much farther—two hours at the most. There are hidden caves on its eastern face, where the selk keep firewood and other stores. Nólcindar’s troop may have passed that way, with Valgrif’s sons, and left us some word. But to reach Urakán one must cross the bridge over the Parsua Gorge, and that is not a thing to be attempted in bad weather. The Gorge is a terrible abyss, and that bridge is wind-plagued at the best of times.”
“Let us choose quickly, ere we are soaked through again,” said the prince. “Dry clothes are not a luxury here: they are the difference between life and death.”
To this everyone was agreed, and it was swiftly decided that they would retreat to the last structure they had passed, just a few minutes back along the trail. Pazel had taken it f
or a kind of stone silo, but this did not prove to be the case. Stepping through the doorway, they found the floor several feet below ground level, and when they dropped upon it they found themselves on smooth, solid ice.
“A cistern,” said Thaulinin. “Of course: there are ruined waterworks all about the summit of Urakán. Well, it must do. At least the roof is sound.”
Bolutu stamped his heel against the ice and laughed. “A hard bed’s nicer than no bed at all. Let us go no farther today.”
“That I cannot promise,” said Thaulinin. “Dusk is still hours away. If the sleet relents we should press on, at least to the old customs-house at the foot of the bridge.”
“What, go on up that mad path today?” said Big Skip, appalled. “We’ll end up at the bottom of a cliff!”
“If we don’t hurry,” said Thasha, “we’ll end up in Macadra’s hands.”
“That’s better than dead, missy.”
“No, Skip, it is not,” said Ramachni, “but there is still hope of avoiding either fate. In any event we cannot cross the Parsua in sleet or darkness. If we can safely reach the foot of the bridge tonight, we shall. For the moment, rest, and eat some of the bounty of Uláramyth. I believe there are persimmons left.”
To Pazel’s surprise, sleeping on the ice was not unpleasant. It was flat and smooth, and the cold did not penetrate their bedrolls, which were made of the same marvelous wool as their coats. As he nodded off, Pazel gazed at the sleet lancing past the doorway and hoped, selfishly, that it would last until dark.
For better or worse, it did not: an hour before nightfall the sleet ended and the sun peeked out. Cautiously they ventured outside—and Corporal Mandric fell flat on his back.
“Pitfire! The mucking trail’s a sheet of ice!”
It was no exaggeration: Pazel too had to struggle at every step. “We selk can walk this path,” said Thaulinin, “and I dare say Hercól and the sfvantskors could follow me. But for the rest it is too dangerous. I fear we must remain here after all.”
Valgrif padded confidently forward. “I was raised on such trails, and can manage them even in the dark,” he said. “Give me leave to scout ahead, Thaulinin, and we shall be that much better prepared for the morning.”
Thaulinin nodded. “Go a little distance,” he said, “but do not try your luck in the dark: that I cannot sanction. And I must forbid you to set foot on the bridge, should you go that far.”
Valgrif bowed his head, then turned and looked at Myett. “Will you come with me, little sister? Your gaze is even sharper than my own.” Myett agreed at once, taking her familiar place on Valgrif’s shoulders, and with careful steps the wolf moved down the trail.
For the others there was nothing to do but wait. They had no dry wood to burn, but in the shelter of the cistern’s wall the late sun warmed them a little. Thaulinin told them further stories of the Mountain Kings, and of the terrible overthrow of Isima by ogres from the south. But Ramachni said one should not make too much of the invasion.
“The city was doomed before the first foe lumbered from the Thrandaal,” he said. “King Urakán’s people starved themselves. They cut the forests that slowed the spring meltwater, and their croplands vanished in floods. They drained the marshes downriver that fed the game birds, and dragged nets across the lakes with such efficiency that not a fish remained to be caught. They were weakened; their unpaid army devolved into gangs; their famished peasants fled westward before they could be drafted to the city’s defense. The avalanche was coming; the Thrandaal ogres were merely the stone that set it off.”
“Were you here?” asked Thasha.
Ramachni shook his head. “I saw Isima only in smoking ruin, with Lord Arim at my side. It was the first and last time I ever saw him shed tears. He had tried to warn the city, and, when that failed, to defend it. But it was too late: the ogres had already conquered the southern mountains, and were advancing on Urakán. Still Arim worked a mighty spell, at great cost to himself, diverting a blizzard that would have closed the Royal Highway. By his deed the city’s children were evacuated and saved. To this day the descendants of those children inhabit the Ilidron Coves, and bless themselves in Arim’s name.”
Night fell, but Valgrif and Myett did not return. Thaulinin gazed anxiously down the trail. “I consented too easily,” he said. “Who knows how treacherous the path becomes when one approaches the Gorge?”
“Valgrif is a wise beast,” said one of his men. “I watched him train his sons to respect the dangers of the ice. He will come to no harm.”
But when another hour had passed they all felt the same anxiety. Then Thaulinin lit a torch and called his men together. “Bring rope, and your spikes and mallets,” he said. “We may find them clinging to some ledge.”
Hercól and Vispek wished to go along, but Thaulinin refused. “You are mountain-trained to be sure, but even the best human feet cannot move as swiftly as our own.”
Then Ensyl laughed. “Wolf feet are another matter, it seems. Look there!”
She pointed not down the trail, but above them, on the icy ridge over the cistern. Pazel squinted, and at last made out Valgrif cutting a zigzag path toward them downhill. Moments later he slid to a halt at their feet, Myett still clinging to his shoulders. The wolf was exhausted and panting.
“Enemies!” he gasped, dropping on his stomach. “And the bridge—”
“The bridge has fallen,” said Myett. “We came to its foot: there are only fragments arching out over that terrible gorge. And Valgrif smelled dlömu on the far side, when the wind gusted toward us.”
“You didn’t see anyone, then?” asked Pazel.
Myett looked from face to face. “We saw one figure only,” she said. “We saw Dastu.”
“Dastu! Here!” cried the others.
“He was among the trees on the far side of the gorge,” said Myett. “We did not let him see us. He was pacing back and forth.”
“What in the devil-thick Pits can that rotter be doing here?” said Neeps.
“Nothing good,” said Prince Olik. “I remember that one: he followed your spymaster about like a dog, but he also had a cunning of his own.”
“That he should have come here from where he ran from us strikes me as all but impossible—without help at any rate,” said Thaulinin. “Perhaps Nólcindar found him and took pity. She might be there right now, along with Valgrif’s sons.”
“I smelled neither selk nor wolves,” said Valgrif, “and the scent of the dlömu came faintly, from the far side of the gorge. We waited, and once there came an echo of a voice—not a dlömic voice—from above us.”
Myett pointed at the ice-slick path. “This trail ends at the fallen bridge, but when we heard that echo I climbed the cliff above us, and saw another bridge around a bend in the chasm. It was high above me still, and oddly built, with the far side higher than the near.”
“The Water Bridge,” said Thaulinin. “So one span at least survived the earthquake. That bridge is part of the King’s Aqueduct, which ran for nearly two hundred miles, carrying snowmelt from the high peaks to the farmlands below. Alas, it was built too late to save them.” He looked at Ramachni. “The Water Bridge is not a pleasant way to cross the Parsua. But cross there we must, unless we would retrace our steps all the way to Isarak.”
“That we cannot do,” said Ramachni, “but there is another explanation for Dastu’s presence, is there not?”
“Yes,” said Neda. “Selk not bringing him. Macadra bringing, as the trap.”
“As a trap,” corrected Mandric automatically, “but I was thinking just the same. Rin’s gizzard, that’s all we need: another young pup helping the enemy.”
“It does seem the likeliest explanation,” said Hercól, “but if Dastu is helping Macadra, I am sure he does not do so willingly. Dastu is flawlessly loyal: both to his master and his master’s religion, which is Arqual. He is not Greysan Fulbreech.”
“There was something very strange about him,” said Valgrif. “I cannot explain it even to m
yself. I wish I had caught his scent.”
“One thing is certain,” said Cayer Vispek. “His presence at that bridge is no coincidence. He is waiting for someone, and who could that someone be but us?”
Thaulinin squatted down beside Valgrif and put his chin on his hands. “We have been fortunate, and I have been rash. We should have sent you out ahead of us each day, Valgrif: the enemy would not know you for a woken animal, let alone the citizen that you are. If Macadra has sent Dastu here, then she has not overlooked the Nine Peaks at all.”
“And we’ve lost already,” said Big Skip.
“No, not yet,” said the selk, “for she has many roads to watch, and on some of them my brethren will have harried her forces and led them astray. If she is trying to watch every road, then she cannot dedicate too many servants to each. And what better place for a small number to guard the high country than at the bridge over the highest gorge of all?”
“So she sends a team of soldiers here to wait for us, along with Dastu,” said Pazel, “and finds the bridge destroyed. What then?”
“Then she waits to see if we come blundering up to the Gorge, as I would have led us to do,” said Thaulinin. “A fall of sleet may well have saved us, this day.”
“They’ll be watching the aqueduct, too,” said Thasha.
“Presumably,” said Hercól. “We must approach in stealth.”
They passed a night of great unease, and Hercól roused them all before sunrise. “Now more than ever, take care with the metal on your persons, lest it be seen or heard,” he said. “Remember the council at Thehel Bledd: we could doom our quest just by being seen, if one of Macadra’s servants flees the mountains and sounds the alarm.”
The selk had been out already, and chosen their path up the ridge. It was a rough, cold climb under frigid stars; and a very long one, as they struggled up one sharp rise after another, winding among sheer falls of rock. Pazel thought of Bolutu, struggling with the weight of the Nilstone on his back. He had asked no one else to carry it since Uláramyth.
The Night of the Swarm Page 44
