by B. V. Larson
-5-
Several hours before dawn, Gruum and Therian followed a road up into the mountains. The snow came down in swirls and gusts, but was not so thickly as to blind them. Soon however, a storm of quiet whiteness would fall over the mountain road, Gruum felt certain of it. He found the thought comforting in some respects. At least their tracks would be covered. He carried a small, hooded lantern. Opening the hood only a notch, so that a yellow slit of light beamed forth, he guided them on the path.
When dawn broke overhead the dark skies brightened slowly into a gray half-light. Gruum’s worries returned with greater visibility. Pursuit wasn’t far behind. Gruum spotted their pursuers as they made their way up the stony road, which now cut into the side of a mountain. Nine men came, each wearing leathers and flapping cloaks. They were armed with spears and swords. They moved with grim-faced determination.
“They follow, milord,” said Gruum, applying his spurs to his pony. The beast took a few trotting steps, then slowed again to its natural, plodding pace.
“Do they really?” asked Therian, not bothering to look back down the trail to where Gruum pointed. He seemed only vaguely interested. “I had not thought they had the stomach for a fight.”
“Yes,” Gruum agreed. “I’d expected them to waylay us back in town if they were going to try anything.”
“No,” said Therian with certainty. “Not with the Duke watching. But now we are out of his city, and they seek to make their move.”
“They look like a hard lot, sire. We can’t match their speed, and they will not be put off with words.”
“You are wrong on that point, Gruum,” said the King. He pulled upon his horse’s reins and climbed down unhurriedly.
“Ah, sire? What are we doing?”
Therian’s black gloved hand rose to halt Gruum’s words. “Do not disturb me. I must recall certain… thoughts.”
Gruum sat upon his horse nervously. The men that followed—mercenaries by the look of them—were only minutes behind. He watched with concern as Therian worked with the contents of a leather pouch. Therian kneaded it and squeezed the pouch, as a drunk might work at a flagon of wine in an effort to extract the final drops.
“Milord, we must go,” hissed Gruum. He thought to hear the clatter of hooves rising up from the switchback below them.
Therian flashed up the gloved hand again. “No more words, Gruum. You must not frighten it.”
Gruum licked his lips and watched, wide-eyed. Frighten what? his mind asked.
Something slid from the pouch then. It was dark, and thick, and… silky. At first, Gruum thought it might be a serpent… but no. As he watched, he came to realize he gazed upon nothing living. In fact, he gazed upon nothing at all.
A gauzy wad of shadow slipped like a mass of baker’s dough from Therian’s pouch. Gruum wondered with considerable alarm just how long this substance—if it could be called that—had lain within that pouch. He himself had carried the same pouch a dozen times for his master. Never had he ventured to probe within and learn the contents. It had always felt like a very light liquid, or perhaps an oily fat. He had assumed it was some kind of cream or powder his master might use in a ritual.
Now, as he watched, he learned the truth. There was nothing in the pouch. A solid form of nothing, a void that had shape. A shadow with volume.
The shadow fell upon the cold, snow-covered stones of the road with a tiny plopping sound. It quivered there on the fresh, white snow, as black as black could be. Gruum watched with growing alarm. Was this thing akin to the shadow-being that had sought to strangle him on previous occasions? Or was it a creature apart from the man-shaped shadows, but equally vicious?
Therian knelt beside the quivering blob of blackness and spoke softly to it. The words, though spoken in low tones, caused pain to Gruum’s ears and even more discomfort to his mind. Still sitting upon his horse, he urged it further up the road. The pony needed no spurs, as its eyes rolled in fear and its breath came in white, labored plumes.
Gruum tried to avoid looking at the thing on the roadway, but could not keep from glancing over his shoulder again. He saw Therian caress the thing on the path and whisper to it, his lips almost brushing the glistening black surface as might a young maid’s when she spoke to a favorite cat. Gruum’s lips curled upward in disgust.
“I hear them now, milord,” Gruum said. “They can’t be but a single turn behind on this road.”
Therian stood and brushed frost from his knees carefully. A crusting of snow had formed upon his cloak while he bent over the thing on the roadway. Gruum noted that the snow did not pile upon the shadowy blob. Perhaps the flakes melted the instant they touched the thing—or perhaps there was nothing for the snowflakes to cling to.
Therian mounted and goaded his horse into a trot. Gruum followed in great relief. At last, they were going to flee. Perhaps that thing, left like a deadfall in the path behind them, would perform some sinister trick and delay the enemy.
Therian slowed, however, before they reached the top of the next rise, where the road switched back upon itself on its serpentine route up the mountainside. He wheeled his pony smartly and sat waiting. Gruum slowed, then stopped in the middle of the turn.
“Shall we not flee, milord?” he asked in a hissing whisper, lest those that followed hear him.
“My pet needs time to do its work. We will stand here.”
“Should we not at least stay out of sight?”
Therian turned toward Gruum with a quizzical expression. “Whatever for?”
-6-
The nine men clattered up the road and made the turn. They spotted Gruum and Therian sitting upon their horses at the top of the road, staring down at them. They pulled upon their reins, suspecting an ambush.
“See?” Gruum said in frustration. “They will come on with great caution now. They suspect your trap.”
“No,” Therian said. “They have no idea what awaits them.”
When no ambush materialized, the horsemen advanced cautiously. Gruum watched nervously as the mercenaries approached at a steady pace. They were indeed a hard lot. They bore the scarred faces and the hooked noses of men who’d been in many rough fights.
When they reached the spot where Therian had left his quivering blob upon the roadway, Therian raised his hand in greeting.
“I wish to speak with you, men of Kem.”
His words were answered with exchanged glances, but no speech. They kept coming, slowly, watching the road and every bush they passed.
“I would offer each of you coins for your troubles.”
One man who led the rest sneered. His face bore a mouth slit up one cheek. His teeth could be seen inside, slobbering and drooling because he could not close his slashed face entirely. The effect made his words somewhat hard to understand.
“Have no fears, sorcerer,” said the scarred man. “We will have your coins.”
“No, I’m afraid not. You see, I’ve hidden them.”
The men looked at one another. One from the rear of the pack came forward then. He had one arm in a dirty sling of linen. His eyes were red with strong drink and his brows were deeply furrowed. Gruum recognized him as Fareg, the man Therian had humiliated at the Counting House.
“Then you have nothing to bargain with, and your lives will end the sooner,” said Fareg.
“I did not say they were lost to you,” said Therian. “I’ve hidden them just there.”
Fareg and the others halted in their advance. Their horses milled nervously. The men squinted at Therian and Gruum and peered into the indicated bushes at the side of the road.
“Very amusing, sire,” said Gruum in a whisper.
“What?” asked Therian, turning to look at his servant.
“This business of pretending they will find the gold.”
Therian stared at Gruum. “I’ve pretended nothing,” he said.
Just then, one of the men shouted. Every eye went to him. He held aloft a bulging sack. His face split into a wide g
rin. None present was more surprised than Gruum himself, whose mouth sagged.
“When did you…” Gruum asked Therian, but could not finish the words.
The man with the sack fairly danced upon the stones, such was his delight.
“What will happen now, milord?” Gruum asked.
Therian touched his chin with a black glove. “I’m not sure,” he said.
The men gathered and dug their hands into the coins. Each drew out a fistful. They whooped and shouted while Therian and Gruum watched. For the moment, the mercenaries had forgotten about them.
The first odd occurrence struck the horse of the man who had dismounted and dug the sack of gold from the snow banks. The animal whinnied, the sound quickly rising in octaves into a drawn-out scream. One foreleg went down, as if it had split a hoof. The horse got up again, painfully, favoring the leg. Most of the men took little heed, so interested were they in the sack of gold in their midst. They had begun counting it out, sharing the coins. Their eyes shone wetly. Their mouths were open and they shouted hoarsely to one another.
But they finally paid attention to the oddly behaving horse when it shouldered another horse. The rider of the second beast, who had been leaning far with his hand grasping for his next coin, was jostled and fell to the ground. He sprawled upon the snowy road, and began to slide downhill. At first, his companions laughed, but their laughter ceased when the man slid to the edge of the road and over. The rocky cliff stood a hundred feet above the next twist of road below. With a surprised whoop that turned into a screech, the man flew into the icy air and vanished. He howled all the way down for a full second, then another, before his cries were abruptly cut off.
The first horse, the one that had come up lame, collapsed completely upon the ground now. Foaming from the mouth, its roan-furred sides were lathered from exertion despite the cold. The horse went into convulsions. It lay on its side, striking out with its hooves.
The men backed away and circled it warily in confusion. The man with the slashed mouth stepped forward with his spear and thrust it into the throat of the horse. It took a long time to die, however, despite the mortal wound. Blood ran and ran and glistened upon the fresh snows.
Warily, the mercenaries turned toward Therian and Gruum. “What evil have you released, sorcerer?”
“Only that which lives within each of us,” said Therian.
The men surged forward. Their shoulders were hunched, their weapons were in their hands. “You did something. You’ve bewitched us. Hergard was born in these mountains. He would never have fallen. What did you do, witch?”
Therian walked his horse toward the men, looking at them intently. “In truth,” he said, “I’m not quite sure. But I’m curious to find out.”
The men looked at one another, then snarled. They came on then, in a surging knot. Only a few dozen paces away, they lifted their spears to cast them. The first was hurled, a battle-cry splitting the lips of the scarred man.
The cast went strangely low. Fareg, who led the pack, recoiled in shock and dropped from his saddle. The spear sprouted from his back while the gleaming point protruded from his chest. The other men slowed their charge and wheeled to accuse the scarred man.
“What did you do, man?”
“You have slain the best of us!”
A strange look came over the group. Gruum thought to see a… a blackness to their eyes. As if all the color in the irises had drained away and left the whites, which in their turn had been dyed slate-gray, like boiled eggs in an offering basket left upon an altar for Anduin. The eyes grew darker as they circled the scarred man who’d cast the fatal spear. When their eyes had changed to purest jet, they fell upon the man with the slashed mouth, and they tore him apart. He was not the sort to die easily, however, and gave back with his drawn blade as much as he received. Bloody and cut a dozen times, he kept fighting long after he should not have been able. When the fight was over, there were only four men left of the nine who had pursued Therian and Gruum to this spot.
“We’d best leave this place now,” Therian said.
Gruum knew his master was right. But he could not help himself. “Milord—what about the gold?” he objected.
Therian shrugged. “You may go down and retrieve it, if you wish.”
Gruum looked back down the road. Events had grown stranger still. Two of the last men slashed at one another’s legs as if they beat rugs. Blood flowed, but neither defended himself. A third man repeatedly thrust his spear into the bodies of horses and men that lay dark upon the white carpet of snow. Already, the dead were being covered with flakes. The last man that was capable of walking shambled about, reaching in front of himself with two sets of groping fingers. Gruum realized with a shock that he had torn out his own eyes, but seemed not the slightest upset by the fact.
Therian turned and rode his horse around the bend and up the mountainside. Gruum, almost weeping with a mixture of frustration and fear, followed his lord.
Neither spoke for a long hour. The snow grew heavier until everything more than a dozen paces away was lost in soft whiteness. Their cloaks crackled when they moved, breaking up the shells of ice that formed there.
“What was the substance in that pouch, milord?” Gruum asked finally.
“The stuff of madness,” said Therian. “In concentrated form. The pure essence of fear, pain and insanity. I took it from the organs of the Dragon-Child Humusi as she lay rotting in the sun. I thought it might be useful.”
Gruum shuddered, and he asked no more about the matter.
-7-
The storm worsened as the day went by. As they climbed the mountains, the breezes grew to winds, the winds turned into a gale and soon the snow turned into a blinding whiteness that encrusted the scarves wrapped around their faces. Therian did not stop, and Gruum could not allow his master from his sight, so he followed the other. Sometimes, only a pony’s tail could be seen fluttering in front of him.
Gruum trusted his lord, but with every step he suspected the ponies might tread upon a shelf of ice that mimicked the roadway, but which was not solid. He took no solace in the thought that if such an event were to occur, Therian should be the first to plunge down the mountain. Somehow, Gruum knew he was the more likely of the two of them to come to an unhappy, accidental end in this storm.
The King proceeded as if he rode in a summer rain. He did not slow the pace, nor take rest. Gruum was impressed even more by the sturdy mountain ponies, however. The reliable beasts continued to march up the mountain road without complaint, plowing through a foot of snow with their fur-circled hooves.
They came to an open mountain pass eventually, where the way was not so steep, but neither was it so clearly marked. The road was buried in white, and they could only guess at its location under the thick blanket of snow. Here, Therian stopped. Gruum pulled up beside him and blew out his cheeks.
“Looks like we’ll have to make camp until this blows over, milord,” he said.
Therian ignored him. He sat on his horse, stock-still for a time. He had the attitude of someone who listened intently.
Accustomed to his master’s odd moods, Gruum fell silent beside him. He listened too, and eyed their surroundings carefully. There were trees here, pines with dark green needles and big pinecones choked with snow. Occasionally, the branches snapped and showers of heavy snow fell sliding down the trees, crashing to the ground below. Otherwise, he heard nothing.
After a time, Gruum cleared his throat. His master still did not so much as glance at him. Gruum, tired from the journey, dug out a hunk of cheese from his saddlebags and chewed unenthusiastically.
“There,” said Therian, pointing suddenly to their right.
Gruum followed the outstretched arm. He saw nothing at first, but as he watched, he thought to realize something. A swirl of snow looped in the air, and through its spiraling center a clearer patch of air allowed him to see what Therian was pointing at. It was a shape in the snow.
“Looks like a patch of fur,�
�� Gruum said. “A dead animal, perhaps? The remains of a huntsman’s kill?”
“Go and determine which, good Gruum,” Therian said.
Gruum eyed his master warily for a moment, then shrugged. He dismounted from his shuffling pony.
The mass in the snow was indeed a dead thing. There were wounds, and blood. Gruum was surprised, however, as he brushed at the head. He found a cloak and a tightly drawn hood. He found a woman’s face, encircled by the woolen hood. She looked young.
“It’s a dead woman, milord! A huntress, by the look of her. A pity.”
“How did she die?”
Gruum glanced back at Therian, wondering if the answers to these questions weren’t already known to the sorcerer. He pawed further at the huntress, lifting the body partly from the snow. It was a simple matter to follow the trail of dark, frozen blood. He found the injury quickly. Her throat had been opened.
“Her throat’s been slashed—”
A hand shot up from where it had been buried beneath the snows. It gripped Gruum’s arm. The fingers were strong, probing, urgent. Eyes wide, Gruum loosed a curse from the steppes. He jerked away, freeing himself from her grasp. He clawed for the hilt of his dagger. He gaped, suspecting she was dead, but possessed of limbs empowered by sorcery. Then he saw her fluttering eyelids and the color in her cheeks.
“What’s the trouble, Gruum?” Therian asked.
“She’s still alive, milord!”
“Well then, dig her out of there.”
#
Wrapping up the woman as tightly as he could, Gruum carried the woman he’d dug out of the snow bank across his lap, cradled in his arms. He didn’t like having his arms thus engaged. Pulling out his saber would be quite difficult; he would probably have to dump the woman into a snow bank first. But he knew he was her only hope of survival, so he couldn’t very well just leave her to die in the storm.
