Glavenor was already pounding on the door of one-ten with the hilt of his drawn sword when they caught up to him. They halted a few paces clear.
There was no answer. Glavenor tried the handle, but it was locked. The door stood firm and mute against them. The Swordmaster made ready to shoulder the door in.
“Oi, Oi Oi!” came a shrill voice from the front-room. “What on earth is going on here? You people cannot disturb my patrons at this hour!” The squat form of the innkeeper swept down the corridor, green pond-weed cloak trailing.
“Mukwallis, open this door!” commanded Glavenor.
The innkeeper pushed past the Swordmaster to stand in the way of the door. “If they will not open, that is their wish. These are my guests!”
Garyll had his sword to the innkeeper’s throat in a blinding flash of steel. “If I have to break open every door in this house tonight, Mukwallis, do you think the King will be pleased with what I find? We shall have access to this room, or you will find your inn stripped apart. Tonight.”
“I run a reputable business, I have nothing to hide,” Mukwallis objected.
“Like the murderer concealed in this room? If you want to be an accomplice, you will join him in the gibbet.”
“A murderer? Nonsense!” Beads of sweat had formed on Mukwallis’s brow. “The guests in there are Lightgifters, here for private reasons. They don’t wish to be disturbed,” Mukwallis complained, but he backed away from Garyll’s blade, and fumbled at his belt for a great key-ring.
Garyll beat the door again. “Open up, I say!”
Father Keegan summoned the Light, what little there was to be found. Grace had used her supply to heal them, Ashley had none. Sprites were rare in Fendwarrow, it seemed.
The key turned, and the door swung inwards, moaning against its worn hinges. The space beyond the doorway was dark, and still. They followed Garyll’s blade into the room.
A fire in the hearth. A basin. A rumpled bed and a guttering lamp. Nothing else; no sign of Hosanna.
Garyll hissed a warning. “Be alert! This is the design of the Shadowcaster. He used it to summon his beast in First Light. Stay behind me, stay in the light!” he commanded.
Ashley’s heart leapt into his throat. His eyes scanned the gloom frantically. He saw the stained circle in the carpet that Glavenor had referred to.
There were too many shadows. Too many places where a beast might lurk, poised to strike. Too many corners where a Shadowcaster could wrap himself in Dark essence, and be hidden.
They stood in silence, not daring to breathe lest they muffled a movement. Then Keegan muttered a spell, and the sprites in his hand flickered into flame. He held his hand high, throwing light to the four walls.
Nothing.
The bed! Ashley thought, in the same instant that Glavenor leapt for it. He ran his sword swiftly behind the draping blankets and scooped them clear, retreating in a fluid step to survey the floor. Nothing but shadows.
There was a steel basin beside the hearth, filled with a dark fluid. Dwarrow-wine, by the look of the breached bottles in the corner.
Why a basin of wine?
Close beside the fire stood two high-backed chairs, which seemed to be stained in dark crimson blotches, as was the carpet beneath them. The same colour as the circle design, stains of dark, deep red.
“Hang me!” Ashley exclaimed. “They left half an hour ago, they passed right by me in crimson robes.” Ashley pointed to the basin of wine. “Dwarrow-wine makes a good dye.”
The Shadowcaster had escaped; he was surely long gone on Rosreece’s anxious horse. Ashley crossed the room to the window, and pushed the shutter wide.
“Look out!” shouted Glavenor, but his warning came too late. There was a confusion of beating wings, a sudden wind and a scratching cry. Then the bird was gone, leaving Ashley with the metallic taste of shock in his mouth, and a heart beating like the hooves of a galloping horse. Ashley steadied himself on the windowframe, and stared out across the walled yard. A few stars pierced the dark night above a cluster of beggarly, barren trees.
“Morrigán!” Father Keegan cursed, at his back. “This Shadowcaster uses every trick in the book. He doubtless left it here to warn him of our pursuit. Did you see which way it flew?”
Ashley pointed to the right, where the raven had disappeared over the roofs of Fendwarrow. “A Morrigán, Father? What is that?”
“The same as our Courier, a messenger bird, only made with Dark essence.”
How does the Father know so much about it?
“I’ll meet you at the Swordhouse,” Garyll shouted, running from the room. “It is on the Levin road, and the Sword on watch can say if our quarry passed. Make haste! We cannot let the Shadowcaster escape with Hosanna.”
* * *
Kirjath rode down to the boats. He yanked on the reins to the horse behind him.
Blasted Lightgifters!
When the youth had pounded on his door, he had been using the woman, breaking her spirit like glass underfoot. The pleasure had been wild and delirious. The woman had been his, her body battered, her resilience broken at last. He had filled her mouth with Dwarrow, he had soaked her with it until she was drunk and yielding, yet she knew what acts she performed. And the youth had pounded the door.
Lightgifters. How he hated their kind.
Mukwallis would pay dearly for guiding them to his door.
He rode like a guilty fugitive. The anger it awoke almost made him turn, ride back into the village.
I’ll slay them all! Let them feel my Morgloth tearing their necks open, feeding on their lives.
But he didn’t dare to turn; he knew he had drunk too much of the Dwarrow-wine himself. He had needed something to drown his rage at the Darkmaster. The Dwarrow had worked its wonders, but it had taken a heavy toll. His mind was not completely his own. He couldn’t risk a channelling. And he wasn’t sobering up, for the fumes from his red robe were heady and overpowering.
He kept the horses headed for the boats. The Morrigán returned, cawing loudly, bringing the news that the Lightgifters had finally breached his room.
The woman fell from the saddle, then, drunk out of her mind. She didn’t seem to care at all when she struck the ground. Kirjath considered leaving her where she lay.
She was his possession. Her broken spirit was his creation. He enjoyed the feeling that gave him. He wanted to see the look on her face when she sobered in the morning, and fully understood her descent into hopelessness.
It was only when he lifted her to his own saddle that he realised what she was trying to do. She was resisting him in the only way she could. Trying to slow him down, so that their pursuers would succeed. Her will was not yet broken.
He struck her hard on the temple. A bone cracked when she hit the ground. He retrieved her. She was better behaved.
He loaded her over the front of his saddle, a slack lump like a sack of flour. He considered the spare horse for a moment. It wavered slightly in his vision. Then his lips peeled back in a grin.
It was perfect.
Lead them to the heart of Darkness. That will keep the Master busy!
A lesser man would have been afraid to consider it. But he, Kirjath Arkell, was not a lesser man. With a bark of laughter, he summoned the Dark essence to his hand.
Casting the illusion of two riders took some concentration, but he created a passable decoy and covered it in a black shroud of motes. He slapped the horse’s rump, and it set off for the centre of Fendwarrow at a canter.
It’ll run faster than that.
Kirjath drew more motes from the night, and cast himself a Morrigán. “Chase the horse, lead it home, to the Master, to Ravenscroft,” he whispered into the bird’s ear. He threw the raven after the retreating horse. Its harsh, splintered croaks soon had the horse galloping in panic.
The horse would pass the Swordhouse, and then lead them all up the secret trail that they would never find alone. The Darkmaster would have a lot to contend with, at the break of day.<
br />
Kirjath smiled, and mounted his horse behind the slack load.
At the boatyard, he found a small skiff, its sails furled around the mast. There was a steady breeze from the west—he would have no need to paddle, this time. The memory of his previous trip to Stormhaven fuelled his anger again, and he spat a lump of jurrum into the sand.
No more failures.
He would find the girl, and the Ring, and return with power. The Master would regret ever having spurned a man called Kirjath Arkell.
He dumped his woman in the bow, and pushed the stolen boat out onto the rippled surface of Amberlake. The rigging dropped, and the sail snapped tight.
* * *
“We’ll catch them soon,” the Swordmaster shouted over the pounding of hooves. “I’ve ridden this trail before, it ends against the cliffs ahead. They’ll have to return.”
Ashley rode close beside the Lightgifters and the two Swords from Fendwarrow. They followed Glavenor.
Dark rock rose on either side of them, rising higher as they pressed deeper into the ravine. The Black River slid by close at hand, slick and sinuous.
The lone horse up ahead was holding an extremely good pace; even though it was burdened by the two cloaked riders, it was gradually pulling away from their pursuit. The Shadowcaster was pushing the horse to its death.
Instead of turning at the head of the valley, Ashley saw their quarry ride out into the river, where the water foamed downstream of a booming waterfall.
“The river is too swift there! They’ll both be drowned!” Glavenor shouted as he spurred his horse to gallop. Yet if they were to drown, Ashley knew that the Swordmaster would be too late to save Hosanna.
The pale horse did not swim. It picked its way across the river, as if treading in the shallows. The bird, which had been attending the Shadowcaster all the way, swooped suddenly. The horse jumped from its course, and thrashed to regain its footing in the rushing current. Yet the two riders remained in their seat as if they had been glued to the saddle. Then the horse plunged into the falling sheet of water, and the riders were gone. The Morrigán overshot them and climbed out. It gave a harsh triumphant cry, then passed away into the night above the falls.
Glavenor waded into the Black River. The water flowed swiftly, yet it only came up to his waist, even though he was far from the bank.
“There’s a path beneath this water!” he shouted, wading back toward them. “We shall have to lead the horses. Follow me!” He grabbed the reins to his steed, and strode into the river once more. The horse stamped and shied at the dark water, but Glavenor soon had it following him upon the hidden trail.
The company advanced, leading their reluctant mounts.
The water was like ice. Ashley’s robe became heavy and tugged at his legs. He was glad Glavenor led the way, for he couldn’t see anything beneath the opaque surface of the river. How they reached the base of the waterfall without mishap, he didn’t know.
The falls thundered down. Glavenor tried to lead his horse through the curtain of water, but it dug its hooves in and would not follow. He emerged through the water again, determined despite his soaking.
“There’s a cavern in there, the trail continues. Father Keegan, do you have enough essence to provide a light?”
“As I used in the Crowbar,” Keegan replied.
“Good. It’ll be easier once one of these beasts is through.” He mounted his horse quickly. “Already, the Shadowcaster gets away!” He kicked the horse’s flanks and shouted commandingly. The horse leapt. The water cascaded over them as they parted the falls. Then they were gone.
Ashley felt his knees go weak. He muttered a curse, and heard it echoed amongst the others. Even the Swords appeared daunted by where their path led.
But Glavenor’s bravery was strangely infectious. Father Keegan dragged his horse toward the falls despite its rearing and snorting. They fought amongst the churning waters, then suddenly they were through. The flare of the Flicker spell coloured the water beyond the falls a ghostly brown.
Keegan’s light. At least they had that.
Maybe it was because the horses were tired, maybe because the temperament of the Dovecote nags was less headstrong than the soldier’s steeds, maybe it was luck alone; Ashley and Grace came through the falls unhurt, their horses followed them with trusting steps. But the two remaining Swords did not fare so well.
When the first soldier broke through the water behind Ashley, the distorted image of his horse reared on the far side of the fall. The reins were torn from the soldier’s hands as he was pulled back through the liquid curtain. There was a squealing commotion outside.
When the Sword returned, he wore a sober expression.
“Swordmaster, the horses are both in the river, they swim downstream. What should we do?”
“You won’t keep the pace without them. Damn! We have no time to wait, and you’ll need the Lightgifters to help you through this darkness. Retrieve your horses when they find the bank, and return to Fendwarrow. If we have not returned by tomorrow evening, send a rider to Stormhaven, and come through here with a full squadron. There must be something more than a trail beyond here, for the Shadowcaster to press so strongly for it, and for it to be so well hidden.”
They left the Swords behind. Father Keegan led the pursuit. His Flicker spell lit a narrow tunnel which angled sharply upward through the rock. The horses were spooked by the weird passage of booming echoes, but the tunnel was straight and smooth, and no jagged rocks or sudden twists hindered them. They soon emerged to the cold, crisp night again.
The trail was easier to follow from there on, a hard-packed, winding ascent. Even on the occasions when heavy mists crossed their way, they made good speed.
They saw the horse they pursued three more times that night, but every time it had pulled further ahead, despite its heavy load. Glavenor would not relent, and the Gifters followed as best they could. The Swordmaster seemed aware of the risk he was exposing them to, for he kept the group tight and never pushed far ahead, though the desire to catch the Shadowcaster surely burned fiercely within him.
The night pressed close around them, and it felt to Ashley as if a hundred hidden eyes were watching him. Sister Grace rode near on his right side. Her robes brushed against his leg. After a while she reached out her hand. Ashley couldn’t read her eyes in the dark, but he felt the companionship in the squeeze she gave him.
He covered her hand with his. Her skin was cold. Ashley knew she was scared—he was scared himself. For a while, he felt warmer inside. But when Grace’s hand slipped away, the gnawing fear did return; darker, colder and more silent than ever.
The watching presence grew as they wound their way higher into the mountains.
They came upon a wide bridge which spanned an awesome chasm. The river was constrained to a tight, deep gorge, and its frustrated thunder echoed from far below. The bridge surface seemed unsteady under the horses’ hooves. Ashley was about to say how glad he was to have put it behind him, when he began to sense the queerness of the place they had reached by crossing it.
The half-light of approaching dawn showed a landscape of black rock. What little vegetation there was, clung fiercely to the steep slopes of shattered slate. The skyline was pierced with white peaks. Ashley couldn’t stop shivering at the incessant cold. His robe was still wet from their passage through the waterfall. He had endured an ordeal of shivering since that time.
They rounded a bend, and the company reined in sharply. The road fell away, and a valley opened up before them. It held a strange gloom, as if the air was thickened with smoke, yet there was no smell of burning. A giant spire of black rock thrust upwards in the distance. Against its sheer cliffs, hundreds of birds soared, tiny dark specks against the pale sky. Tilled fields formed a grey-green patchwork upon the valley floor. A dirty mist filled the far end of the vale, and only the sharp spines of the higher ground was visible there.
Ashley was stunned. A land completely hidden, totally unknown to them,
yet within Eyri. He wondered how many people inhabited this secret realm. He searched the vale for buildings, but it was impossible to see clearly against the dark slopes. If there were any habitations, they were built of the same black rock that littered most of the vale.
“Jurrum!” cursed Glavenor. “It had to come from somewhere.”
The Swordmaster had dismounted, and was bending low to a bush on the roadside. It was a broad-leafed plant, squat and hardy-looking. Many of them dotted the landscape, clustering near to the shelter of boulders. It looked as if the hedgerows at the edge of the nearest crops were jurrum as well. Possibly all the hedgerows.
Grace stiffened at his side, and pointed to the giant spire. “There, at the base, there’s a Keep.”
Ashley strained to find the shape in the jumble of ridges and rocks.
He gasped. He had been looking on too small a scale. The Keep was massive, its walls towered high above its entrance. It seemed to slant outward from the mountain as well, as if leaning threateningly toward them.
“Where are the people?” he wondered aloud.
Keegan’s mount shied. The Father settled the horse down, and turned to face Ashley.
“Just because we have forgone our sleep, doesn’t mean they would have done the same.”
Ashley wasn’t reassured—he had heard rumours that Shadowcasters slept during the day. Then again, maybe there weren’t any Shadowcasters here, maybe it was just a vale of secretive farmers.
Glavenor spun suddenly on his feet, his hand to the hilt of his sword. They all followed his eyes. Nothing but a few black boulders.
Ashley eased a sigh, but the dull foreboding did not fade. Dread gnawed in his belly.
We should get out of here.
It was too late. The horses shied all at once. Things shifted in the undergrowth. The boulders which had slumbered on the ground shimmered and began to move. Not boulders anymore, but figures, cloaked in black robes, their movement silent. Their faces remained hidden within their dark cowls, but their menace was tangible in the way they circled the Gifters and Glavenor.
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 30
