The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4)

by Robert V. S. Redick

Pazel looked at the selk ahead, and lowered his voice. ‘Didn’t they know about your Gift? I thought Ramachni talked about it.’

  ‘We both did. I even showed them what I could do. But they still didn’t imagine it would prove stronger than the magic of the gate.’

  Pazel was shaken. ‘People underestimate our mother,’ he said.

  Neda’s hands were in fists. ‘I swear on her life,’ she said, ‘that I will not be the one to betray that place. Never.’

  ‘Oh, for Rin’s sake,’ said Pazel. ‘You’re not going to betray anyone. Just keep your mouth shut about Uláramyth, that’s all.’

  ‘And what if I’m captured? I might be able to withstand torture – we are trained to resist the methods of the Secret Fist – but what could I do against a spell? What if they use magic to dig the secret from my mind?’

  ‘You tell me. What then?’

  This time Neda stopped and leaned over him, the way she used to in the days when he only came up to her waist. He could not really look at her; he was facing into the sun.

  ‘Then I’ll claim the privilege of an unbeliever,’ she said, ‘and cut my throat.’

  By mid-afternoon they had climbed much higher: the path behind them dwindled to a thread. For a long time they walked in the mountain’s shadow, and the air grew cold indeed. At length they joined a wider, flatter trail. Pazel could see old paving stones poking out here and there from beneath the frozen soil. ‘Those are fragments of the Royal Highway,’ said Thaulinin, ‘by which travellers could once walk or ride, or even hire a carriage, from these slopes all the way to the city of Isima, and beyond it to the Weeping Glen. It was from Isima that the greatest of the Mountain Kings ruled: Urakán he was called, him for whom the tallest peak is named, and great-grandfather to Valridith the suicide. In Urakán’s day the high country bustled with merchants and peddlers and herdsman, passing from one fastness to the next.’

  As they marched on, Pazel saw other hints of the glory of those lost days: a great limbless statue on a ridgetop, its boulder-sized head cracked open like an egg beside the trail; square holes that might have been the foundations of houses; rock walls enclosing barren fields – former pastures, maybe, or cemeteries.

  Round one steep knoll they came suddenly upon a chasm, spanned by a stone bridge. It was a narrow crevasse; Pazel might easily have thrown a stone across it, but the bridge was less than four feet wide, and frighteningly unrailed, and the wind came in blasting gusts between the cliff walls. Here for the first time they bound themselves together with rope. Even Shilu was tied to the rest, although Valgrif crossed untethered, crouching low on his belly. Creeping over the arch, boots skidding on tiny patches of ice, Pazel felt dizziness assault him suddenly. His head was light. The wind pushed, pulled, teased. He could almost see it, snapping and coiling in the gorge …

  A hand touched his shoulder. It was Cayer Vispek, who had been tied into the line behind him. The sfvantskor’s voice was low and calm.

  ‘The bridge is two lines painted on solid ground. Fear not: you could walk between them in twice this wind. You have that level of control. Think of walking, nothing else.’

  Pazel took a deep breath, and tried to obey. Two lines on solid ground. He stepped forward, and found to his surprise that the dizziness was almost gone. He knows what he’s doing, Pazel thought, in some matters at least.

  Just beyond the bridge there stood a dense clump of pines. The selk, heavily burdened as they were, dropped their packs and began snatching up armfuls of dry, dead limbs. The rest of the party joined the effort. The limbs they tied up in bundles and strapped atop their packs, and into any spaces left over they stuffed pine cones. Brilliant, thought Pazel. We’re going to need these when we reach that shelter. But when he felt the extra weight on his back he wondered if they ever would.

  Now Thaulinin set a faster pace, for the sun was low in the sky. They even ran where the trail was level. In this way they came at last to the base of the first peak, Isarak – and saw before them a disaster.

  The road ahead was carved into the mountainside, its outer shoulder a cliff that fell away to terrible depths. And covering it, burying it, was snow: deep, powdery snow, in a wind-sculpted drift that followed the trail for a mile or more. Pazel thought: Impossible. We can’t go through that. We’re not blary miners, or moles.

  ‘Sheer cliffs above and below,’ said Ensyl, shielding her eyes. ‘We may be spending the night in that tent after all.’

  Thaulinin turned and looked at her sharply. ‘We cannot,’ he said. ‘The cold that is coming is too great. We need stone around us, and a fire.’

  ‘That is not fresh snowfall,’ said Hercól, raising his eyes. ‘It must have broken away from the summit on a warm day, and settled here.’

  ‘Who cares where it came from?’ said Big Skip. ‘There’s no muckin’ way we can—’

  ‘Dig!’ said Thaulinin. ‘Dig or perish! In an hour’s time this trail will be black!’

  Straight into the white mass they dived. The snow was light, but piled to depths of twelve feet or more. They were digging a tunnel, and each time they advanced a yard it collapsed. Their new coats were tight at sleeve and collar, yet it trickled in all the same. The selk had the worst of the job, cutting the initial trail, mindful always of the savage drop-off nearby. But for everyone the labour was exhausting. The snow toppled; they scooped it away and wriggled forward. It was like an odd sort of swimming: half dog-paddle, half treading water. But how long could you do that before you grew tired and sank? Ahead, behind, above: there was nothing to see but snow – that and an occasional, stomach-churning glimpse of the distant lowlands, when they strayed close to the precipice.

  Dusk fell. Pazel rubbed his eyes, struggling to distinguish snow from air. Ramachni and the ixchel, walking atop the drift, shouted down encouragement. But they had been doing that for ages. If they all curled up here, close together beneath the snow, would they keep each other warm? Or would they die in their sleep, frozen, fused together like an unfinished sculpture, and be found by crows in the springtime?

  Even as he mused on the question he heard glad cries from the selk: they had reached the far side of the drift at last. One by one the party stumbled out, shaking snow from their clothes and hair. The sun was gone: only a dull red glow remained in the sky. Now, as he felt the knife of the wind, Pazel had his answer: they would freeze to death if they stayed here. The snow melted by the heat of their bodies had soaked them through.

  ‘I feared as much,’ said Thaulinin. ‘We have taken too long. The shelter is still three miles away.’

  ‘Then let us tie ourselves together and run,’ said Hercól. ‘Not quickly, but steadily, wherever the trail permits.’

  ‘Locate your fire beetles,’ said Thaulinin, ‘but I beg you: do not use them unless you feel death itself tugging at your sleeves. The heat they contain is terribly potent, but it will not last long.’

  Once more they bound themselves together. Then they ran, limbs shaking, teeth chattering uncontrollably. The light dimmed further, the trail narrowed and grew steep. Bolutu slipped on a patch of ice and skidded wildly; the rope stopped him only when his torso was already over the precipice. They raised him, clapped him on the back – and shuffled on, half-frozen, dogged as the chain gang they resembled.

  When the way was too steep, they walked; when the light was gone they lit torches. Hercól shouted at them over the wind: ‘Move you fingers, wiggle your toes inside your boots! Let them seize up and they’ll snap like carrots!’ Pazel felt the fire beetle in his coat, and fought the urge to put the thing into his mouth. Not yet. Somehow they kept going, right around the peak, and came at last to Isarak Tower.

  It was a grander shelter than Pazel had expected: a soaring ruin two hundred feet tall, though its crown was shorn off like an old forest snag. The great doors were long gone, and snow had filled the bottom floor, but a stone staircase hugged the inner wall, and when they dragged themselves to the second floor they found it windowless and dry. By now the hum
ans and the dlömu were so cold they could barely speak. They rushed about in the dark, swearing in many tongues, brushing the snow from the firewood. Aya Rin, please let it burn, Pazel thought, maniacally wiggling his toes.

  Neda and Big Skip appeared with two more armloads of sticks: Pazel had no idea where they had come from. They mounded all the wood together, lit pine cones by the torches and nudged the cones under the pile. Hercól bent and blew. There was a glimmer, then a tongue of flame; then the dead wood roared to life. Soon everyone was crowding around the blaze, stripping off their wet clothes and putting on dry: men, women, human, ixchel, dlömu, selk. Only Cayer Vispek changed alone, far from light or warmth.

  The selk passed a skin about, and they all took a sip of the smoky selk wine. For a few minutes even Pazel’s fingertips were warm. In the dimming light he looked around for his friends. There was Thasha, still dressing: her bare legs pale and strong, her wind-chapped lips finding his own for a haphazard kiss. There were Ensyl and Myett, laughing among the embers, drying each other frantically with Hercól’s gift-cloth from Uláramyth. And Neeps? Pazel turned in a circle. His friend was nowhere in sight. He asked the others: no one knew where he had gone.

  ‘He was acting a bit strange after we got out of the snow,’ said Thasha. ‘Holding his hands up in front of him as we went. I thought he was afraid of his fingers breaking off.’

  ‘Neeps!’ Pazel shouted. ‘Speak up, mate, where are you?’ Only his own voice, echoing; then a silence that chilled his blood.

  And then, very faintly, a moan. Pazel froze. The sound came again: from somewhere overhead. With Thasha beside him he ran to the staircase and climbed headlong, feeling out the steps in the dark. The third floor was windowless like the first, but the voice – no, voices – were coming from higher still.

  The fourth floor had a large pair of windows. Through one, the little Southern moon was shining on a snow-dusted floor; and Pazel saw fresh footprints, and clothes discarded in haste. Before the other, darker window, two figures were embracing, their voices low and urgent, their bodies a study in contrasts: tall and short, jet black and almost-white. Unaware of the intrusion, they moved together, holding on so tightly they seemed scarcely able to breathe; and yet their limbs struggled to tighten further, as though the lack of any distance between them were still too much distance, and must somehow be overcome.

  Thasha tugged Pazel away.

  On the third floor steps they sat in darkness, stunned. Neeps cried out. Thasha held Pazel’s hand, and he remembered what it felt like, when the hand was webbed, when the woman who touched you was not human but this other thing, this cousin-creature, with skin like a dolphin’s or a seal’s.

  They were about to go down to the others when Lunja suddenly crashed into their midst, still fastening the buckle on her belt.

  ‘You!’ she snapped at them. ‘You keep him away from me now! Do you both hear me plainly? My work is done!’

  She shoved past them, a hand covering her mouth. Thasha went after her, but Pazel climbed the stairs again to find Neeps standing barefoot in the snow, his trousers pulled on hastily – by Lunja? – and his hands in fists. He was staring vacantly at the floor, and singing under his breath: a weird, wordless tune. Pazel led him to the moonlit window and raised his chin: Neeps’ eyes were solid black.

  ‘You mucking impossible Gods-damned—’

  Pazel broke off, glad that no one was there to see his own eyes stream with tears. Neeps stood insensate, like a deathsmoker, like a stump. But it was all right, all right at last. He was in nuhzat. Pazel embraced him, and smelled the sweat and grime of that endless day. There was no smell of lemons at all.

  ‘One down,’ said Thasha, gazing out through the gap in the wall, ‘and all those mountains still to go, by the Tree.’

  ‘Warmer air is coming from the east,’ said Thaulinin. ‘Winter does not yet reign supreme, last night’s cold notwithstanding.’

  Pazel stepped up beside them. It was early, most of the others were just beginning to stir. He and Thasha had found Thaulinin here on the highest (remaining) floor of the tower. Warm air might be coming, but it was not here yet. The wind gnawed at any bit of Pazel’s skin it found uncovered. Beads of ice had formed in Thasha’s hair.

  Thaulinin passed him a selk telescope, and showed him the slide-whistle manner of its focusing. ‘I saw hrathmogs at sunrise,’ he said. ‘A great host of the creatures, marching along a lesser road there in the south. And dlömic riders along that stretch of river, further yet. Neither of them was bound for the high country, however. And from this vantage I can see the road ahead in some dozen places. Not much of it, to be sure – a bend here, a short stretch there. I had hoped for better: when last I came this way, this tower had five more stories, and one could see all the way to the aqueduct on Mount Urakán, greatest of the Nine Peaks.’

  ‘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 if’s,’ 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 his eyes 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 its kind. There was a time when all the eguars in this world, North and South, could link minds and share their knowledge. But this linkage was a collective effort, and as the eguars’ 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 tunnelling, 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 travellers pressed tight into the chilly corner. Pazel fell asleep sitting up, back to back with the prince.