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 travellers 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 travellers’ 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 further – 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 for 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 further 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 marvellous 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 westwards before they could be drafted to the city’s defence. The avalanche was coming; the Thrandaal ogres were merely the stone that set it off.’
‘Were you there?’ 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 towards 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 i
ts foot: there are only fragments arching out over that terrible gorge. And Valgrif smelled dlömu on the far side, when the wind gusted towards 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 is something very strange about him,’ said Valgrif. ‘I cannot explain it even to myself. 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.
After nearly three hours they broke suddenly onto a jagged ridgetop. It was not the very summit of the ridge but rather a broad, irregular shoulder that curved away towards the chasm, studded with boulders and small shrubs and rounded, ice-glazed drifts of snow. By now the sun was beginning to glow behind the eastern mountains. Thaulinin made them all crouch low. ‘I can hear the wind in the canyon,’ he hissed. ‘We are very close.’
Like a band of thieves they crept across that flattened ridge. Pazel could see what looked like a gap ahead, and soon he too heard the change in the wind, as though it were moaning through a narrowly cracked door. Pazel tried to keep his teeth from chattering. He could hear his every footfall on the icy ground.
The wind rose, and so did the light. And suddenly before them lay the aqueduct. It was an astonishing relic: a stone chute some twelve feet wide and half as deep, built right into the ancient rock. The chute was pitched gradually downhill, and when he looked to his right Pazel saw that where the ridge fell away the chute emerged from the ground and was held aloft by columns, so that the angle of descent never changed. Straight as an arrow it raced away across the mountainside, until at last, very far away to the east, it made a sharp turn and set off northwards.
Pazel was awed. Two hundred miles. How many years, how many decades, did the Mountain Kings’ people give to the building of the waterway? Even now there was a little ice-fringed water flowing along the bottom of the chute.
Thaulinin beckoned them all to drop back, and then led them west, parallel to the aqueduct but on lower ground. It was a sheltered area, crowded with boulders and small, dense firs. After a few minutes they found themselves on a narrow trail.
Hercól flung out his arm, stopping the party in its tracks. The aqueduct loomed before them, suspended on its stone arches. But that was not what concerned Hercól. There was a clearing before the structure where no trees grew, and beside the clearing was an abyss. It was the chasm, of course: perhaps two hundred feet wide, and far too deep for them to dream of seeing the bottom from where they stood. The aqueduct leaped over the chasm in a single span, with no arch to support it, and as it crossed it rose much more steeply than elsewhere along its length, joining the opposite cliff some fifty feet higher than it began. The Water Bridge. Clearly ancient, it might once have been beautifully carved. Now the knobby protrusions along its sides were blurred and indistinct: dragons or leopards, serpents or vines. At its foot, across the chasm, rose a crumbling tower. On the tower’s battlements sat a large, black bird.
Right at its centre the bridge was mortally cracked. The fissure stretched halfway across the water chute, and where it began whole stones had fallen away, leaving a gap some eight feet wide. Above the crack the chute was filled with rushing water to a depth of several feet, but nearly all the water passed out through it, gushing straight down into the gorge and fringed by immense beards of ice.
Thaulinin was correct: the structure was built for water, not people. But beneath the water chute there did, in fact, run a kind of footbridge, accessed by a staircase leading down from the edge of the cliff. Pazel felt ill at the very sight of that footbridge. It was about two feet wide and suspended between V-shaped struts that descended from the underside of the water chute. No rails ran between the struts. The water gushing through the crack poured right over the footbridge, and from that point all the way back to the travelle
rs’ side of the chasm the narrow platform lay sheathed in ice.
Sudden movement along the opposite cliff. Pazel jumped: it was Dastu. The older youth had been sitting on a rock, so still that Pazel’s gaze had swept right past him. Now he walked slowly, idly along the edge of the chasm. Then he shot a glance at the bird.
The party fell back. The faces of the others were ashen. ‘Two watchers, Thaulinin,’ said one of the selk. ‘The eagle cocked its head at the human youth, just as the youth looked up at the eagle. They are in league.’
‘And surely not alone,’ said Valgrif. ‘What is the matter with that boy? I tell you I do not like how he behaves.’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ said Neeps. ‘So that was an eagle? I’ve never heard of black ones.’
‘They have long been my family’s playthings,’ said Prince Olik. ‘They are hunters, bred for strength and endurance – and keenness of eye.’
‘Ramachni,’ said Pazel. ‘What if that mucking bird’s woken? What if it sees us and flies right to Macadra?’
‘Then your quest fails, and your world soon after,’ said Ramachni. He looked at Hercól and seemed about to say more, but something in the swordsman’s gaze made him save his breath. Hercól understood, and Pazel felt he did too. The bridge was held against them. Possibly by unseen enemies. At the very least by one that could flee and sound the alarm.
Realizing that they had to get out of sight at once, the party retreated to the nearest cistern, which was also filled with ice. The roof was partly collapsed, and to keep out of sight from the air they had to huddle in the shadows by the opposite wall.
‘Now,’ said Ensyl, ‘you must let the ixchel earn their keep. Valgrif might pass for a common wolf at other moments, but any creature seen approaching that chasm is sure to raise suspicions. Myett and I will not be seen, however. Let us go and watch the bridge awhile, and see what else we may discover.’
The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4) Page 44
