When the selk declared that dawn had arrived Pazel did not believe them: it was still dark as pitch. But then the nest of limbs and bodies broke apart (cramped muscles, fresh cries of pain) and light poured in suddenly from one side. The storm had piled another eight feet of powder against the side of the avalanche. They crawled out, dazzled, into bright sun and crisp, still air.
The storm had left its mark. The humans had cold blisters on their hands and feet, and some of them were bleeding. For the dlömu matters were worse: their skin had cracked in places, and the blood in the wounds had frozen into tiny crystals that fell out when they moved, like pink salt.
‘The caves would have protected us,’ said Hercól. ‘I was wrong to insist on this course of action.’
‘No, swordsman,’ said Prince Olik. ‘If we had lingered on the mountaintop, we would still be facing the whole descent, and under a much greater depth of snow. All this day we should have spent ploughing through it, hip-deep or deeper, only to reach the spot where we stand now.’
Hercól nodded, but he did not seem much inclined to look at the bright side. ‘We have won back a little time. We must win back more. Let us walk for an hour before we breakfast; it will do us good to move.’
They struggled down along the side of the avalanche, wading through the fresh snow like bathers in the surf. The trail’s third switchback was of course quite lost to sight, but the selk found it anyway by the ever-so-slightly wider spacing between the trees. They followed it away from the peak, steeply downhill. The air warmed, their limbs warmed, and gradually the depth of snow decreased.
Much of that day they walked in silence – around the edge of a frozen lake, through a forest of strange evergreens that smelled of ginger, along the edge of an ancient wall that ran for miles through the foothills: one more defence breached by the ogres of the Thrandaal. Again and again Pazel found himself scanning the skies. He saw any number of vultures, crows and woodpeckers, but no owl, no Ramachni.
The old wall became still more ruined, and the travellers picked their way between the tumbled stones. At one point Pazel found himself and Neeps walking a little apart from the others. He glanced around surreptitiously. Then he whispered in Sollochi, Neeps’ mother tongue.
‘Listen, mate, I need to tell you something. You, and no one else.’ Neeps blinked. ‘Pitfire. What?’
‘That night at the Demon’s Court, when I spoke to Erithusmé. I told you most of what she said. But just before she vanished she told me something strange: that there’s another … power, hidden on the Chathrand. The mage didn’t want to tell me. I had to badger her something fierce.’
‘What kind of power?’ said Neeps. ‘Do you mean another way to bring her back?’
‘No, she’d have been more keen on that,’ said Pazel, ‘and besides, she was obsessed with Thasha breaking through that wall inside her. As far as Erithusmé’s concerned, that’s the only right way now. This other power is something dangerous, something mad. You remember the spot on the berth deck, where I used to sling my hammock?’
‘The stanchion with the copper nails.’
Pazel nodded. ‘She told me to bring Thasha to that very spot. And nothing more. “When Thasha is standing there she will know what to do.”
That’s it. A moment later she was gone.’
Neeps was clearly struggling for calm. ‘You mean,’ he said, ‘that you’ve not told anyone? Not Ramachni, not Hercól?’
‘Just you,’ said Pazel. ‘Maybe we should tell them. But what if they say something to Thasha? She’s the problem, don’t you see? If Thasha knew, she’d want to use this thing as soon as we set foot on the Chathrand. Even if it killed her.’
‘She is stubborn. Like a blue-blooded mule. And Pitfire, those copper nails? She must have seen ’em before.’
Pazel looked at him sidelong. ‘Don’t be dense, mate. The compartment’s always full of bare-assed tarboys.’
They almost laughed. Pazel needed a laugh. But he wouldn’t let himself, not now. The laughter could too easily spill into tears.
‘If something happens to me—’
‘Nothing’s going to happen to you, Pazel.’
‘—and you take her there alone, please – make her be careful. Erithusmé was very clear on that point: whatever’s hidden there is a last resort.’
Neeps gave his promise, and they trudged on into the lengthening day. The ruins ended; the land grew flat, and the forest rose about them tall and ancient and seemingly at peace. Suddenly Valgrif stopped, rigid. He lowered his muzzle and sniffed, then showed his fangs.
‘Dogs,’ he said. ‘Athymars. They passed here in the night, or very early this morning.’
‘Many?’ asked Neda.
‘Many,’ said the wolf. ‘A large hunting pack, twenty or more. But they must be far away now, or well hidden; otherwise I should be able to catch their scent on the wind, not just here where their flanks rubbed against trees.’
Pazel felt as if someone had just broken a cane across his back. Twenty of those mucking creatures! ‘So what now?’ he said.
‘Eat,’ said Valgrif.
‘I beg your pardon?’
The wolf looked at them urgently. ‘Eat, eat for several hours’ marching. Then wash your faces and hands, and wash your mouths out with snow, and bury the place where you spit. And you dlömu, change the dressing on your bandages. You must bury the old ones here, along with anything soiled or food-stained.’
‘What’s all this about?’ asked Corporal Mandric.
‘Staying alive,’ said the wolf. ‘A pack that size is far more dangerous than what we faced at the bridge. If they find us, they will kill us – and they will find us, if they catch our scent. They would pay no heed to a single wolf, but they will know the smell of dlömic blood. And your food’s reek is unlike anything in this forest. You must remove any trace of it – and wash your hair, too, if you can stand the cold.’
‘We can stand it,’ said Lunja firmly. ‘We saw what the athymars can do with those fangs.’
They ate, and scrubbed with snow, and buried what Valgrif had told them to bury. Then they set off, more guarded than ever. The air beneath the giant trees was still and quiet. Valgrif ranged far ahead, and the noiseless selk followed, just near enough to keep the party in sight.
For nearly an hour they crept without incident through the forest, and heard no sound but the cawing of crows. Then Valgrif loped back among them. ‘Something is wrong,’ he said. ‘I can smell the dogs: they are much nearer than before, but the scent is weak, as though some of them had disappeared. Perhaps the pack has divided.’
‘Or dug in?’ suggested Pazel. ‘To ambush us?’
‘Twenty athymars would not wait for an ambush,’ said the wolf. ‘They would simply tear us to pieces. We must bear north, away from their scent.’
He moved on, out of sight, and the party followed as before. Hercól and the selk archers held their bows at the ready; the others walked with their hands upon their swords. The snow cover was by now quite thin, and they could hear the crackle of leaves and sticks beneath their feet.
Pazel winced at every sound. He glanced up at the tall pines around them. The lowest branches were twenty feet above their heads.
Then Valgrif snarled. Pazel turned and saw a dog’s shape flashing towards the wolf between the dark trunks. A second followed. Hercól whirled around, drawing his bow as he did so. The selk too were taking aim.
‘Don’t fire!’
It was a selk’s voice, shouting from far off in the trees. The archers paused, and for an instant Pazel feared some trick, for the dogs had just closed on Valgrif. But they were not dogs, they were ash-grey wolves, and they greeted the black creature with whimpers of joy.
‘Kallan! Rimkal!’ barked Valgrif. ‘Comrades, these are my sons!’
The wolves ran in circles, yipping and prancing. They were woken, like the creatures at the temple in Uláramyth, and they greeted the travellers with great courtesy. Then Pazel heard the four selk in their p
arty crying out with joy.
‘Kirishgán!’ they shouted. ‘Fire’s child! Kinsman!’
For it was he. Pazel almost cried out as well – but a dark thought made him hold his tongue. Everything Thaulinin had told him about the selk way of death rose suddenly in his mind. Kirishgán, meanwhile, rushed forward and embraced his fellow selk, then turned and looked at the other travellers with delight.
‘Hail, Olik, prince and brother! I feared for you, when I heard that you had defied the sorceress.’ Kirishgán’s eyes moved to Pazel. ‘Smythídor,’ he said, ‘how I hoped we would meet again.’
‘Then it’s you?’ said Pazel. ‘ The … whole you?’
‘We selk are whole but once,’ said Kirishgán, ‘and for me that time is yet to come. But yes, Pazel, I am flesh and blood. And here are your family! Sister Neda, brothers Neeps and Hercól, Thasha Isiq, who has palmed your heart.’
Pazel blushed. He had spoken of them all to Kirishgán, over tea in Vasparhaven Temple. And of course the selk remembered. Brothers: that was exactly right, of course, and so was what he said of Thasha. So right that Pazel couldn’t face her, in fact. ‘Where have you been, Kirishgán?’ he asked.
‘Among Nólcindar’s people, whom I met in the West Dells of the Ansyndra. For eight days and nights we have led the Ravens on a merry chase, away from Uláramyth and the Nine Peaks. Hundreds there were, but we have reduced the count.’
‘And the athymars?’ asked Valgrif.
‘Slain, father,’ said one of the wolves. ‘They were scouting this valley from Urakán to the Weeping Glen, and letting no creature pass. But at nightfall they always congregated here, and last night we fell upon them during the storm. Rimkal and I tore six between us, and the selk killed the rest. We buried the pack not far from here, but by the smell I think some scavenger has found the grave and dug them out again.’
‘Where has Nólcindar gone?’ asked Thasha.
‘To the Ilidron Coves,’ said Kirishgán. ‘When we saw the extent of the forces arrayed against you, we knew that someone had to run ahead and ready the Promise for the open sea. There will be no time to waste when you arrive with the Nilstone. We three stayed behind, and sought you in the mountains, for we guessed that you would cross the Parsua by the Water Bridge. We were still far south of Urakán, though, and you crossed before we could come to your aid. There are still many hrathmogs in the southern peaks. And when at last we came to the last mountain before the Nine, we looked down on a terrible sight: an eguar fighting a demonic creature, a maukslar probably. More worrying still, the eguar was our loyal Sitroth, who had sworn never to leave the North Door of the Vale unguarded.’
The others told him at once of their own battle with the creature. ‘Sitroth attacks me,’ said Prince Olik. ‘Then a demon attacks us all, and is driven off by Ramachni. And now Sitroth and the demon fight each other. How to make sense of it all?’
‘But saw you nothing of our mage?’ said Bolutu. ‘No owl, no mink, no sign of spellcraft?’
‘We surely missed a great deal,’ said Kirishgán. ‘ The battle was scorching trees and melting snow, great clouds of steam were rising. We could see the path of destruction leading back along the Parsua Gorge. The maukslar lashed out with teeth and claws and fire: it was the faster of the two. Many times it struck like a snake, and recoiled out of reach. But Sitroth’s fire burned hotter than the demon’s, and its bite was deadly. Every blow it landed did terrible damage. At last the maukslar rose into the air and fled. Its wings were burned, however. It could not fly far, nor reach the clifftops, and Sitroth pursued it below. I would have hailed the eguar, then, had our own secrecy not been so vital.’
Suddenly Valgrif and his sons went rigid, their eyes and ears turned westwards. After a moment Pazel heard a distant rumbling sound, and the echo of a hunting horn.
‘That is part of the Ravens’ host,’ said Kirishgán. He glanced at Prince Olik. ‘Common Bali Adro soldiers, for the most part. You could ride out and greet them, Prince, but I do not think they would bow to you.’
‘They would not bow,’ said Olik. ‘Macadra has made a slave of the Emperor, but the generals still march under his flag, and no minor prince’s command may outweigh that of the Resplendent One. We would be seized – with mumblings of regret perhaps – and then delivered to torture and death.’
‘What of the Crossroads?’ asked Valgrif. ‘From the peaks we saw enemies stationed there.’
‘The Standing Stones are always watched,’ said Kirishgán. ‘We must keep to the woods and fields if we are to have any chance. We will cross the Mitrath, north of the Crossroads, and the Isima Road further west. But we go swiftly. When the dogs do not return at nightfall, Macadra’s riders will know something grave has happened, and converge here. They are still scattered, chasing false leads. But gathered together they could watch every inch of both roads, and cut us off from the sea.’
‘We would travel faster without our mountain gear,’ said Lunja.
‘Leave it, then,’ said the selk, ‘There will be no more climbing, until you scale the boarding-ladder of the Promise.’
They dropped their tarps, picks, and grapples in a heap, and covered them hastily with snow. Then they set off running, west by northwest. The forests here were beautiful, with columns of golden sun stabbing down through the moist, moss-heavy trees. Pazel, however, was in too much pain to enjoy them: his blisters were leaking blood into his shoes. When they jumped over streams he imagined ripping off his boots and plunging his feet into the clear water. But much worse than the pain was the awareness that he might – somehow, unthinkably – be fated to kill the friend who had joined them.
Time passed. The snow stretched thinner and at last disappeared. Here and there the forest gave way to patches of soggy meadow. Then the wolves came bounding back to the party and announced that the first road, the North–South Mitrath, lay just ahead.
They crept on until it opened before them, broad and dusty and stretching away straight as a ribbon to north and south. All was still. From where he crouched Pazel could see hoofprints and the marks of wagon-wheels. Far off to the south rose the four Standing Stones of the Crossroads. To the north the road climbed into grey, forbidding hills, studded with the ruins of old homesteads and keeps.
‘Many riders have passed here today,’ said Hercól.
‘Soldiers of Macadra,’ said Kirishgán. ‘No one lives here any longer. These were the outer settlements of Isima. And deep in those hills lies the fairest spring in all the Efaroc Peninsula, where the first selk queen, Miyanthur, gathered wild strawberries as a courting-gift to her betrothed. I used to swim there as a child, thousands of years after Miyanthur’s time, but still centuries before the rise of King Urakán. We asked him to build his road elsewhere and leave the hills untouched, but he was a king and had no time for talk of strawberries. The land is healing slowly, however. And the berries are still there.’
‘Unlike the king,’ said Hercól. ‘Well, we are fortunuate: the road is empty, and the Crossroads are distant enough, unless there is a telescope trained on this spot. We must chance that. Come swiftly.’
They stepped out upon the high, hard-packed road. Pazel felt very exposed, here in the bright light of a sprawling sky. Hercól came last, frowning at the hoofprints to either side of them, and sweeping a pine limb lightly over their own tracks like a broom.
It was a relief to plunge back under the trees. They ran on, west by southwest, racing the setting sun. Now and then the wolves paused and cocked their heads, but Pazel heard nothing but their own pounding feet. An hour passed, and then the forest came to a sudden end. They were at the second crossing.
They crouched down in the grass. This road, the Isima Road, was wider and clearly more travelled. To the east, Pazel saw the four Standing Stones once again. They had rounded the crossroads unseen.
‘Clear again,’ said Neeps.
‘For the moment,’ whispered Neda in Ormali. ‘But we’ll be in plain sight even after we cross the road, unless
we crawl that is. Tell them, Pazel.’
She was quite right: the trees had been cleared for at least two miles on the far side of the road, and the grass was merely elbow-height. Still, they had no other choice, and so on the count of three they dashed across the road and into the grass. Once more Hercól brought up the rear, sweeping their tracks away. But as he reached the edge of the road he suddenly raised his head like a startled animal, then sprinted towards them, waving his hands and hissing.
‘There are soldiers riding hard out of the east! Scatter, scatter and lie low! And be still as death, unless you would meet your own!’
They obeyed him, racing away into the grass. Pazel found himself near Kirishgán and no one else. They threw themselves down and waited. Moments later Pazel heard the sound of horses on the road. It was no small contingent: the host was surely hundreds strong. Then a man’s voice barked a command. The pounding hooves slowed, then stopped altogether.
Now there were several voices, murmuring impatiently. ‘Ride in, then, have a look,’ shouted the one who had halted the company. ‘But be quick – you know how she deals with latecomers.’
Pazel heard a swishing sound. One of the riders had spurred his horse into the grass.
With infinite care, Kirishgán moved his hand to the pommel of his sword. The rider drew nearer still. Pazel saw a helmet gleam through the grass-tips, and sunlight on a dark dlömic face. Kirishgán met Pazel’s eye. Don’t do it, don’t move! Pazel wanted to shout. But he could do not more than slightly shake his head.
Five yards from where they lay, the rider turned his horse and looked back in the direction of the road. ‘Nothing here,’ he shouted. ‘You saw a dust-devil, Captain, if you want my guess.’
‘Don’t speak to me of devils!’ shouted a second voice, from closer to the road. ‘We’d be out of these wastes by now if the maukslar hadn’t smelled something odd in the mountains. Well, get out of there! We’ve have that cursed dog-pack to locate yet.’
The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4) Page 53
