The stallion continued to fret somewhat, seeming vexed by the presence of the smaller animals, and Bracht kept up his mumblings until the beast calmed, allowing him to pass the reins back to a Jesseryte.
Relieved, Calandryll looked about the cave, seeing it was not entirely natural, but enlarged by men, as if used as a staging post. The fire burned in a crude hearth, its smoke carried away up a rocky chimney; a grotto, part natural and part man-made, stabled the animals, stout poles penning them secure,- to one side a spring bled water into a bowl. The place was dry, warm, and smelled of horseflesh and salted meat, as if regularly used. From that, and the pace they had taken, he calculated they were midway up the north face of the Kess Imbrun. He waited to see what the Jesserytes intended.
No harm, it seemed; at least, not yet. The leader walked bowlegged toward the captives, loosing the latches of his helmet. He removed the bowl and shook his head, freeing a tangle of blue-black ringlets, studying them slowly. His eyes were fulvous, tawny as a cat's, and narrow, slanted above high cheekbones, a prominent nose. Thin lips slashed his lower face, bracketed by a curving mustache. It was a cruel face, without any expression Calandryll was able to interpret.
The man touched his chest and said, "Temchen," then beckoned one of his men, speaking briefly in his own language.
The gags were removed and the leader tapped his breastplate again, repeating, "Temchen."
Calandryll licked his lips, sensing that the man announced his name. He said, "Temchen?" gesturing with bound hands at the Jesseryte.
The man nodded, saying, "Ai, Temchen/7 then jabbed a finger toward Calandryll, saying something in the Jesseryte tongue that Calandryll assumed was a demand for his own name.
For a moment he thought to conceal his identity, wondering if such revelation should result in death. It seemed unlikely: were these warriors sent by Rhythamun, either they knew who their captives were, or would find out soon enough. Perhaps, by giving his name, he might learn something, even were it that he was taken by the warlock's allies. He raised his hands, touching his chest in turn, and said, "Calandryll.77
Temchen ducked his head: "Kah-lan-drill."
His tongue found its way around the syllables with difficulty, no easier around the others' names.
"Brak." This with a stare Calandryll thought speculative, a gesture toward the cavern's mouth, as if Temchen pointed southward, a babble of indecipherable sounds.
Bracht shrugged and Temchen tapped his chest, pointed at himself, then touched his swordhilt, pantomiming combat. Bracht grinned tightly and said, "Aye, we fight you. Give me back my blade and I'll fight you now."
The Jesseryte's eyes narrowed, hearing the hostility in the Kern's tone, then laughed, calling something to his men that was answered with chuckles and catcalls. Calandryll said, "For Dera's sake, Bracht! Would you provoke him?"
"I'd as soon die now as see myself unmanned," the Kern muttered, falling silent as Temchen turned to Katya.
The Jesseryte seemed awed by the Vanu woman's flaxen hair. He touched it as she spoke her name, fingering it as though it were rare silk, or precious metal.
"Cat-ee-ah." He stroked her hair a moment, reluctant, it seemed, to leave it go. "Sen-air."
He was far less interested in Cennaire. Likely, Calandryll thought, because the Kand woman was much closer to his own kind in coloration: Katya was a rarity.
He ended his inspection with a nod, more guttural words, and turned away, going to the fire, where meat roasted and dough sizzled on a skillet. The captives were ushered forward, motioned to settle themselves against the cave wall, the Jesserytes interposed before the exit. No further attention was paid them, save when food and water were passed them, each receiving a slab of greasy meat and a cake of unleavened bread.
They ate in silence, the three hungry, Cennaire feigning an appetite, as the arc of sky visible beyond the mouth grew brighter, the opalescence of early dawn giving steady way to sunwashed blue. When they were done, the Jesserytes bound their ankles again, and passed loops around their chests, pinning their arms. The tying, for all the cords were firm, was not ungentle, and when they were secured each was draped with a blanket, and Temchen performed another little pantomime, indicating they should sleep.
The Jesserytes set a watch, two men, while the rest bedded down, and the cavern grew silent, save for the snuffling of the horses, contented now, and the snoring humans. Calandryll lay between Bracht and Katya, no more able than they to sleep for the confusion of thoughts, doubts, bewilderment, that raced through his mind. Thinking to avoid a blow, he waited until he was confident the Jesserytes slumbered soundly, then wormed his face close to Bracht's.
"They cannot intend to slay us," he whispered. "And I doubt they're Rhythamun's men."
"You think not?" Bracht's voice was low in answer, sharp with an undercurrent of tension.
"How can they? Were we for execution, why feed us? Why bring us here? And Rhythamun? Temchen showed no expression when he learned our names—did he go about Rhythamun's business, surely he'd have shown triumph then."
"I'll grant they're not likely allied with the sorcerer," Bracht allowed. "But for the rest . . . Execution is not the worst fate."
"How so?"
The Kern's teeth gritted a moment, then: "The Jesserytes take slaves. Male slaves are gelded."
Calandryll bit back the gasp of horror forming in his throat. Instinctively, he pressed his legs tight together, shuddering as horrid chill crept down his spine. "You're sure of this?" he forced himself to ask.
Bracht grunted confirmation.
"Even so." He licked his lips, his mouth abruptly dry. "We live still."
"Gelded? You call that living?"
"Even so, we've hope. Why did they come after us? Surely there must be some reason for that?"
"They planned to raid into Cuan na'For. As did the band that attacked Cennaire's caravan. They found easier prey."
"Think you it can be so simple?"
"I think I am taken by barbarians who unman their slaves. I think Katya is a great prize—you saw that strutting whoreson finger her."
"I grant he found her exceptional. But still ..." Calandryll paused, the ugly churning deep in his stomach that Bracht's blunt announcement had begun worked its way ominously lower. It was an effort to calm that horrid trepidation, to impose some measure of logic. "But still it may be they were sent, though by some other agency."
Bracht snorted softly, dubiously.
"Perhaps some Jesseryte sorcerer sensed our presence," Calandryll insisted. "We've spoken before of a design in this, of the Younger Gods lending what aid they can. Perhaps this capture is a part of that; - perhaps we are brought to the Jesseryn Plain swifter than had we traveled alone."
He was no longer certain whether he spoke from conviction or the need to reassure himself, and Bracht offered no help. The Kern scowled, noncommittal, saying nothing.
"Do you concede the victory then? Do you grant Rhythamun the fight?"
"I concede I go bound into an unknown land; I concede I'm mightily concerned. For us all. Do we find the opportunity, I say we must escape."
"How?" Calandryll tested his bonds: they held him tight, and how could they escape, here, perched on the wall of Kess Imbrun, surrounded by warriors?
"I know not," Bracht replied. "But does the chance arise ..."
"Aye. Does the chance arise."
He did not think it would: Temchen seemed too careful a man to let his vigilance waver. It seemed far more likely they should he brought captive to whatever destination the Jesseryte rode. But then .. . perhaps then. But if they did . . . what then?
They would be fugitives in a strange land, pursuing Rhythamun in a form only Cennaire could recognize. There was no longer any magical talisman to guide them, no longer any one of them familiar with the country they must traverse. It seemed unlikely, did they escape and flee, that they should find allies; still less likely they should happen upon their quarry. The odds seemed suddenly weighted against the
m, fate showing them an unkind face. Despair threatened and he struggled not to contemplate the fate Bracht outlined, forcing himself to consider his own words, endeavoring to believe his own optimism.
It was not easy, but surely, he told himself, Horul is the god of the Jesserytes, and Horul is kin to Burash and to Dera, to Ahrd. Surely Horul must favor this quest, else he, like all the Younger Gods, see Tharn raised up, himself destroyed. Surely Horul must league with us, and be that so, then perhaps there is some measure of divine intervention here. Perhaps Temchen was sent by the equine god, some indiscernible pattern working to our favor.
I must believe that, he told himself. I must not give in to despair. 1 must continue to hope.
That thought lingered as a great weariness possessed him, lulling him so that he did not kno w he slept until a boot nudged his ribs and he opened his eyes on sunlight and a masked face, a Jesseryte kneeling to strip off the blanket, loose his feet and arms that he might rise. He stood on command, his comrades with him, going over to the fire to receive a bowl of thin porridge, a cake of hard, sweet bread, a mug of bitter tea sharp with herbs.
That breakfast was taken swiftly and then they were set back on their horses, gagged and bound in place again. A man knelt to afford Temchen a mounting stool, and the Jesseryte once more led the cavalcade along the Blood Road, upward, climbing briskly toward the sky.
THE sun was not much advanced along its westward path, not yet close to noon, and Calandryll realized their sojourn in the cavern had been only a brief respite, likely taken to rest the horses and men who had spent the night descending this same steep road. They seemed not to hurry overmuch— the trail was precipitous, narrow enough in too many places that undue haste must be dangerous— but still they progressed at a good pace, as though Temchen were anxious to reach the rimrock swift as possible.
Their faces masked by the metal veils, it was impossible to discern expression there, nor did the Jesseryte physiognomy lend itself to interpretation when the veils were lifted, when they halted awhile in the afternoon.
The prisoners were dismounted then, given water and a little food, but there was no more attempt made to communicate, as if the learning of their names was all the information Temchen required of them. Neither did the Jesserytes speak among themselves, but went about their duties with the precision of well-drilled soldiery, their tasks sufficiently familiar as to render words unnecessary. When Calandryll spoke, Temchen glanced his way and raised a finger to his thin lips; when Bracht replied, a man raised a hand in threat. The Kern, though clearly galled, fell silent, and Calandryll deemed it the wiser course to follow suit. Katya said nothing, only studied her captors with stormladen grey eyes, and Cennaire merely waited, not speaking, to discover to where they went.
The food consumed, the gags were replaced, the prisoners remounted and again restrained, and they continued the ascent.
Onward, ever upward, through an afternoon of sunlight that bathed the ramparts of the Kess Imbrun with golden light, the fantastic crenella- tions shining like great red spires, many-hued, the canyons pooled with misty darkness, or glowing where the sun invaded as if fires burned within their depths. The yellow disk moved across the sky, westering, the crags and buttresses dulling as the light shifted, hurling great shadows eastward. The filling moon hung above the horizon, stars visible as the heavens were transformed from shimmering azure to shades of deepening indigo. The western sky burned crimson-gold awhile, and twilight fell. Calandryll thought they might halt then—knew that did he ride with his comrades alone, they would, for the road was too hazardous to attempt by dusk's light—but Temchen showed no sign of slowing their pace, and he wondered again if the catlike eyes pierced the darkness better than his own.
It was no less unnerving for the experience of the previous night to take that way by darkness. Soon there was only moonglow by which to negotiate the trail, and that deceptive, shadows concealing rocks, the pale silvery radiance tricking the eye, deceitful. Bats once more fluttered, their roosts seemingly located about the midparts of the chasm, and that flocking did nothing to make the going easier. But still the Jesserytes pressed on, climbing, climbing, until it seemed they must rise up to meet the moon along its way and ride in company with the stars.
What haste possessed them? Calandryll wondered. Or was it their habit to travel so, heedless of the sun's passing, as if the night were their domain? Certainly, clad in their beetle-black armor, silent, they seemed akin to nocturnal creatures, and he wondered what motivated them, that musing bringing back Bracht's dire warning.
He fought the unpleasant sensation that thought delivered to his bowels, telling himself that surely, 4 did they view their captives as nothing more than slaves, handily found and taken without undue difficulty, they would not press so hard. Neither could he believe they served Rhythamun—that argument he had put to Bracht, and now, with little else to do save think, he found it the more convincing. But what answers there were to this captivity, to this urgent nighttime journey, he could not surmise.
You will travel far and see things no southern man has seen . . .
He smiled around the gag, cynically, as Reba's words came back, whispered on the night wind, taunting. That, surely, was the truth—what else, from the lips of a spaewife? All she had foretold was come true. His father's anger had driven him from Secca; his own brother proclaimed him outlaw, renegade, patricide. He had known betrayal and found true comrades,- had traveled roads no man had trod. She had prophesied danger, and that he had met in quantity. But the ending . . . that she had not scried along the many branching paths of the spaewives' art.
Perhaps—the ugly chill of doubt grew colder— this was the ending. Perhaps Bracht was right, he wrong: they were taken as slaves, to be gelded, the women placed in some Jesseryte harem, a bordel, while Rhythamun continued unhindered, to find Tharn's resting place and raise the Mad God. He shivered, willing himself to calm, to logic, invoking the litany of past experience to quell doubt, to impose hope.
In Kandahar, Sathoman ek'Hennem had threatened the quest, taken him and Bracht prisoner, but they had escaped the rebel lord.
Anomius had used magic against them, but they had eluded his gramaryes.
The Chaipaku had sought their lives, his and Bracht's and Katya's, but thanks to their own skills and the intervention of Burash, the Brotherhood of Assassins was no longer a threat.
They had survived the swamps of Gessyth, evaded the trap Rhythamun set in Tezin-dar.
In Lysse, he had passed within hailing distance of Tobias, who would surely have slain him on the spot had his brother recognized him. But he had not, and they had gone free.
Into Cuan na'For, into the arms of Jehenne ni Larrhyn, who had crucified Bracht, only to see the Kern saved by Ahrd, the Lykard woman slain by Katya.
Dera herself had set an enchantment on his blade,- Burash had brought them down his watery ways in safety; Ahrd had shown his benevolence: the Younger Gods themselves stood in alliance with their quest.
How then should it fail?
Because, said the cold, mocking voice of the wind, the Younger Gods are lesser creatures than their elder kin, weaker than their predecessors. Have they, themselves, not spoken of their limitations^ Have they not told you they may do only so much, and no morel Shall that be enoughl
Surely, he said.
Think you so! asked the wind. Did Burash bring you swift enough to Lysse that you found Rhythamun there! No, you were too late, the sorcerer was gone on, shape-changed.
But we found his way. We sundered his alliance with fehenne. And Dera blessed my sword.
The wind laughed about the moonlit spires, rustling down the canyons, and said, A small enough gift, that. Nor too soon given. You were delayed there, and Rhythamun still went on, no! Not Dera, not Ahrd could halt him.
But still they lent us aid.
A skirling then, a taste of dust, like ashes blown contemptuous from a funeral pyre: Ahrd could not bring you fast enough through his own sacred forest
to catch the mage.
But not so far ahead. And one with us now who knows his face.
The wind paused, turning back on itself, and came again, renewed, vigorous. Much help that, when you ride a prisoner to your unmanning. When you ride into the unknown country, where men wear masks across their faces and carve off manhood as if the bearer were a beast.
Into a land where Horul is worshipped! And Horul is a Younger God—he cannot stand by!
Perhaps he cannot; perhaps he will not. But is he strong enough! Rhythamun goes before, drawing ever closer to Tharn. Think you Tharn knows not his salvation approaches, even in his limbo! Even dreaming! Think you he shall not do all he can to aid his savior!
What can he do! The First Gods cast him down—Yl and Kyta, his own progenitors. Shall he break their enchantment!
Does he not already! asked the wind. His raising calls for blood; blood calls for his raising—is blood not shed aplenty now! Think on Kandahar, fool! Think on the rebellion of the Fayne lord, think on the war the Tyrant presses. Think on your own brother—Tobias den Karynth, Dowm of Secca!— who builds a navy and argues for war with Kandahar. How much blood shall spill when that dream is fulfilled!
Be it fulfilled! It is not yet.
Perhaps; or perhaps it is. Perhaps e'en now the warboats sail from Eryn. Perhaps the Narrow Sea runs red.
Tobias must convince his fellow domms, and in Cuan na'For fehenne looked to war, but was thwarted.
A small victory: one little battle in a far greater combat. And you a captive now, riding virgin to your fate, while Rhythamun goes on . . . and on . . . on .. .
"No! It cannot be!"
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 5
