Over the crest a wide saddleback stretched between two low hills, the timber there cut through with narrow trails, running down the incline to the valley beyond. From the vantage point of the ridge, a clearing was visible at the roadway's foot, timber cut back alongside a ribbon of sunlit water, smoke rising in thin streamers, lining the sky's clear blue with misty grey pennants that swirled and broke on the wind. They went down the trail, meandering between the trees, emerging on the river, a ford there, and where it left the water a palisaded village. Chazali's scouts stood their horses between open gates, men in dun-colored shirts and grubby breeks standing nervously about them, bowing as the jet-armored kotu-zen came closer, bowing deeper as they saw the kiriwashen at the column's head.
Chazali raised a commanding arm, shouting for his men to halt and wait beyond the walls as he rode in through the gates. Ochen followed him, waving the outlanders to come after.
Within, Calandryll saw a collection of rough and ragged huts, all timber-built, with smokeholes in their roofs, small, overhung verandahs about their sides. From among them watched women and children, eyes wide and, he thought, frightened, wary and as ready to flee as the deer in the woods. He thought to see Chazali dismount, and certainly the village menfolk appeared to stand ready to prostrate themselves to receive the kiriwashen's foot. Instead, Chazali waved them back, remaining in his saddle as he unlatched his veil and threw the metal back to reveal his face.
"We do not halt here," he said. "But we shall take supplies, for three days."
A man bowed, as if this were a great honor, though his face was blank, and Calandryll thought that the victualing of the band must surely be a drain on the resources of the village.
The man—the headman, Calandryll supposed— barked brief instructions and folk began to bustle about, fetching sacks and yellow haunches of dried meat that were carried out to the waiting kotu-zen.
"You've news?" Chazali demanded brusquely.
The headman bowed again, refusing to meet the kiriwashen's eyes, and answered, "Three days ago tensai came. They took two cows."
"How many?" asked Chazali.
"There were nineteen came here," the headman told him, "but I think there were more in the hills. They grow stronger."
Chazali grunted, nodded, and said in a somewhat milder tone, "When the war is finished the patrols will come back. Do we encounter these outlaws, meanwhile, they shall die."
"Thank you, Lord." The headman bowed dutifully. "May Horul guide your blade."
"And may he bless your crops," returned Chazali. Then, without further ado, spun his horse round and heeled the animal back through the gates.
He wasted no time on explanations, only dropped his veil in place and waved his men forward, as if the village and its problems were beneath his considerations, already dismissed. The scouts were already gone ahead, cantering up the slope, and the remaining warriors fell into line behind their commander, the outlanders and Ochen at the center of the column.
They topped the rise and saw a broader valley before them, the trail cutting down through heavy stands of timber to another river, a second village twin to the other, tiny in the distance. Calandryll had thought to halt again there, but Chazali led them fast to the ford, splashing across in great sheets of sunlit silver spray as his outriders cantered to meet him, reporting to the kiriwashen before returning to their stations, Chazali maintaining his pace as they cantered on. From the village gate inscrutable Jesseryte faces watched them go, bland as the sky above. They did not halt until noon, in a clearing just off the trail.
As had become their custom, Calandryll sat with Bracht and Katya, Cennaire and Ochen, separate from the kotu-zen. He was somewhat surprised when Chazali approached, bowing formally and asking permission that he might join them. It seemed entirely unnecessary, but he nonetheless returned formal invitation, for which the kiriwashen offered equally formal thanks before seating himself.
"The news is not good," he declared, looking from face to face. "The tensai grow bold. They took food from both villages, and the headman of the last believes they number forty men. He thinks they have a camp within a day or two's ride."
Ochen nodded, making no comment. Bracht asked, "Shall you hunt them?"
Chazali's answer was a smile, brief and, Calandryll thought, regretful, accompanied by a shrug. "Not hunt them, no. Our duty is to reach Pamur- teng. Do they look to attack us however ..."
The smile grew fierce, predatory. It seemed to Calandryll he resembled nothing so much then as some great cat, anticipating a killing.
"Ghan-te is little more than a day now," said Ochen, answered with a curt nod.
Calandryll asked, "Ghan-te?"
"A larger steading," the wazir explained. "It has an inn, a temple, a market."
"And perhaps news," Chazali said.
THE settlement lay at the center of a hill-ringed bowl, the slopes all cleared of timber and terraced, streams diverted through sluices and little dams to water the levels where gettu toiled, looking up from their labors to watch the column approach. A wall of tree trunks encompassed the town, rectangular and set at intervals with watchtowers, breached by great gates banded with metal, those opening on a narrow avenue that ran into the center. The outriders had alerted the place to the arrival and folk thronged the avenue and the peripheral streets that crossed it with geometric regularity. A few wore the drab earth tones that appeared the uniform of the farmer, but most were dressed in more lavish outfits, their clothing and its ornamentation suggesting prosperity. They formed a curious audience as Chazali led his party inward, riding proud between buildings of two stories height, with long verandahs and stone chimneys, the woodwork bright-painted, looming tight-packed above the avenue.
The sun was just set, dusk thrusting long shadows over the ground, and lanterns were suspended all down the way, setting the black armor of the kotu-zen to glittering, like the carapaces of huge, exotic beetles. None spoke, only bowed and watched as the kotu-zen rode past stiff-backed, their masked faces set rigidly forward, looking to neither left nor right, but only to their leader, as if casual communication with the inhabitants was beneath them.
Chazali brought them to a plaza, a wide square set with massive flagstones that rang loud under the hooves, walled by four of the largest structures in Ghan-te, two strung with lanterns, one less lit, the third dark. Chazali halted before it, and from its construction, Calandryll deduced this was the garrison formerly occupied by the kotu-anj now called to the war. Facing it across the square was a more welcoming structure, its facade painted a brilliant red, the windows outlined with blue, the verandah hung with vermilion-tinted lanterns. He guessed that was the inn, and the dimmer building alongside a stable. The fourth, boasting an elevated fascia decorated with a black horsehead on a background of gold, was surely the temple.
Chazali sat his horse a moment, surveying the square, then barked a command that brought townsfolk scrambling forward to prostrate themselves that the kotu-zen might step down. Those most eager, Calandryll noticed, were the most expensively accoutred, who appeared to consider it an honor that they be used as footstools. He found a man in an ankle-length robe of silver-threaded green kneeling beside the chestnut, and turned the gelding away, springing down before the figure had time to scrabble on hands and knees to his new position.
The man climbed awkwardly to his feet, frowning, seeming disappointed, then bowed and walked, head lowered, away. Calandryll took the reins and led the gelding over to where the others waited with Ochen. The wazir said, "We sleep here this night," indicating the shadowy bulk of the garrison. "Likely we shall eat in the tavern."
Bracht asked, "And our horses?"
"The stable." Ochen pointed absently to the neighboring building, his eyes wandering to the temple, as if he noted some irregularity.
"I thought only the kotu-zen rode," Calandryll said, and Ochen replied, "Only the kotu-zen may own war-horses. The other castes are allowed asses or mules. Horses are the gift of Horul, creatures spe
cial to the god."
He appeared preoccupied, his attention on the temple, and Calandryll asked, "Is aught amiss?"
"I wonder at the priest's absence," the wazir murmured, frowning. "Where is he?"
"Do we see our animals bedded?" Bracht demanded, far less concerned with the missing priest than the comfort of his stallion.
"Once Chazali establishes order." Ochen nodded vaguely, gesturing in the direction of the kotu-zen who moved purposefully about the square, propelled by the kiriwashen's barked commands. Some strode, Calandryll saw, to the tavern, others to the stable, while more entered the garrison building, shouting for lanterns to be brought. It seemed to him they commandeered townsfolk at random, prosperous-looking burghers hurrying to obey with ambiguous alacrity.
"Leave me your horse," he offered, troubled by the wazir's uncharacteristic air of impatience. "I'll see it bedded while you speak with the priest."
"My thanks."
Ochen wasted no time passing the reins, hurrying toward the temple, calling his whereabouts to Chazali. Calandryll took the animal and led it with his own to the stable. The kotu-zen moved in the same direction, though while they left their horses in care of townsfolk clearly anxious to be of service, the outlanders looked to their own, even Cennaire, following their example, applying the brush and ascertaining the manger held fresh hay, the trough clean water.
Those tasks dispensed, they returned to the garrison, lit now, and bustling with activity as the kotu- zen took up occupation. The place was dark and simple as the keep, a warren of dim-lit corridors and chambers filled with the empty scent of desertion, musty and slightly damp. At ground level was a central hall, a kitchen behind, an armory dug below, and a bathhouse. Stairs went up to the second floor, that mostly given over to a single dormitory, individual chambers built around the outer walls. Townsfolk scuttled, lighting fires, airing bedding, bowing nervously as they eyed the strangers with open curiosity, the kotu-zen with a curious mixture of expectation and fear.
Chazali took it upon himself to escort them to their rooms, those humbler, even plainer than the chambers of the keep: walls of bare wood, a single bed, a chest, no more.
"This place was not built with honored guests in mind/7 he apologized, "but we shall remain only this night."
He bowed and left them. Bracht said, "Ahrd, but did you see these folk grovel? This is, truly, a strange land."
"And we strangers in it," Calandryll replied, crossing to the window to peer down into the plaza. He saw Ochen leaving the temple, hurrying across the square, the sorcerer's gait, the set of his shoulders, spoke of anxiety and Calandryll felt presentiment stir. The ancient glanced up and saw his face, raising a hand to beckon him down. Presentiment became certainty and Calandryll turned to his companions: "Something's amiss."
Not waiting for any response, he quit the window and went into the corridor, the others hard on his heels as he descended the stairs.
The hall below was lit now, dimly as seemed the Jesseryte custom, a fire started in the hearth. Ochen stood with Chazali by the fire, speaking urgently, both their faces grave. The kiriwashen had removed his helm, but not yet his armor, and one hand clenched and flexed around the hilt of his sword as the other tugged angrily at the oiled triangle of his beard. The outlanders joined them, and even before Ochen spoke, Calandryll sensed his news was not good.
"The priest is dead." The words came flat, intoned as if this were the grossest outrage, an enormity beyond comprehension. "Slain by tensai."
"Here?" Calandryll gestured, encompassing the town.
"Not in Ghan-te." Ochen shook his head, reached to lift strands of disarrayed silver from his face. "In the woodland. He rode to a naming ceremony in that last village—he did not return."
He paused, sighing, and Chazali expanded: "Foresters found his body and brought it here three days agone. It was butchered, they said. As if torn apart by rabid dogs." His voice was harsh, stony as the cold rage burning in his slitted eyes.
"Then likely the tensai lie behind us," Bracht said, "and no threat."
Chazali fixed the Kern with a savage glare. "You do not understand," he snarled, pent rage finding small outlet in the words.
"How should he?" Ochen waved a placatory hand, his voice somber as he said, "Albeit he was of lesser skill, still this priest was of the wazir caste. No tensai would dare harm such as he, for fear of damnation. To slay a priest is to consign oneself to eternal torment; to risk attacking a wazir is to face dangerous magic."
"Still I fail to understand," said Bracht.
Calandryll watched as Ochen looked, grim-faced, to Chazali, comprehension dawning, confirmed by the mage's next words.
"That they dared it—that they succeeded—can mean only one thing: they've magic of their own. Rhythamun's magic! And be that so, we can surely count on ambush ere long."
8
CALANDRYLL studied the two Jesseryte faces, seeing horror writ there, such open expression of outrage somehow lending far greater import to the alarming news. It had been, he knew, rank optimism to think their enemy should let them pass unchallenged. That was not Rhythamun's way, and that the warlock should leave defenses behind him was hardly unexpected; but the rage that lit Chazali's eyes, the repugnance in Ochen's, suggested this was a matter that struck to the core of their beliefs, a thing they had not anticipated, as if their world was shaken by the murder.
"I must advise my men," the kiriwashen growled. "Do we encounter those who slew him . . ."
His smile grew feral. Ochen put a hand to his wrist, the golden nails bright against the jet of the vambrace, and said firmly, "Remember we've a higher duty, friend. And I suspect we shall meet them soon enough, save Horul bring us safely past them."
Ungently, Chazali took his arm from the sorcerer's grip, his lips compressed in a narrow line of rejection. He seemed about to move, to bellow orders that would send his kotu-zen out into the night after the tensai, but Ochen fixed him with a stare and said, "It's my belief you'll have no need to find them. I think it likelier they hunt us, and these are but servants of a larger cause. The murder of a priest is an abomination, aye. But that Rhythamun should go on to raise Tharn, that is far worse."
He spoke softly, but each word was weighted, binding Chazali, and with a frustrated groan the kiriwashen ducked his head in reluctant acknowledgment.
"Aye, you speak aright, though it sits ill with me to let this go unpunished." His head lowered, chin to chest. Then he looked up, squaring his shoulders, and clapped his hands. Silence fell, and in a somber voice he informed the kotu-zen of the slaying. They took it grimly, calling curses on the blasphemers, promising vengeance, grumbling when Chazali repeated Ochen's admonishments, reminding them that their foremost duty was to deliver the questers safe to Pamur-teng.
Katya asked, "Can you be certain Rhythamun took a hand?"
"Who else?" said Ochen, his rhetoric glum. "Only the wazir command such powers as might destroy a man who wards himself with magic,- not tensai."
"Then is he close?" she demanded.
"He need not be." Ochen shook his head, and on his face was an expression Calandryll had not seen before: a look, almost, of fear. "I think he likely encountered tensai—perhaps they thought to waylay a solitary traveler." He barked a short, ugly laugh. "I suspect they found him no easy prey. Indeed, I suspect they found themselves the prey; that he possessed them, or sufficient of them to serve his purpose. And that he leaves them behind, guardians of his path."
"Still they are only brigands," Bracht said, sanguine.
"Aye," said Ochen, "but brigands gifted with fell magic, which I like not at all."
"Nor I." The Kern chuckled grimly. "But when a man's only the one path, then he must follow it to the end."
"And we've perhaps more than just your magic at our beck," said Katya. "Remember Calandryll wears a blade that offends our enemy's gramaryes."
"There's that," allowed the wazir, though with little enough conviction.
"Then lose that gloomy
visage," suggested Bracht. "We've faced Rhythamun's magic ere now and won through. Likely we shall do so again."
Ochen smiled then, wanly, as if he welcomed the Kern's encouragement but found it ill-placed. Calandryll said, "What choice have we, save to go on? Better we do that in hope, no?"
"Aye." Ochen's smile lightened somewhat as he nodded. "Forgive me, but that a priest should be slain ... It is an unprecedented thing."
"So," said Calandryll, "is the resurrection of the Mad God."
THE dinner they ate that night, in a tavern emptied of all save their party and the serving folk, was a glum affair, for the slaying of the priest, and all it implied, sat heavy on all their minds. The kotu-zen radiated a palpable discomfort, compounded of disgust and righteous anger and frustration. Were they not sworn to bring the questers to Pamur-teng,
Calandryll was sure they would even then be out in the hills, hunting down the tensai like rabid dogs. No less were the townsfolk disturbed by the murder, looking to the warriors of the hold to which they swore allegiance to bring the killers to justice. The innkeeper and his people served them in wary silence, as though momentarily anticipating an announcement of retribution against the tensai, and though the food was good enough, and the wine served with it palatable, none took pleasure in the meal, and when it was done they quit the tavern to find their beds, leaving behind folk utterly confused by such disruption of accepted order.
For his own part, Calandryll felt mightily uneasy, his mood enhanced by the Jesserytes7 ominous reaction. To face armed men was one thing, and none too forbidding with fifty trained warriors in escort. To face creatures of the occult was an unpalatable hazard, but still something he and his comrades had previously overcome. To know that both dangers, conjoined, lay ahead was poor recipe for comfortable sleep, and he lay on his narrow bed staring at the play of light over the boards of the ceiling. It seemed that he grew aware for the first time that he might well die, that Rhythamun might well succeed, and all the long months of the quest count for naught.
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 18
