The fear he pushed aside, reminding himself that the knowledge of possible death had always been present and that fear alone was insufficient to deter him. That he should consider the possibility of Rhythamun's victory was, he told himself, to grant his adversary an advantage, to open gateways to trepidation, to vacillation: he set doubt aside. And found he was left with anger, which strengthened him, firming his purpose again, so that in time, not knowing his eyes closed, he slept.
He woke to early sunlight and the faint chill of autumn's advent, birds chirruping about the eaves of the garrison, the sounds of a town already awake. He rose without delay, going out to bang impatiently on Bracht's door, which opened on the instant, the Kern buckling his swordbelt, eyeing Calandryll with a small, fierce smile.
"Come," he declared, "let's rouse Katya and Cennaire and break our fast."
Both women were awake and ready, Katya's tanned face grave as she came out into the corridor, the mail of her hauberk rustling softly, a hand upon her sword as if she thought perhaps some monstrous conjuration might momentarily appear. Cennaire seemed calm, though she stepped without preamble or excuse to Calandryll's side, and he, unthinking, set a hand upon her arm, proprietory.
"I fear we bring you into ever greater danger," he murmured as they found their way to the hall. "But be assured that no harm shall come you for lack of my protection."
"I know that," she returned, and in the instant of the saying was aware that it was true: that she had no doubt but that he would lay down his life for her.
Without thinking, without intention of artifice or coquetry, she moved closer to him, so that for a moment their bodies pressed tight. She felt him start, from the corner of her eye saw him glance down, smiling, embarrassed, and then they reached the stairs and moved a little way apart again, though still he held her arm. From the dim-lit hall she saw Ochen watching, his face clear, though his expression was enigmatic and she wondered if he approved, or merely observed, his interest motivated by his own concerns. She could not tell, and none others appeared aware of the wazir's subtle observation, settling to table as food was brought out with the determinedly cheerful air of folk committed to a path from which there could be no turning.
They ate well, as if this might be their last meal, their conversation of the way ahead, Ochen and Chazali, who joined them, speaking of the road and the settlements along the way. It ran, they said, northward out of Ghan-te, through forest for several days before emerging at the foot of the great central plateau that gave the Jesseryte lands the name of Plain, where lay another town, Ahgra-te. There were more villages, but for most of its length, it wound lonely through densely wooded cordillera that afforded natural advantage to the tensai.
It was not, Cennaire thought, encouraging information, and she found Calandryll's eyes across the table. They were grave, his expression resolute, breaking into a smile as he met her gaze, as if he sought to reassure her. She answered his smile, thinking that of all there present she was likely the least endangered, warded against physical harm by her very revenancy, and perhaps immune to whatever magic Rhythamun left behind, were it designed to act upon the living only. Almost, she felt guilty, dropping her gaze to her plate as it came to her that she might see all these folk slain, she left . . . she could find no other word save alive. And then that did she succeed in regaining her heart, should it be better to reclaim it—were some sorcerer such as Ochen able to perform that countering magic—or only hold it for herself, within the pyxis, and remain as she was.
The thought was simultaneously intriguing and confusing. To be again mortal, or continue revenant? To choose the one would be to relinquish all the powers, all the strengths, afforded by the other. She had gloried in her newfound senses, in the preternatural awareness they gave her—and yet she had suppressed all those abilities during the days spent in company of these questers. And they, mortal flesh and blood, seemed no more caring of danger than was she, as if they accepted their lives with relish, living them day by day, prepared to face the unknown she no longer had need to confront. Because, she decided, they devoted themselves to their purpose, to their quest, pursuing a higher ideal than mere existence.
Once, she would have laughed at that: dismissed it as foolishness, as mortal frailty. Yet, in their company, she had ofttimes near forgot her immortality, had learned again to enjoy small things: their acceptance, Calandryll's smile, the touch of his hand. Certainly she had forgotten much of her past: abruptly she wondered how Calandryll would react did he know she had been a courtesan,- did he learn she went about Anomius's business,- did he discover she had slain men in that cause.
"Fear not." Ochen's voice interrupted her musing, and she raised her head, aware that the others looked toward her. "You've blades and magic, both, to defend you."
She essayed a smile, quite unable to interpret the wazir's expression. His tone, the words, suggested he sought only to reassure a nervous woman. Yet he knew her for what she was, and so knew that she, of all there present, had the least need of comforting. Did he then pretend? Or did he, like Anomius, look to use her for purposes of his own? She could not decide,- still could not entirely understand why he had not exposed her. He had spoken of her having some part to play in the quest, and that had then suited her own purpose well enough—but what part? On whose behalf?
"Aye," she answered, smiling again. "And as Bracht said—have we not but the single path?"
"Well said," Calandryll applauded.
"Indeed," said Ochen. "And therefore but one direction."
"Which we shall now take." Chazali was entirely unaware of the undercurrent beneath their words. "We depart!"
He shoved his plate aside and rose, his kotu-zen on their feet in the instant, already armored, fixing the final strappings, moving toward the door behind their kiriwashen.
The questers followed. Bracht said, "Ahrd and all the Younger Gods be with us," and Katya smiled at him, touching his cheek and saying, "Are they not?"
The Kern answered with a laugh and a nod, taking her hand as they fell into step behind the Jesserytes, the two of them more like sweethearts going to some country fair than warriors expecting battle.
Cennaire found herself between Calandryll and Ochen, Calandryll's hand once more courtly on her arm. She had rather he took her hand, as Bracht had taken Katya's, but still the slight pressure of his fingers, as if he sought some contact he was not yet ready to openly express, was pleasurable.
Burash, she thought, I am like a tripsy girl on the arm of her first lover.
She ventured a sidelong glance, finding it again returned, though this time he did not look away, but smiled at her, an expression in which admiration and regret mingled, as if he would see her safe from danger, but was nonetheless happy they should face it together.
And he, she thought, my swain; nor any less bewildered by this than I.
Then all became disciplined confusion as they crossed the square and entered the stable. Townsfolk thronged the plaza, more inside, aiding the kotu-zen with their horses, stooping that the warriors might mount, Bracht cursing as one particularly determined kembi crawled vigorously to place his back where the Kern's foot might use it for a stool, his efforts ended by the black stallion that, nervous, kicked out, sending the man tumbling. Bracht chuckled wickedly and swung astride. Katya was already mounted; Calandryll helped Cennaire into the saddle and waved a man intent on helping him away, springing lithe onto the chestnut.
In the plaza, the kotu-zen formed a column. Chazali raised a hand, brought it down, and they trotted back along the avenue, lined with townsfolk, toward the gates of Ghan-te, and whatever awaited them along the road beyond.
The way ran north across the dish of the bowl, Ghan-te at the center of the declivity, a crossroads just outside the town, their path climbing the slope through the terraces to the trees that rimmed the edge. Chazali sent two men ahead, which Calandryll thought a measure rendered somewhat redundant by the murder of the priest: ambush seemed a certainty now, and
the forest stretching out before them as they crested the rise provided ample cover for any number of attackers, the outriders more likely to alert the enemy than give warning of their presence. The woods spread wide and dense, the road a shaded avenue overhung with branches, spruce and cedar joining the maples now, thick enough it was impossible to see any distance into the forest. An army might have waited there, within bowshot, and still gone unseen.
It was an eerie feeling, and the rustle of the wind through the leaves assumed the aspect of whispering, warning voices reminiscent of the chattering of the Gruagach that patrolled the Cuan na'Dru. But those strange creatures had proven allies, Ahrd's servants and therefore friends, while here there was no sensation of amity, only apprehension. Calandryll told himself they had faced dangers aplenty before, and lived; and then recalled that Ochen had warned their enemy's strength waxed greater as he drew closer to his master. It seemed then that he felt the land again, felt its unhappiness ooze into him, discomforting as sweat that chills in the wind. He looked about, seeing only ominous shadows, the sun not yet high enough to strike through the timber, night there, with all its lurking terrors.
Something moved and he opened his mouth to shout a warning, hand tightening about his sword- hilt, seeing the kotu-zen who rode to his right turn veiled faces toward the disturbance, their blades flashing clear of the scabbards, some swinging nocked bows to line. Then a body crashed through the undergrowth, a scut showed white, and a stag started from cover. A warrior barked brief laughter and Calandryll let go a breath he had not known he held, grinning at his own apprehension as the stag, his harem about him, went bounding to safety.
They rode on, safe to a stream where they halted to take their noonday meal, that brief and eaten quickly, bowmen pacing the edges of the makeshift camp, waiting only long enough to rest the animals before commencing their journey.
THEY continued on through an afternoon bright with sunlight, the sky a clear and cloudless blue swathe overhead, lighting the timber so that it seemed a little less threatening, as if the radiance dispelled those monsters of imagination's creation, birds fluttering, singing, their chorus a tuneful reassurance.
It was a brief respite.
The day aged, shadows once more lengthening as the sun westered. The road traversed gentler slopes than they had known, the broken country to the south giving sway to a more undulating terrain, the wide trail cut straight for most of its length, curving only where the land occasionally thrust up in timbered drumlins.
Around one such monticule they found the scouts.
Chazali was in the lead, flanked by kotu-zen, riding hard. Abruptly his mount shrilled a protest and tossed its head. The kiriwashen threw up a hand, halting the column. Calandryll had not known he unsheathed his sword, only that it was in hand, on guard as he shouted, "What's amiss?" seeing horses stamping, curvetting where the foremost riders drew up, milling about the edges of the trail.
From ahead came Chazali's bellow, summoning Ochen.
The wazir urged his mount on. Calandryll yelled, "Wait here!" to Cennaire and heeled his chestnut after the sorcerer. Bracht and Katya came with him, heads swinging from side to side as they surveyed the forest, the hillock ahead.
No arrows flew, nor battle shouts, and the Jesseryte horses, war-trained, were quickly calmed, so that an ominous silence fell.
Calandryll's gelding broke the quiet as he followed Ochen around the curve, breath whistling nervous from its flared nostrils, its ears flattening, hooves drumming a staccato tattoo before he fought it still. He felt the animal tremble, himself shudder.
Bracht said, "It smells the blood."
There was much to smell. It spread viscous across the trail, thick with flies that buzzed and rose reluctantly from the gorging, swarming back when none immediately approached. Crows and ravens perched, beaks bloodied, among the trees, cawing protest at the intrusion. Calandryll stared aghast, horrified by the slaughter laid before him.
The body of one of Chazali's scouts lay beside the road, his sable armor no longer black, but colored with the blood that spilled from the gaping rent in his cuirass. His head, still wearing its helm, the face still veiled, lay some distance off, speared on the broken branch of a maple. The second outrider rested on the grass that grew up the flank of the drumlin, the green slick and red now. His right arm was torn from the shoulder, still clutching the sword that protruded from his chest, his head twisted round, crushed down into the stained sward. Their horses lay dead farther along the road, a hideous barrier of severed limbs and dripping entrails, the equine heads placed atop, grinning obscenely at the horrified onlookers.
Calandryll tasted bile sour in his mouth, and spat.
Bracht said, "Ahrd!" softly, and Chazali muttered a curse, masked face turning to Ochen. "What did this?" The kiriwashen's voice was hoarse, metallic, anger and outrage mixed with undisguised horror. "No mortal hand, surely."
"Save fell magic invests it," Ochen said. His face was grave, studying the bloody work. "This is surely Rhythamun's doing."
Calandryll scanned the hillock, the surrounding timber, seeking sign of movement, warning of ambush. Between his shoulder blades the skin prickled, the sensation of watchful eyes magnified. It seemed the whole forest quickened, imbued with malign observers, and he thought to hear the song of flighted arrows, see he knew not what charge to the attack. He saw only trees, the black carrion birds,- heard only their raucous protests, the buzz of the flies.
"Why?" Bracht, too, inspected the landscape, blue eyes narrowed, cold and angry. "Why this? Why do they not attack?"
"I think them gone, save perhaps a few concealed watchers." Ochen sat slumped in his saddle, face older, sad. "I suspect they play with us—look to wear us down."
"In Horul's name I swear this shall be avenged." Chazali spoke through gritted teeth, fury resonant in his promise. "Have we the opportunity, they shall answer for this."
"Aye, and you'll have my help," promised Ochen. "But now, do we attend our lost brethren? They deserve that much."
Chazali nodded and roared orders that had a pyre swiftly built, men and horses both committed to the flames Ochen summoned with his magic, the scent of almonds brief on the afternoon air, soon replaced with the smell of burning wood, the sickly odor of roasting flesh. Ochen chanted a prayer, echoed by the kotu-zen, and in solemn silence they watched the thick column of smoke rise black into the sky.
The ceremony was short enough, but still the day darkened as they went on, the ribbon of azure visible through the trees seeming itself shaded by the flames that licked red behind. Dusk approached, the forest caliginous and menacing again, and none eager to proceed through the night. There was a palpable sense of relief, even from the impassive kotu-zen, when Chazali called Ochen to his side and soon after announced they would make camp.
The chosen site was a clearing to the side of the road, lush grassed, a spring there filling a pool, the surrounding rocks mossy, sufficient space for all the horses and their riders. A guard was instantly mounted, the perimeter of the clearing ringed with watchful men, the animals set to grazing on picket lines, fires—as much for spiritual comfort as cooking—were soon built, and those not designated sentries grouped tight about the flames. Ochen paced slowly between the encircling trees, murmuring softly, leaving in his wake the sweet perfume of his defensive magic. Even so, there were none who relaxed, the kotu-zen making no move to shed their armor, the questers alert, hands stroking absently at swordhilts, and when they sat, it was with sheathed blades across their thighs, ready.
Calandryll found a place beside Cennaire, she shifting instinctively closer, finding comfort in his proximity, for she was disturbed by what she had seen. She no longer felt so confident of surviving this journey, for it came to her that those creatures that had rent armored men like rag dolls could likely rend her as easily. The notion was horrible: she thought she might not die, but live on, in pieces, and that seemed a fate far worse than honest death. She shuddered, staring wide-eyed into the fla
mes, and Calandryll turned toward her, opening his mouth to speak.
Before the words came out a ghastly shrieking filled the night, and she gasped, pressing closer against him.
It began as a bubbling moan, such as a man with riven lungs might make in his dying. It rose, high- pitched, to become a dreadful yammering that rang through the trees, echoing, reverberating to a ghastly crescendo that ended with an abruptness somehow more frightening for the silence that followed.
"Ahrd, but you've strange-sounding wolves in this land."
Bracht's grim humor drew a tight smile from Chazali that froze as a second wail rang out. The kiriwashen rose. There was a third shriek, and a fourth, all from different directions, and then a chorus to chill the blood. It seemed the singing of souls in torment, of things agonized and filled with hatred, the desire to inflict their suffering on others, utterly malevolent.
Chazali's face was blank, held firm by rigid selfdiscipline alone. Calandryll sprang to his feet, Bracht and Katya with him, all with swords drawn.
"They look to frighten us." Ochen remained seated, hands extended toward the fire.
Bracht's mouth stretched in a sour grin and he said, "They make a passable good attempt," and the wazir nodded and said, "They're not close. Nor likely to break through the cantrips I've set."
"Only likely?" asked the Kern.
"This place is ringed with gramaryes they'll find mightily hard to defeat, but"—Ochen shrugged—"I know not what magicks Rhythamun employs, what sorceries he's put in them."
"Can you not seek them out?" asked Calandryll, voice raised to be heard over the horrid yammering.
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