"Even so," Katya urged, "wait a little while."
Their argument was interrupted by Chazali.
"The lady Cennaire is not among the dead," the kiriwashen announced. "Her body is neither on the road nor in the trees."
"Then likely she lives still," said Ochen, smiling. "Good."
"What is this?" asked Bracht. "Does Cennaire live, I'm glad. But it seems unlikely. Surely they took her off and she lies within the forest, dead."
"I think not," said Ochen. "I think you should pray to your tree god she survives."
"I do not understand," the Kern said.
"Nor I," said Katya.
"I've not the time to explain," said Ochen. "Only trust me. And Cennaire."
"Cennaire? Ahrd!" Bracht turned away, moving to the stallion. "Riddles and yet more riddles, while Calandryll faces Rhythamun. I ride!"
"No!" Ochen motioned to Chazali. "Trust me!"
The kiriwashen stepped between Bracht and the stallion. The big horse pawed ground, ears flattened back, eyes rolling. Chazali was wary of the beast, but obviously determined to prevent Bracht mounting. Both men touched the hilts of their swords.
Ochen looked to Katya and said, "In Horul's name! In the name of all the Younger Gods! For Calandryll's sake, trust me!"
The Vanu woman studied him an instant and then moved between the Kern and kiriwashen.
"I trust him." She looked into Bracht's eyes, deep. "For all I like not the way of it, I see no alternative."
"You say we should do nothing?" Disbelief harshened the Kern's voice. "Stand here while Calandryll likely dies?"
"Think, Bracht," she urged. "Shall we go blundering through a night-dark wood, our every move a herald of our coming? Tell the uwagi time runs out? I think that way we should likely condemn Calandryll to death. I love him no less than you, but I suspect our aid is useless now, while Ochen's magic at his command, and I say that's our chiefest hope—to trust in his powers, in him."
"In him, perhaps," Bracht allowed. "But this talk of Cennaire? What part has she to play?"
"I know not." Katya shrugged. "Do we ask him?"
The night was dark, the moon waned and not yet reborn, cloud had built, scudding between the land and the impassive stars. Bracht's face was shadowed, the blue of his eyes hooded between narrowed lids, his lips compressed, frustrated, and belligerent. For a long moment he stared at Katya's face, then a slow sigh escaped and his shoulders slumped, his right hand moving from his swordhilt.
"Think you so, then so be it."
Katya nodded, her teeth flashing, briefly white, as she smiled. At her back she heard Chazali's low grunt, sensed the kiriwashen relax. "Let us ask him," she said.
But it was too late: a fire was already built and burning, and Ochen squatted before the flames, staring blank-eyed into the light. His hands were hidden in the wide sleeves of his robe and his body was rigid, only his lips moving to spill out a torrent of muttered syllables, too low, too guttural, to be heard, even were they comprehensible. As he muttered, the scent of almonds wafted.
Bracht mouthed a curse,- Katya set a hand upon his shoulder. Chazali, his veil lifted back, came to stand beside them. "Ochen is a great sorcerer," he murmured, "in not very much time he will be wazir-narimasu. As the lady Katya says—trust him, for if any can help, it is he."
"And Cennaire?" Bracht asked. "How shall she help?"
"That I do not understand," Chazali replied. "But if Ochen says she does, then she does."
The Kern blew breath between his teeth. "Would that this world were simpler. Honest sword work, horses, those I understand. But all this sorcery?" He gestured at the wazir, raised his face to the dark and rolling sky. "That remains a mystery."
"I understand it no better than you," said Chazali. "And had I my way, we'd resolve matters as would you—warrior against warrior in honest combat: there's honor in that—but that's not the way of it, eh? Magic lives in this world of ours, and we must live with it. Trust Ochen, my friend, for he can achieve what our blades may not."
"I've little other choice," Bracht murmured, looking to the wazir, who sat immobile, as if the animating spirit had quit his body for another place.
CENNAIRE had sensed the ambush in the same instant Ochen had shouted his warning. She had learned enough from observation, from listening to
Bracht, to Katya, that she utilized her preternatural gifts in defense of the column. Consequently, she had grown aware that the forest fell silent: she could hear only the steady drumming of hooves, the clatter of armor, the sounds of horses and men, not bird song, or the movements of the animals that inhabited the woods. Then Ochen had shouted and she had seen the light of his magic flash out, and in the same instant the flight of arrows, the shapes of the uwagi. She had screamed a warning, but it had gone unheard—or mistaken for a scream of fear—as the attack came. Then all had been confusion, and she had fought for her life as much as any there.
Her horse had panicked, terrified by the weird- ling creatures that raced out of the shadows, and she had found herself unseated, dumped unceremoniously on the dirt of the road as all around her men shouted and fought.
She had risen, confused by the tumult, angry enough she felt no fear, and seen the grey man- beasts carving a path toward Calandryll. She had moved, .unthinking, in the same direction, pushing limber amid the struggling throng, darting between horses, ducking under swinging blades. A tensai— man, not were-creature—blocked her path, and she had drawn her knife, moving as Katya had taught her to evade his blow, drive her own blade deep into his belly. Gutted, he had moaned, falling forgotten as she pushed on, intent only on reaching Calandryll before the uwagi might slay him.
One, fiercer than its malignant kin, was already close, reaching for him, he lowering his sword on Ochen's shout. Cennaire had stabbed the beast, the knife sinking between its shoulders, and it had snarled and turned on her. She clutched its wrist, turning the talons aside, and snapped the arm, and the uwagi had only grunted and smashed its arm back against her, oblivious of the hand—the paw?— that flapped useless at the limb's end. She was thrown back then, tumbling, reminded of the were- men's terrible strength, and found herself amid a sea of pounding hooves, all confusion and battle shouts, scuttling undignified to safety. Climbing once more to her feet in time to see the chestnut gelding bowled over, Calandryll lifting from the saddle, a leg trapped as the horse went down. Seen the uwagi close about him, drag him clear.
She had moved toward him, but before she could reach him, the creatures had lifted him up and carried him off. And she had gone after them—after him.
They had run into the forest, and on its edge she had halted, wondering what she did. They could rend her, these creations of the occult. She had seen their filthy work, and entertained no doubt that they possessed such strength as could tear her limb from limb, leave her alive still, perhaps condemned to eternal suffering.
She did not know for sure,- only that Calandryll was taken and that senses deeper than those her revenancy gave her told her to go on, to do what she could for him. What spoke to her then ran deeper than blood, than bone, and she did not understand it, nor have the time to consider it. Anomius's diktat—that the questers must survive to win the Arcanum, that the ugly little warlock might take it for his own? That he should grow wrathful, did she allow Calandryll taken captive, slain, without she attempted his rescue? That she might earn the displeasure of the Younger Gods did she do nothing?
No!
All she knew in that instant was that Calandryll was taken: it did not occur to her to desert him.
She paused only to assess her path, head raised, listening.
She heard the noises the uwagi made, carrying off their burden, the sounds of snapping twigs, the pad of running feet. She smelled them, a lingering, sour odor, sweat and decay mixed with the pine scent of the woodland. She peered into the trees, the night no obstacle to her vision.
Then she began to run, questing anxious, vengeful.
The ground was
soft with the underlay of needles, of coarse grass. Thickets of brambles and brush obstructed, ferns crushed sappy under her feet. Branches hung low and thick: she ducked beneath them, or snapped them off uncaring, ignoring the twigs that snagged her hair, sprang sharp against her face. She ran, pursuing, darting around the massive boles of pines, cedars, larches, the dendrous perfumes mingling with the reek of the uwagi, the scents of terrified animals, deer and rabbits and wild hogs that fled the occult abominations, and through all that the single odor of life: Calandryll's. That, she clung to, knowing that while she could taste it on the air he lived still, that the uwagi had not slain him, but bore him away for some reason she did not understand, nor cared to consider,- only that so long as she could smell it he lived.
It was enough: she raced on.
And then she slowed, for ahead the sounds of flight had ended.
She moved more cautiously now, taking care where she placed her feet, avoiding obstacles, stalking the obscene hunters. Then halted, pressing tight against the trunk of a pine, driving herself into its shadow, watching, listening.
There was a clearing. Grass grew thick where the encircling trees allowed the sun entry, dark now beneath the clouded nighttime sky, but that no hindrance to her sight. Pines like the walls of a temple ringed the space, and Cennaire was minded of the shrines dedicated to Burash, in Kandahar, where circles of great stone pillars stood about the altar. But no altar here, nor any god, save Tharn made his presence felt; neither priests, unless the uwagi stood in stead.
And Calandryll the sacrifice, for he stood ringed by such creatures as nightmares make, votaries of the Mad God.
Cennaire reached for her knife and found it gone, likely still lodged in the back of the uwagi she had stabbed. No matter: she had other, greater strengths. Silent as a hunting cat she stepped forward, to the very edge of the trees, pausing in their shelter, studying the tableau before her, not certain what she witnessed; no more sure what she should do, what she could do.
CALANDRYLL opened his eyes onto darkness, a strange pattern of shifting shades that blended so fast, one with another, that he at first thought he once more traveled the plane of the aethyr. Then he felt pain and realized he traversed a more mundane landscape, a place of night-dark trees, of rustling branches overhanging and brief glimpses of cloudy, moonless sky. His head throbbed; a leg— which, he could not be sure—felt pounded, aching; his arms and his ankles were held as if set with manacles. A smell invaded his nostrils, fetid and foul, like rotting flesh left overlong in the sun: knowledge returned and he bit back the cry that threatened to escape his mouth.
He was carried off by the uwagi, held by the creatures and borne through the forest.
Panic threatened and he forced himself to calm—at least a measure, imposed over the desperate thudding of his heart, the terror that slunk about the edges of his awareness—and assessed his situation.
It was a gloomy prospect. Four of the uwagi held him firm, casually as if they bore a sack at breakneck speed along trails too wild, too narrow that mounted warriors might easily follow. The hands that held him were iron bands, unbreakable: he realized he lacked the strength to fight free. The creatures leapt tree trunks, thickets, or charged carelessly through. His teeth jarred in his jaw, his head spun, bouncing. He feared the sheer speed of their going should kill him, break his neck, or shatter his skull against a stump. The sword hung still from his belt, a useless, tantalizing weight.
But he lived.
He did not understand why: the changelings might have slain him, easily, back on the road; or killed him within the shelter of the timber. But he lived: it was a straw he clutched avidly.
He had no way of telling where they went, save deeper into the forest, each loping pace taking him farther from his comrades, from Ochen, and Chazali's kotu-zen. He felt horribly alone, defenseless, wondering if perhaps the uwagi carried him off to some ritual slaughter, a slow and painful dying. He felt the sword's quillons snag on brambles, tear free, and wondered why they had not stripped him of the blade. A flash of reason then, light through the darkness of fear: perhaps they could not handle the blade. Perhaps the magic Dera had set in the steel rendered the sword sacrosanct, beyond the touching of such foul things as the uwagi. Was that of aid, hope? He thought on Ochen's warning—if not aid, then perhaps, at least, escape. Did worse come to worst—and the chance present itself—he could destroy his captors with the sword. He would die, but that should surely be a swifter end, and less painful than anything the creatures planned for him. Save if he took that course . . .
. . . The quest ended with him!
Three, always three: every prophecy, every scrying, had spoken of three. It was scribed on his mind: Katya, Bracht, himself—the questers, those ordained to stand against Rhythamun's fell design, against the resurrection of the Mad God. Did one fall, all was lost. The thought filled him with sadness. Not for the loss of his life, for that had been a consideration, even a likelihood, since this quest began, and while he had no wish to die, still he accepted that someday he must. Rather, it was a sadness that after so much travail the quest should be ended, that Rhythamun should win. Anger stirred then, hot, righteous, dispelling sorrow, and he determined to sell himself as dear he might.
Abruptly, he realized that the darkness overhead assumed a different hue, that motion ceased. He gasped as he was dropped carelessly to the ground, the leg on which his horse had rolled throbbing. He grunted a curse that was no less a prayer, and fought upright, hand falling instinctively to his swordhilt.
The blade whispered from the scabbard, defensive, defiant, and he stared, eyes narrowed in an attempt to penetrate the shadows, confused that no attack came. Gradually, his night vision returned and he stared around, wondering what obscene game was played, what tune his captors plucked on his taut-strung nerves.
They stood in a circle about him, seven of them, behind them a ring of high, wind-rustled pines, stately and solemn. The uwagi seemed to wait, leashed by some imperative beyond his understanding, beyond sword's reach, watching, their breath like the panting of wolves, or rabid dogs. Indeed, they appeared as much lupine as human, a hideous blending of characteristics: creatures out of nightmare. They stood shorter than the Jesserytes they had been, for their legs were bowed and curiously bent, as if the bones, the joints, changed shape, and their shoulders were hunched, massive, extending into unnaturally long arms that ended in hands like paws, great talons thrusting where once nails had been. Muscle bulged and corded over their torsos, bursting the clothing, the armor, they had worn, tatters of cloth and mail hanging like cerements, like memories of their forsaken humanity. Tufts of grey hair, coarse and thick, sprouted from pallid skin, from features horribly shifted to semblance of animals. Their brows were low, flattened, ridges of bone extending over deep-seated eyes that glowed with a red, unholy fire. Nostrils flared wide above prognathous muzzles, the lips stretched back from long fangs, sharp as daggers, slaver hanging in streamers that swayed with their panting. One sported a hand that flapped loose, the arm broken between wrist and elbow. It showed no more sign of discomfort than the one that still wore his dirk in its cheek.
They reminded Calandryll of nothing so much as a wolf pack. No, for irrelevantly he recalled Bracht's words—that wolves did not attack mankind. A pack of hounds, then. Great, foul, ensorcel- led hounds, set to the hunt, now waiting ... On what? The order to attack? Their master's command?
Aye! Of course—they waited on their creator!
Calandryll turned slowly round, his sword on guard, and as he turned, so the changeling creatures backed away, drawing clear of the blade's threat. His own breathing came deep and urgent, and he could no more deny the fear that stirred than he could the throbbing of his bruised leg—the uwagi waited. Perhaps even some vestiges of humanity remained within their contorted shapes, within their deformed souls, and they feared the blade, themselves feared the death it might bring them. Perhaps he had a chance.
"So, are you afraid?" He lunged at the
closest monstrosity, saw it dart back, the circle shifting to hold him at its center without coming in range of a blow. "You fear my sword? You know what it can do?"
The uwagi growled, shuffling, studying him with horrid red eyes, like coals glowing in blackened pits. He felt a little encouraged, and sprang closer, whirling the blade, taking care it should not quite strike. The changelings backed away, circled, pacing, snarling, continuing to hold him within their aegis. He wondered what they might do did he charge them, and raised the straightsword high, feinting an attack.
One spoke, and it was like the rumbling growl of a dog, the words thickened and distorted, spraying drool and fetid breath in equal measure.
"Attack and you die. We die, but you, too. Our master commands—wait."
The creature emphasized its order with a slash of its taloned paw: Calandryll retreated, not yet quite ready to sacrifice himself. He lived yet, and so there was yet hope. Perhaps his comrades would come, would somehow find a way through the forest. Perhaps Chazali's archers would rain shafts on the beast-men; Bracht and Katya, all the surviving kotu-zen, fall on the creatures,- Ochen come with his magic.
Then: No, he thought, for he had already seen what Ochen's magic did to these things, and knew that its use must ensure his own death as certainly as if he drove his blade into the mocking, snarling face. Seen, too, how little use plain steel was against them, and the forest was too deep, the way they had come too trackless, that he should be found.
He was trapped: he lowered the sword, waiting, not sure for what, other than death.
It was unnerving, to stand thus surrounded, and he sought a measure of reassurance in the psychic exercises Ochen had taught him, concentrating, focusing his mind, seeking calm. What had the uwagi said? Our master commands—wait, and Rhythamun was their undoubted master, but why did he not order his creations to attack?
Save he intended some worse fate than mere death! Calandryll thought then of the terrible pressure that had driven him across the aethyr, of the sense of awful dread as his pneuma had been drawn ever closer to Tharn. That should be a fate infinitely worse, to "live" eternally in the power of the Mad God. His mouth was suddenly dry,- his body abruptly chilled. He struggled to retain calm, and low, the words little more than a rumble in his throat, voiced the cantrips that should ward his pneuma, his essential spirit, from kidnap, hold it—he hoped!—firm against occult assault.
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