Kal turned from his friend. He was lost in thought for a moment, staring into the night after the crows. "Nua Cearta needs a guardian, Alcesidas."
"Why, of course, Kalaquinn! Nua Cearta could well use a guardian. We could all well use a guardian!" In anger and frustration, Alcesidas slammed his sword into its scabbard.
"I believe I have found your guardian."
"By the forge's heat, Kalaquinn! This is not the time for riddles, nor jest."
"No, it is not. And I jest not." He turned again to face Alcesidas. "I mean, I believe I have a means to aid you in this plight." A wry smile played on Kal's lips.
"How? What do you propose?"
"That we make a little expedition to the aboveground world."
"Where?"
"The Hordanu's Enclosure."
"What! Have you taken leave of your senses, Kalaquinn?"
"Trust me, son of Magan Hammermaster. Come, we must linger here no longer. We must needs return to Sterentref in all haste and make ready. The sooner we set out, the better."
Three
The soft light of Kal's helm-lamp caught the glint. He stooped, picked up the marble and rolled it in his fingers, musing. The crossed flecks of embedded silver flashed. It was one of Gwyn's, and a rueful reminder of the terror he had suffered, how hopeless his fall into the depths of the mountain had seemed, and how painfully alone he had felt in the blackness. Now, here in the tunnels surrounding the Cave of the Hourglass, his cries returned to him, dreamlike, as if they still echoed and re-echoed down the endless labyrinthine passageways. If you want me to do your work, if you want me to be the guardian of your Howe, you've got to save me! Why make me Hordanu if I'm to perish here? Why make me Hordanu . . . Why . . . why . . . why . . .
Now, here he was. He had survived. And to think it had happened scarcely three weeks ago. It was as if he had lived a whole new lifetime since then in the forgeland kingdom, revelling in the sights and sounds, the new friendships.
"Hurry along now, Kal," Frysan whispered, following close on his son's heels, with Devved behind him. "Mustn't keep Alcesidas waiting. Careful now."
The three Holdsmen stole along the remaining two dozen paces of the passage, breathless and alert for any sign of danger, and slipped out into the sidechamber where Wilum had breathed his last. A sweet hint of the aromatic oils with which the women had anointed the old man's broken head still lingered in the air. Keeping silence, they crossed the small room and entered the main chamber.
"Ah, there you are, Kalaquinn. I was about to set off in search of you." Two slight figures stood near a wall on the far side of the Cave, their surroundings and features lit by the glow of an unshuttered avalynn lantern. One turned to the Holdsmen, holding the lantern aloft. "I thought that, perchance, you had come to grief. All is clear in here, as far as we can tell. We will wait a moment. Galli and my other guardsmen are making certain the Cave entrance is secure."
Alcesidas returned his attention to the vivid murals adorning the wall. "Remarkable!" The hammerson at his side hm-hmmed in agreement.
"Yes, they are," Kal said as he walked to the centre of the chamber and kicked aside the cold remains of the fire. "Quite remarkable . . . . A concise history of Ardiel of the Long Arm laid out, these hundreds of years, for none to see but the one person who would know it, by virtue of his office, only too well. And much good that."
He was shocked by the sardonic edge his own words bore, and Alcesidas made no reply. He felt the dark burden of a foul mood clinging to him—it had settled on him like a black cloak as soon as he had set foot in this most secluded and hallowed part of the Hordanu's Enclosure. He chided himself for his ill-spoken words, trying to shake himself free of the irrational fear that now clutched him in its grip. Shuttering his helm-lamp, he looked up through the smoke hole and regarded the narrow tapestry of stars above.
"No sign of foe," Galli called softly and beckoned them to the mouth of the Cave, where he waited with two more well-armed hammerson guards.
After more than a fortnight's sojourn in the underground kingdom, Kal savoured the night air and the open sky. Quite a task it had been persuading Magan Hammermaster and Alcesidas that they should make this foray into the upperworld. But the respect they afforded him as Hordanu had won the day. That and his assurance of a sure remedy to the fearsome incursions of the tunnel wolves.
"No need for helm-lamps or lanterns out here," Galli said. "They will only draw attention to us. There is light enough by which to see."
A gibbous moon cast its soft glow on the lintel of the Cave of the Hourglass. Kal considered again the verses in Old Arvonian etched deeply into the rock beneath the chiselled images of the sea-girt island and fantailed bird, spectral in the white moonlight. Alcesidas stepped up beside him, disturbing his reverie.
"What do you look at there?"
"Read for yourself. Perhaps as a hammerson you will discover some meaning that has escaped me."
Alcesidas turned his eyes to the lintel and began to read the verses aloud.
"O Son of Prophecy, know surely that thy quest
Shall not be satisfied nor brought to end
When to the newfound place of Vali's final rest
Thyself shall come and wearily attend . . . ."
Alcesidas stopped in thought for a moment. "Who is this 'Son of Prophecy'?"
"Would that I knew. I asked Wilum the same, but he gave me no answer."
The two men stood in silence. Then Alcesidas finished reading the lines in an undertone, as if to himself.
"Well, that makes things no more clear. Save for the piece . . ." He raised a finger to point along the last lines of the cryptic verse. "Ah, there. 'Great woes by thine own kingly heart.' The Son of Prophecy must be a personage of blood royal. Think you this be the Prince Starigan that Wilum charged you to find?"
"It may be, Alcesidas. That much has occurred to me, but I know not."
"It would seem an arduous and comfortless task allotted to him. A bleak prospect, to be sure. And the allusion to Vali the Betrayer, whose memory rests uneasy with us—"
"I know not. I know not. 'Tis but pointless prophetic doggerel scratched here by some witless ancient—" Kal cut himself short as he rounded on Alcesidas. The prince looked at him with evident concern. Kal's tone softened. "Forgive me, my friend." He dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. " 'Tis all so murky . . . Too hard to decipher and understand. These lines make your Riddle Scrolls seem like child's play." Kal smiled weakly, lifting his head.
"It would appear that this 'Son of Prophecy,' whoever he may be, is not the only one that labours under a heavy burden."
Kal turned away from the Cave of the Hourglass and faced the night that spread out before him over the Stoneholding.
"Yes, Alcesidas, I am overwhelmed. My heart misgives me. I knew that I must revisit this place, but in so doing I fear I have lost the peace garnered in your underground haven."
"Well, it would seem that all that has been accomplished in coming to this place is to have fired your spleen and weakened your temper."
" 'Tis not this place that fires my spleen, but remembering that goads my heart." Kal heaved a deep sigh and looked down to where the clutch of men stood waiting not a stone's throw away on the trail leading to the Well of the Seven Springs. "I am reminded of the urgency of my folk's plight. We have—I have—been lulled, perhaps, by the sweet narcotic of welcome and safety, distracted into a forgetfulness of our dire urgency. I feel now, in revisiting this place . . . I know not rightly what. Disquieted, for certain." Despite the warmth of the night air, Kal shivered involuntarily. "I apologize, Alcesidas, for my melancholy. But, come now—let us move on to the Seven Springs below. I would look upon my home and native country one last time. Then we shall make for your hidden realm once more."
Alcesidas looked relieved as they made to join the others on the path. "It is good," he said. "The sooner we are quit of this whole place, the better. By the hammer and tong, Kalaquinn, a hammerson is an ember out
of the fire in your aboveground world. But I wish you would make clear what your purpose is. I fail to see how this aids us in our plight against the wolves."
"Be patient, friend. A short while yet and all will be clear, I hope. You shall be pleased, if my plan is not misconceived, and I believe it is not."
Kal turned his attention to the small group of men they were approaching and called, "All is well, let us make our way down to the—"
"A gathgour! Look!" Galli cried, pointing to a cleft high among the rocks.
"Where?" Frysan spun around, peering up the mountainside, even as he reached over his shoulder to pull an arrow from its quiver and nock it to the bowstring.
"I see nothing," said Devved, cuffing Galli in the chest. "Clout, you're starting at stone shapes and shadows."
Galli shot a glance at the big smith. "No. I saw it just up there."
"Bah! We should have brought your uncle Diggory along, Galli. At least he was carried away by something more solid than his imagination," Devved said, stifling a chuckle.
A hammerson guardsman moved to open the shutter of his helm-lamp, but his hand was stayed by one of his fellows.
"No, it's not Galli's imagination," said Kal in a low voice. He scanned the looming rocks, frowning. "Make no mistake. They are there."
"Re'm ena, I'm right," Galli whispered hoarsely. "There, look, a gathgour—and another one. I knew I was right."
Far up the rocky slope, the muted forms of two large creatures wavered and swayed uneasily. Frysan flexed his bow to full bend, but it was Galli who, in one swift, fluid movement, plucked an arrow from over his shoulder, drew, and let fly. The arrow rattled and clattered among the stones.
"Hold," said Frysan, releasing the tension from his weapon. "Hold. You'll nought but waste your shafts in this dark. They're too far off to make a fair mark."
"Aye, they keep their distance. They're wary for some reason. It may be this they fear." Kal opened his satchel and drew forth several sprigs of rowan, dried leaf and berry still clinging to the twig, each bound by thin strips of leather. He held them out, turning to the group of men. "Here, each of you must take one of these. Wear it around your neck."
Alcesidas and his men each held a rowan talisman, looking to Kal and then to one another. With dawning comprehension, they followed the Holdsmen's lead, each removing his helm to hang the sprig around his neck.
Swords drawn and bows fitted with arrows, the small group now moved on down the path. Every man cast glances up the mountainside to where the gathgours cowered, watching, until the animals were blocked from view as the party rounded a bend in the trail.
With Galli in the lead, alert for sign, they traversed the side of Mount Thyus, threading their way down a narrow, stone-strewn defile of uneven ground and close-winding turns. Kal stiffened as they passed a gap in the rocks. A night breeze touched his face from the open flanks of the mountain. As if still carried on the night breeze, he imagined that he could hear the alarmed voices of his fellow Holdsfolk and the coughing bark of gathgour.
About a mile farther along the trail, they left the confines of the pathway and stepped into the full light of the moon illuminating a long, sloping field that lay before them. They could now just discern the distant drone of rushing water, Skell Force tumbling into the small lake below. They quickened their steps down the alpine meadow's gentle incline towards a low stone wall, a half circle bounding the Well of the Seven Springs against the hillock from beneath which it rose. Near the centre of the wall there was a narrow break, and through this opening water rushed, flashing silver into a tight, stone-lined channel set deeply in the ground and edged by walls half the height of those enclosing the Well to which they abutted. Down the gradually widening flume, the water coursed in a torrent towards the plunging waterfall that was Skell Force.
"Wait!" Galli held Alcesidas back. "Something's wrong. Can you smell that?"
"Aye . . . Yes, I do."
"And a sound . . . . I thought I heard something, but faint. From over there." Galli pointed to the far side of the Well, screened from view by the brow of the knoll and the low wall extending beyond.
"Do you see anything?" Frysan pressed forward beside Galli and peered down to the Well himself, where crisp black shadows stood out starkly against the meadow awash in moonlight.
"No, not a thing . . . . But something's amiss."
"We must scout. Slowly. Careful. Keep weapons in hand," whispered Frysan.
The group fanned out and began stalking down the field. Minutes later, they skirted a weathered ledge of rocks that protruded from the hummock of land overshadowing the deep springs. Here the men followed the arc of the wall around the Well in single file. The smell grew stronger. Mingled with the sweet scent of crushed grass and early summer's meadow flower borne on the slight wisp of breeze was a raw, foul, musky smell, and a deeper odour underlying that: the sick, coppery stench of blood and death.
"Re'm ena, what's this?" Frysan was the first to advance, overstepping the narrow watercourse, sword held out before him, staring wide-eyed at the horror that met him. "Black Scorpions!"
Then they all saw it, a scene of carnage, bodies and armour, spears and swords strewn in bleak disarray, clearly visible in the cold moonlight.
"By the avalynn! What has happened here?"
"Gathgours, Alcesidas. They were attacked by gathgours. Here, see?" Galli said as he stepped forward, pointing his sword at a long-limbed body that lay tangled in a heap of Scorpion corpses, its grey fur caked with blood, its slit-eyed face, even in death, contorted by a ravenous, feral snarl. There were three gathgours lying slain that they could see. The reek of the creatures was choking, more so even than the stench of slaughter that stained the night. Most of the men had covered their faces, burying their mouths and noses in their sleeves and turning away to find cleaner air.
Alcesidas commanded that the helm-lamps remain shut. The flash of their movement would be a beacon, surely attracting the attention of anyone, or anything, nearby. Instead, he half opened the shutters to the steady light of his lantern.
The bodies were scattered around the remains of a large campfire. Three tents, torn to shreds, lay flattened nearby. The gear and supplies of their former occupants were strewed about, among it the heavy mail armour and weapons of Black Scorpion Dragoons. Galli cast about the camp, trying to glean from the grisly discovery what meaning he could.
Kal, in a daze, stood blindly staring at the legs of a soldier sticking out from beneath the canvas wreckage of a tent. He became aware of Galli beside him, who was explaining how the attack must have happened at night, probably the night before, and that the gathgours had caught the soldiers unawares. Galli was telling how the Black Scorpions had obviously tried to fend off the beasts. Despite claiming three kills of their own, however, the soldiers had been overwhelmed. Then Galli mentioned the wounds—great gaping wounds where the flesh had been stripped to the bone or torn, exposing mutilated viscera. Some of the soldiers were half eaten. One body had been dragged away, the twin heel marks scoring the ground and ending where one of the beasts had hefted the corpse's bulk onto its back. The creature's footprints were more deeply impressed into the ground there. Kal saw before his mind's eye Diggory bouncing like a rag doll over the hunched shoulder of a stooped and loping figure.
A sound like a moan escaped the broken remains heaped nearby. Galli started in sudden fear.
"It's one of the men. He's alive," Frysan said, moving behind Galli. "He's pinned under a gathgour. Still gripping a dagger. Come, help me free him, Devved. You, too, Galli."
When Frysan drew closer, the wounded man made to lash out at him with the blade. He groaned deeply at the effort. His arm swung out and fell listless to the ground, his hand lolling. The knife twitched in his grip.
"By the lifting, that Scorpion's got some sting in him yet," said Devved as he wrenched the dagger from the wounded man's fingers. Carefully, they freed him, disentangling limb from limb until at last Devved was able to lift off the heav
y weight of the gathgour. He flung the creature aside as if repelled not only by the creature's stink but also by the suggestion of mortal danger still clinging to its thickly corded muscles, glistening fangs, and lifeless, staring slit-pupilled eyes. Frysan and Galli laid the soldier down by the circle of charcoal and blackened wood that had been the campfire. Kal stepped closer, looking down at the man. Blood seemed to cover him from head to foot. It was nearly impossible at first to tell where his injuries lay.
" 'Tis his middle. He has been gutted," Alcesidas said, his face grave. "If not for the weight of the gathgour pressing on him, he would surely have bled to death."
Kal cringed at the sight of the wound. Entrails, soft, pale pink, and now streaked with red, as the blood began to ooze again, pushed through the rent cloth of his tunic where the gash was deepest. The man's eyes flickered open, unseeing, and a gasping moan escaped his lips.
"Water. Fetch me some water," Kal said, and one of Alcesidas's guards promptly handed him a skin. Kal pressed it carefully to the wounded soldier's face, wetting his mouth, until, like a suckling, the man sought out the skin with his lips. Kal lifted the skin, letting water slosh in the man's mouth and over his cheeks and chin, until at length he began to swallow, half choking, taking weak, shallow draughts.
"And woundwort," Kal continued, lifting the skin away. "I need some woundwort to pack his wound and staunch the bleeding. Devved, I saw a clump of it by the big boulder we passed near the Well. Do you know where I mean?"
"Yes, but . . . Why bother? He'll not survive. And besides," Devved said, his voice becoming hard-edged, full of remembering and loss—wife, children, home, "he's just a canker-hearted swine, our sworn enemy. And mine mortal!"
Kal turned to look at the big man and said gently, "Go, do as I bid, Devved. We will tend to the living while we may."
"Aye, Devved. 'Tis a poor time to quibble with the Hordanu," said Alcesidas.
A muscle flexed above Devved's jaw, his honest face etched by the potency of the feelings he fought to master. "All right, then. As you will," he said and turned on his heel.
Darkling Fields of Arvon Page 3
