by Martin Ash
Still, Atturio’s answers were not entirely clear. He was in shock, even the captain could perceive that. He confirmed that Edric had died a violent death similar in manner to that of Dervad, that he had found the body and that there had been no witnesses.
Gosbedah scratched his nose pensively. ‘The suggestion, then, is that whoever or whatever killed him has followed you here. We might further surmise that this is the same fellow who you say has terrorized yourself and your daughter. Skalatin, is his name? Either him or the client he has referred to.’
Atturio blinked in weary concurrence.
‘You say he claims that you have something that belongs to him, but you deny that this is so?
A vague nod. Meglan stared in dismay at her father, but he avoided her gaze. Why was he not mentioning the stone? She was tempted to tell Gosbedah, but something – family loyalty, perhaps – prevented her.
‘We will need to exhume the body,’ declared Gosbedah. ‘To verify the details you’ve given me. Will you accompany us?’
‘How can he?’ demanded Meglan.
Gosbedah eyed her askance, clearly irritated by her manner. Atturio spoke in a frail voice. ‘I doubt I could find the place again. It’s deep in wildlands. You would need to speak to Gully. He will know the way.’
‘And where might I find him?
‘He’s away at present on business with my son. He should be back in three or four days.’
‘Ah well, it will have to wait, then.’ Captain Gosbedah sounded relieved, as though the prospect of a long ride to disinter a corpse in arid, sweltering countryside held little appeal. He glanced across at Meglan, and his eyes dropped to the light emerald chiffon fichu she had knotted loosely around her neck. He extended a hand and eased aside the material. ‘This discolouration of your throat and neck, presumably it’s the marks left by the assailant, Skalatin?’
Meglan nodded, swallowing.
‘Plainly a most violent assault.’
Gosbedah asked a few more questions, spoke briefly to Neena and the guards Meglan had hired, then left with his men.
Having seen him out, Meglan quickly climbed the stairs back to her father’s room and seated herself beside him on the bed. ‘Now, Father, you will tell me exactly what happened when you found that stone.’
Atturio stared blankly at her for a long time. She was shocked at how old he appeared. She was ashamed, for she was adding to his distress, but she had to know. ‘If you will not speak to me, Father, I shall have to go to Captain Gosbedah and tell him that you are concealing the truth. You may have good reason for keeping something from him, but after what has happened you cannot possibly justify keeping me in the dark.’
So, wearily, tearfully, Atturio related the events of that evening in the camp, and his discovery of Edric’s mutilated body the next day.
‘But why haven’t you mentioned this? Why not tell the captain about the stone?’
‘I don’t know!’ Atturio shook his head from side to side. ‘There’s something… I just could not… I fear for the consequences if Gosbedah should claim the stone and further prevent Skalatin from regaining it.’
Meglan sat with him a while longer, gently holding his injured hand. She felt there was still something he had not disclosed. Perhaps he could not. Perhaps he did not even know himself.
The stone! Meglan shuddered. Her father’s secretiveness might be rooted in its subtle influence, of the influence of its malign master. She watched her father with misgivings as he began to doze.
She already knew that she would go after Sildemund. The stone had to be brought back as soon as possible, preferably before Sil managed to reach Dharsoul. Meglan was waiting until Master Atturio had drifted off so that she might slip away. Neena entered, bringing medicinal tea for Atturio. He half woke and managed to take a sip. Leaving Neena with him, Meglan slipped out to make preparations.
She saddled her horse, a sleek, sturdy, three-year-old grey filly named Swift Cloud, then went back indoors to pack essentials and arm herself. She changed into hose, boots, light tunic and burnous. She strapped a dagger and lightweight sabre about her waist, and took a bow and quiver of arrows for the saddle-pack. She lacked formal martial skills, though she had spent many hours watching the youths on the military training grounds, and when Gully had taken young Sildemund though basic weapons’ practice Meglan had insisted that he teach her too.
Gully, at first chiding, had later confessed himself not unimpressed. Meglan had shown resourcefulness and spirit, and on one or two occasions, angered or frustrated by Sildemund’s superior strength and overall ability, she had resorted to unorthodox methods and actually bested her twin in armed combat.
Sildemund, his pride wounded, and in some pain, had complained of unfairness.
‘Surely the object is to win, brother?’ Meglan had retorted, pleased with herself. ‘Trounced by an enemy in true combat, would you cry “unfair” as he took your life?’
Gully had roared with laughter at that, and Sildemund had hobbled from the field, clutching throbbing parts, his education – Meglan hoped, with a small measure of self-reproach – more complete for the experience.
But now she felt self-conscious and fearful. That had been play, for all its ardour and Sildemund’s pain. The idea that she might actually have to use in earnest these weapons belted around her waist – use them against skilled men or beasts with malicious intent – sent a chill through her innards.
She returned her mind to the task before her. Almost certainly, she now had to accept, Sildemund would reach Dharsoul before her. Too much time had passed for her to have a realistic chance of catching up with him on the road there. But by leaving now she could at least – she hoped – find him quickly and hasten his return, saving perhaps as much as two or three days that he might otherwise spend in the capital. She had to. Skalatin had made it plain that he would not wait long before exacting another terrible price.
Meglan had hired a couple of guards, fellows well-known to her and her family, capable weapons-men and trustworthy. She took cash from the shop to enable her to hire fresh horses along the way, for she intended to ride without stopping for sleep. Perhaps that way there might even be the remotest chance of catching Sildemund before he reached Dharsoul.
Neena informed her that Master Atturio was asleep. Meglan felt her resolve slipping. She did not want to leave her father.
‘Where are you going, garbed like this?’ cried Neena anxiously, and Meglan took her into her confidence.
‘… say nothing to Father until he asks, as he will surely do. Then tell him simply that I’ve gone after Sildemund and will return soon. Nothing more.’
She embraced Neena, who clutched her tightly, reluctant to let her leave. Meglan freed herself, went outside and mounted Swift Cloud. Neena wept in the doorway. Meglan cast a last glance up to her father’s window, where a faint yellow glow of candlelight was visible, then put her heels to Swift Cloud’s flanks and road out into the encroaching night.
Within an hour she knew the folly of her action. She had imagined that by the light of the moon she would be able to make fair progress through the night. Although she did not know the road well, she did know that it was well-maintained, following the course of the River Tigrant for many miles, and carrying much traffic throughout the daylight hours.
But outside Volm the night closed in rapidly. There was nothing to mark the way ahead, and the moon waned, a slender sickle which cast no appreciable light. Engulfed in darkness, Meglan and her two guards were obliged to slow to a walk. One of the guards, named Jans, took the lead, leaning low from his saddle and peering ahead to try to make out the way.
Even this quickly became impracticable. The dark swallowed everything, and Meglan had to rely for guidance solely upon the sounds made by her companions and their steeds. It had grown cold, the heat of the day dispersing rapidly and a bitter breeze coming down out of the hills. Jans, backed by his companion, Eldan, voiced concern: even at this slow pace there was a serious risk of a horse stumbli
ng and going lame, breaking a leg or, worse, wandering unwittingly right off the road, perhaps to pitch itself and its rider down the steep, invisible bank into the river.
Meglan was not yet to be deterred. ‘We can’t stop. Dismount if you must, and lead the way on foot, but we must keep going!’
Jans did so, none too willingly, but it failed to help. He was literally feeling his way forward with his feet. There was nothing to be seen bar the countless clouding stars overhead, and the occasional bulky outline of an outcrop of rock or trees against the sky. It was impossible.
‘Mistress, I will continue if you insist, but it won’t help us,’ Jans said. ‘To advance this way is to make no advance at all. Any small progress we make will count for little. Even if we avoid an accident, by morning we’ll be too exhausted to make good use of the day.’
‘He’s right, Mistress Meglan,’ said Eldan. ‘An ant will make better progress than us tonight.’
Alone, Meglan would have shed angry tears. Before these men she would not, but she felt thwarted. She accepted the necessity of heeding their advice.
She gave the word to stop, and they cautiously led their horses from the road, away from the river side. Meglan walked with her hand extended, feeling for obstacles. She felt rough grass beneath her feet and heard the rustle of bushes as the breeze passed through them. Then they were beneath trees. They tethered the horses to a bush. Meglan removed Swift Cloud’s saddle, then, too fretful to sleep, wrapped herself in blanket and burnous and lay down to a night of fitful slumber.
VI
Far ahead on the Dharsoul road Sildemund and his two companions, Gully and Picadus, had made better progress.
Knowing nothing of events at Volm they had travelled at a steady pace, unhindered, without particular haste. One the first night they lodged at a caravanserai beside the way. They moved on at first light and stopped only briefly at a wayside inn at midday, to rest their horses, fill their bellies and wash the dust from their throats.
Sometime after leaving the inn, as they broke out upon a parched and dusty plateau, Gully reined in his mount and pointed at something deep in the shimmering distance.
They were in a lonely wasteland of barren hills and ragged gulches and canyons known as Dazdun’s Despair. According to legend Dazdun had been one of the godlike enchanters who long ago had battled for supremacy over the formed world. A ruse plied by the infamous Arch-Enchantress Yshcopthe, had resulted in Dazdun being dispossessed of his highly-advanced sorcerous abilities. He was said to have wandered aimlessly, though in circles, upon the earth. Such was his desolation at being reduced to the status of little more than a mere mortal that his passage brought corruption and distortion to the land, rendering it infertile and hostile to life.
Certainly, Dazdun’s Despair was an arid and inhospitable region, though the description would apply equally to much of the Darch hinterland.
The road had abandoned the riverside some miles back, where sudden cliffs reared and the Tigrant coursed through places where men could not follow. It followed a tortuous path, never straying far from the edge of Dazdun’s Despair. Once out of the Despair, Dharsoul lay less than a day’s ride away. Gully was confident of reaching the capital well before nightfall on the following day.
Sildemund had squinnied his eyes to see what it was that had caught Gully’s attention. At first he saw nothing. The sky was near-white, blindingly bright. The landscape stretched away, a wilderness of blasted rock and earth, bleached and burned in myriad shades, a desert of crags, craters, and ridges, bearing nothing but the hardiest of scrub.
Then he saw movement. He craned forward in the saddle. His heart began to beat faster. Yes, there!
Two hundred paces away grey shapes moved slowly, in disorderly procession up a steep hillside. They were four in number – no, five! The fifth had just emerged from the shadow of a hump of rock. They rolled and bounced without discernible aim, as though without a volition of their own.
‘Hill-ghosts?’ Sildemund was filled with fearful wonder.
‘Aye.’ Gully sat easily in the saddle, his eyes now scanning the road ahead.
Sildemund continued to observe the strange procession until the last ghost had disappeared over the brow of the hill. He turned to Gully, his eyes bright. ‘That’s the first time I’ve set eyes on a hill-ghost.’
Gully nodded and gave a grin.
‘You’ve encountered many, I suppose, Gully?’
‘Not so many. They’re uncommon things.’
‘And you, Pic, have you seen a hill-ghost before?’
Picadus, who was in a sombre mood, nodded and said merely, ‘Once or twice.’
Sildemund scanned the distance in the hope of one last glimpse of the strange entities, but to no avail.
‘Have you ever been attacked by them?’
Gully shook his head. ‘They’re not hostile as such – at least, I’ve never known them to be.’
‘But I’ve heard stories – ‘
‘Aye, there are stories. But in my experience hill-ghosts are aimless, insentient things. They go wheresoever the wind takes them, like smoke. If they make physical contact with you they can cause harm or disorientation, but contact is haphazard as far as I know. They don’t purposefully seek us out.’
He patted his horse’s neck, as the animal had grown a touch restive, seeming to sense the proximity of the ghosts. He gazed ruminatively into the distance. ‘It’s unusual to find them here. In the hills of the Koltar or Sarland, yes, and most especially on the fringes of the Endless Desert. But here in Darch? I’ve never seen one, and know of no one who has.’ He turned his big frame to Picadus. ‘Have you, Pic?’
Picadus shook his head as though the subject held no interest for him.
Sildemund thought to hear the faintest sound coming from beyond the hill. Yes! A distant, melancholic piping, like nothing he had ever heard. He listened in fascination, feeling strange tingles along his skin.
‘It’s their song, Gully! The song of the hill-ghosts!’
Gully smiled at the boy’s excitement, and his own ears picked up the haunting voices, drifting on the breeze, devoid of melody but somehow haunting and beguiling. The song of the hill-ghosts were said to be capable of casting a spell on men’s minds, enchanting and enticing them to commit acts they would under ordinary circumstances not think to do. Listening now, as he had before on occasion, he could believe it possible. The distant song affected him. In closer proximity he might have found himself diverted by its unearthly properties.
‘What are they, Gully? The hill-ghosts – where have they come from?’
Gully swept a lock of long fair hair from his brow, shaking his head. ‘Some say they’re elemental things, ages old, formed of dust and vapour. Others believe they are the shades of strange beasts, long gone. Another tale has them as the weird fabrications of the Enchanter Wars. We don’t know.’ He clicked his tongue and urged his mount on. ‘Come, we shouldn’t dally.’
They rode on along the edges of Dazdun’s Despair. Sildemund was alert, hoping for another glimpse of the hill-ghosts, but he saw nothing and their song was soon lost to his ears.
As they rode they passed wagons or carts and the odd pilgrim or wayfarer heading in the opposite direction. The stopped briefly to exchange news, and learned that there had been bandit activities reported some way to the west of Dharsoul.
‘If that’s so, it may be wise tomorrow to seek company,’ Gully observed.
As evening began to close in they made camp in a dry gulch close to the roadside. Sildemund built a fire and cooked bacon, which they ate with flatbread and watered wine. Gully suggested that Picadus take out his cittern. Sildemund wanted Picadus to compose a ballad about the hill-ghosts. But Picadus, uncharacteristically, was not in the mood. They pressed him and he became irritable. When they asked what was bothering him he declined to reveal his thoughts. They left him to himself, and lay down to sleep.
The following morning dawned hot, with no breath of a breeze. Under Gully�
��s direction the three waited beside the road rather than ride on unaccompanied. An hour passed and a couple of wagons appeared in the distant haze, accompanied by four armed riders.
As they drew closer Gully stepped out in clear view and hailed them. The wagons halted thirty paces away. There was a brief consultation between the guards and a bearded man seated beside the driver who, by his garb, gave the impression of some status. Two of the guards eased their mounts cautiously forward.
‘Why do you call us?’
‘Greetings!’ said Gully. ‘Are you going to Dharsoul?’
The guards eyed them warily, and the one who had spoken said, ‘Perhaps. What is it to you?’
Sildemund took note of their caution. They were well armed and he wondered at the wisdom of stopping them.
‘It’s where we’re bound, too,’ Gully replied. ‘We thought, for security, it might be advisable to travel together. We’ve heard tell of banditry along the road ahead.’
The guard peered dubiously into the distance. ‘Wait.’
The two turned their horses around and trotted back to the lead wagon.
Sildemund called after them, ‘Tell your master I am Sildemund Frano, son of Master Atturio Frano of Volm.’
The men briefly conferred with their employer. They rode back. ‘Our master wants nothing of it. Your name is unknown to him. Off the road now, so that we can pass.’
‘I implore you to reconsider,’ said Gully. ‘The way ahead may be dangerous.’
‘Aye, and you may be dangerous, too! For all we know you are cutthroats in collusion with those you claim lie ahead. We have considered enough, and will take our chances. Now, let us pass.’
Reluctantly the three moved back to the side of the road. The wagons rumbled forward, the guards nervously fingering their weapons. The bearded merchant cast them a single glance as he passed, but did not speak.
‘Do not follow immediately in our wake,’ warned the first guard as they rode on.
Gully kneaded the back of his neck with one hand and watched until they passed out of sight. ‘Nothing for it, lads. We’ll continue alone. Best wait a little longer, though. They were too edgy. If they spot us to their rear they may give us trouble.’
