Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (49 page)

 
          
The
disabled monster forgot Tepshen as its upper eyes saw the attacking beast, and
it turned, mandibles snapping defensively. It was too late: the other landed
upon its back, legs gripping the bulbous sac of the body. The stinger drove
down, piercing the carapace; the mandibles fastened around the head and the
second monster rode the other as it began to tremble, throwing itself desperately
against the walls of the cleft in a vain attempt to rid itself of its
assailant. The stinger remained imbedded in its body sac and in a little while
the poison took effect. The wounded creature’s struggling slowed, its legs
folded, no longer able to support the double weight, and it sank to the ground.
The other withdrew the daggerlike appendage and jumped clear. With an awful
efficiency it rolled the dead monster onto its back and sank its mandibles into
the underside of the belly, tearing a gaping hole into which it thrust its
palps. The sucking sounds Kedryn had heard were explained as the corpse was
drained.

 
          
“Cannibals,”
Tepshen muttered as the victor proceeded to sever limbs and suck them dry,
leaving only husks that rapidly disintegrated into the dust that covered the
floor.

 
          
He
watched as the head of the fallen beast was devoured,
then
suddenly ran forward, sword arcing to slice deep into the side of the feeding
creature. It turned toward him and he hacked through two limbs before darting back.
The monster emitted the whistling sound they had heard before and within the
instant a third was on it.

 
          
Another
was attracted, either by the shrilling that appeared to indicate hurt or the
sounds of battle, and they fought, rearing up to clack mandibles and
manuevering to place stingers. A melee ensued as more came, spidery bodies
hilling, the devourers in turn attacked and eaten. Kedryn found himself hieing
one that charged out of the darkness, halting as it faced the talisman’s light,
and he swung the great sword down upon its startled head, splitting the ovoid
in a great welter of pungent ichor. That one, too, was pounced upon, but while
it was drained, Brannoc hacked legs and the feeder was devoured in turn.

 
          
In
time the three comrades had no need to fight, for the cannibal spiders killed
one another and the men needed only occasionally use their blades, when a beast
ventured too close.

 
          
It
was a respite that brought them no joy, for the spectacle of the hideous
creatures eating was nauseating, the sundered bodies filling the night with the
overwhelming reek of rotted fruit, and they were thankful for the advent of
what passed for morning within the shadows of the cleft, for the return of the
light sent the beasts scuttling up the walls to the safety of their caves. No
traces of the ghastly combat remained, the bodies degenerating into dust as the
ichor that gave them life was sucked out, and the three, grim-faced and
hollow-eyed with lack of sleep, continued their progress into the mountains.

 
          
Farther
along, the cleft opened and rose more steeply, eventually giving onto a bowl
around which the jagged peaks reached narrow fingers to the purple cloud, like
a hand clutching at the sky. They climbed the side of the bowl and traversed a
long ridge, a perilous hogback that descended on both flanks into cave-pocked
ravines, moving toward a solitary peak that appeared to mark the far scarp of
the hills.

 
          
It
seemed they had climbed above the kingdom of the spiders for the caves became
less numerous as they approached the peak and eventually they found themselves
crossing a landscape devoid of the threatening openings. The fruity stink faded
and the red dust no longer filled the air, even the warm wind dropping away
behind them. They saw that the cloud, too, ended, unnatural as all else in this
strange land, ceasing as if it marked a boundary, the farther edge stretching
across the sky above the peak neatly as though marked by a straight-drawn line.
Beyond it the heavens were canescent, a pale, ashen gray.

 
          
They
reached the peak and halted, fatigued by the long hours of climbing and the
sleepless, horror-filled night, deciding to make camp while some semblance of
flat terrain offered a measure of comfort.

 
          
The
stone on which they stood was relatively smooth, scattered with large pebbles
and shards of rock, as if chipped from the pinnacle that rose high above them,
conical and tapering to a point just below the cloud. Beyond it lesser summits
concealed whatever lay ahead, spreading in a downward slant like wave tops on a
cloudy day. The hills behind hid the green sun and the vermilion sky alike, and
what light there was appeared to emanate from no particular source, though
unlike the plain, shadows fell, stretching out from the jagged crests in stark,
dark pools. Without the wind the temperature dropped rapidly, and without
timber or any other combustible materials it was impossible to light a fire, so
they ate and wrapped their blankets about them, preparing for a cold and
cheerless night.

 
          
They
had clearly entered another region of the netherworld, for here there was no
cloud movement to mark the ending of day, merely a fractional lessening of the
light that plunged the mountains into a dreary twilight. They took turns on
watch, the darker hours passing without incident, and started their descent
when the light brightened to a gloomy approximation of day. Still there was no
sun, nor did the sky hold any evidence of cloud, and they wound their way down
shadowed slopes rendered treacherous by the deceptive illumination until they
reached an area of deep ravines and winding gullies that severed times turned
them back on their path so that they were still within the rocky mazes when the
dim light faded again.

 
          
They
passed a second cold night among the ravines and in the morning started out
once more along the deep-cut pathways, working steadily downward through a
region empty of any signs of life. A third night was spent sleeping on hard,
cold stone, and another day descending. The sky remained an unrelenting gray, glum
as tarnished silver; no wind blew and the air was still, chilly, and scented
faintly with the odor of ashes.

 
          
Then,
at about
noon
by
their calculations, the ravine they traversed opened onto level ground.

 
          
Tepshen
was in the lead and he halted abruptly at the mouth of the ravine, staring
ahead. Kedryn and Brannoc moved to join him, pausing dumbstruck at the vista
that spread before them.

 
          
It
was a wasteland, gray and empty and forbidding. As far as the eye could see the
ground was flat, a gray slightly darker than the hue that loomed overhead,
striated with a myriad shallow cracks as if mud had baked dry and split. No
trees grew, nor was there any sign of rivers. Not even boulders broke the
inexorable advance of the smooth plain on which the only discernible marks were
the scissures mazing its dull surface. How far it stretched was impossible to
judge, land and sky melding along the horizons, featureless. No sun was
visible, nor any landmarks, only the level, empty terrain.

 
          
Kedryn
stepped past Tepshen and marched onto the flat. The ground was hard beneath his
boots and when he approached the closest fissure he saw nothing save a shallow,
smooth-sided indentation. He turned, studying the hills, but they showed no
sign of the fires that might mark Taziel’s dwelling and he faced his companions
with dwindling spirits.

 
          
“I
believe,” he said slowly, his voice dull, “that we must cross this miserable
landscape.”

 
          
Tepshen
nodded without speaking. Brannoc said, “At least it shows no sign of monsters.”

 
          
“Nor
any other sign,” Kedryn sighed. “If Taziel’s smithy is, indeed, marked by fire
it must lie beyond this place.”

 
          
“Then
forward we go!”

 
          
Brannoc
grinned, essaying a semblance of cheer that was somewhat belied by the look he
cast about him. Kedryn shared his apprehension, for the terrain was horribly
gloomy, of an aspect to rob souls of optimism, denying even the alleviation of
danger, offering, it seemed, only unending boredom. He hiked Drul’s great sword
to a more comfortable position on his back and began to tread the dismal waste.

 
          
Barris
Edon studied the approaching wagon with some interest, recognizing the blue of
Estrevan beneath the dust that coated its boards and the robes of the woman
seated beside the driver. This one, however, had an escort of six warriors,
their travel-stained surcoats marked with the fist of Tamur in scarlet against
a white roundel, which meant they came from the Morfah fort. Something, he
assumed, to do with the Paramount Sister Gerat, who appeared to have taken up
residence in High Fort.

 
          
His,
he told himself reluctantly, was not to reason why, but to warn his
watch-captain of their coming, so he shouted from his lookout post and promised
himself he would inquire later as to what all the activity presaged. He knew
that Kedryn had gone into the Beltrevan with the slant-eyed easterner who
seemed never to leave his side, and the former wolf’s-head, Brannoc, and that
rumor had it Kedryn’s new wife was taken prisoner, either by barbarians or some
follower of Ashar, according to who told the story. The former he dismissed,
for were it true, Rycol would undoubtedly have mounted a full- scale rescue
mission, so his money was on the latter, which might go some way to explaining
Gerat’s presence and this new visitor. He watched as the wagon came up to the
gates and disappeared from view, wondering if war was to break out again.

 
          
Below
his position the watch-captain greeted the newcomer and helped her from the
wagon. She was very young, and her free was grave as she asked for the Paramount
Sister. The officer was too disciplined to question her, and anyway assumed
that Chatelain Rycol would inform him of anything he needed to know, so he
curbed his own curiosity and brought the Sister to the commander.

 
          
Rycol
greeted her with a free no less grave than hers, and sent word for Gerat to
join them. The Paramount Sister entered the room alone and smiled at the young
woman.

 
          
“Sister
Jenille, is it not? I am pleased to see you.”

 
          
Jenille
ducked her head in greeting, gratefully accepting the wine Rycol offered.

 
          
“I
am come with all speed, Sister. Senders now wait along the way from Estrevan to
High Fort.”

 
          
“The
Morfah
Pass
?”
Gerat asked. “The Gadrizels have been ever
a barrier.”

 
          
“Leah at the mouth,” nodded Jenille, “and Meara in the fort.
They are the most adept among us.”

 
          
“Excellent,”
Gerat smiled, though the expression lacked its usual good humor.

 
          
“Is
there word?” Jenille inquired.

 
          
Gerat
shook her head. “Not yet. By now Kedryn must have reached Drul’s Mound, but we
have heard nothing.”

 
          
“My
spies report no unusual activity,” Rycol offered, “and had Kedryn been
captured, I believe some news would have reached me.”

 
          
“So
mayhap he has succeeded in entering the netherworld,” murmured Jenille.

 
          
“Mayhap,”
said Gerat. “We must hope so, and remain ever alert.”

 
          
“For
what?” asked the young woman,
frowning.

 
          
“I
am not sure.” Gerat sighed, her unlined features troubled. “I ask that you hold
your mind open, for I believe that when the time comes you or I will sense a
stirring of powers.”

 
          
“So
we must wait,” said Jenille.

 
          
“Aye,”
Gerat confirmed, “we must wait. It is all we can do.”

 
          
Wynett
descended the stairs with considerable trepidation, torn between the certitude
of her decision and the fear that it might serve only to reveal further contradictions.
Nonetheless, the awful loneliness she had felt as she stood atop the palace and
surveyed the gray, rain-sodden landscape spurred her on. To continue unknowing
was to court the enemy despair; or worse, to flirt with madness. Her faith in
the Lady was such that she felt truth must lie in Eyrik’s suggestion: that the
introduction of the talisman to the oracular pool must surely impose upon it a
demand for veracity that would transcend its multilayered depictions of reality
to show her that which applied to her, here and now.