Dark Magic (42 page)

“And you came unseen?”

Bracht’s question was answered with a brief smile, Gart’s teeth white in the gloom, wolfish.

“There were two of the ni Larrhyn set to follow us.” He chuckled, low. “They’ll have sore heads when they awake.”

“Again you’ve our thanks,” Bracht said, and Gart shrugged, shaping a dismissive gesture. “Swift now,” he advised. “The ni Larrhyn may well anticipate this and look to find us at the gate.”

They heeded his words, cinching girths tight, and mounted and rode out, onto a cobbled street that sent the clatter of their hooves ringing off the surrounding buildings. Like a clarion, Calandryll thought, announcing their furtive departure. He peered about, right hand light upon the straightsword’s hilt, his desire for breakfast forgotten now, anticipation filling the hollowness in his belly, but in the darkness that still filled the alleyways and avenues there was no sign of ambush; nor any sound other than that made by their horses, and the barking of dogs disturbed by such early travelers. Kerns came out of the shadows to either end of the street, whispering assurances that they were not followed, and Gart led the way toward the north gate. Above, the sky began to pale, the dull grey brightening as the rising sun began its contest
with night’s rear guard, an opalescent glow extending westward. Birds set to singing, and where the massive bulk of the central fortress rose over the city, the black shapes of choughs and ravens launched themselves, swirling raucous about the heights.

They reached the gate just as the line of light along the rimrock became a reddish-gold and a horn sounded from the ramparts, announcing the commencement of a new day. Shadow still clustered dark about the foot of the great wall, filled with the protesting rumble of the opening portals and the shouts of the soldiery as watches were exchanged. Mounted men came toward them, Kythan calling soft greeting, his fellow riders gathering protective around the three.

“No trouble?” asked Gart, and his brother shook his head, saying, “None.”

“Then come.”

Gart took the lead as they moved across the square confronting the gates. Overhead, red gave way to gold, pushing across the mountaintops, driving a wide band of brightening blue across the sky. Calandryll looked to where the gates stood open on the pass and saw the way as yet still shadowed by the walls. He saw Gart halt as soldiers came out, exchanging a few words: the soldiers fell back, watching as the column went by.

Stygian darkness descended once more while they traversed the tunnel through the walls, briefly as horses were lifted to a canter, giving way to steadily increasing brightness as they emerged into the pass. Gart speeded their pace to a gallop, the canyon ringing with the magnified thunder of hoofbeats, and as if approving of their venture, the sun rose over the heights, spilling golden light down the length of the cleft.

There was no formal road here, but rather a natural path of time-smoothed stone, wide and flat, bordered on either side by the near-vertical slopes of the Gann Peaks. Scrub clung tenacious along the edges, and higher up Calandryll saw pines thrusting out from the
cliffs, a stream tumbling silvery over the rock. The air grew warmer, bird song louder, the blue band of sky streaked with tails of white cirrus. They rode hard along the flat, looking to put distance and time at their backs, defense against pursuit.

The canyon began to rise, climbing toward an apparently blank wall of sun-washed blue-grey granite. It was the foot of a lesser peak, and about the apex, snow shone brilliant. Their way curved around the base, still rising, narrowed between steep faces of naked stone. It was a long climb and after a while the horses began to blow, affected by the altitude, and Calandryll experienced a mild dizziness, squinting as the snowed caps of the higher mountains wavered and shimmered, as if seen through water. They slowed on Gart’s command, cantering the last league to a place where the road widened again, the pass opening out into a broad bowl, its width grassy and ringed with larches, a shallow stream splashing along the perimeter. The wind whistled a chilly tune through the branches, and where they shaded the ground most deeply, Calandryll saw patches of half-melted, icy snow. He was surprised to see the sun risen halfway to its zenith. Gart reined in, beckoning them forward.

“This will make a comfortable enough camp.” He turned in his saddle, surveying the mountain meadow, grinning ferociously as he added, “And a good place to fight, do the ni Larrhyn come after you.”

Bracht nodded and they clasped hands. Kythan approached, leading a dappled horse, its back bulky with gear.

“All you’ll need,” he said. “The bows topmost. Ahrd be with you.”

“And with you,” Bracht returned, taking the rope Kythan offered and looping it about his saddle horn. “All of you.”

Kythan smiled, no less fierce than his brother. “It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a good fight. And do
they give chase, we’ll earn a place in the tale the bards make.”

“Ahrd willing,” said Bracht gravely, and took Kythan’s hand.

In turn, the brothers clasped hands with Calandryll and Katya, bidding them good fortune. “Come,” Bracht said, and they followed him across the meadow. Behind, the assembled men of the clan Asyth set to building their camp, setting watch over the egress of the road where it emerged onto the grass.

“Do the ni Larrhyn look to chase us,” Bracht murmured, “or send word to Jehenne, they’ll have a hard time of it.”

His voice was proud and Calandryll nodded, thinking that it was heartening to find such stout friends among so many enemies.

A
CROSS
the meadow Bracht ignored the wider way, leading them instead to a narrow gorge that ran level awhile before rising again, and they allowed the horses to find their own pace, moving at a walk up a goat trail that meandered about great sweeping flanks of rock, often enough shadowed by the overhang of ledges and walls that jutted like broken dragons’ teeth against the cloud-streamered brightness of the sky. The air was thin and they spoke little, concentrating on the slow, steady ascent. They must, Calandryll thought, climb over the backbone of the Gann Peaks, and how long before they descended into warmer, more breathable air, he was not sure. Soon, he hoped, for this was a high, cold place, lonely and oddly depressing, the sheer weight of stone and sky all round serving to emphasize that they were but three, setting out for hostile ground.

They halted at noon, sheltering from the wind in the lee of jumbled slabs fallen down from the peaks above, opening the dappled horse’s pack to find oats for the animals, dried meat and hard biscuit for themselves. After they had eaten, Bracht inspected the
bows Kythan had secured, and the arrows, distributing the weapons with a grunt of approval.

They were of a type favored by the Kerns, wood reinforced with bone, much shorter than the yew longbows common to Lysse, and curved deeper: more effective from horseback. Calandryll tested his, grateful for the hours spent practicing on the warboat, for the shortbow was no easy thing to draw, the plating of bone lending it a power its lesser size might otherwise have denied. Satisfied, he unstrung the weapon and stowed it alongside the quiver, in a case of soft hide against the elements, beside his saddle.

“How long before we reach Cuan na’For?” Katya asked as they prepared to leave.

“This is Cuan na’For,” Bracht answered. “Though no clan lays claim to these highlands.”

“Why not?” The warrior woman frowned her surprise as she looked about. “These little hills remind me of Vanu.”

“Ahrd!” Bracht shivered, grimacing his distaste. “Little hills? These are mountains.”

“In Vanu we’d name them hills.” Katya smiled.

“And I’m vowed to go there,” said Bracht, grinning ruefully.

“Shall you change your mind then?”

Katya’s smile became challenging; Bracht shook his head vigorously. “No,” he said, laughing. “Though I must climb the clouds, still I’ll climb them with you—for you.”

Calandryll wondered if wind and cold reddened Katya’s cheeks, but she said nothing more, only shook her own head, chuckling as she swung astride the grey gelding.

“Why do none claim them?” Calandryll wondered.

Bracht waved a dismissive hand. “Do you see grazing up here? For goats, perhaps; but for horses? No! This is no-man’s-land—the grass is our domain.”

“Then I ask—how long before we reach the grass?” Katya said.

“Two days.” Bracht looked skyward. “Spring’s well
enough advanced well not find rain or snow to hinder us.”

“Only Jehenne ni Larrhyn.”

“Aye.” Bracht replied, sobering. “Only Jehenne. Or any other of her family.”

“I think shell not halt us.”

Katya’s voice was fierce, her grey eyes resolute. Bracht’s, Calandryll saw, were less confident. He looked at his hands, gloved, and thought that beneath the leather he felt his palms prickle with unpleasant contemplation. “Would she truly crucify you?” he asked. “Crucify all of us?”

“Me, certainly.” Bracht nodded grimly. “Katya and you . . . perhaps; because you ride with me. The Lykard favor that punishment—they’d nail me to an oak and leave my fate to Ahrd.”

“To Ahrd?” Calandryll gasped. “How should Ahrd decide the fate of a man with nails through his hands?”

Bracht shrugged and said, “They claim that should the punishment be unjust Ahrd’s oak will reject the nails.” Calandryll watched aghast as he snorted cynical laughter, spat, and added, “As best I know, Ahrd has found none innocent yet.”

It was a daunting thought and Calandryll sought comfort in the reminder that they had faced like dangers and survived—they had escaped Anomius, defeated the cannibals of Gash, won through the perils of Gessyth’s dreadful swamps, found safety from the Chaipaku. They must, he told himself, trust in the benign assistance of the Younger Gods, that and their own skills. Surely they must elude Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s vengeance. But still he could not resist clenching his hands: crucifixion seemed somehow a worse death. He wondered if his companions felt the same trepidation. If so, they gave no sign, Bracht taking the lead as the trail wound through a stand of wind-twisted pines, Katya behind him, looking about as eagerly as though they embarked on some pleasurable
jaunt. He elected to hold his own counsel and endeavor to hide his sudden anxiety.

Past the pines the trail rose up a wide slope, curving around a sweeping shoulder of bare rock to enter a couloir that ran down steep enough his mind became entirely concentrated on the descent. Snowmelt rendered the footing treacherous, the gulley smooth-floored and high-sided, shadowy as the day passed into afternoon. They emerged onto a plateau where more trees grew, bent like old, rheumatic men by the wind. Birds wheeled overhead—more choughs, ravens, sometimes an eagle, proud above the lesser avians. Pine martens darted through the timber at their approach and farther up the slopes ibex and huge-horned sheep grazed the crannies. The sun shone bright, but the air was cold and thin, their progress slow, retarded by altitude, the level ground of the plateau a welcome interruption of the seesaw climb that seemed to answer each descent with a longer upward slope.

At such a height the day lingered, as if they clambered closer to the sun, and Calandryll was thankful when Bracht called a halt where a pocket of grass grew, surrounded on three sides by walls of stone. It seemed they sat atop the peaks, for few now rose above them and the egress from the pocket afforded a view of lower elevations, jagged stone spreading to north and east and west. They pitched their tents and got a fire started, blankets spread over the horses against the cold that grew as the sun fell toward the horizon. The sky in that direction burned fiery, defying the blue darkness that spread inexorably from the east, like a cloak trailed behind the risen crescent of the new moon. Stars pricked through the velvet panoply and the wind dropped, tricksy, before blowing again, fiercer and colder. The fire fluttered, sparks streaming into the night, and from the lower slopes wolves howled, setting the horses to snickering and stamping, the black stallion screaming a challenge. Bracht set meat to roasting and they huddled in their cloaks, savoring the smell, their appetites sharpened.

“Is Vanu truly so”—the Kern gestured at their surroundings—“bleak as this?”

“Bleak?” Katya pushed a strand of flaxen hair back from her face, her expression quizzical. “This is not very bleak. In Vanu, now, the mountains will be still snow-covered. These are just a little cold.”

Bracht grunted noncommittally; Calandryll frowned, thinking that these seemed to him mightily chill. Vanu, he decided, must be a hard land if Katya dismissed these mountains so casually.

“Do we need to cross the Borrhun-maj . . .” She shrugged expressively, firelight emphasizing the mischievous smile that curved her full mouth. “Then you shall see real mountains.”

“Ahrd grant we may seize the Arcanum in Cuan na’For then,” said Bracht, “for these are high enough for me.”

That reminder of their purpose drove the smile from Katya’s face and she nodded soberly, reaching out to turn a piece of meat. “I wonder where Tekkan is now,” she murmured.

“Likely closing on Vanu,” Bracht said firmly, “to alert your holy men to what we do.”

Katya nodded, her smile a little restored by that reassurance. Calandryll said, “And Menelian. I wonder how he fares?”

“Aye.” Now the Kern’s face grew somber. “Has he found the means of halting Anomius’s revenant?”

Calandryll had near forgotten that threat: of the sorcerer’s creation there had been no sign, and all that had passed since they quit Kandahar had served to drive that hazard from his mind. He shrugged and said, “Likely he has, else surely the creature would have found us.”

Bracht ducked his head. “I know little enough of revenants, but soon we’ll be in Cuan na’For, where the finding of us will be harder.”

“That’s a bone to gnaw on when it comes,” said Katya. “We’ve enough ahead to think on without our looking back.”

Mention of bone appeared to remind Calandryll’s stomach that it was still empty, for it promptly vented a prodigious rumbling; Katya and Bracht began to laugh. “I think”—the Kern chuckled—“that perhaps this meat is ready.”