Defiant Peaks (The Hadrumal Crisis) (66 page)

‘There can be no question of their own adepts defying Soluran Artifice,’ the old man declared with absolute certainty,

Corrain saw his gaze shift towards the great cave’s entrance. There could be no doubt that these
sheltya
had stripped every last scrap of knowledge about aetheric magic in Suthyfer and Col from Aritane’s memory.

Another woman lowered her hood to speak; so thin-faced that her darkened eyes looked like a skull’s empty sockets. She was of an age to be Aritane’s mother though Corrain recalled that
sheltya
vows forbade them children.

‘What is that to us?’ Her question was genuine, not rhetorical flourish, though her tone clearly assumed there could be no sufficient answer.

‘You fear the loss of your lore.’ The first man sneered at Jilseth. ‘True knowledge cannot be destroyed and it’s of no concern to us if your charlatans’ secrets are mislaid.’

She ignored him in favour of addressing the older woman. ‘A blade is neither good nor evil. Such judgements only apply when such a tool is used. A knife can slit an innocent’s throat or save a man’s life in the wilderness. So it is with knowledge, such as Trydek’s magic.’

Corrain recognised the first Archmage’s name. Now he wanted to know why these
sheltya
now stood as still as the stone icicles on the walls, even those still hidden beneath their concealing hoods.

The tense silence lengthened. The old man spoke first.

‘Will you let us read your thoughts and memories? Then we may fully understand the peril which you face and what Hadrumal’s fall might mean for these mountains.’

He sounded so matter-of-fact that he might have been asking her to pass him a chapbook to read with his ale in some tavern.

Corrain saw Jilseth’s unease but her trepidation didn’t convince him that she truly understood the violation she was being asked to endure. Before he could speak, the hostile man shook his head, mocking.

‘You ask for our help and yet you will not trust us. Very well, keep your secrets. They are of no interest to us.’

He glanced from side to side and the two women nodded. The elder lifted her hood to shroud her face again.

Corrain saw Jilseth’s eyes narrow. She folded her hands behind her back, squaring her shoulders.

‘Search my mind if you must.’

Only Corrain could see how tightly she interlaced her fingers, deliberately pressing on those seared wounds. Why inflict such pain on herself?

Before he could find a reason, she collapsed. Corrain sprang forward. Even so, he was barely in time to save her from a bruising fall onto the stone floor. As he hugged her to his chest, she hung in his arms, dead weight.

At least she was still breathing. Corrain lowered her to the floor. Straightening her sprawling legs, he looked up at the
sheltya.
‘What—?’

Jilseth rolled onto her side. She hadn’t recovered her wits; her eyes were still tightly closed. Her back arched and her arms tensed, hands clawed. Tremors racked her from head to toe.

Corrain recalled an old guardsman, Brish, from Fitrel’s days as sergeant, who’d fallen off his horse and cracked his skull, so the apothecary had said. He’d seemed to recover, until the seizures had started, before an apoplexy had finally killed him.

Jilseth’s head drummed on the cave’s floor. Corrain saw blood smear her cheek as the unforgiving stone scraped her ear raw. He tore off his jerkin to force the cloth beneath her head.

‘What are you doing?’ he shouted at the
sheltya.

‘She invited us into her thoughts. The more she fights against us, the more she will suffer.’

The barely veiled satisfaction in the sardonic man’s words made Corrain want to punch the swine’s teeth out through the back of his head. But he would have to leave Jilseth to do that and still more brutal convulsions were now wracking her. He was struggling to keep his jerkin cushioning her head.

‘She cannot help but resist us.’ The old man shook his head regretfully.

‘These charlatans always panic when they are cut off from their sorcery,’ the sardonic man said smugly.

One of the hooded figures said something sharp in the Mountain tongue. Another faceless grey-robed figure answered. If Corrain couldn’t understand what they said, he could at least hear their consternation.

Jilseth was whimpering, her lips bloodied. Had she bitten her tongue? Corrain recalled bitter argument in the barrack hall over forcing a spoon into Brish’s mouth to stop him choking on his tongue. The poor bastard had broken four teeth on the cursed thing.

Corrain seized Jilseth’s shoulders and forced her forwards as a spasm threw her onto her back. He could at least keep her face down to stop her drowning in her own blood.

Her arms and legs thrashed wildly. He would never have believed that such a slightly built woman could prove so strong. She could have no sense of what she was doing, he was sure of that. Her out-flung hand smacked so hard against the floor that Corrain was sure he heard a bone crack.

The
sheltya
stood in their loose circle, conversing in their incomprehensible tongue. Corrain guessed that some argument was developing but Jilseth’s whimpers rose to a thin keening, so despairing that hair rose like hackles on his neck.

He gathered her to him in a crushing embrace. If she was lost in some
sheltya
wrought nightmare, perhaps in some way beyond conscious thought, she might feel that reassurance. Hadn’t Hosh, when the boy had so nearly died of that fever?

‘Enough!’

As the old man spoke, Jilseth went limp. Corrain laid her gently down on his jerkin and rolled her head to one side to save her from choking on bloody drool.

‘You are free to go.’

He looked at the golden-haired
sheltya
woman.

‘We have debated your fate and conclude that you and your people are of no interest to the mountains.’ The man who had been so hostile lifted up his hood to hide his face.

‘You may leave this place and she may go on her way when she has returned to her senses. We will not help Hadrumal’s wizards.’ The
sheltya
woman raised her hood.

Now only the old man with the palsied hand remained with his head uncovered.

‘You think I would leave her here?’ Corrain didn’t care if this old man was the least deserving of his anger.

‘No,’ the old man said calmly.

Corrain carefully withdrew his jerkin from beneath Jilseth’s head and put it on. After a moment’s consideration, he squatted and lifted her up. Draping her over one shoulder like a sack of grain wasn’t overly dignified but he didn’t know how far they might have to go to find shelter.

‘Are you casting us out into the wilderness without any gear?’ he challenged the old man. ‘Can you convince yourselves that’s not murder if you don’t see our blood on your hands?’

None of the hooded figures reacted. After a long moment, the old man, nodded. ‘Wait on the mountainside and I will bring your gear.’

‘Which way do we go?’ Corrain was in no mood to be put to any tests.

The old man gestured. ‘That way.’

Corrain nodded. That could suffice for a farewell because nothing would induce him to thank these callous bastards.

The old man smiled. ‘Among the Mountain Men, the insult you should use is “son of his own grandfather.”’

Corrain had no answer for that, so he hefted Jilseth more securely onto his shoulder, turned around and left the cavern.

The old man had indicated that he should follow his sword hand. Surely there was no reason for him to lie. Corrain walked steadily onwards, refusing to consider any possibility that he might be heading deeper into this barren labyrinth.

Soon fluttering torch flames and a steadily growing draft of fresh air rewarded him. Rounding two more turns, he saw a jagged cave mouth framing pale blue sky.

Dawn or dusk? Corrain realised he had no idea. Emerging into the thin sunshine, he drew a deep breath of shuddering relief. In the next moment, he shivered uncontrollably. Hastily laying Jilseth down on the dull turf, he buttoned his jerkin and looked around.

They were indeed on a mountainside and nowhere that he recognised. Granted, Corrain knew nothing of the White River’s valley above Wrede but the vista ahead looked very different from anything he’d seen on his hike with Aritane. Here the land fell away towards endless trees reaching to the horizon. Where had these
sheltya
taken him?

Could this be the upper region of the Great Forest, on the far side of the broad gap in the mountains where the town of Grynth guarded against any incursions from the Mountain Men living above that region of broken fells and lakes? Corrain had no idea.

First things first and one thing at a time. That’s what Fitrel had taught him. Was it morning or evening? That would determine how far he could travel. Once Jilseth recovered her wits, he could hope that her wizardry would carry them to Halferan or more likely to Hadrumal. Meantime, he was certain that the magewoman would want to get as many leagues as possible away from these cursed
sheltya
.

Corrain frowned. It made no sense for the sun to be there.

‘You stand on the northward face of the Gidestan peaks,’ the old man said placidly.

He turned to see the old
sheltya
in the cave entrance with a blanket-wrapped bundle at his feet. Though neither hilt nor scabbard was visible, the solid length thrust through the middle must surely be his sword. That was a relief, even if he only used it to split firewood.

Corrain contemplated the peak rising up beyond the old
sheltya.
It was easily the height of any of those which he had seen walking with Aritane. Though this mountain stood alone; an outlier separated from the saw-edged range further south by some land he couldn’t see.

Whether that rocky shoulder beyond the cave mouth hid a gentle slope down to an accommodating plain or some precipitous drop into murderous ravines made no difference. Corrain couldn’t see any hint of a pass through those deadly heights beyond.

‘Which is closer? The break in the mountains above Inglis or the Ensaimin lake lands?’ He might at least have a direction to walk in while he waited for Jilseth to recover.

‘Ushal Tena, the route to Inglis, is two hundred or so leagues eastward. Sekmor Tena, the route to the lakes, is perhaps three hundred leagues westward.’

The old man smiled, though not with the malicious satisfaction Corrain would have expected from his shaven-headed colleagues. The old man seemed pleased, like some kindly grandsire.

‘There is a pass closer but you should not risk it at this season, not with such scant gear. It is for summer travel only. Winter chokes it with snow.’

‘Good to know.’ Corrain wondered how best to carry that bundle as well as Jilseth.

The old man angled his head. ‘What do you know of Gidesta?’

‘Nothing,’ Corrain said curtly. ‘As you surely know since you’ve emptied out my mind as thoroughly as a drunkard’s purse.’

‘A worthy thrust, swordsman.’ The old man was amiably amused. ‘Forgive me; it is our custom to teach the young through asking questions. The first step to knowledge is acknowledging ignorance.’

Corrain had no interest in debating scholarly philosophies with the day already half gone. He decided his best approach was to sling Jilseth over his shoulder and then bend his knees little by little until he could pick up the bundle with his free hand.

He scooped up the magewoman and settled her securely before advancing towards the cave mouth and gingerly lowering himself.

‘I will walk with you.’ The old man picked up the rope-swathed blanket. ‘This way.’

He followed a dusty scrape in the frost-bleached turf. ‘If you were to head north, you would find any number of streams cutting through those trees.’ He nodded towards the boundless wilderness. ‘They gather into lakes and rivers cutting through marsh and frozen wastes to join the mightiest of all rivers heading eastwards to the ocean. I do not even know if that river has a name in your tongue.’

Corrain concentrated on his footing as the path grew steeper. A broken leg or even a sprained ankle could be the death of him and Jilseth.

‘We are wise to be content with our land,’ the old man continued, reflective. ‘Once, long ages ago, there were those who would have used true magic, which you call Artifice, to make that vast plain lush and fertile instead of sodden and sour. Their price was having all others agree to bow their heads and yield to their rule.’

The old man halted, forcing Corrain to stop as well.

‘If the people ever tired of that rule, if it turned to tyranny, there could be no undoing that bargain. Not without annulling enchantments which their children’s lives relied on. Moreover such disruption coursing through the aether would have unleashed unexpected destruction on every adept beyond the mountains, just as sustaining such selfish magic would have deprived them of all but the most basic enchantments to heal and help their own people.’

The old looked around, his faded eyes reflective.

‘Only
sheltya
could stop this madness and so we did. Our many-times grandfathers and foremothers gathered in this solitary place to oppose those who were so arrogant in their magic. In your tongue, this mountain would be called the Peak of Defiance. Our price was committing
sheltya
to vows forbidding the use of true magic to secure personal power or kinsfolk’s gain. To guard and guide our own people in perpetuity while guarding ourselves against any urge to interfere in affairs beyond our mountains.’