Ironcrown Moon (37 page)

He sat in his saddle as inert as a sack of grain, his head lolling and his hands hardly keeping hold of the reins. One foot had slipped from its stirrup. His big bay was an intelligent beast, and it sensed that its rider sat unsteadily. Rather than take advantage of the situation and toss Raldo off, as the animal had done yesterday, it moved more and more slowly and delicately, almost as though it felt compassion for the wretched man on its back. Raldo brought up the rear of the group, and lagged ever further behind the others.

Finally he seemed to rouse from his stupor and shouted in desperation, “Wait! Please wait for me!”

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Kilian pulled up and said to Garon, “Go back and see if anything can be done for him.”

The young Brother dismounted and picked his way through the others along the narrow path, then continued to the place where Raldo had stopped. The two men spoke for some minutes.

Garon replaced the fat man’s foot in its stirrup and wrapped the reins about one hand before returning to Kilian, shaking his head.

“I’m at a loss, my lord. Brother Raldo insists he can ride on. But he seems very ill. I wonder if he might have suffered some internal hurt in the fall? At any rate there seems little we can do, save hope he will regain his energy. I think it would be unwise to attempt to lead his horse. The animal is enormous, and if it should fall it would pull down the horse and rider leading it as well.”

The small Brother with the squint said, “Old Butterball’s a goner, then? We just leave him?”

“He said he intends to press on,” Garon said. “He may be lucky enough to reach the slide before the troops are upon him.”

“We must continue,” said Kilian, “as fast as is safe.” He clicked his tongue and urged his mount forward. After a moment, the others followed suit, not looking back.

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Raldo cried, “I’ll follow! I’m coming!” But his horse stood still, receiving no signal to move from its rider. After a time, the others were lost to his sight around a bend in the trail.

Raldo shut his eyes and exerted his negligible windsight. They weren’t scrying him—at least they hadn’t lowered their hoods. To be safe, he waited a while longer, then dismounted with more agility than might have been expected. He led the big bay horse to a place where there was shade and a trickle of water. His bruises ached and he was unable to walk without a limp. But there was a small smile on his face as he took bread and smoked meat from his saddlebag, lowered his ample fundament to a flat rock, and began to eat his delayed breakfast.

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Around noon, Kilian and his three remaining companions came to the slide. It was a formidable thing, in places resembling a giant staircase with tilted treads, nearly a hundred ells wide and frightfully steep and rugged. The way across that Garon remembered from his youth was now obstructed by slabs and boulders that had shifted position during the intervening years, so he spent another hour scouting a new path, after which they all made their way slowly to the other side.

They tethered their mounts further on, well out of sight of those who were coming after them, and concealed themselves among rocks where they would not be easily scried or endangered by falling rock. Kilian led them in thaumaturgical exercises to refresh their minds in the technique of melding talent. Then they essayed a practice bolt, aiming at a small slab balanced far up the opposite side of the slope. A

flash jolted the target, and an instant later there came a loud crack and a rumble as the rock bounced a few ells downhill.

“Not very impressive,” Kilian admitted, and the others gave nervous laughs. “But then, we didn’t put our hearts into it.”

Garon eyed him askance. “Do you think we have a chance of pulling this off, master? I’ve never been one for overt magic myself.”

“Needs must when the devil drives,” muttered Niavar. “If you can save your skin no other way, you’ll find your overt talent sharpening along with your resolve.”

“Can you scry them coming, Lord Kilian?” Cleaton asked.

The alchymist pulled his hood down and concentrated. “It won’t be long.”

They waited. The air was still and hot. They loosened their jerkins and eventually shed them, drinking ale from the leather bottles they’d tied to their belts. They’d left their swords hanging on their saddles. Physical weapons would do them no good.

“How far is the cave?” Niavar asked, breaking a long silence.

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“Another two hours’ slow ride,” Garon said. “It’s off to the side and up a ravine, not on the main path.”

Somewhere, a raven gave a raucous bark.

Cleaton said, “My lord, what of Brothers Felmar and Scarth?”

“And the treasure?” Garon appended softly.

“I tried windsearching for them back at the campsite yesterday,” Kilian admitted, “and made another attempt while we were riding here.

They don’t appear to be anywhere on the gorge trail as yet, but if they’re using the spell of couverture, I wouldn’t be able to scry them unless I obliterated it—and that’s too dangerous.

I’ve held off attempting to bespeak them because puncturing a heavy cover spell requires a very’loud‘ windvoice. As I said before, I don’t want to risk some adept tracking the thread back to me. But perhaps that doesn’t matter anymore. The hunters seem to know we’re here.”

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“Then why not give the two lads a shout?” Niavar suggested. “It’d ease my mind, for one, to know that Felmar was in good fettle. We were mates back in the abbey. Runts sticking together.”

“We’ll wait,” Kilian said, “until this situation is resolved. Here comes the vanguard of the troops, rounding that tall crag.”

They exerted their windsight for a closer view. “Codders!” Garon said. “It’s Ollie Elktor himself leading the pack. Who’d have thought it?”

The count and his knights spurred their horses to the edge of the rockfall but made no attempt to enter it. “They’ll send scouts ahead to find the route,” Garon murmured, “just as I did for us.”

But nothing of the sort happened. Lord Elktor and his knights dismounted and so did the warriors. For the next half hour they waited. At last a man-at-arms rode up through the stationary column from the rear, leading a huge bay horse carrying a bulky figure directly to the count’s side. The two men spoke. The fat man pointed to the upper section of the rockslide and made a sweeping gesture.

“Raldo!” Cleaton exclaimed.

“He’s told them of our plan,” Kilian said in a voice gone flat. “They’re not going to cross en masse. We’ve lost our chance to panic them.”

The others groaned. Niavar said, “Damn that Butterball! He must have been gulling us, acting more sick than he really was.”

“He was in very bad shape,” Garon protested. “I examined him before we slept. He had bruises and scrapes almost from head to toe. He kept me awake with his groans of pain.”

“I think our Brother despaired of being able to make this difficult journey,” Kilian murmured,

“and conceived of a plan to ingratiate himself with our pursuers and thus gain lenient treatment when he surrendered.”

“Let’s smite him with a bolt!” Cleaton’s swarthy face was merciless. “That’ll show the lard-arse weasel!”

“No,” the alchymist decided. “We won’t waste our talent in petty revenge. We’ll need every bit of it in making our escape.”

“But it’s a stalemate, master,” Niavar said. “They won’t cross while we’re waiting to bring the rocks down. But if we run, they’ll be after us like wolves. You can be sure those local Brothers riding with them are adept at scrying. They’ve probably got a mind’s eye on us right this minute.”

Kilian said, “They won’t scry us if we’re under a cover spell.”

“You said you couldn’t cover us all!” Garon said.

“I propose weaving a new kind of spell, incorporating all our talents. I’m stronger now, and we’re no longer encumbered with Raldo. I’m

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May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon afraid we must leave our horses behind, but doing so would strengthen the illusion that we were still lurking here. All we need is an hour or so head start. A man can move nearly as fast as a horse on this wretched track. And even though Lord Elktor has a reputation for rashness, I think we can trust him to wait at least that long before daring the rockslide.”

“Will we be safe once we’re inside the cave?” Niavar asked.

Kilian glanced at Garon. “You said its entrance was hard to see from the path. I’ll be able to disguise it with my talent as well.”

“And so we walk to Didion?” Garon said.

“Would that be impossible?”

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“No, but—”

“Other opportunities will present themselves,” the alchymist said with serene confidence. “No doubt we’ll have to stay in the cave for a few days until the searchers lose heart and return to Elktor, but that will give Felmar and Scarth time to catch us up.”

He retrieved his jerkin and gestured for the others to do the same. “No time to waste. Come close to me, one behind the other with a hand on the shoulder of the man ahead.” He described to them how they should blend their talent with his to reinforce the extended blanket of couverture. “There’s still a long chance we might be spotted by the naked eye. We’ll duck-walk to the horses to lessen the possibility.

Ready?”

They murmured assent. He took a few moments weaving the spell, then laid it over the four of them. The bright sunlight turned fractionally dimmer. The others augmented the enchantment as they’d been told to.

“Now,” Kilian said. They crouched and moved off to safety while the Brothers who accompanied Lord Elktor exerted their windsearching faculties in vain.

fourteen

It was not until late morning that Beynor was able to finish dealing with Scarth.

Much earlier, an hour or so after the small troop of knights and warriors from Elktor had abandoned their pursuit of the fleeing thief, Beynor had tracked him into a region of broken cliffs at the southern edge of the mountains. There the density of the rock formations, combined with the cover spell, defeated even his powerful windsight. From Scarth’s ravaged appearance, it seemed likely that he would soon need to rest. Once he was asleep and susceptible to dream-invasion, his fate would be sealed.

With the advent of strong daylight, Beynor had been obliged to hoist the dinghy’s sail and be content with slower progress upriver. The assistance of the submerged Salka Eminence was now all but imperceptible to human observers. Beynor spent the boring hours on the Malle scrying the barge of the royal family, watching Prince Somarus’s party as it emerged from the wilderness and set out along the road to Castlemont, and scrutinizing events taking place at Elktor, where Sir Gavlok, the youthful windvoice called Mattis, who had led the chase after Scarth, three other squires, and presumably the unscriable Deveron Austrey, seemed to be making preparations to leave the castle. The large force that had gone after Kilian was only sporadically viewable as it continued to search high in the mountains near the head of the gorge.

Of the alchymist himself there was no sign.

A bell in a village onshore tolled the eleventh hour of morning, and Beynor decided to try Scarth again. His windsearch once more proved fruitless, so he attempted a dream-invasion. He found the thief not only asleep, but also suffering a horrendous nightmare—the best possible framework for mental manipulation. Beynor waited while the awful scenario played out in the dreamer’s mind, so that he himself might fully understand its portent and make use of it. Then he artfully banished all remnants of Scarth’s fear, leaving the man’s unconscious open to coercion.

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Nothing was moving inside the dark fissure in the cliff-face. It was probably sleeping off its meal, the lucky brute, while felt his empty he belly knocking against his backbone, tormenting him with spasms of hunger.

Scarth was well concealed behind a large rock, not badly wounded after all, carving collops of meat from one of the haunches of the mule’s partially devoured body and stringing them on a stick for roasting over the little fire he’d started with his talent.

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A noise! Someone was coming up the slope. The sound of footsteps crunching over broken rock was steady and undoubtedly human, perhaps a local hunter or trapper who could render aid. He decided to risk a cautious hail.

“Psst! Over here! And for God’s sake, if you value your life, tread softly and keep your voice down.”

A familiar small figure came into view. It was Felmar! Scarth almost whooped for joy, but restrained himself as his friend crept to his side and clasped him in an enthusiastic embrace.

Scarth, Scarth, I thought I’d never catch up with you. But look at you, Brother, all banged and bloody! And what in hell’s happened to your poor mule?

“I thought you were dead, Pel. Thought the moonstones had burned you to ashes.”

No, but it was a narrow squeak. Did you get away with the book and the sigils?

Scarth slapped the pouch hanging at his belt. “Three of the important stones are safe. The fourth was lost in the confusion of my escape.

I’ve still got the book stuffed in my shirt. But tell me how you found me here!”

No, you go first. My escape was pretty ordinary, but I can see you’ve had a rare old time of it.

“Well, yes. I was chased across the moors by troops from Elktor, but I gave ‘em the slip under my cover spell… But how were you able to find me? I’ve still got the spell in place.“