To the High Redoubt (24 page)

It seemed ridiculous to go about a hunt in this way, but Arkady did as his armor told him and tried to picture the Bundhi as he had seen him through Surata's eyes and memories. He was startled to see his red sorrel raise on his hind legs and then start off through the constantly changing shapes
.

“Remember, the Bundhi is also looking for you,” the mace warned
.

“I won't forget it,” Arkady promised, wondering if he would recognize the presence of the Bundhi when and if he came across it. What was this sorcerer that he would employ so many disguises?

“It is part of the destruction he desires,” Surata explained as the mace. “Nothing is accurate, and that leads to doubts and to illusions.”

“But this is an illusion, isn't it?” He moved his arm to indicate all of the insubstantial forms around them
.

“No, this is the nature of the other place. When it appears to be a solid thing, that is the illusion,” she said
.

“My horse? My dragon? My gryphon?” He found it difficult to speak
.

“Oh, they are real, in the way of this place. They are real because they come from you. A stone that contains a jewel is only a stone until the jeweler touches it. And when it is a jewel, it is still a stone.” The mace swung in his hand. “Arkady my champion, you must not resist the duality of what we are. That will only rob you of your strength.”

Ahead—at least, Arkady thought, in the distance in front of him—there was something that appeared to be a stretch of desolate land. The patterns of light grew more cohesive and took on the appearance of rocks and scrub. The whole world appeared empty. “What is this?” he asked, disliking everything he saw
.

“It is where we are going. We are seeking out the Bundhi where he has his stronghold. Across that waste, there are mountains, as barren as the moon, and they are where the Bundhi has made his redoubt.”

The red sorrel shook his head, snorting and stamping his feet. He had slowed his pace, and now he resisted going further into the parched landscape that had developed around them
.

“He's edgy,” Arkady said, patting the red sorrel's neck to give him some reassurance. “There must be something he's aware of that bothers him.”

“This place would bother anyone or anything,” Surata said, her voice not entirely calm. “This is very dangerous now.”

“Why?” Arkady asked
.

“Because this is the Bundhi's land, and everything here is part of him. Nothing comes here that he does not know of it.” The mace twitched. “Arkady my champion, be very cautious, for anything might turn against you.”

“There's nothing here,” he pointed out, rising in the stirrups and shading his eyes against the glare of the sun. “There are mountains, but they are a long way off. If the Bundhi is in his stronghold, he cannot know we are here.”

“This is part of his stronghold. This place, all of it, is part of his redoubt. Everything originates with him. Don't be fooled by what you see here.” The scale armor grew heavier to add to his protection
.

Arkady shook his head. “You're worried over nothing. Even if it is as you say, the Bundhi cannot be aware all the time of what transpires here.” He gave the shaft of his mace a pat
.

“He has agents for that,” she snapped. “Go very carefully. Your horse can stay above the ground, not that that would help for long.”

“Stay above the ground?” he repeated, laughing in spite of himself. “He can do whatever you wish him to do. But if you want him to act unlike a horse, you will have to concentrate all your attention on that, and not on what is around you.” This came from the armor, which rang softly with her voice
.

“But—” Before he could go on, he saw the ground ahead of him shimmer and shift. Out of the flat and empty plain, something rose up, a massive cliff of loose rocks that tumbled toward him as the ground gaped open. A rock struck his arm, and at once a shield took the place of the mace. His helmet became a helm; greaves covered his lower legs
.

“Get away!” Surata shouted to him, her voice almost lost in the rattle of the avalanche that poured down on them
.

“How!” Arkady yelled, tugging on the
blankets that covered them. His upper arm ached where a bruise was already forming. Surata lay atop him as if shielding him with her own body.

“Arkady-champion!” she cried, her hands moving over him as if searching for damage. There was nothing amorous about her now.

“I'm…all right, Surata,” he said as he tried to take stock of himself. “My arm, that's all.”

“What's happened to it?” she demanded, her urgent, gentle fingers trying to discern the injury.

“A bruise. How can I be bruised here, if I was struck there?” He felt mildly disoriented, as if he were slightly drunk, or had not slept enough.

“Injury is injury,” she said brusquely. “Come, we must leave here. Now. Before his agents can follow where we have gone.”

“It's…the middle of the night!” Arkady protested as he watched her get to her feet and feel for her clothes. “For God and the Angels, Surata, what are we to do at this hour?” He felt so sleepy, and the thought of moving was wholly unwelcome.

“They will be here. They will know where we have gone. We must not let them find us, or we will never get to the mountain stronghold in this daily world, let alone in the other place.” She had already pulled on her embroidered boots with the upturned toes and was now slipping into her underdress.

“Surata,” he complained.

“Arkady-immai, you must hurry. We haven't got much time. Get up, for the love of…your soul,” she pleaded, pausing to stare in his general direction. “You've seen what the Bundhi can do in the other place. He can do many things in this daily world through his agents and his abilities.
Please!
”

Reluctantly Arkady got out of bed and reached for his acton. It was in a wadded heap where he had left it, and it took him a moment or two to sort the garment out. “Where are we to go at this hour, Surata?”

“Away from here, that's all that matters,” she insisted. Her outer robe was in place and she was knotting her belt. “Hurry, hurry.”

He sighed to let her know he was not pleased, but he pulled his acton on over his head and tried to locate his leggings.

“I'll tend to the blankets. Get up.” She shoved him aside and set about folding and rolling the bedding. “Where are the cords to tie them?”

Arkady, who was now half-dressed, reached for the two cords and held them out for her. “Is it really so urgent?” he asked, no longer mocking her for her dread was as real as the darkness around them.

“Yes. He was more prepared than I thought he would be. I assumed that he no longer concerned himself with me, but…” She broke off as she finished tieing the blankets. “They're ready. How much longer will you need?”

“Not long,” Arkady said, recalling all the times he had had to arm himself for battle in far less time than this. “Can you carry three of the bags? If you can, we won't have to make more than one trip to the stableyard.”

“Yes. Yes, I can. We must not come back once we leave, for that would tell him everything: where we are and that we have fled.” She clapped her hands in impatience. “Listen!”

“What?” he asked as he fastened his belt and picked up his helmet.

“That sound,” she said.

“Mice,” he told her after listening briefly. “Or rats. Most inns have mice. You said so yourself.” He chuckled and was worried when she grew even more agitated.

Surata reached down and gathered up the blankets, slinging the two rolls over her shoulder by the cords and then fumbling to carry more. “Where is the door. Quick!”

“They're just mice, Surata,” he said. He reached for the two leather bags and hefted them to his shoulder. “It's not as if they can do—”

“Don't you understand?” she demanded, rounding on him. “They can be instruments of the Bundhi. They can be after us now, and if they are, it is too late already!”

From the next room, someone banged on the walls and gave an incoherent and angry outburst.

Surata swung around toward the wall and thumped it as hard as she could with the largest sack she could. The thump was a resounding one and made the man in the next room more outraged than ever.

“What the Devil…?” Arkady demanded.

“If he becomes active, the mice may go to him instead. Since he is not the one they search for, he will not be harmed, and by then we will be away from here. Get the bags and move!” She felt her way to the door and pulled it open. “Arkady-immai!”

“Right.” He could hear the mice more clearly, along with the outbursts of the man in the next room, who had started to drum on the wall between their chambers with something very solid. Arkady hesitated just long enough to make sure he had their gold and the flint and steel for lighting fires, and then he left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

Surata stood at the head of the stairs, waiting for him. “You must lead me down. I can't manage them on my own, not with everything I'm carrying.”

He reached for her arm and half guided, half dragged her down the stairs. Behind them, the man in the next room let out a loud and indignant yell, and as Arkady and Surata reached the bottom of the stairs, another one of the guests was shouting, and there were more sounds of mice, scampering and skittering through the inn.

There was a stout bolt across the door of the inn; Arkady dragged it from its housing and flung the door wide open. Pulling Surata after him, he kicked the door closed and sprinted for the stables. His arm braced Surata, and when she might have stumbled, he held her up and kept her moving.

In the stable, he forced her to stand to the side, all their gear at her feet, while he saddled and bridled his bay and the two mules. It did not take long to load the pack saddles, and to bring his two scabbards with their swords to a position of easy access on his gelding's saddle. “Almost ready,” he called to Surata.

There was an outburst from the back of the stable and a sleepy voice shouted at them.

“What's he saying?” Arkady asked as he led the bay out of his stall to where the two mules waited, their long ears twitching at this unusual behavior.

“I don't know,” Surata replied, not amused by the question. “He probably wonders what's going on.”

“Natural enough. Come here.” He held out his hand to her. “Get up.” He had lifted her onto the horse enough times that he could do it easily, and this time was no exception. He did not wait to be certain she was well seated, but swung into the saddle, trusting her to duck out of the way of his leg.

An old man carrying a lighted candle appeared at the far end of the stable, a pitchfork in his hand. He shouted indignantly at Arkady and Surata and stumbled forward as if to stop them.

“Hang on!” Arkady shouted and kicked his gelding sharply, jolting himself, Surata, the bay and the two mules into action.

The little party was almost halfway across the innyard when the bay brought his head up, snorting and neighing in distress. His hooves struck sparks from the cobbles and he pulled at the reins, attempting to bolt. Behind him, the mules brayed at the ends of their lead lines.

“What is going on?” Arkady demanded of the sky as he struggled with the animals. However late it was, he doubted that this was reason enough for the strange reaction of his horse and the mules. He used all his skill to bring the gelding back under control and finally was able to do it.

Surata, who had clung to Arkady without speaking, released her hold on him a little. “Do you know why they did that?” she asked him when the gelding had ceased to toss his head.

“I don't know,” Arkady answered, becoming as worried as he was puzzled. “He doesn't do that.”

“The mules too,” she said, turning toward the sweating beasts. “They are mad with fear.”

Arkady once again started his gelding across the innyard, but this time was much more deliberate in his actions. He rode as far forward as the saddle would allow, half standing in the stirrups, his eyes scanning the building and the ground. “Steady,” he ordered the bay as they inched toward the gate. “Keep going, fellow.”

The gelding made a quiet, uneasy whinny and began once again to sweat. He panted as if he had been running for an hour.

“It is the Bundhi,” Surata said to herself, with conviction and misery. “He has found us after all.”

“You can't be certain of that,” Arkady told her without letting his attention be diverted from the ground ahead.

“He has found this inn. I know that,” she replied. “You heard the mice. You know that they were not…natural.”

“I heard mice, but that…” He halted his gelding and stared down at the ground.

The cobbles appeared to heave and slide in the dim moonlight. It was a little time before Arkady realized that what he was seeing was not stones at all, but a huge tide of mice sweeping toward the door of the inn. They made almost no sounds and they ran with grim purpose that was not like what Arkady had seen mice do before.

“You'd better hurry,” Surata said. “There must be a back way.”

Arkady knew he did not need to tell her what he saw. “They are going to the inn.”

“We still have a chance,” she said with a little hope in her voice. “Find the back way.”

Arkady wheeled his bay—which was plainly relieved to be sent in another direction—and started back toward the stable.

The old man with the pitchfork was blocking the way, his candle flickering in the wind. He bellowed some sort of order or insult at Arkady and shook the pitchfork at him.

“Behind the bakehouse,” Arkady said as he caught sight of a break in the high fence that surrounded the innyard. “We can get out there.”