Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (27 page)

           
"Well said," Calandryll
applauded.

           
"Indeed," said Ochen.
"And therefore but one direction."

           
"Which we shall now take."
Chazali was entirely unaware of the undercurrent beneath their words. "We
depart!"

           
He shoved his plate aside and rose,
his kotu-zen on their feet in the instant, already armored, fixing the final
strappings, moving toward the door behind their kiriwashen.

           
The questers followed. Bracht said,
"Ahrd and all the Younger Gods be with us," and Katya smiled at him,
touching his cheek and saying, "Are they not?"

           
The Kern answered with a laugh and a
nod, taking her hand as they fell into step behind the Jesserytes, the two of
them more like sweethearts going to some country fair than warriors expecting
battle.

           
Cennaire found herself between
Calandryll and Ochen, Calandryll's hand once more courtly on her arm. She had
rather he took her hand, as Bracht had taken Katya's, but still the slight
pressure of his fingers, as if he sought some contact he was not yet ready to
openly express, was pleasurable.

           
Burash,
she thought, I am like a tripsy girl on the arm of her first lover.

           
She ventured a sidelong glance,
finding it again returned, though this time he did not look away, but smiled at
her, an expression in which admiration and regret mingled, as if he would see
her safe from danger, but was nonetheless happy they should face it together.

           
And
he, she thought, my swain
_;
nor any less bewildered by this than I.

           
Then all became disciplined
confusion as they crossed the square and entered the stable. Townsfolk thronged
the plaza, more inside, aiding the kotu-zen with their horses, stooping that
the warriors might mount, Bracht cursing as one particularly determined kembi
crawled vigorously to place his back where the Kern's foot might use it for a
stool, his efforts ended by the black stallion that, nervous, kicked out,
sending the man tumbling. Bracht chuckled wickedly and swung astride. Katya was
already mounted; Calandryll helped Cennaire into the saddle and waved a man
intent on helping him away, springing lithe onto the chestnut.

           
In the plaza, the kotu-zen formed a
column. Chazali raised a hand, brought it down, and they trotted back along the
avenue, lined with townsfolk, toward the gates of Ghan-te, and whatever awaited
them along the road beyond.

           
The way ran north across the dish of
the bowl, Ghan-te at the center of the declivity, a crossroads just outside the
town, their path climbing the slope through the terraces to the trees that
rimmed the edge. Chazali sent two men ahead, which Calandryll thought a measure
rendered somewhat redundant by the murder of the priest: ambush seemed a
certainty now, and the forest stretching out before them as they crested the
rise provided ample cover for any number of attackers, the outriders more
likely to alert the enemy than give warning of their presence. The woods spread
wide and dense, the road a shaded avenue overhung with branches, spruce and
cedar joining the maples now, thick enough it was impossible to see any
distance into the forest. An army might have waited there, within bowshot, and
still gone unseen.

           
It was an eerie feeling, and the
rustle of the wind through the leaves assumed the aspect of whispering, warning
voices reminiscent of the chattering of the Gruagach that patrolled the Cuan
na'Dru. But those strange creatures had proven allies, Ahrd's servants and
therefore friends, while here there was no sensation of amity, only
apprehension. Calandryll told himself they had faced dangers aplenty before,
and lived; and then recalled that Ochen had warned their enemy's strength waxed
greater as he drew closer to his master. It seemed then that he felt the land again,
felt its unhappiness ooze into him, discomforting as sweat that chills in the
wind. He looked about, seeing only ominous shadows, the sun not yet high enough
to strike through the timber, night there, with all its lurking terrors.

           
Something moved and he opened his
mouth to shout a warning, hand tightening about his sword- hilt, seeing the
kotu-zen who rode to his right turn veiled faces toward the disturbance, their
blades flashing clear of the scabbards, some swinging nocked bows to line. Then
a body crashed through the undergrowth, a scut showed white, and a stag started
from cover. A warrior barked brief laughter and Calandryll let go a breath he
had not known he held, grinning at his own apprehension as the stag, his harem
about him, went bounding to safety.

           
They rode on, safe to a stream where
they halted to take their noonday meal, that brief and eaten quickly, bowmen
pacing the edges of the makeshift camp, waiting only long enough to rest the
animals before commencing their journey.

           
THEY
continued on through an afternoon bright with sunlight, the sky a clear and
cloudless blue swathe overhead, lighting the timber so that it seemed a little
less threatening, as if the radiance dispelled those monsters of imagination's
creation, birds fluttering, singing, their chorus a tuneful reassurance.

           
It was a brief respite.

           
The day aged, shadows once more
lengthening as the sun westered. The road traversed gentler slopes than they
had known, the broken country to the south giving sway to a more undulating terrain,
the wide trail cut straight for most of its length, curving only where the land
occasionally thrust up in timbered drumlins.

           
Around one such monticule they found
the scouts.

           
Chazali was in the lead, flanked by
kotu-zen, riding hard. Abruptly his mount shrilled a protest and tossed its
head. The kiriwashen threw up a hand, halting the column. Calandryll had not
known he unsheathed his sword, only that it was in hand, on guard as he
shouted, "What's amiss?" seeing horses stamping, curvetting where the
foremost riders drew up, milling about the edges of the trail.

           
From ahead came Chazali's bellow,
summoning Ochen.

           
The wazir urged his mount on.
Calandryll yelled, "Wait here!" to Cennaire and heeled his chestnut
after the sorcerer. Bracht and Katya came with him, heads swinging from side to
side as they surveyed the forest, the hillock ahead.

           
No arrows flew, nor battle shouts,
and the Jesseryte horses, war-trained, were quickly calmed, so that an ominous
silence fell.

           
Calandryll's gelding broke the quiet
as he followed Ochen around the curve, breath whistling nervous from its flared
nostrils, its ears flattening, hooves drumming a staccato tattoo before he
fought it still. He felt the animal tremble, himself shudder.

           
Bracht said, "It smells the
blood."

           
There was much to smell. It spread
viscous across the trail, thick with flies that buzzed and rose reluctantly
from the gorging, swarming back when none immediately approached. Crows and
ravens perched, beaks bloodied, among the trees, cawing protest at the
intrusion. Calandryll stared aghast, horrified by the slaughter laid before
him.

           
The body of one of Chazali's scouts
lay beside the road, his sable armor no longer black, but colored with the
blood that spilled from the gaping rent in his cuirass. His head, still wearing
its helm, the face still veiled, lay some distance off, speared on the broken
branch of a maple. The second outrider rested on the grass that grew up the
flank of the drumlin, the green slick and red now. His right arm was torn from
the shoulder, still clutching the sword that protruded from his chest, his head
twisted round, crushed down into the stained sward. Their horses lay dead
farther along the road, a hideous barrier of severed limbs and dripping
entrails, the equine heads placed atop, grinning obscenely at the horrified
onlookers.

           
Calandryll tasted bile sour in his
mouth, and spat.

           
Bracht said, "Ahrd!"
softly, and Chazali muttered a curse, masked face turning to Ochen. "What
did this?" The kiriwashen's voice was hoarse, metallic, anger and outrage
mixed with undisguised horror. "No mortal hand, surely."

           
"Save fell magic invests
it," Ochen said. His face was grave, studying the bloody work. "This
is surely Rhythamun's doing."

           
Calandryll scanned the hillock, the
surrounding timber, seeking sign of movement, warning of ambush. Between his
shoulder blades the skin prickled, the sensation of watchful eyes magnified. It
seemed the whole forest quickened, imbued with malign observers, and he thought
to hear the song of flighted arrows, see he knew not what charge to the attack.
He saw only trees, the black carrion birds,- heard only their raucous protests,
the buzz of the flies.

           
"Why?" Bracht, too,
inspected the landscape, blue eyes narrowed, cold and angry. "Why this?
Why do they not attack?"

           
"I think them gone, save
perhaps a few concealed watchers." Ochen sat slumped in his saddle, face
older, sad. "I suspect they play with us—look to wear us down."

           
"In Horul's name I swear this
shall be avenged." Chazali spoke through gritted teeth, fury resonant in
his promise. "Have we the opportunity, they shall answer for this."

           
"Aye, and you'll have my
help," promised Ochen. "But now, do we attend our lost brethren? They
deserve that much."

           
Chazali nodded and roared orders
that had a pyre swiftly built, men and horses both committed to the flames
Ochen summoned with his magic, the scent of almonds brief on the afternoon air,
soon replaced with the smell of burning wood, the sickly odor of roasting
flesh. Ochen chanted a prayer, echoed by the kotu-zen, and in solemn silence
they watched the thick column of smoke rise black into the sky.

           
The ceremony was short enough, but
still the day darkened as they went on, the ribbon of azure visible through the
trees seeming itself shaded by the flames that licked red behind. Dusk
approached, the forest caliginous and menacing again, and none eager to proceed
through the night. There was a palpable sense of relief, even from the
impassive kotu-zen, when Chazali called Ochen to his side and soon after announced
they would make camp.

           
The chosen site was a clearing to
the side of the road, lush grassed, a spring there filling a pool, the
surrounding rocks mossy, sufficient space for all the horses and their riders.
A guard was instantly mounted, the perimeter of the clearing ringed with
watchful men, the animals set to grazing on picket lines, fires—as much for
spiritual comfort as cooking—were soon built, and those not designated sentries
grouped tight about the flames. Ochen paced slowly between the encircling
trees, murmuring softly, leaving in his wake the sweet perfume of his defensive
magic. Even so, there were none who relaxed, the kotu-zen making no move to
shed their armor, the questers alert, hands stroking absently at swordhilts,
and when they sat, it was with sheathed blades across their thighs, ready.

           
Calandryll found a place beside
Cennaire, she shifting instinctively closer, finding comfort in his proximity,
for she was disturbed by what she had seen. She no longer felt so confident of
surviving this journey, for it came to her that those creatures that had rent
armored men like rag dolls could likely rend her as easily. The notion was
horrible: she thought she might not die, but live on, in pieces, and that
seemed a fate far worse than honest death. She shuddered, staring wide-eyed
into the flames, and Calandryll turned toward her, opening his mouth to speak.

           
Before the words came out a ghastly
shrieking filled the night, and she gasped, pressing closer against him.

           
It began as a bubbling moan, such as
a man with riven lungs might make in his dying. It rose, high- pitched, to
become a dreadful yammering that rang through the trees, echoing, reverberating
to a ghastly crescendo that ended with an abruptness somehow more frightening
for the silence that followed.

           
"Ahrd, but you've
strange-sounding wolves in this land."

           
Bracht's grim humor drew a tight
smile from Chazali that froze as a second wail rang out. The kiriwashen rose.
There was a third shriek, and a fourth, all from different directions, and then
a chorus to chill the blood. It seemed the singing of souls in torment, of
things agonized and filled with hatred, the desire to inflict their suffering
on others, utterly malevolent.