Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (8 page)

           
They crossed the shelf and climbed
the steepened way, then rode a spell through the twilight imparted by the
cleft. It was a broad road there, smooth and gently angled, the walls sheer,
the sky a wide blue band above, the sun as yet only hinting along the eastern
edge. At the farthest extent of the gully the way rose again, clear sky
visible, bright blue and shadowed red meeting on a line.

           
Calandryll heard Temchen, at the
column's head, call out, heard a shouted response. Then the Jesseryte topped
the ridge line and was gone from sight. His men seemed to take reassurance from
the brief exchange, urging their horses on at a canter. The hooves rang loud on
stone, filling the gully with their clatter, and the cavalcade emerged onto the
Jesseryn Plain.

           
Calandryll looked about, eyes
widening in amazement. To either side stood man-made walls, great blocks of
sandy-yellow stone set unmortered one upon the other, high as five men, how
thick he could only guess. They ran parallel a way, a funnel down which any
seeking ingress to the Kess Imbrun must pass, a killing ground for any climbing
the Blood Road. They ended at a barbican, a great squat block of dull yellow
that rose above the walls, featureless save for the narrow embrasures cut
across its face and the massive gates of metal- studded wood standing open
below. Beyond those gates there was only darkness: Temchen waited there,
dwarfed by the massy structure.

           
He raised an arm, beckoning them on.
As they came closer, Calandryll experienced a strange chill, for it seemed an
atmosphere, an indefinable aura, hung about the place, something beyond its
naturally forbidding prospect, greater and more ominous, as if ghosts lingered
there, or the smell of recently shed blood. His horse shied, the enthusiasm it
had earlier shown gone, and from behind he heard Bracht's stallion whinny a
protest. He turned, and saw the black horse plunging against the leading rein,
ears flattened, eyes rolling white. The mood communicated and he saw Katya's
grey curvet even as his own animal began to dance nervously. Indeed, the Jesserytes'
small beasts were no less agitated, their riders grunting irritably and holding
them tight-reined, too occupied then to remonstrate with their prisoners'
recalcitrant beasts.

           
It took an effort to drive the
horses forward, and as they approached the barbican it seemed to Calandryll the
chill grew deeper. He eyed the gates with apprehension, wondering if the
charnel odor he caught on the breeze was real, or a figment of his imagination,
and knew, though not why, that from the blockhouse emanated a sensation of
dread, of insensate horror.

           
He felt his mouth go dry as he
passed between the gates, and then wanted to spit, badly, for it seemed a sour,
bilious clot filled his throat. Nor, he saw, were the Jesserytes insensible to
the sensation: they fingered swordhilts, shaped warding gestures, veils
rustling metallic as heads turned warily from side to side. Only Temchen
appeared unmoved, and that, so Calandryll thought, was a result of innate
discipline, a grim determination to show no dread. The armored man barked a
command, hand chopping air, urging his men on down the tunnel that filled all
the center of the fortification.

           
Calandryll saw gates, dim at the
farther end, these closed and barred, and lesser openings to either side, shut
off with heavy doors. Overhead were machiolations, and then a band of welcome
light, albeit faint, as a door was flung open, Temchen turning aside there,
down some inner corridor.

           
The lesser tunnel gave way to a
small bailey, stabling around three sides, more sable-armored warriors standing
in postures of expectancy, alert, crook-bladed pikes and curved swords in their
hands, as if unsure what they might expect of the reluctant visitors. Archers
manned the ramparts, arrows nocked, downward aimed. Temchen dismounted, bowed to
a man whose armor was marked with symbols in yellow and silver, who answered in
kind and lifted his veil, the better to study the captives.

           
Calandryll found little in his
features to distinguish him from Temchen. Save that he wore a stiff, triangular
beard and seemed a few years older, they might be brothers, the elder
apparently superior in rank, for it was he who issued the order that brought
the captives down from their horses to stand before him, another that had their
bonds removed, all save the cords about their wrists, the gags in their mouths.

           
Temchen spoke their names,
indicating them each in turn, and the older man nodded, and conversed briefly
with the younger. Then, without further word, he spun on his heel and marched
briskly to an inner stairwell. Temchen pointed after him, barking orders that
set a guard about the four, motioning them to follow, he bustling past to fall
into step with the other as they climbed into the depths of the barbican.

           
The stairs led to a corridor beneath
the roof, banded with light from the embrasures running down its length, the
omnipresent sensation of dread somewhat abated here, that relief almost
physical, as if a weight were lifted. Calandryll wondered if that easing was a
result of the hieroglyphs he saw daubed at intervals along the walls or the
censers wafting pungent smoke in the still, dry air, and what it meant. The
glyphs, he guessed, were imbued with magic of some manner, and likely the
incense, too, though by whom and why remained a mystery, fie could only follow
his captors as they walked the gallery to a door of black wood, where Temchen
and the other man halted, removing their helms before tapping softly;
respectfully, Calandryll thought, wondering what awaited within.

           
A voice responded, presumably
granting permission to enter, for Temchen nodded and a guard swung the door
wide, standing back as the two Jesseryte chieftains went in, halted, and bowed
low.

           
There followed a murmured
conversation and then Temchen beckoned, the guards herding the captives into a
chamber longer than it was wide, lit dim save where a circular opening in the
ceiling bled light across a rectangular table of black lacquered wood at the
center. Backless seats, more stool than chair, were set down both sides of the
table, jet as the Jesserytes
⁷
armor so that they were near invisible
in the shadows that pooled to either side. The walls were no lighter, paneled
in some dark wood, unadorned save for more of the strange symbols, those
painted in yellow and silver and red that seemed to glow in the dimness.

           
Calandryll squinted as Temchen and
the other man marched forward, bowed again, and motioned for the guards to
bring the prisoners closer. The farther end of the chamber lay beyond the
limits of the poor illumination, and the guards halted before Calandryll's eyes
were able to pierce that gloom.

           
From out of it came a voice, dry and
soft as the rustle of autumn leaves stirred by a breeze, but somehow clear for
all it was faint, as if generated by a power that transcended vocalization.

           
"Welcome,” it said, and it
seemed the shadows themselves spoke.
^“
I have awaited your coming.
^”

           
Calandryll started as he realized
the words were uttered in the Jesseryte tongue, and that he understood.

           
L
AUGHTER
then, like the rattle of ancient bells, the timbre occluded
by rust—Calandryll wondered if his mind was read, or the startlement on his
face. He looked to his companions, seeing he was alone in neither understanding
nor surprise: Bracht stared with narrow eyes, suspicious visage, into the
shadows; Katya frowned; Cennaire appeared frightened, and he stepped a pace
closer, that movement eliciting a warning glance from the elder Jesseryte, a
prohibiting grunt from Temchen.

           
"Easy, easy," said the
unseen speaker, startling Calandryll once more. "What harm do they offer
me? What harm
can
they offer
me?"

           
The questions were mildly put,
seeming empty of threat, albeit massively confident. The bearded man answered,
but his words were incomprehensible. Calandryll suspected he protested for the
soft voice replied: "Chazali, had they such power surely they'd not allow
themselves taken. And be it some ruse, 1 believe I've the strength to oppose
them. I say—loose their bonds, remove those gags that we may converse as
civilized folk."

           
There followed further protest,
seemingly quelled by some gesture visible only to the Jesserytes, and the voice
again, a hint of steel now evident. "Free them, I tell you. Be you so
concerned, then remain and ward me against this mighty danger."

           
Amusement echoed in the last words
and the one named Chazali shook his head, shrugged, and motioned Temchen
forward, the two of them loosing the cords about the prisoners
⁷
wrists, taking the gags from their mouths. They both stepped back, wary, hands
resting light and ready on swordhilts.

           
"Neither have we need for so
many guards," said the voice. "Dismiss your men, but leave whatever
things you took from our guests."

           
"Guests?" Bracht's voice
was low, harsh with anger.

           
"So I trust," came the
response from the darkness, "for all the manner of your coming. I crave
forgiveness for that indignity and shall, in time, explain the need. For now,
though, do you seat yourselves? Will you take wine?"

           
"No."

           
Bracht's eyes followed the warrior
who stepped forward, swords and saddlebags in his arms, clattering down onto
the table. Calandryll saw the tension in his body, knowing the Kern calculated
his chances of reaching his falchion, drawing. No less Temchen and Chazali,
whose curved blades slid a little way clear of the scabbards, the faint
susurration of steel blades against leather akin to the warning hiss of a
serpent. He looked to Bracht, a hand half raised, and said, "Be we truly
guests, you've much to explain. For now"—this directed at
Bracht—"we'll hear you out."

           
He sat then, willing the angry Kern
to follow suit, certain that should fury gain the upper hand they must all die.
He was grateful to Katya, who sank onto a chair,- to Cennaire, who did the
same, her great brown eyes fixed intently on the shadows, as if she saw the hidden
speaker. With a grunt of irritation, Bracht did as lie was urged, and across
the table, Chazali and Temchen took seats.

           
The guards filed out; the door
thudded shut, and for a moment there was silence.

           
Then silk rustled, soft as gently
falling rain, and the speaker stepped within the radius of the light.
Calandryll stared, thinking he had seen no living creature so old since the
Guardians of Tezin-dar. Hair like polished silver fell in sweeping wings to
either side of a face so wrinkled as to resemble ancient leather left long in
sun and rain and wind, and of much the same hue. Dark eyes glittered between
canalicular lids, striated flesh combining patterns of furrows that radiated
outward and downward, deep grooves arcing in parentheses about a sharp, proud
nose, descending behind a wispery mustache of the same argental shade as the
hair, the mouth thin-lipped and wide, exposing large, yellow teeth as it
smiled. The neck—surely gaunt as a turtle's—was hidden beneath the high collar
of an elaborate tunic, a green the shade of new spring grass, the shoulders
exaggerated, stiffened to extend beyond the deep sleeves. A silver sash bound
it narrow at the waist, fastened with a brooch of gold so that the hem flared
above loose pantaloons of shimmering jet, tucked into ankle boots of some soft,
silvery hide, with toes curled up and back, tipped with little golden points.

           
So grandiose an outfit seemed
somehow at variance with the ancient face, which now expressed an apologetic
humor.

           
“I am named Ochen,'' he said.
“Temchen, you have already met; this other is named Chazali.''

           
Both armored men ducked their heads
slightly as their names were spoken, but neither took their eyes off the four,
nor their hands from their swords. It was clear to Calandryll that they trusted
their unwilling visitors no more than Bracht trusted them. For his own part he
felt a great curiosity join his wariness: there seemed no enmity in this
venerable creature; though, he thought, that was a thing to be decided later.

           
“I fear we begin with
misunderstanding/
⁷
Ochen said, settling himself gracefully on the
faldstool at the table's head.

           
“I understand we are taken
captive," snapped Bracht. “Brought bound to this keep."

           
Ochen nodded, his smile fading, his
reply voiced grave. “That I shall explain, warrior," he promised. “And
when I do, I think you'll see the need for such caution. For now, I'd ask you
accept my word that be you dissatisfied with what I tell you, you shall be free
to leave—to return whence you came, or go on with whatever help I am able to
give. Do you accept?"

           
“The word of a Jesseryte?"
Bracht glowered.

           
Calandryll said quickly, “We'll hear
you out." There seemed little other choice—no other that made sense—and
the faint hope of aid, should this mysterious ancient prove a friend.

           
Ochen ducked his head in thanks and
said, “A moment then."

           
Calandryll watched as he reached
forward, drawing the blades and bags laid upon the table toward him. He
fingered each item gently, almost reverently, frowning a little as his fingers
danced over Cennaire's small satchel, murmuring too soft any could hear the
words as he touched Calandryll's straightsword.

           
"Yours," he remarked,
looking into Calandryll's eyes. "The goddess would gift such as you with
this."

           
"A sorcerer!" Bracht
snarled. "A Jesseryte sorcerer!"

           
"That I am," admitted
Ochen cheerfully, "and be you who I think, you'll have need of my art
where you go."

           
Bracht's mouth curled scornfully.
Calandryll said, "You know who we are?"

           
"I've some notion." Ochen
ended his examination, pushed their gear away. "I and my kind have
foreseen your coming."

           
Calandryll frowned at that and the
ancient chuckled. "Think you we've not the art of scrying in this
land?" He shook his head, the network of wrinkles deepening a moment.
"Perhaps we've hid too long; stood too long apart from the world."

           
"You stood not apart when your
Great Khan looked to invade my land," said Bracht, gruff - voiccd.
"You stand not apart when you raid Cuan na'For for slaves."

           
"That myth?" Ochen sighed,
exasperation in the sound. "I tell you, friend, we take no slaves."

           
"Name me not friend,"
Bracht grunted. "Do you say there was no invasion—attempted, at the
least?"

           
"That, aye," said Ochen,
sadly now. "There was a madness in the land then—a part of what I must
tell you; a part of the evil you look to halt. Of that, I would speak later—for
now, I say to you that the Great Khan was possessed; that he forced his will on
all the tengs of the Plain, and that he is long dead. We Jesserytes have no
wish to invade Cuan na'For. Horul knows, we've sufficient to occupy us
here!"

           
"And you take no slaves?"

           
Bracht's tone was dismissive: Ochen
sighed again, and said, "Only the tensai stoop so low, and they are
godless outcasts. Neither do we copulate with horses,- nor geld men; nor force
women to go with whom they'd not." He shook his head, his tone soft as if
he remonstrated with a child, a thin smile on his lips as he continued:
"Listen—there are some in this land who believe you folk of Cuan na'For
eat human flesh; that the merchants out of Lysse who come to Nywan hide tails
beneath their breeks; that the folk of Vanu are all twice a man's height and
thrice as strong, with but a single eye— we've cut ourselves off too long, and
such stories grow like weeds fertilized by ignorance."

           
"Even so," Calandryll
interjected, "it was folk from your land who attacked Cennaire's caravan,
and slew all save her."

           
Ochen looked toward the Kand woman,
his face inscrutable, the twinkling eyes lost a moment as the furrowed brows
hooded. In a swift flow of sound he repeated Calandryll's words to his fellow
Jesserytes, and across the table Chazali grunted, Temchen shook his head.
"Perhaps ..." the mage said slowly, his voice carefully neutral,
"perhaps there was an outlaw band. Your coming was not scried, Lady. Only
these three."

           
Cennaire held her face impassive,
answering his stare with her own, willing herself to stillness even as her
senses urged that she flee. Beside her, Calandryll said, "Still, now she
is one with us. Save," he turned to Cennaire, "you prefer to return,
as this mage has promised you may."

           
It was a test: of Ochen's intent and
Cennaire's purpose. He was not sure what answer he hoped for, but felt a
confused relief when the raven-haired woman shook her head and said, "No.
Do you allow it, I shall remain with you."

           
Ochen said, "My word is good.
Lady, do you wish to go back, I'll send men with you, across the Daggan Vhe.
You shall have a horse and food enough to see you safe."

           
Again, Cennaire shook her head and
murmured, "No." ·

           
"So be it." Mottled hands
steepled beneath Ochen's chin, his voice musing. "Perhaps that, too, is
writ."

           
Katya spoke for the first time then,
grey eyes intent on the sorcerer's face, her tone level, neither accepting nor
accusing: "You speak much of scrying, of knowing that we three came. You
offer us apologies for the manner in which we were brought here, and promise
explanation. But as yet Pve heard none."

           
The hands unfolded, settled flat
upon the table. Calandryll saw that the nails were long, and lacquered golden.
Ochen met Katya's bold stare and smiled.

           
"Aye, you speak the truth, and
directly. I shall explain, but that must surely take some time, and must
perforce involve both Chazali and Temchen. So—do you grant me permission to
enhance that gramarye that allows us to converse, that they may understand? It
is in my power to give you the tongue of this land."

           
"More sorcery!" Bracht
muttered.

           
"But mightily useful,"
Katya said thoughtfully, "if we are to go on."

           
"You'd let this wizard put his
magicks in you?"

           
Bracht shook his head in vigorous
dismissal, his blue eyes wide and wary. Katya met his gaze and said, "I
think that if he wished to do so, there is little we might do to prevent him.
He has not; neither has he yet offered us harm. Is that not some token of his
good faith?"