Chasers of the Wind (14 page)

Pork watched as the Nabatorians inspected the bodies of the dead men. They took their horses, weapons, money, their beautiful boots. That was the most interesting of all. He wanted to do that, too. Except that no one called him over to the dead men. So all the spoils fell to others.

And then Pork recalled the other dead men. The ones in the forest glade. The ones killed by the fearsome carpenter. They probably still had all sorts of money and other pretty things. He could keep them for himself or trade them in for tasty food. Oh, yeah. And Pars, who looked so kindly on the outside, had killed those strange men just as fast as the Nabatorians had killed the swift troop of Imperial soldiers. It was good that Pork never thought to tell anyone what had happened. Then others would have taken everything away from the dead men and kept it for themselves, and Pork would be left holding the bag. What a smart boy he was after all!

The half-wit had a goal. He decided to lay hold of the belongings of the dead men and so, leaving the cows in Melot’s care (after he diligently prayed to him), he headed for the forest. He had to walk far, through the entire village. Pork was afraid that his father would see him and then he’d really be in trouble. But he was lucky. No one stopped him.

In the forest, Pork began to have doubts.

What if someone else had found the wonderful dead men and robbed them? What then? He’d be going there for nothing. He wouldn’t have any of those useful things or tasty treats. And what if the dead men had gone off somewhere?

The closer he came, the more terrified he became. The stories that the miller’s son told him last summer came back to him. All about how dead men can come to life, how they crawl out of graveyards and gobble up anyone who dares to walk past them at night. And even if you didn’t walk, but ran instead, they’d just chase you down and then gobble you up. During one especially chilling story, L’on had sneaked up on Pork, grabbed him by the shoulder, and barked. The half-wit soiled his trousers from fear and stuttered for a week. And everyone had laughed and called him Rotten Turnip.

His nose was hit by the foul odor of decay and the idiot realized that the dead men hadn’t gone anywhere. He saw the glade, the bodies that had been fairly devoured by the vultures and ravens, and an outsider, who was attentively inspecting the corpses. The fetid air and the thousands of flies fighting over the carrion didn’t seem to bother him at all.

Pork nearly started crying from disappointment. He was too late! Now that man would take everything! All the money and everything else. He’d lost his sweets and his wealth! The vile bastard!

The man was standing with his back to Pork. He was tall. Broad in the shoulders. There was something strange about the black staff he held in his hands, but the half-wit couldn’t figure out what it was. The man was dressed in a long, white hooded robe, cinched at the waist by a wide black belt, on which hung a formidable curved sword.

Oh, yes, it would be bad to argue with him. He had a weapon. He’d be sure to use it to cut off his head if you asked him to share his spoils.

Frustrated, Pork whined softly, smearing tears across his dirty cheeks with his fists.

The stranger had excellent hearing. He instantly turned sharply and peered at the bushes where the cowherd was hiding. His rival’s face was concealed by the hood and all Pork could see was a dark opening. When the cowherd saw the darkness under the hood, he felt pierced to the bone by the man’s gaze, and he experienced a fresh onslaught of terror. He pressed himself into the ground and held his breath, hoping that the stranger wouldn’t see him.

But he didn’t think of turning away. He just stood there and watched. Pork’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest from terror. He regretted that he’d come here at all. He’d rather be herding cows. Better them than these treasures. He’d lived without them so far, and he could live another hundred years without them. Right now the half-wit wanted only one thing—for the creepy man to leave.

He slowly began to crawl backward, and instantly the man in white began walking quickly in his direction. Now Pork could see that the head of his staff was carved out of a piece of black stone in the shape of a skull. The cowherd froze, horror-struck.

“Come out,” ordered his rival, as he stopped in front of the bush. “I won’t cause you any harm.”

Pork didn’t dare disobey. Squeaking from fear, trying not to look at the man who was talking to him, he wormed his way out into the glade. For a fraction of a second the man regarded him, and then he removed his hood from his head.

He didn’t seem horrifying and ominous anymore. He was a bit older than Pork. He was tanned, with black hair and high cheekbones, refined features, handsome brown eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard.

The stranger was looking at the half-wit with curiosity but without any ill will.

“Are you from the village?”

Pork nodded hurriedly, trying to show how nice he was.

“Do you know what happened here?”

Another nod. He wasn’t about to lie.

“Who killed them?”

“Pars the carpenter.”

“And did he kill these two as well?” The man pointed at the two bodies nearest him.

The cowherd wrinkled his brow, trying to remember. Then he shook his head no.

“No, no. Those two were already dead when Pars came running to help his wife.”

“His wife? Was it she who burned their heads?”

“I don’t know,” said Pork truthfully. “I didn’t see.”

“Interesting,” muttered the stranger as he pensively stroked his staff with his fingers. “Do you know where this woman lives?”

“Yeah. Here. Not too far.”

“Will you show me the way?”

Pork nodded in agreement and then hiccupped in surprise. It seemed to the half-wit that the skull on the staff was grinning at him.

*   *   *

We couldn’t leave Dog Green the day that Mols’s foursome waltzed into my home. The Nabatorians, for all their amiability, vigilantly guarded the ways out of the village. The nocturnal attempt undertaken by Layen and me to escape into the forest nearly ended in disaster. Two ambushes, plus the frequency of patrols, plus the watchers on the towers and the fields lit with bonfires put a wrench in our plans. We had to return. We ran into Whip in the yard. He was not in the least surprised by the return of his hosts, armed and geared up for travel. He only chuckled meaningfully, took a bite out of his turnip, and, without saying a word, headed for the section of the house allocated to our guests, all the while whistling a soft tune.

Throughout the following days I was sullen and mean. And only Layen, who had long since gotten used to such fits of petulancy, could calm me. I felt like a wolf ready to snap at anyone who got in his way. Idleness threw me off balance. Beyond all that, I had a sense of impending disaster and it made me feel like an animal caught in a snare.

Whip tried not to get under our feet too much. The others also conducted themselves more quietly than the water under the grass. Even Shen and Midge stopped squabbling, though that was all they did the first evening. Now they had concluded a sort of temporary truce—they were ignoring each other’s presence. Our guests saw us twice each day, at lunch and at dinner. We all kept our silence, quickly ate the proffered food, and then retired. And Midge, despite his grumbling, took it upon himself to fill the huge barrel by the shed with water from the well. But no one really objected to his taking the initiative.

A week after the arrival of the Nabatorians, Whip decided to have a little talk with us. “We’re leaving in a couple of days.”

At that moment I was morosely dragging my spoon through my soup and I asked mockingly, “You planning on prepping in the meantime?”

“Yes. I need to clarify the patrol routes and the shift changes.”

“I can tell you that right now.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

“The desire to live a long and happy life.”

“I see,” he muttered and then fell into thought for a long time. Eventually, and for some reason looking at Midge while he did so, he asked, “There’s no chance?”

“Well, there’s always a chance.” My tone was still derisive. “But you won’t get out quietly. That I guarantee. But fighting your way through isn’t very sensible. Not right now, at any rate.”

“Why can’t you just go through the forest?” wondered Shen.

“And what then? The only road to Al’sgara is here. It’s forest for leagues around. And beyond that there are swamps. The Blazogs have tried to dam it, but you can’t get through. The only feasible path is the highway. And they are watching it.”

“And yet we’ll risk it. Staying here any longer is too dangerous.”

“As you wish,” I said, shrugging my shoulders apathetically.

“Are you afraid?” Shen asked tauntingly. Whip hissed at him in warning, but the healer didn’t bat an eye.

Contrary to the expectations of all those present, I did not get angry and just said lazily, “I’ll tell you what, kid. On the day I fall for such an idiotic trick, you can demand a hundred sorens from me. If, of course, you don’t lose courage.”

Midge brayed with delight that his antagonist had been so readily handled. He slapped his hand on the table. But before Shen had time to come up with a scathing rejoinder, he was interrupted.

“Damn.… We have a guest!” warned Bamut, who had been sitting by the window all this time, carving a silly little man from a wooden block.

Seeing who was entering the courtyard, Layen’s face went whiter than the stranger’s cloak and she swore obscenely.

“Nobody move. Be calm,” I said, picking up a hatchet from under the table.

“He’s alone,” marveled Midge.

“Midge, stay quiet! I have no desire to scrape your intestines off my ceiling. Whip, put a muzzle on him. And on that milksop, too.”

Shen didn’t get offended at the term “milksop;” more than that, it seemed that he didn’t even hear it. He was just as pale as my sun. Midge changed his tune slightly and asked in a plaintive tone, “Will somebody tell me who this guy is?”

“Just stay quiet, okay?” Even the perpetually composed Bamut was starting to get nervous. “We can leave out the back.”

“What’s the point? He’ll still sniff us out,” said Whip with hopeless anguish. “The bastard pinned us down! We’ve really stepped in it now! What does he want here?”

“We’re about to find out.” Layen flicked away a strand of blond hair that had fallen in her eyes and went out to meet the necromancer.

*   *   *

They watched each other for a second. Layen hoped that she looked sufficiently frightened.

The necromancer was young. No more than twenty-five. But judging by his staff, he was a master of the Fourth Sphere
(after they have graduated from the Sdisian magical academy, competent mages enter into the Spheres of Mastery. The highest Sphere is the Eighth)
. For such an age, that was exceedingly high.
That means that the boy is talented, obviously.
Layen tried to choose her actions wisely, knowing that the most important thing was that she not overact her role.
And he’s undoubtedly intelligent. He could cause us a lot of problems. How unfortunate that he came! What if this sorcerer is also a Seeker
(bearers of the Gift who are able to detect the spark in other people)
? Did he catch the scent of my Gift?

She bowed quickly, hiding her eyes so that the White would not read anything in them. Quickly, swallowing her words, she began to chatter, “What brings such a fine gentleman to our home? Do you wish to place an order? Please don’t worry, good sir, everything will be made to your specifications, whatever you like. Just ask anyone, they’ll tell you the best carpenter in the village lives here. Why, just last year, at the fair, the one they put on at El’nichi Ford, there—”

“Be silent,” the visitor interrupted her calmly. He’d obviously lost all interest in her. Now he was looking around the yard searchingly. “I was told that Ann and Pars the carpenter live here.”

Layen’s heart beat painfully.

“You were shown the right path, good sir,” she replied obsequiously, privately wishing that she could disembowel the damned chatterbox who led him here. “That’s us.”

“I want to see them. Urgently.”

“I’m Ann. My husband’s in the house.”

Tenacious brown eyes searched her face. Thick, black eyebrows crawled upward in surprise. Suddenly the necromancer chuckled. “Either you’ve been deceiving me, or you’re smarter than you seem.”

Layen tried to maintain her subservient countenance. She decided not to look at the Sdisian any longer. She was afraid her eyes would give her away.

“Lead me inside!” he said sharply, not waiting for an answer.

“Please, please,” she said in a rush. “I invite you in, good sir. We always welcome guests to our table.”

The necromancer entered the house and saw the five men. He snorted.

“You have quite a lot of husbands.”

“I’m her husband,” I responded calmly as I got up from the table. “And these are our kinsmen. Come in, have a seat.”

“Guests do bless a home, after all.” The Sdisian shifted the curved sword hanging from his belt and sat down at the table. “You, carpenter, sit down as well. Don’t wait on me. Do you know what I am?”

“I do.”

“And your kinsmen?” He pronounced the final word with a smirk.

“They know.”

“That’s good. That means they won’t do anything stupid and they’ll save me from the effort of destroying your hut. Mistress, I seem to recall you promising to feed me. I’m hungry from the road.”

A few minutes later a bowl of hearty chicken soup, a slice of black bread, butter, an onion, a jug of sour cream, and a mug of cold mint shaf appeared before him.

The sorcerer ignored the others and began to eat. Everyone was silent. Bamut continued to carve his ridiculous little man as if nothing were amiss, but he was betrayed by the sweat on his brow and a certain nervousness in his movements. I could see he was agitated; the hand holding the paring knife was shaking slightly, and every once in a while he gouged into the wood a little deeper than he should. Shen and Midge were sitting by the stove. The first had put on a bored countenance and looked like he was trying to see the sky through the ceiling. The second, having finally realized who it was that had come to visit them, laced his fingers together and began muttering under his breath—whether prayers against evil magic or curses, I do not know.