Chasers of the Wind (6 page)

They collapsed upon the river stones, catching their breath. However, Ta-Ana immediately pulled herself up into a squat and pushed her hair out of her face. Then she attached a new, dry string to her yew bow, opened up a large wallet made of leather, and unfolded the oiled paper where she kept her arrows. The archer understood that without her bow things would go poorly for her and her comrades.

Ga-Nor had swallowed water while they were swimming and was now coughing it up.

The wind drove away the clouds, the moon emerged anew, and the northerners beheld the bleached and majestic ruins of an ancient city. People had abandoned the mountain capital of this former Imperial province when the War of the Necromancers began. Since then more than five hundred years had passed. No one had ever returned to live in Gerka, the City of a Thousand Columns, as travelers called it. The centuries had transformed this former pearl of the highlands into a dead kingdom of cold wind. It came here every evening from the snowcapped heights and mournfully wailed through the ruins of the ancient buildings. This place was known as a ghost town. The highlanders detoured around its borders and did not rest for the night if there was a distance of less than a league between them and its white walls.

But the northerners weren’t superstitious. The way through Gerka was five times shorter than any other. At the southernmost tip of the city a trail commenced, and that trail led to a pass, and from there it was no distance at all to the Gates.

They passed through a tall arch that had once been the main gate, and came out onto a wide street. Wherever they looked there were crumbling houses and hundreds of marble columns stretching toward the sky. The moonlight sparkled on them, enlivening them, making them seem as dazzlingly beautiful as they had been in those years when life teemed here. The silver-blue light gleamed in the gaps of the empty street, the old buildings cast dark shadows, and faint bluish wisps of incipient fog crept along the time-ravaged pavement.

Gerka stared impassively at the outsiders from the gloomy ruins of her buildings. She had no care for who came to her or why. She only sang her song with the wind. The wind was her eternal friend, but people always left and betrayed her. She had no desire to take vengeance on them for their treachery; she only desired one thing—to be left in peace. So the once great city let the three warriors from the far north pass through her without inflicting any harm on them.

Just as she would let those who followed after the redhaired warriors pass through.

*   *   *

The trail skirted the edge of a precipice. To the left of it was a basalt wall. To the right—a chasm. The scouts had been climbing for more than an hour already, and the valley that held the City of a Thousand Columns was far below. Da-Tur kept casting his eyes up at the faint stars. Dawn was not far off. By the time it arrived they needed to be at the pass, or better yet, beyond it.

Inhospitable, biting, icy wind; snow on the path. The pass was just a stone’s throw away. The night had robbed them of all their strength, and they were tired, but they continued to move forward doggedly. Ga-Nor repeatedly stopped and looked back. He didn’t really believe that they’d succeeded in deceiving the necromancer.

Ahead of them, a figure appeared on the path. Against the background of the rapidly brightening sky and the white stain of the snow only his silhouette was visible—tall, compact, wide-shouldered. He was walking from the direction of the pass. He was not hurrying, but ambling, as if he were out for a stroll.

Ta-Ana was in the lead. She took aim.

“May a snow gove take me! Who is that?” said the archer nervously, biting her lips.

“I don’t know,” replied Da-Tur tensely. “No one but the servants of the White could be here. In the leg.”

The woman smiled wolfishly and pulled back her bowstring. The stranger was almost upon them. Ga-Nor strained his sight and saw that the entire body of the man was covered in scaled armor.

“Don’t shoot! It’s a Fish!” he shouted at the exact same moment that Ta-Ana let loose her arrow.

An earsplitting crash rang out.

The stranger burst like an overripe melon. A warm shock of stinking air threw Ga-Nor, who had not been holding on to anything, into the chasm. Ta-Ana was also unlucky. As soon as the thing exploded hundreds of sharp metal scales flew from it in every direction. At least ten of them sliced through the woman, killing her on the spot.

Da-Tur had been standing by the wall, and it was only because of this that he did not fall below. One of the scales grazed his head, another left a deep cut along his forearm. The air stank of burnt flesh, hair, and something else. Something strange. Something repulsive.

On shaky legs the northerner walked over to Ta-Ana and fell to his knees beside her. He felt sick; blood was flowing down his arm. His head felt like it was splitting. Chunks of flesh that had very recently belonged to that deadly creature were scattered all around.

It was already light out, but still he was kneeling over the body of the woman. Finally he woke from his stupor, ripped his clan scarf from his neck, and wrapped it around the wound on his arm. He planted his sword into the ground, rested his weight upon it, jumped to his feet with a jerk, and … came face-to-face with three Morts.

They were ghastly, bony creatures, with long arms and legs, slender necks, and lustrous skulls. Sleek ebony skin stretched tightly over their protruding bones. Their amber eyes seemed to flash above the dark pits where their severed noses should be. They wore no armor at all. They held skeem-swords in their hands. They were the necromancer’s bodyguards, come to fetch their trophy.

Da-Tur roared and raised his blade, planning to sell his life dearly. The path was so narrow that his enemies could only come at him one at a time. This gave him a chance, if not to live, then to draw it out for as long as possible.

The redhead dealt with the first of his opponents quickly, despite its skill, by seizing the moment and simply tossing it into the chasm. Then he sprang forward, swinging his sword in a backward arc, forcing his enemies to retreat.

From somewhere below an all-too-familiar ball of green light came flying upward. It burst apart behind his back. The sorcerer was below, in the valley, by the exit from Gerka, and it would take him a long time to reach the Son of the Snow Leopard. By that time Da-Tur would have already won or lost.

A Mort lunged for his neck with his blades crossed like scissors, but Da-Tur dropped down and impaled the creature through its chest. He kicked at the body, freeing his blade and … choking on his own blood, fell onto his side.

At first he did not understand what had happened. He tried to get up but he couldn’t. For some reason his legs weren’t obeying him. Ta-Ana was standing over him. Her eyes were blazing with green fire.

*   *   *

When they had stumbled upon the Fish, Ga-Nor was the one standing closest to the edge. This circumstance actually saved him. As the explosion unfolded, the northerner was tumbling down below and so managed to escape being shredded by the steel scales.

He didn’t fall very far. His journey into the chasm was cut short by a most welcome white cedar. The dense, tenacious boughs of the atrophied little tree, which had driven its roots right into the cliff, took the force of the falling human body unto themselves and snapped. But they saved the Son of the Snow Leopard. Two yards below the cedar there was a narrow ledge. It was there that Ga-Nor’s fall came to an end. A fall from such a height onto a hard surface should have broken Ga-Nor’s bones, but thanks to the tree he only lost consciousness.

When the tracker regained consciousness, he let out a low groan. He opened his eyes and lay there, trying to figure out where he was. The sun was at its zenith. Quite a bit of time had passed since their encounter with the Fish. The memory of the sorcerer’s creature caused him to cautiously move his arms and legs to check if they were still whole. Everything was in working order.

It didn’t take him long to figure out where he had fallen. Ga-Nor gave sincere thanks to Ug for his survival. If not for this ledge, beaten into the cliff by wind and rain, the northerner would have fallen and fallen. And from this height the City of a Thousand Columns seemed no larger than his palm.

Ga-Nor examined the cliff closely and came to a disappointing conclusion. There were, of course, plenty of cracks, but he wouldn’t be able to stick his fingers in them. Just a bit higher was the cedar with its broken branches. If he could grab it with his belt, he might be able to reach it. But would the roots be able to take his weight? Unlikely. And even if he did manage to climb up there, what then? He still wouldn’t be able to get to the trail.

There was nowhere to go from this bird’s ledge. Going up was impossible, and you’d only go down if you wanted to end your own life. So he’d meet death alone with the mountain wind, the sky, and hunger.

The tracker tried not to think about what might have happened to his comrades. Ta-Ana had been standing closer than any of them to the Fish; it’s unlikely she managed to survive. Da-Tur, even if he’d remained whole, would most likely assume his kinsman had perished. If so, his blood brother was probably already beyond the pass and on his way to the Gates of Six Towers.

During the fall, Ga-Nor had lost his sword and all he had left was his dagger. If he had two of them, the northerner would not hesitate to climb the wall with them. He’d performed similar feats before, and once he’d even climbed up the sheer wall of the Tower of Rain on a bet. But there was no point in dreaming of getting to the top with just one dagger. It’d be easier to sprout wings.

The entire day passed by in fruitless efforts to find a way out of this trap. Ga-Nor paced his little platform from edge to edge but it was all in vain. Curses and prayers were no help.

Toward evening, when there was not more than an hour left until sunset, the tracker was leaning against the wall, picking up stones lying around him and chucking them into the chasm. Realizing the hopelessness of his situation, he was numbly counting the remaining days Ug had given him. He figured that he’d suffer quite a bit before he died of starvation. It was a chilling prospect.

His emotions got the better of him and the northerner began to swear. Loudly. And as he expected, nothing happened. Then he felt a shower of dust and small pebbles come down on his head and the nape of his neck. Ga-Nor leapt to his feet, fearing a potential rockslide. But nothing of the sort happened. The northerner gazed upward tensely and waited. Finally, pebbles showered down on him again, and then a few slightly larger stones. All the signs pointed to the fact that someone was walking up there. At this point the Son of the Snow Leopard couldn’t care less whether it was friend or foe. Forty was too young an age to die like a winter squirrel caught in a snare. It would be far better to die by an enemy’s blade and have a little vacation with Ug than to turn into a pale ghost.

“Hey!” he yelled with all his strength. “Hey! I’m here! Down here!”

At first no one answered. But then he saw a person looking down at him from above. Drawn by his cries, the stranger had lain down on the edge of the trail, peering down into the precipice. Ga-Nor wanted to shout yet again, this time from joy, but then he examined the stranger more closely and the shout stuck in his throat. He knew that face. Neither dirt nor blood could change it. The sharp jaw, the shaggy red hair, the scar on his brow. Da-Tur. But his upper lip was twisted into an evil grimace, baring his straight white teeth, and his eyes … his eyes were green.

The creature who had been his blood brother stared at him unflinchingly. Without taking his gaze from the corpse, the northerner reached for his dagger and this served as a signal. The corpse, bristling with the enchantment of the Sdisian, pounced on Ga-Nor. Splaying his arms and legs like a spider he fell to the spot where the soldier had just been.

The sound the body made as it met the ledge caused the Son of the Snow Leopard, who was long accustomed to both death and blood, to shiver violently. It seemed like the crunch of the bones could be heard even in the Golden Mark. Despite the broken ribs protruding through both flesh and clothes, the shattered arms and the right leg that was sticking out of its socket at an unnatural angle, the dead man tried to get up.

Ga-Nor did not hesitate. Pulling out his dagger he slipped behind the creation of the Sdisian sorcerer and grabbed hold of its bloodstained red mane, pulling the head of the dead man back and cutting open its neck with one swift motion. The weapon made a vile sound as it scraped across the creature’s vertebrae. The tracker stopped only when the green light faded from Da-Tur’s eyes.

Breathing heavily, he took his prize—a broad dagger—from the twice-dead body and with his foot he pushed the corpse over the precipice. Ga-Nor was not going to risk having that thing next to him. The Son of the Snow Leopard did not feel any regret over his actions. Da-Tur was long dead, his soul in Ug’s halls, and the thing that remained in this world was only a shell subject to the Sdisian’s whims.

The sun had almost reached the mountain peak and long shadows were covering the valley below. Ga-Nor quickly began his climb.

It was all much simpler than he had expected; the northerner easily found holds with the help of the daggers. He saw a crack, drove the dagger into it, pulled himself up by one arm, planted the second knife just a bit higher, and pulled himself up again. Over and over again. The Son of the Snow Leopard had no fear of heights and he was slowly but surely coming closer to the edge that would be his salvation. When no more than two yards remained until he reached it, the tracker paused and allowed himself a short rest. The top part of the cliff was far more difficult than all that had come before. The cracks were smaller. And the wind had picked up, too, threatening to blow him into the chasm.

Ga-Nor reached the very top just as darkness fell. Recalling Da-Tur’s fate he cautiously raised his head over the edge. Allowing his eyes to get accustomed to the darkness, he studied the area thoroughly. No one there. Wheezing in relief, he rolled over the edge and immediately sprung to his feet, menacingly clutching a dagger in each hand.