Lords of the Sky (29 page)

I had no desire to disturb her concentration and so stayed silent, but neither did I feel much enthusiasm for a chase that must surely run random through these western woods. I thought we should do better to find high ground and track the Sky Lords’ progress to some destination. I let my mare fall back to flank Barus and put this notion to him.

He gave me a somewhat contemptuous look and shook his head. “This is not our first chase,” he said. “Do we stay close enough, we can take them when they land.”

I craned my head back, seeking to find the sky through the webwork of boughs. The afternoon was not much advanced, and as best I could tell from the filtered light, we likely had a long ride ahead of us. Still, it was easier work than running.

“It was fortunate you were in Brynisvar,” I said.

Barus nodded. “Recruiting for Tryrsbry’s warband. Seeking potential sorcerers.” He chuckled. “Or Storymen. We found you instead.”

I could not tell if he intended insult, nor cared much. It seemed he had taken a dislike to me, and his opprobrious manner prompted a mutual disregard, but I elected to hide my feelings: the making of enemies serves a Storyman ill. So I only grunted and continued in silence, letting my gray mare move a little way apart. Barus paid me no further attention, and I concentrated on Krystin, who yet ran ahead like a hunting dog leading her pack.

As we rode deeper into the hinterland, the terrain grew rougher, the hills steeper and higher, the valleys smaller. The timber thickened, so that we rode more often than not beneath a roofing of branches, the sky obscured. But Krystin never faltered, and as the afternoon gave way to evening and we climbed a hogback spread thick with tall pines, she found our quarry.

The commur-mage raised a hand as we approached the crest. I slowed my gray even as Barus motioned for me to
halt. Farther up the slope, Krystin dismounted, leading her black down to where we waited. I sprang from the saddle, clamping a hand over the mare’s nostrils as I saw her about to whicker. The jennym beckoned two soldiers over, whispering orders, and the men began to collect horses, leading them away to flatter ground. I gave them the gray’s reins.

Barus said, “Stay with the horses, Storyman. This is warrior’s work.”

I shook my head and saw his face blacken. He was about to speak when Krystin grasped his arm. “This is neither the time nor the place to argue,” she said.

“Nor to carry excess baggage,” Barus replied.

The commur-mage ignored him, turning to me. “Can you fight?” she asked.

“I’m Durbrecht-trained,” I told her, thinking that answer enough. I heard Barus snort softly and added, “I’ve fought Kho’rabi ere now.”

Krystin nodded and said, “All well, we’ll not fight them. Only kill them.”

Barus said, “I’ll not play nursemaid.”

I said, “I’ll not need such care.”

His dark eyes narrowed under the rim of his helm, and I thought him about to protest, but Krystin silenced him with a look and said, “So be it.
On my order, jennym.
Daviot comes with us.”

Barus ground his teeth. I wondered why he objected so to my presence, then dismissed the thought as Krystin waved the troop close.

There were, with me, twenty-one—odds none too favorable against ten Kho’rabi, and one of them a wizard. I waited to see what stratagem the commur-mage had planned.

She said, “The Sky Lords are landed over this ridge. Barus, do you come with me to spy the lie of the land. You others wait here, and in the God’s name keep those horses quiet.”

I glanced back: the horses were set on a picket line amongst the trees. I prayed my gray should not vent her temper. Then I heard the faint sounds of climbing and turned to see Krystin and Barus moving stealthily toward the crest. Before any could halt me, I followed them.

Barus favored me with an angry glare, Krystin with a
look I could not interpret. I paid heed to neither. I was a Storyman: it was my duty to observe. The commur-mage motioned me to caution and I nodded, moving on hands and knees to the ridgeline, easing forward on my belly.

The pines thinned there, and the downslope was bare of cover. At the foot there was grass and a pool of clear blue water where rocks dammed a little stream. It was an idyllic setting. A breeze blew down the valley, setting the timber on the far slope to sighing. The sun was yet high enough the water glittered, gurgling merrily along its way. I noticed that no birds sang even as I stared at the red cylinder of the airboat that floated stationary to the north. I saw four of the Kho’rabi gathering wood, five bringing their spoils from the black carrier basket. The tenth—the wizard, I assumed—stood beneath the boat, his head tilted back, his arms spread wide. The disruption of the air surrounding the vessel was more noticeable as the shadows lengthened, an aura that shimmered and shifted like sunlit mist. Within it I saw the elementals more clearly. They were ethereal creatures, little more substantial than the aura itself, half the size of a man, all changing shades of blue and silver, with hints of darkness where eyes and mouths would be. I wondered what part they might take in the coming battle; and if Krystin’s magic should be strong enough to overcome them and the Kho’rabi wizard both.

Then I felt a tug on my arm and turned to find Barus calling me back: warily, I retreated.

We joined the others. I saw the Tryrsbry men had bows strung now. Krystin beckoned them close and whispered a report.

“We wait until sunset,” she said. “Let them settle to their dinner and think themselves safe. They build a fire, which shall light them for us. Loose your shafts on my order.”

“Horses?” Barus asked, and the commur-mage shook her blond head: “No, that slope’s too strewn with rubble, and we’d need bring the animals up beforehand. Arrows and a charge on foot is the way.”

The jennym nodded his agreement. I said, “What of the wizard?”

Krystin said, “He’s mine.”

I said, “And the elementals? What of them?”

She frowned and returned me,
“What
of them?”

I heard Barus snigger softly, as if I once more exhibited ignorance. I once more ignored him, frowning in my turn as I asked Krystin, “Shall they not fight for the Sky Lords?”

She smiled, but in a friendly manner, and said, “No. The Kho’rabi wizards bind the spirits to their cause, but they’ll offer us no hurt. Do they approach you, ignore them—they’re harmless.”

I said, “I’d thought …”

And fell silent as Barus murmured, “This Storyman knows little, eh?”

Krystin said, “Barus,” in a tone of reprimand and brought her face close to mine. We were both somewhat sweaty after our half day of hard riding, but hers was sweet and pleasantly musky. The breath that touched my face was sweeter still as she said, “The elementals owe no allegiance save what’s imposed on them by the Sky Lords’ magic. They are bound to their task by sorcery, not desire, and once the Kho’rabi wizard dies, they’ll run free. Think of them as a team of horses hitched to the airboat.”

I nodded, digesting this information. It occurred to me that a team of stampeding horses could be dangerous, but Krystin seemed confident, and so I said nothing. She smiled; I returned it, thinking that she was very beautiful. Not as my Rwyan, but in the manner of ancient statues, as if she were Danaê come down from her mountains to once more hunt the earth.

Barus, who had followed our exchange and appeared to like it not at all, said in a carefully modulated voice, “He’s no weapon save that dagger.”

I grinned at him, motioned him to wait, and crept down to the horses.

The gray mare eyed me irritably as I approached, and I murmured gently, seeking to reassure her; willing her the while to remain silent. She tossed her head and stamped a hoof, but the carpet of pine needles dulled the sound, and she—the God bless her—only huffed air. I stroked her neck, thinking that there were considerable advantages to a mount trained for cavalry work, and took my staff from the saddle. It was a length of hickory thick around as my wrist, and slightly taller than I. Each end was capped with metal, and the entire length was banded with metal rings into which were etched the symbols of my calling. Trained as I was in
the use of a quarterstaff, it was a weapon to be reckoned with. I brought it back to where my companions waited and flourished it at Barus.

He eyed it dubiously and shrugged. Krystin, however, nodded and said, “It will do, needs must. But go wary.”

I smiled at her and said, “Lady, this shall not be my first skirmish with Kho’rabi.” Then I feared she should think I boasted (which I did) and added, “And all well, your bowmen shall slay them before it comes to close quarters.”

“All well,” she murmured, and looked to the sky. “So, now we wait.”

“You did well to bring word.”

I looked up to find Krystin close. She rested on her elbows, her hair spilling back from her sculpted features. Her tunic did little to conceal the shape beneath. I shrugged and said, “It was fortunate you were in Brynisvar.”

She turned her head, brushing back an errant wave of pale gold, her eyes firm on mine. “Perhaps it was destiny,” she said.

I found her gaze and her tone both disconcerting. “Perhaps,” I said.

She smiled, looking past me to where Barus lay, and lowered her voice so that I must draw closer to hear: “Pay no heed to Barus. He’s a jealous man, even without the right.”

I felt further confused. I shrugged again and said, “Certainly, he seems not to like me much.”

“There are few he does like,” she said, “and none who are not of the West Coast.”

“You’re not,” I said. “Of the West Coast.”

“No.” She shook her head so that it seemed for a moment she was encompassed in curtains of light. “I was born in Tannisvar. The College sent me here to serve Yrdan.”

“Aeldor of Tryrsbry?” I asked.

She said, “Yes.”

I asked her, “How long have you been Tryrsbry’s commur-mage?”

She said, “A year. Arlyss, who was commur-mage before me, was slain by the Sky Lords.”

“Not long, then,” I said, thinking that we were of an age, and that she had established her authority well in so short a
time. “Yet Barus accepts you readily enough—for one not West Coast born.”

She chuckled softly and said, “My sex and my calling give me certain advantages, Daviot.”

I said, “Yes,” and saw white teeth flash as her lips parted.

Across the valley the sun touched rimrock. Below, darkness gathered. I heard the wind sigh through the pines. It was almost time. I looked to Krystin and found her studying my face, her lips still curved in a smile entirely enigmatic.

She said, “When this is done, shall you come back to Tryrsbry?”

I nodded, and she said, “Good.” Then she stretched, prompting me to think of cats, and said, “So. Do we go about our business?”

I took up my staff. I saw a soldier pass Krystin a bow, a quiver filled with arrows fletched in black and silver and red. To my left, Barus had a shaft already nocked, a tight savage smile on his mouth. We began to climb. Behind us the sun fell rapidly, as if, having touched the topmost peaks, it was drawn down to wherever it went at night. In balance, the shadow that had filled the valley bottom began to climb the slope. Stars showed, and a quarter-filled moon. Bats fluttered overhead. Apart from the sound of the wind, these hills were very quiet.

We reached the crest, and there was noise. A fire crackled, spitting sparks at the darkened sky, outlining the Kho’rabi, who talked as they lounged about the blaze. It was strange to hear them speak; stranger still the vague familiarity of their tongue, as if I could almost understand. I counted the full complement: they had set no watch. Nor did they wear their black armor, which stood in neat piles away from the fire. The airboat was a red shadow along the valley, the sigils on its flanks glowing faintly. I could no longer discern the elementals. I saw the Tryrsbry warriors spread along the hogback. I was to Krystin’s right, Barus to her left. The jennym wet a thumb, held it to the wind. Krystin took two shafts from her quiver, cupping each head in right and left hands. She whispered something I could not hear and blew softly into each fist. Then she stabbed one arrow lightly into the ground and nocked the other. She looked to Barus and nodded, then both rose to a kneeling position, bowstrings coming back to touch their cheeks as they sighted down the
shafts. I saw a Sky Lord spring to his feet, head cocked as he peered toward our position. I thought:
The wizard; he senses magic.
“Now!”

Krystin loosed her arrow as she shouted, the second readied before the echo came back off the far valley wall. The Kho’rabi who had climbed to his feet took three steps back as the shaft struck his chest. It was driven deep, but still he raised his hands, pointing at our position. He did his best to speak—to voice a cantrip, I guessed—but Krystin’s arrow had pierced a lung and blood filled his mouth, slurring his words. I saw a glow, like witchfire, dance about his outthrust hands, and then the slim column of the second arrow sprout beside the first. His spell died stillborn. The blood that came from his mouth was black in the firelight. The witchfire radiance shone bright an instant and then was gone. He fell down, his arms spread wide, and for a while his legs kicked, propelling him back as if he sought to flee. Then he was still.

The dusk was full of shouting now and that particular whistling an arrow makes as it travels its deadly path. The Tryrsbry bowmen were expert: their shafts flew straight and true. The Kho’rabi fell around their fire, most barely to their feet, two as they drew blades. I heard Barus roar and joined unthinking in the rush down the slope. I saw Krystin drive her short-sword deep between the wizard’s ribs, slash his throat. I saw a Sky Lord before me. He was on his knees and wore two arrows in his chest, and blood came in long streamers from his parted lips. His breath was a choking exhalation. I thought he looked no monster, stripped of his dread armor, but only a hurting man, not much different in appearance from we Dhar. I thought of what I had seen that noonday, at the farm: I stove in his ribs and windpipe. I looked about, seeking another, and saw a warrior from whose belly and left shoulder shafts protruded swing his blade awkwardly at Barus. The jennym parried the cut and returned a sideways swing—the stroke Keran dubbed the Headsman. The Sky Lord’s skull was parted from his neck. I sprang away as liquid gouted. All around the Tryrsbry men dispatched those Kho’rabi not slain by the arrows; slit the throats of those already dead.