Return of the Crimson Guard (43 page)

‘I see – I think.’

She laughed. ‘There is no need to understand.’ She gestured ahead. ‘Here we are. Up here.’

They climbed a rising dome of striated bedrock. Lichen painted it orange and red amid its dark green and zigzag of quartz veins. The peak overlooked virgin forest for as far as Kyle could see. Other than this magnificent view, the dome was empty. A few small round stones dotted it here and there, in what might be drawn as a large circle.

Kyle looked around, caught Stalker's eye, gestured a question. The scout nodded reassuringly.

‘One of your friends is watching my people, as should be,’ said Janbahashur. ‘They watch him in turn. That is good. To do otherwise would be foolish and we do not wish to waste our time on the foolish. Call him up.’

Stalker signed something to Badlands who jogged down the slope.

‘It is ready,’ Janbahashur said, pointing to the centre of the broad circle. Kyle saw nothing, just empty rock. She smiled at his puzzlement. ‘Look more closely. Take your time.’

Shading his eyes from the setting sun, Kyle squinted at the smooth expanse. At first he still saw nothing, then he noticed a slight shimmering of the ground and air around the centre of the circle, as if dust was blowing. While he watched, patches of dust and sand stirred to life on the rock, swirled faster and faster, blurring, then were sucked away to disappear as if by an invisible wind. Listening carefully, he could just make out a loud hissing as of a waterfall heard from far away.

He looked to Janbahashur. ‘What is it?’

‘As you said, a path of Wind.’

‘Like nothing I've ever seen,’ said Stalker. ‘But I'm new to these Warrens. What I've seen were more like tears, gaps and holes.’

Janbahashur dismissed such things with a wave. ‘Faugh. Brute force. Abusing the fabric of things. We use no such painful means. We merely bend the natural ways, concentrate and redirect forces. If you wish to get the stone from a fruit you can throw it to the ground and step on it, or, you can slowly and gently pull where the fruit would halve until it parts on its own.’

Coots and Badlands joined them. Janbahashur waved them on, impatient. ‘Go on. Quickly. Do not pause. A few paces, I should think. Go.’

Stalker signed something and Badlands gave an out-thrust fist and stepped forward. The gesture had something of the look of a salute to Kyle, but one he'd never seen before. Knees bent in a fighting crouch, arms akimbo, Badlands advanced on the blurred patch of air. As he came close he reached out an arm. Janbahashur, at Kyle's side, hissed her alarm. At that instant Badlands simply disappeared. It was hard to say, but Kyle had the impression that he'd been yanked forward with immense power, as if by a giant or a god. The old woman let out a relieved breath. ‘Good. Now, you too. Go.’

Stalker started forward as did Kyle but the old woman caught Kyle's arm. ‘A word, young warrior.’ Stalker paused as well. His hair, the tag-ends of his shirts, the leather ties, all snapped and strained toward the apex. He was saying something but Kyle could not hear a word of it. While he watched the scout strained forward as if against a storm of wind but was losing ground as his moccasined feet slipped and shuffled backwards on the ridged rock. He must have given up the fight for in the next moment he was gone, snatched into the blur of hissing dust and sand.

Coots now stood at Kyle's side, a hand on one long-knife at his belt. ‘He's not goin’ last,’ he said to Janbahashur.

‘I did not mean to alarm. Just a warning. Do not stop on the path. Do not turn or delay. It would be deadly for you. And do not part with your weapons, yes?’

Kyle could not stop his hand from going to the grip of his tulwar. ‘I never do.’

‘Good, good. Now go.’

Kyle bowed his thanks and climbed the last of the slope. As he closed upon the apex of the dome his steps became lighter, the going easier. As if he was actually descending. Then, something like a hand thrust itself into his back, not slapping, but accelerating so hard it forced the breath from his lungs. The surroundings blurred into a green smear. A waterfall crash detonated upon his ears, then diminished in volume – either that or he was losing his hearing. Most alarming was his footing: whatever it was he stood upon was soft and yielding like thick water, a blur of sluicing pale mud or clay. Kyle couldn't make any sense of it. He had no idea where he was or where he was headed. He also seemed to be all alone.

Or perhaps not. Shapes skimmed through the blurring flow parallel with him. Sleek, streamlined, like fish they were but much larger than he. Knowing he shouldn't, Kyle couldn't help but reach out to one. His fingers broke the surface of the shifing flow as if he'd dipped them over the side of a boat. He had the feeling that all he
had to do was jump overboard to find himself in a whole new world. One of the shapes nuzzled over as if in response to his gesture. Closer, Kyle had the impression of a stranger, far more alien creature – what had Stoop called the ugly things? – squid.

He thought that perhaps he'd tempted the Twins enough and pulled his hand back. Now, just how was he supposed to get out?

Something slapped through the barrier surrounding him and lashed itself around his arm. He screamed in searing pain as he was yanked backwards off his feet with the popping of his shoulder. He drew and slashed almost without thought. A distant keening, the braking snapping away, and Kyle felt himself spinning, his arm numb and lashing about. Then impact, loose gravel sushing beneath him and he lay panting.

A stream gurgled beside him the whole time; in this manner Kyle knew he'd not lost consciousness. He lay immobile mainly to rest and to delay any discovery of just how seriously he may be injured. Eventually, as the day dimmed, he had to accept that the demands of his flesh were still enough to force him on; especially a full bladder and an empty stomach. Slowly, painfully, he drew his good arm through the gravel to lever himself up into a sitting position. His other arm hung useless, numb, though the shoulder ached as if a fiend had sunk its teeth into it.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned on his hand to push himself upright. A flight of birds launched themselves from a nearby tree, startled, no doubt, by his resurrection. He was on a stranded gravel shore in the midst of a braided stream. Clear water ran west around him, shallow but swift. Trees taller than any he'd ever seen reared around him, blocking out the surroundings. Night was coming, and the air was chill. He started walking west.

The stream meandered, cutting deeply into its floodplain at times, but ever turned westward. Kyle kept to the open sandbars and gravel. Finally, ravenous, he cut a poplar branch and waded out to mid-stream. There he stood still in the dim light, lance raised. A flicker in the water; a curve of shadow. He threw. A miss.

Eventually, he sloshed to shore with an impaled fish. One-handed, he gathered dry fallen wood and brittle grass in the dark, stuck a flint pressing his knife under a knee until the grass lit. He cleaned the fish sloppily then angled it over the flames, and sat back.

Eating, he tossed branches on to the roaring fire. The night deepened.

Eventually a voice growled out of the dark, ‘The lad could be hurt. Knocked out. Bleeding.’

Kyle glanced over his shoulder. ‘Evening, Coots.’

‘Wounded, maybe,’ Coots knelt to his haunches and warmed his hands at the fire. ‘In Gods know what trouble.’

Kyle pointed to his shoulder. ‘I hurt my arm.’

‘The three of us runnin’ all over all through the night an’ you're sittin’ here stuffing your face.’

‘Comes around, doesn't it?’

‘What happened?’

‘Something grabbed my arm. I think it's broke.’

‘Hunh.’

‘Where are we?’

‘Got any more o’ that fish?’

‘There's more in the stream.’

‘Hunh. Funny guy. You're turnin’ into a funny guy.’

‘So where are we?’

Coots yawned, rubbed a hand across his face, lay down and stretched his legs out. ‘Close to the western coast. You can see it from any highland.’

‘What then?’

‘Don't know. Steal a fishing boat, I s'pose. Maybe head to Korel. Take a look at this Stormwall everyone's goin’ on about.’

* * *

Ghelel Rhik Tayliin allowed her fury to grow steadily in the pit of her stomach. This last revelation of the dispersal of the army assembled in her name was too much. Now that they had reached the Seti plains a simple direct forced march east was all that was required. Any fool could see that. But this latest news – to divide the army! Insane! The worst error of any bumbling lackwit. Her own readings of the military arts were plain on that topic. Never, ever, do that.

The grey mud of the churned-up shore of the Idryn sucked at her boots as she made her way to the command tent raised next to the assembled wagons and carts of the army's supply. Materiel never stopped moving, with more arriving even as she pushed her way through the maze of crates, piled sacks and penned animals. The ten swordsmen of her guard followed a stone's throw behind despite her direct orders to remain at the wagon. Her
Royal Palanquin
- Hood take it!

Beyond the ragged borders of the entrepot, Seti tribesmen rode
back and forth, whistling and lashing lengths of braided leather, driving lines of cattle and oxen east. East? Away from the carts? She gaped at the spectacle.

To make things worse the Talian and half-breed Seti drovers nudged each other and grinned her way – the mud-splattered Duchess! Ghelel gathered up the ends of her long white surcoat emblazoned with the winged lion of her family crest, made sure her helmet wrapped in white silk cord rested firmly and evenly on her head, then raised her chin defiantly.

The drovers looked away. She almost congratulated herself on that small victory when she caught sight of her bodyguard slogging up protectively close. Glaring at her guard – who seemed not to notice the attention as they scanned the surroundings – she started off again, wincing as she pulled each boot from the stiff sucking mud. May the Gods forgive her: hand-tooled Rhivi leather imported from Darujhistan. From Darujhistan! Why had they dressed her in such finery? As she neared the tent, laughter and raised voices snapped her gaze around. There, in the mud and shallows of the river, bare-chested men used mattocks and iron bars on wagons. Bashing and levering them apart. Demolishing them! Trake take them! They were destroying the wagons. What in the name of the Abyss was going on in this madhouse?

‘Stay here!’ she told her guard then tossed open the tent flap. Amaron stood at a camp table assembled from boards over two barrels; behind it sat General Choss, booted feet up on a stool, a towel draped over his face. Neither moved. ‘What is the meaning of this insanity!’

Amaron turned, raised a quizzical brow. Again, Ghelel was impressed by his height. Now, however, long into his sorcerously-maintained senescence, the belt across the expanse of his armoured belly seemed embarrassingly taut.

‘Which insanity might that be – my Lady?’

Ghelel could never shake the feeling that the two men were laughing at her. But she ploughed on, determined to defend her prerogatives. ‘Dividing the forces, firstly.’

Amaron glanced to his commander. ‘Ah.’

Sitting up, Choss pulled the towel from his face then rested his hands among the scraps of paper littering the table. The man reminded Ghelel of a lion, a scarred, battle-hardened veteran of countless scrapes, wiry with a bushy tangled head of curly hair and beard. Choss cleared his throat. ‘That was settled last night, Duchess. We saw no need to wake you.’

‘My presence is requisite at all command meetings.’

‘Ah, well, you see. In the field things don't really hold to any regularly scheduled meetings or such. We have to move quickly.’

‘Then come and get me, dammit!’

Choss's gaze went to Amaron and he smiled faintly. ‘Very well. But please remember – you supported relinquishing command of forces to me and I do not have the time to explain every decision.’