Ships from the West (16 page)

Baraz bowed in the saddle. ‘I am uncouth. I must apologise, lady. It is of course an honour—’

‘Oh, stow it, Baraz. It’s not as though I blame you. Were I a man, I would feel the same way. Here comes Gebbia. You would think she had just ridden clear across Normannia. Gebbia! Clench your knees together and kick that lazy screw a little harder or you’ll lose us altogether.’

Gebbia, a pretty dark-haired little thing whose face was flushed with exertion, could only nod wordlessly, and then look appealingly at Baraz.

‘We should perhaps walk them a while to let them cool down,’ he ventured.

‘Very well. Ride beside me, Ensign. We shall head up to the hilltop yonder, and then maybe I’ll allow you to race me.’.

The three horses and their riders proceeded more sedately up the long heather and boulder-strewn slope, whilst before them the sun rose up out of a roseate wrack of tumbled cloud on the undulating horizon. A falcon wheeled screaming out of the sun towards Torunn and shrank to a winged speck within seconds, though Mirren followed its course keenly with palm-shaded eyes. The marmoset gibbered unhappily and she shushed it. ‘No Mij, it was just a bird is all.’

‘You understand him?’ Baraz asked, curious.

‘In a way. He’s my familiar,’ and she laughed as his eyes widened. ‘Didn’t you know that Dweomer runs in the blood of the Fantyrs? The female line, at any rate. From my mother I gained witchery and from my father the ability to ride anything on four legs.’

‘You can cast spells then?’

‘Would you like me to try?’ She wagged the fingers of one hand at him and he recoiled despite himself. Mirren laughed again. ‘I have little talent, and there is no one to tutor me save Mother. There are no great mages left in Torunna. They have all fled to join Himerius and the Empire, it is said.’

‘I have never seen magic worked.’

Mirren waved an arm, frowning, and Baraz saw a haze of green-blue light follow in its wake, as though trailed by her sleeve. It gathered on her open palm and coalesced into a ball of bright werelight. She sent it circling in a blazing blur round Baraz’s astonished face, and then it winked out like a snuffed candle.

‘You see? Mountebank tricks, little more.’ She shrugged with a rare sadness, and he saw at once her father’s face in hers. Her eyes were warmer, but the same strength was in the line of the jaw and the long nose. Baraz began to regret his assignment a little less.

Mirren stared at him with the sadness still on her face, then turned to her lady-in-waiting.

‘Don’t try to keep up with us, Gebbia; you’ll only fall off.’ And to Baraz: ‘Ready for that race?’

Without another word she let out a yell and kicked Hydrax on. The big bay sprang into an instant canter, then quickened into a full-blooded gallop, his black mane flying like a flag. Baraz watched her go, startled, but noting how well she sat, sidesaddle or no, and then dug both heels into his own horse’s flanks.

He had thought to go easy on her, and let her stay a little ahead, but he found instead that she was leaving him quickly behind, and had to ride in earnest, his grey dipping and rising under him on the rough ground. Once he had to pull up hard on the reins as the gelding tripped and almost went headlong and it took every ounce of his skill to draw level with her as they reached the broad plateau at the summit of the ridgeline, and she slowed to a canter again, then a trot, and finally a slow walk.

‘Not bad,’ Mirren told him. The marmoset had wrapped itself around her neck and was as bright-eyed as she. ‘Now Mij, ease off a little there; you’ll have me strangled.’

There was a rough upland track here on the ridge, and as they walked their horses along it they could look down on the sprawl of the capital behind them. They were some five or six miles out of the gates, and poor Gebbia was a mere dot on the land below, still trotting gamely upwards.

They passed the ruins of a house, or hill croft, its roof beams long since fallen in like charred ribs in the crumbling shadow of its walls.

‘My father tells me there were many farms here in the hills outside the city before the war. Then the Merduks came and—’ Mirren coloured. ‘Ensign Baraz, I am so sorry.’

Baraz shrugged. ‘What you say is true, lady. My people raped this part of the world before your father threw them back at Armagedir. It was an ugly time.’

‘And now a descendant of the great Shahr Baraz of Aekir wears a Torunnan uniform and takes orders from a Torunnan king. Does that not seem odd to you?’

‘When the wars ended I was a toddler. I grew up knowing that Ramusio and Ahrimuz were the same man. I have worshipped alongside Ramusians all my life. The older men remember things the way they were, but the younger know only the world the way it is now. And it is better like this.’

‘I certainly think so.’

They smiled at each other in the same moment, and Baraz felt a warmth creep about his heart. But the moment was broken by the urgent squeaks of Mirren’s familiar.

‘Mij! What in the world is wrong?’

The little animal was clambering distractedly about her shoulders, hissing and crying. She halted her horse to calm it and Baraz took her reins as she bodily seized the tiny creature and stared into its face. It grew quiet, and whimperingly climbed into the hollow of her hood where it lay chittering to itself.

‘He’s terrified, but all he can show me is the face of a great black wolf.’ Mirren took back her reins, troubled.

‘There’s someone on the track ahead of us,’ Baraz told her. He loosened his sabre in its scabbard. A tall figure was standing some way in the distance, seemingly oblivious of their presence. He was motionless as a piece of statuary, and was staring down at the walls of the capital, mustard-coloured in the morning light, and the blue shine of the estuary beyond where the Torrin widened on its way to the sea.

‘He doesn’t look dangerous,’ Mirren said. ‘Oh, Baraz, stop topping it the bodyguard. It’s just a beggar or vagabond. Look - there’s another one, off to one side. They seem lost, and old, too.’

They rode up to the men, who appeared to be absorbed in the contemplation of the city in the distance. One was sitting with his back to a stone and a hood which seemed like a monk’s cowl was pulled over his head. He might have been asleep. The other was dressed in a travel-stained robe, buff-coloured with dust, and a wide-brimmed hat which hid his face in shadow. A bulging haversack hung from one bony shoulder.

‘Good morning, fathers,’ Baraz greeted them as they approached. ‘Are you heading for the city?’

The man on the ground did not stir, but the other answered. ‘Yes, that is my goal.’ His voice was deep as a well.

‘You’ve a fair step to go then.’

The man did not reply at once. He seemed weary, if the sag of his shoulders was anything to go by. He looked up at the two riders and for the first time they saw his face and gasped involuntarily.

‘Who might you two be then?’

‘I am Ensign Baraz of the Torunnan army, and this is—’

‘The Princess Mirren, daughter of King Corfe himself. Well, this is a happy chance.’ The man smiled, and they saw that despite the ruin which constituted one side of his face, his eyes were kindly.

‘How do you know who I am?’ Mirren demanded.

And now the man sitting on the ground raised his head and spoke for the first time. ‘Your familiar told us.’

Baraz drew his sabre and nudged the grey forward until he was between Mirren and the strange pair. ‘State your names and your business in Torunna,’ he rasped, dark eyes flashing.

The man on the ground rose to his feet. He also seemed tired. The two might have been nothing more than a pair of road-weary vagabonds, but for that last statement, and the aura of unquiet power which hung about them.

‘They’re wizards’ Mirren said.

The disfigured older man doffed his wide-brimmed hat. ‘Indeed we are, my dear. Young man, our business is our own, but as for our names, well I am Golophin of Hebrion, and my companion—’

‘Will remain nameless, for now,’ the other interrupted. Baraz could see a square jaw and broken nose under the cowl, but little else.

‘Golophin!’ Mirren cried. ‘My father speaks often of you. The greatest mage in the world, it is said.’

Golophin chuckled, replacing his hat. ‘Perhaps not the greatest. My companion here might bridle at such an assumption.’

‘What are you doing here in Torunna? I thought you were still in Abrusio.’

‘I have come to see King Corfe, your father. I have some news for him.’

‘What of your taciturn comrade?’ Baraz asked, pointing at him with his sword.

As he gestured with the blade the weapon seemed to flick out of his grip. It spun coruscating in the air for a second and then flicked away into the heather, stabbing into the ground so that the hilt stood quivering. Baraz shook his hand as though it had been burned, mouth gaping.

‘I do not like blades pointed in my face,’ Golophin’s companion said mildly.

‘You had best leave us be,’ Golophin told Baraz. ‘My friend and I were in the middle of a little altercation when you arrived, hence his testiness.’

‘Golophin, there is so much I must ask you,’ Mirren said.

‘Indeed? Well child, you may ask me anything you like, but not right now. I am somewhat preoccupied. It might be best if you said nothing of this meeting. The fewer folk who know I am here the better.’ Then he looked at his companion, and laughed. The other’s mouth crooked under the cowl in answer.

‘You may tell your father, though. I will see him tonight, or possibly tomorrow morning.’

‘What is this news you have come to deliver? I will take it to him.’

Golophin’s ravaged face hardened into a mask. ‘No, one so young should not have to bear such tidings.’ He turned to Baraz. ‘See the lady safe home, soldier.’

Baraz glared at him. ‘You may be sure I will.’

Spring might be in the air, but up here in the hills there was still an algid bite to the air when the wind got up, and as the day drew on Golophin and his companion kindled a fire with a blast of rubescent theurgy and sat on pads of gathered heather warming themselves at the transparent flames. As the afternoon waned and the sun began to slide behind the white peaks of the Cimbrics in the west, Golophin was aware that a third person had joined them, a small, silent figure which sat cross-legged just outside the firelight.

‘That is an abomination,’ the old mage told his companion.

‘Perhaps. I am no longer sure I care greatly. One can become accustomed to all sorts of things, Golophin.’ The speaker had thrown back his cowl at last and now was revealed as a middle-aged man with close-cropped grey hair and a prizefighter’s face. He reached into the breast of his habit and brought forth a steel flask. Unscrewing the top, he took a sip and then tossed it across the fire. Golophin caught it deftly and drank in his turn. ‘Hebrionese akvavit. I applaud your taste, Bard.’

‘Call it a perk of the job.’

‘Call it what it is: spoils of war.’

‘Hebrion was my home also, Golophin.’

‘I have not forgotten that, you may be sure.’

A tension fizzled across the flames between them, and then slackened as Bardolin chuckled. ‘Why Golophin, your hauteur is almost impressive.’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘It is pleasant, this, sitting here as though the world were not on fire around us, listening to the hunting bats and the sough of the wind in the heather. I like this country. There is an austerity to it. I do not wonder that it breeds such soldiers.’

‘You met these soldiers in the field I hear, a decade ago. So are you become a general now?’

Bardolin bowed. ‘Not much of a one, it must be said. Give me a tercio and I know what to do. Give me an army and I will admit to being somewhat ill at ease.’

“That doesn’t bode well for your master’s efforts in this part of the world, Presbyter.’

‘We have generals, Golophin, ones who may surprise you. And we have numbers. And the Dweomer.’

“The Dweomer as a weapon of war. In the days before the Empire - the First Empire - it is said that certain kings fielded regiments of mages. But it has never been recorded that they tolerated the presence of shifters in their armies. Not even the ancients were barbarian enough for that.’

‘You speak whereof you know nothing.’

‘I know enough. I know that the thing seated across the fire from me is not Bardolin of Carreirida, and the succubus which hides silent in the shadows behind you was not conjured up for his comfort.’

‘And yet she is a comfort, nonetheless.’

‘Then why are you here? To sit and wax nostalgic about the old days?’

‘Is that so inexplicable, so hard to believe?’ Golophin dropped his eyes. ‘I don’t know. Ten, twelve years ago I thought there was a part of my apprentice which could still be saved. I am no longer so sure. I am consorting with the enemy now.’

‘It does not have to be that way. I am still the Bardolin you knew. Because of me, Hawkwood is alive.’

‘That was your master’s whim.’

‘Partly. The survival of the other had nothing to do with me though, you may be sure.’ ‘What other?’

‘The Presbyter of Hebrion’s right hand.’
I
don’t understand, Bard.’

‘I can tell you no more. I, also, am consorting with the enemy do not forget.’

The two wizards stared at each other without animosity, only a gentle kind of sadness.

‘It is not as though Hebrion has been destroyed, Golophin,’ Bardolin said softly. ‘It has merely suffered a change in ownership.’

‘That sounds like the self-justification of the thief.’

‘You are so damned wilful - and wilfully blind.’ Here Bardolin leaned forward so that the firelight carved a crannied mask out of his bluff features.

“The fleet did not make landfall in Hebrion out of a mere whim, Golophin. Your - our - homeland is vital to Aruan’s plans. It so happens that Hebrion, and the Hebros Mountains, were once part of the Western Continent.’

‘How can you—’

‘Let me finish. At some time in the unimaginable past Normannia and the west were one great land mass, but they split apart aons ago, drifting like great lilypads and letting the ocean flood in between them. Aruan and his chief mages have been conducting research into the matter for many years.’