The Dark Ferryman (55 page)

Steel rang. Sevryn twisted his right arm, bringing the blade in a circle and Daravan’s sword went flying away from his hand, clattering to the ground. Daravan kicked at him, inside his dagger hand, and Sevryn fell back a step but only a step as Daravan lunged for his dropped sword.

“Leave it.”
His Voice shivered through his command, and Daravan hesitated.

His arm out for the weapon, Daravan looked up at him, frozen in motion. His jaws clenched, his teeth gritted, the man forced his words out. “What father gave you that Talent and the Demon?”

“No father gave me the Demon. An enemy granted me that. As for the Talent . . . something Vaelinar in me lent it.” Sevryn sucked in a calming breath. It hissed over his lower teeth and across his tongue and into his throat in a slow, deep, movement. “Stand aside. I’ve no more time to waste.”

“You’ve an enemy who might have plotted centuries for this moment. Did not Gilgarran warn you of such things?”

Something clicked in Sevryn’s mind, like a shopkeeper’s lock on a door, as the keyed tumblers fell into place. He made the slightest motion backward, on guard, balancing himself. One unnamed who managed to be everywhere, turning, meddling, directing. “It was you,” he answered slowly. “The Vaelinar not named. Gilgarran warned of the meddler, the manipulator, the obstructionist, the schemer. I thought it was Quendius, but it was you.”

“It might be both of us, if you live to find out.” Daravan moved.

Not a straight-ahead lunge or even to his side, but a somersault that took up his weapon and brought him to his feet at Sevryn’s open flank, in under his dagger hand. It did not matter. Cerat had seen him coming, from the corner of Sevryn’s heated eyes, and met him, the dagger cutting across his face.

Blood splattered Sevryn’s mouth and eyes, burning and salty. Daravan fell aside with a cry, dropping his sword and clasping his hands across his visage. With a growl, Sevryn knocked aside his hands and put his own over the gaping wound, fingers that burned as if they were on fire and Cerat exulted at the feel of the blood, but the Demon made a brand out of Sevryn, and at his touch, the wound sealed. Not entirely cleanly and not without much pain, for Daravan let out a howl of anguish, but without more loss of blood. Daravan fell to his side, curled on the ground as Cerat tasted his life and soul, and Sevryn pulled back in panting effort.

With his Voice, he whispered
Home
to Aymaran and set the horse free. He sheathed his sword and dagger and pitched headlong into the dark mouth of the waiting cave. The Demon light in his eyes gave him sight.

NUTMEG KNEW TREES and branches intimately. She’d spent most of her life climbing them and leaping from one to another with an abandon that made her father yell in frustration and her brothers nudge one another in admiration at the skill they’d taught her. So when she saw the low-hanging branch coming at her as her horse galloped headlong toward it, she knew it would sweep her from her saddle if she didn’t duck. She ducked.

The fool tashya horse swerved in blind panic to the right instead, dumping her unceremoniously, head over rear, onto the ground. Her breath left her with a whoosh, and hurt filled her at the same time as she stared skyward. The branch in question waved languidly over her as if in a mocking salute. Like a fish out of water, she whooped for air and glared at the tree. She didn’t think anything on her body could have hurt worse than her legs with which she’d gripped the horse for dear life while he ran, but now her head thumped, her rear must have apple-sized bruises on it from some rock she’d landed on, and she was undoubtedly losing her wits with every breath she could not take! Not to mention that the ground was freezing cold under her. The horse came trotting back and whuffed at her questioningly, his exhalation a misty cloud over her. When she finally got a breath, she rolled to her knees, shaking her fist at the beast.

“For a withered apple core, I’d eat you and walk after Grace.”

“Horse chew good, but what carry you then, little one?” rasped a growly voice behind her.

Nutmeg scrambled to her feet, spinning about with another gasp or two for breath out of necessity and surprise, brushing her unruly hair from her face to see a gnarled Bolger hunkered over watching her. She knew the rough visage well although she’d never thought to see him again. “R . . . Rufus? Rufus!”

He grinned, a frightening grimace considering his weathered face and tusks, but she knew that grin! Nutmeg bounced toward him with a fierce cry of her own to hug him. “We thought you were dead! But you’re not! You’re here!”

“Much hurt,” he grunted as he patted her back awkwardly with one great hand. “Gods have thing for me to do. I not journey for a while. Now I travel again.”

Nutmeg held onto him for another long moment, enveloped by his strong odor and warmth and muscle-knotted strength. She stepped back. “What do they want you to do?”

He shrugged. “Not know yet.”

“Help me find Rivergrace!”

He jerked a thumb over the yellow-green and browning hills toward the jagged peaks. “Gone.”

“You know? Which way? Come with me!” Nutmeg tugged on his hand. He rose to his full height.

“I know. Even in nasty caves, she smell like flower. She pass this way.” And the Bolger jerked his head this time, toward the rugged stone.

“You can smell her that well?”

“Aye. You smell. Dweller. Apple and spice that bites.” A light twinkled in Rufus’ eyes.

“And with every moment the two of you chatter, that scent has to grow fainter so that soon even you won’t be able to track her.”

Nutmeg had to crank her neck to look up at the two Galdarkans who emerged from the shade of a nearby evergreen, their leather battle armor and weaponry muffled by colorful scarves wrapped about them, the familiar haughty expressions on their wide-planed faces. She had never had much trade with Galdarkans until their uprooted family had come to the big city of Calcort, but she had never met one who was not arrogant and thought his worth far more than that of whoever he met. What was Rufus doing with the enemy Queen Lariel feared? She chewed on her tongue before spitting out words she might regret. The speaker tilted his head to one side rather than lower his chin to speak to her.

“I take it you know this Rivergrace?”

“She’s my sister.”

His gaze swept her from head to toe in mild disbelief. Nutmeg shifted from one boot sole to the other, her body aching. A few pine needles drifted from her hair and blouse as she did. “I am Tiforan, third-in-command to Lord Diort. This is my scribe, Lyat. You seem to know our smith and tracker already. If that suffices, I suggest we move and quickly before the queen decides to strengthen the wards on her borders.”

Rufus put his great, rough hands about Nutmeg’s waist and carried her to her horse, tossing her aboard with no more difficulty than if she were a small sack of grain. She snatched at the saddle to keep her balance. “Follow, ” he ordered her as he turned to lead all of them on the trail he alone seemed to know, his wide-slit nostrils flared as he moved uphill, his bowed legs carrying him with greater speed than appeared as the horses moved out with long strides to catch up.

Rufus took them unerringly to the mountains. Tiforan caught up, his face creased unhappily as he reined to a stop. “Old fool, you’ve taken us back to the way we came in. We’ve lost the girl now and whatever advantage Abayan wanted us to take.”

The Bolger did not even blink. He made a curt gesture toward the tumble of boulders.

She heard Tiforan’s complaint with uncertainy. She did not believe for a moment that Rivergrace had offered a marriage alliance to his warlord, but something was afoot here that she had no idea about . . . yet. She trusted Rufus far more than she could throw either Tiforan or Lyat. Standing in the stirrups, she rubbed one throbbing cheek ruefully.
Big
apple-sized bruises, she thought.

Tiforan spat to the ground, not far from both of them. “Turn back. We need to find the trail.”

Rufus stayed unmoving. He jerked a thumb toward the rock, granite and shadows behind him. He pulled a torch from his saddle pack and crouched down, flint and stone in his hand, striking them until it took a few sparks and lit.

“It’s a fool who has a guide and ignores him.” Nutmeg settled back down and tried not to wince. She slid off her horse, landing with a solid thump as she did and nodded to Rufus. “I’ll follow.”

The Bolger’s eyes flashed in triumph as he turned, leading his horse after him, picking a way through the debris so as not to lame his beast, and Nutmeg came after. She could hear a sound of disdain behind her, then the noise of two more riders on their tail. She was undoubtedly the only one who did not have to duck as a rough stone arch loomed before them, leading into the mountain’s depths. Here it seemed narrow and crowding and she felt choked a bit as smoke hung low.

They walked for a good candlemark or two. Dank air hung close about them, smelling of their sweat and rock under mountain that had never seen light, and strange things grew and lived there. They went skittering, chittering about as she kicked loose stone and broken tile for someone, or something, had laid tile down here, as if she walked a very old court’s road and for the most part, the tunnels had become very smooth, as if chiseled like some artisan’s sculpture. She did not see how Rufus could smell anything down here other than the suffocating smells which cloaked them, but he must, for his head swung about now and then, and he took them down a different branch of the looping tunnels they traveled. Then they reached a dead end blocked by a fall of rock.

Tiforan shouldered his way to them. “Well done,” he muttered. “I suppose your keen senses can tell she is on the other side of that.”

“Taken that way. Double back, catch up.”

Tiforan craned his head. He looked back toward a branch of tunnels, the one they’d just come down, and another Rufus wanted followed. Pathway marks shone in the glow of the torch over the caves they had traversed but none the way the Bolger wanted to lead them. He had no liking for the darkness or the pathways and knew it to be cowardice on his part, but he could not fail Abayan Diort. Not if he wished to stay high in his warlord’s estimation. He would not stray from the high and low places marked by the Mageborn. He swallowed with a dry mouth.

“Follow the markings if we’re to find her.”

“We go.” Rufus made a vague motion to the other tunnel.

“There are no tracks that way.”

“This cut off. Other way not.”

“You can’t know that. It’s not marked. We’re underneath a cursed pile of rock.” Tiforan jabbed a forefinger at the signs painted eye-height to his frame. “We go this way unless you think you can track across polished stone.”

“Work mines. Know mines. No like.”

“These aren’t mines. You’re on the Pathways of the Guardians,” Tiforan snapped irritably.

The gold-and-black eyes of the Bolger fixed on his face for a moment. “Kill all the same,” Rufus replied. Flashing his tusks, he turned away.

Tiforan bit down on the corner of his lip. He had no liking for Bolgers of any sort, but this one had been handpicked by Diort to ride with him, therefore he had to deal with it. It had to be a test of his ability to control his men, a test of his ability to command, Tiforan could see no other reason for it. Rufus spat upon the cave floor, and he reached out to the Bolger’s shoulder and spun him around.

“This is sacred ground. I will have respect shown, if not to Lord Diort, then to our ancestors!”

Rufus dropped into a crouch, his lips curling back from his massive ivory teeth. He balanced himself with one hand knuckled to the dirt before he straightened. His eyes flashed in the semidarkness. “You think Magessss made these tunnels? These here before you crawled. We know what made these. We hunted it. It hunted us. In our first home and here.” He thumped his chest with the hand holding his torch, and sparks flew about him like maddened fireflies. When he spoke again, his breath cut through the smoky cloud with scorn. “A great beasssst. Its mouth drips, and its juice cuts stone. It eats and then sleeps under mountain. We hunt. It eats its way through rock. Great snake but not snake. These tunnels loop back and forth as it wandered. We hunt for many years of fathers. It kill all it hunt but Bolgers. We too ssssmart for it. It kill us but not all. It turned south. Came to great bay of the ghosts. Went into the seas for food and something there ate it. Your Magesss may put magic into the rocks, but never did they make these places at the beginning.” Rufus waved his torch, the flame roaring up as he did.

“We own them now.” Tiforan’s words fell as if dripped in the same acid-venom the Bolger had just described.

Nutmeg’s hand curled tighter about her own torch. “What do you think?” she charged the thin air. “I think he is right. I follow Rufus.”

“This is not a vote!”

“You may be right. But you’ll look pretty silly walking around in the dark all by yourself. We have the torch.” Putting her chin up, Nutmeg led her horse over to stand by Rufus, the Bolger overshadowing her.

Acknowledging her only with a benevolent grunt, Rufus pointed across the cave. Nutmeg obediently trotted toward it, and disappeared into its shadowy maw. Rufus followed.

Tiforan stood for a bare moment longer as darkness descended around him and then, tugging on his horse’s reins, he went after the two of them, his jaw tight and his gut hurting. He had already lost the prize Diort had sent him after; what difference did losing his dignity make now? Just inside the stony arch, Nutmeg waited for him. He found himself absurdly happy to see her in a circle of illumination, surrounded by rock that did appear as if it had, indeed, been chewed through. They traded looks. “What,” said Tiforan. “No pithy Dweller saying to encourage me with, like “Many feet make a short trail”?”

“That,” Nutmeg told him, “is a given.” She presented him with a picture of her back as she led her mount away.