The Swans' War 3 - The Shadow Roads (21 page)

"We go down the lane," Samul ordered, taking charge. "Cut down the men with the torches first."The hedgerows to either side would be impenetrable, he knew. These men weren't fools. There were only two ways out, and they were outnumbered from both before and behind. Samul raised his sword and shouted, running at the dark forms of men who ap-peared in the dull torchlight. Rain continued to fall,making the footing treacherous. Even the pommel of his sword was slick.

They had only a moment to fight their way through the men in the lane before the others would be upon them from behind, and they'd be trapped and hopelessly outnumbered.

The clash of the two companies meeting was loud in the narrow lane. Samul went straight at the nearest torchbearer but two of his company intervened, then they fell back, parrying and dodging, hoping to slow Samul until the others were on him from behind. Prince Michael and Carl were having no better luck, the men be-fore them doing the same. Samul could hear the pounding of boots behind.

"I'd drop those blades, lads, if I were you," the man with the torch called out. "Unless you'd rather die he—" But he did not finish. A sword through his ribs sent him reeling forward, lum-bering into one of his fellows, whom Samul disarmed and ran through. A shadow wielding a sword threw their enemies into dis-

array, men plunging this way and that to escape the blade, Samul, Carl, and Michael slashing at the men as they tried to escape. Torches tumbled to the ground and in a second they were run-ning for all their worth down the dark lane, the sounds of pursuit close behind.

"Here!" Jamm called in the dark, and Samul followed Carl and Michael over a gate. There were horses there, with one man guard-ing them. One look at the numbers coming over the gate and he dropped his torch and fled into the dark. Samul was on a horse, slashing at the reins of the remaining mounts, taking the nose off one horse in the dark. In a moment they were galloping over open pasture, rain still pouring down, running into their eyes.

Someone—Jamm, Samul thought—had taken up the fallen torch, and Samul tried to keep that in view, almost colliding with Carl in their headlong dash. A low stone wall loomed up, and Samul almost lost his saddle as his mount leapt it at the last second. Jamm slowed their pace then, the will to self-preservation over-coming his fear. He slowed almost to a stop, his horse dancing about so that torch waved wildly.

"Are they behind us? Are they behind us?" the little man called.

They all reined in their mounts, listening. The rain drummed down, and far off they could hear shouting.

"I think they've lost sight of us," the Prince said.

Jamm threw his torch into a narrow ditch, where it sputtered out, leaving them in utter darkness again.

"Let the horses go," Jamm said, and Samul heard the thief dis-mount.

"But they will overtake us!" Samul protested.

"Not this night," came Jamm's answer out of darkness.

Samul cursed as he heard the others following the little man's orders. He dismounted reluctantly.

"Do as he says," Carl whispered. "You'll be caught in half a day without Jamm."Samul heard Jamm smack his mount and send it trotting off, and he did the same. He couldn't see the others a few feet away.

"Follow me," Jamm said, just loud enough to be heard over the rain and the sound of retreating horses.

"But where are you in this pitch hole?" the prince asked.

"Follow my voice. That's it," whispered Jamm. "Are we all here? I will lead. Put a hand on the shoulder of the man before you."They set off like a train of blind men, and in three steps had blundered into the ditch. Samul started to climb out when he real-ized that Jamm had no intention of doing so. They sloshed their way along, water running about their knees. Progress was slow as they fought the current, but Samul realized their would be no boot prints to follow. Three times they stopped while Carl and Jamm made forays out into the dark, leaving false trails to where, Samul couldn't guess.

Above the splatter of rain, they could hear men on horseback, and even see their torches. They pressed on desperately, falling often on the slippery ground or tripping over objects hidden by the dark. Patrols rode by while they were crossing open fields, and they were forced to lie down and press their faces into the wet grass and dirt.

They passed over the land like a silent pack, wary and wild. At the corner of three irregularly shaped fields Jamm stopped to sur-vey the gray landscape. How he could see anything beyond a few feet, Samul did not know. They were crouched in long orchard grass that dripped with rain. Cold, wet spiderwebs clung to the no-bleman's hands, and fireflies danced through the air. In the dis-tance, cattle lowed, and nighthawks cried forlornly.

"Do you smell something?" Carl whispered to Jamm.

A tiny breeze did carry a foul odor.

"Dead animal," Jamm said quietly.

When the thief was satisfied that they could press on he went quickly over the wall and into a field of oats. Samul came behind, thinking this would be as wet as wading through a lake. Immedi-ately he tripped over something soft. Pressing the oats aside with his arm, he cursed.

"What is it?" Carl asked.

"A dead man."

A second man lay a few feet away. In the dark it was hard to tell how they'd been killed, but it was hardly by accident. They wore mail shirts and surcoats.

"These men served the House of Innes," Prince Michael said, crouching over the corpses in the dark. "Our crest is embroidered on their shoulders—you can feel it."Jamm rummaged the stinking bodies but found neither purses nor weapons, and then he led his companions off, clinging to the shadow at the field's edge, a new urgency in their pace.

It crouched high in the dead branches of a tree. In the diffuse gray light the creature cast no shadow, but Tam could see it was thin-boned and angular—almost human. It appeared narrow-chested and thin-necked, bent like a stooped old man, but it leapt nimbly to another branch, swung one-handed, and landed in the crotch of a nearby tree, its long tail curling around a branch like a fifth limb.

Whatever beast it was, it stared down at Alaan through the leaf-less branches, its eyes large and dark, almost hidden in short, ash-gray fur.

"Have you kept your word?" it hissed. "Have you?""Can you keep yours? That is what I wonder," Alaan answered.

"She will be angry," the creature said very softly, as though someone might hear. "If she finds out, she'll cast another spell on me.""She'll learn nothing from us." Alaan dug into a pocket and produced a leather pouch dangling from a cord. He reached up, the cord entwined in his fingers, the dull little pouch twisting slowly.

For a moment, the creature stared solemnly at Alaan, then came creeping down the branches, more sinuous and nimble than a squirrel. It reached out a paw tentatively toward the pouch, almost afraid to touch it, Tarn thought. Just as its fingers were about to snatch it, Alaan seized the creature by its wrist and yanked it bod-ily from the tree. It tumbled down upon him, throwing its thin arms around his neck. It bared its fangs and would have bitten him had Alaan not been expecting such an attack.

"Don't you dare bite me!" Alaan hissed, grabbing the creature by the throat.

"Liar!" the beast hissed. "Liar.""I just want to be sure I get what you promised," Alaan said. "The potion is yours, but you must do what I've asked." He put the pouch into the creature's hand and closed the bony fingers around it.

"How do I know that it will do what you promised?" the crea-ture accused.

"It will, on my word."

The creature stopped struggling and stared at Alaan's hand-some face, so close to its own. "I will put you on the right path," it conceded.

Alaan let the creature crouch on the saddle before him, for it would not sit like a man, despite its ability to speak like one.

It pointed, and Alaan gave his horse a heel. The others followed in single file, dumbfounded by this latest strange twist in their journey.

"What manner of creature is that thing?" Tarn heard Fynnol whisper to Crowheart.

"A man—or so it once was."

"That is no man!" Fynnol argued, but the creature turned and glared at him, and Fynnol fell silent.

Whatever it was it had good ears,Tam decided.

They continued on through the dim wood, the barren and bro-ken trees like creatures burned to a hard shell, their arms flung out, thin fingers grasping the air in agony. The ground itself was barren sand and rocks, though a little darker soil could still be seen around the exposed roots of the trees.

Every so often the creature would point, and they would change direction, though how it found its way in the featureless landscape Tarn did not know. He pulled his cloak close against the cool breeze and bent low to offer less of a target. The mane of his horse whipped about with the occasional gust, and sand stung his eyes.

The horses were restive and wild-eyed, and if not for the atten-tions of Crowheart might have bolted—all but Alaan's Bris, who seemed to be frightened by nothing.

After several hours of riding through the desolate landscape, they came at last to a broken hill. Out of a mouth in the rock poured a little rill of dusky water. The creature jumped down from Alaan's horse and crouched low to slake its thirst from the mur-muring stream—as though he drank in the words of this forsaken land.

"Drink. It is good," he said, standing and wiping his mouth with the back of a meager wrist.

No one moved to dismount, but Alaan let his horse drink a lit-tle. Tarn thought they'd all go thirsty before they'd drink such water, but their waterskins weren't empty yet.

The creature gazed down at the pouch in his hand, the cord tangled in his thin, almost human fingers. Then he stirred himself. "What is in it?" he asked, holding up the pouch.

"The breastbone of a sorcerer thrush, ground to powder, among other things."The creature's eyes went wide. "You killed a sorcerer thrush?!""Even I'm not such a fool. A falcon killed it. I merely waited for it to pick the bones clean. Wear it around your neck."The creature hesitated, gazing at the bag, the almost human face unreadable. Eyes closed, it lifted the cord over its head, letting the pouch settle against the gray fur of its chest. Its posture changed, becoming more erect, almost human, and the dark eyes flicked open to stare at its hands. "It does nothing!""Be patient," Alaan said. "A spell such as yours cannot be bro-

ken in a moment. It will take several days, perhaps a fortnight, but you will be yourself again, Waath. You have my word."The creature closed its fingers around the pouch, as though try-ing to feel the magic, then pointed down the path of the little trickle of water. "Follow this," it hissed. "The stream will lead you where you want to go. But mind what you say! She will be very angry with me. Very angry." It glanced down at the pouch, then up at the men. "Luck to you Alaan," it said. "Come visit when I am myself again. You shall see—I was a man of some dignity, once…" He tried to smile—a terrible misshapen grimace.

"Perhaps I will, one day, Waath." Alaan nodded to the creature, and they set off, following the meandering track of the little stream.

Tarn looked back and saw the creature staring down into the small pool that formed below the spring. In one fist he held the pouch tightly, his manner so hopeful and pathetic that Tarn had to look away.

They rode for some few hours—Tarn didn't know how many, for the light never seemed to change in this place, no matter the time of day or night. Eventually, they began to hear a sound like wind or water, and finally they decided it was water, running water. A good stream of it, Tam guessed.

But before they reached it, they found a pool—too large to throw a stone across but not by much—around it a screen of bleak trees, some fallen or shattered. Here and there Tam saw stunted plants, gray-green in color: a desperate fern, a lily, some clumps of grass.

"Do you know where we are, Alaan?" Cynddl asked. He looked around, and shivered.

In answer, Alaan lifted an arm and pointed. Against the far shore something moved. A swan, Tam realized, a black swan. He could see the graceful curve of its neck, the wings held high.

Alaan swung quietly down from his saddle and handed the reins to Crowheart. As the others dismounted he gestured for them to stay back, going forward only a few paces himself. There he crouched, looking out over the slick, dark water.

The swan disappeared behind the black bole of a tree, then ap-peared again, barely there against the dark water and burned shore. Alaan did not move, but waited, still as a stalking cat. The swan fi-nally made its way around the pond, and when it drew near to the place where Alaan waited, the traveler spoke.

"Hello, Grandmother," he said softly.

The swan stopped, then darted behind a tall rock. Alaan did not move to give chase but bided his time. After a long moment a shadow appeared on the water's edge, half-hidden by a tree. A human shadow, Tarn could see—a young woman by form and movement.

"You are a child of Wyrr?"

"Sainth, or so I once was," Alaan said, "before I slept an age in the river."She gazed at him a moment. "What you have done is unwhole-some. It is wrong to take another—""It was forced upon me—or him rather, for Sainth is but a part of me, now."The woman came forward a step, and Tarn could see her more clearly, thick, black hair to her waist, a face that would thaw the heart of Death himself.

"Why are you here?"

"Why are you here, I might ask," Alaan said. "No one has yet passed into Death's kingdom and returned. You wait in vain.""What I do is my business. You have not traveled here to lecture me about matters of which I know more than you."She stepped behind a thin tree so that she was half-hidden. Tam saw Cynddl move forward a little, his face alert.

"I have come seeking my father," Alaan said.

"Wyrr sleeps in the river, as you must know." She disappeared behind a larger tree.

Alaan rose to his feet. "Caibre will create a soul eater at Death's bidding. He is seeking Wyrr, and I fear he knows where he rests."A swan appeared, paddling along the shore, its webbed feet stir-ring up the water in its wake. It passed behind a rock, and on the other side emerged a shadow, slipping gracefully across the barren earth.

"You disturb me, son of Wyrr," she whispered, her voice clear and musical. "Do you know what lies beyond the river? A place without human warmth. These twilight lands are verdant com-pared to Death's kingdom, yet once he was just a man—if a sor-cerer can ever be called just a man. Mea'chi was his name then, and the friend of his heart was named Tusival. Both were in thrall to the arcane arts and learned much. They laid the foundation for the arts as they came to be known in later years. But Tusival was full of life, nearly bursting with it. You have never met a man so vibrant, so ut-terly alive. And Mea'chi was wounded by living. Everything scarred him, good or bad, and he withdrew into a world of his own—first a room in a tower, a dark lifeless place, then the castle entire. Soon the lands around began to die, trees withering away, fields barren of crops. The pain and fear of Mea'chi were like a spell, spreading outward, killing what could not run, chasing every-thing else away. Tusival tried to bring his friend back, back to life, but he could not. In the end Tusival was forced to wall Mea'chi into his kingdom, where he preys on the souls of the dying, breathing in the last whiff of life from those who pass through his gate." She turned and pointed a finger off toward the sounds of the river. "That is where he took my daughter, only a child, breaking every pact he had ever made. And then he created that… thing , that monster." She seemed to wither away then, collapsing into a crouch, arms across her knees, a hand hiding her lovely face. "And he took my Tusival away… into that lifeless place. Tusival, whom time could not touch." She began to weep softly.

"And now he will take Wyrr as well, and eventually Aillyn," Alaan said softly. "That is his plan. And Sainth's brother, Caibre, will create the monster for him."She wept on, seeming not to have heard, or to have cared.

"Mea'chi has one of your children," Alaan said. "Will you let him take the others? The children Tusival vowed Death would never have?"She stirred a little, moving into a patch of shadow, and there was a swan again, paddling slowly over the black pond, away from them.

"Meer," Alaan called, "will you not help me?"The swan hesitated, turning its elegant neck and looking back at the man standing on the shore. For a moment it drifted there, pushed by the small breeze, turning slowly, then it came back to-ward the shore, disappearing behind a tree.

Tarn expected the beautiful woman to appear again, but only her voice was heard.

"The resting place of Wyrr is on a branch of the river. A high island where it is said Pora awaited her lover, who never returned.""I know that place!" Alaan said. "But where on the island was he laid to rest?""Look for the Moon's Mirror," the voice said. The woman ap-peared again, Meer, and came toward Alaan.

"There is a stone," she said intently, "a green gem, that once be-longed to my Tusival. It passed to Wyrr, then to Aillyn before it was lost. I seek it.""Why?""Because it belonged to my love, and it would be a danger if it fell into the hands of mortal men.""Certainly any spell placed upon it would have faded by now."She shook her beautiful head, gazing intently into Alaan's eyes. "Not these spells.""I don't know it," Alaan said, his gaze dropping to his feet.

She regarded him a moment more, her look a little mad and un-settling. Reaching out, she touched his face and pressed her own cheek close to his. For a moment they stood thus, then she turned and blended into shadow. The swan appeared swimming on the pond, never looking back. And then it was lost in darkness on the far shore.

For a long time they all waited, but the swan did not return, and, finally, Alaan turned away. "There, Cynddl," he said, "you have found many stories of ancient times, but you've never met one of the figures from that age.""I have met you," Cynddl said.

"I am but a youth compared to Meer, or rather, Sainth is but a youth." His eyes lost focus for a moment, and he hesitated as though suddenly lost.

"Where is this place she spoke of?" Cynddl asked.

Alaan gave his head the smallest shake. "It is on the hidden river. Few have traveled there. I doubt even our intrepid Theason has wandered so far. Sainth was there long ago. It is a place made famous in an old tale: the Isle of Disappointment, it has been called, and the Isle of Waiting. There is said to be a ghost there though Sainth did not see it.""But…" Cynddl's voice trailed off as he gestured toward the pond.

Alaan turned to the story finder and nodded. "Yes," he said softly, "she has been here all this time. There is a story of grief for you. Or madness." Alaan took the reins of his horse from Crowheart. "We have journeyed this far—come gaze on the final river. On the other shore lies Death's kingdom. The gate is not far off, above the steps of an ancient quay. But we will not go there this day."Alaan did not mount but led his horse through the twilight wood. In a short distance they came to the murmuring river, which ran like gray ink through the doomed landscape. The far shore was lost in shadow, though if he stared Tarn thought he saw more bar-ren trees, perhaps a cliff, he could not be sure.

"Is there a more oppressive place than this?" Fynnol wondered aloud.

"Yes," Alaan answered, "but no one returns to speak of it.""I thought to see this place only once," Cynddl said, his man-ner distant.

"Innithal, it was called in ancient times," Alaan said. "River of tears or perhaps river of sorrow. But men do not name it now, if they even believe in its existence. Be sure your ashes are spread upon theWynnd before your body is cold. Then you will follow the black wanderers, Cynddl's people, back to the breathing sea. Bet-