Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (50 page)

“Send someone to observe them,” wheezed the ancient. “It would be best to know what they are at. What if they have grown suspicious, and are using their powers to call storms upon us?”

“I shall dispatch one of my servants and one of Chohrab’s,” said Uabhar. “Should the puddlers be at some activity that could be deemed treacherous, the buttermilk ninny of Ashqalêth will more easily be goaded to action if he learns of it from one of his own lackeys.”

“Whoever is chosen, let them be nimble and circumspect,” said the druid. “They must pass unnoticed to the walls of the lodge, and look upon the weathermasters without being seen.”

“Whom would you recommend?” the king asked. “No doubt you are expert in selecting the most athletic and enterprising agents for this kind of work, since your own affairs require the gathering of much intelligence.”

Apparently oblivious of the king’s dig at his character, which, according to the precepts of the Sanctorum, ought to be the very model of shining integrity, the druid replied, “Two men with the cunning, speed and slipperiness
of rats would be appropriate. I would recommend that fellow of yours who does your spying on the lord high chancellor. As for the other, let Shechem choose; it makes little difference.”

Uabhar made no response, pretending to be lost in thought as an alibi for the snub; but later he did act on the druid’s suggestion.

To the judiciously appointed agents Uabhar said, “Go discreetly and spy on the weathermasters. Bring back news of their doings.”

Two men in dusky garments acknowledged their orders, bowed, and slipped away with practiced stealth.

A southwest wind blew the clouds over the river valley, near the hamlet of Cold Ash in northern Narngalis. Briefly, Asrathiel paused in her climb. In the gloom beneath the cloud-blotted sky, barely tinged by starlight, she could hardly make out her surroundings. She was ascending a steep slope at the edge of the vale, heading for a rocky crag that loomed black against the feeble pallor of the heavens. From a distance, when regarding that crag, she had noted a certain quality that hinted at the presence of glamor. Few human beings would have picked up the clue; weathermasters were amongst those few. After doffing her cloak she looked again at the crag, and this time she saw something different.

Fragments of dried four-leafed-clover and hypericum were stitched inside the lining of her cloak, which meant that when she was wearing it she could not be deceived by common eldritch enchantments. Without the cloak, she perceived a faint glow emanating from the window of a rude stone hut perched high on the brink of a cliff, and instantly guessed she was seeing some unseelie trap.

A plan formed in her mind.

Deliberately she folded the cloak, placed it in her basket so that she would continue to see the illusion, and clambered up the hillside.

The feigned hut’s single room, with its unlined stone walls, contained—or appeared to contain—a fireplace in which bright flames crackled, three stools, a pile of kindling, and some hefty logs for the fire. After entering, Asrathiel loosened the strings of a pouch tied to her girdle and took out handfuls of a coarse mixture, which she strewed about the room’s perimeter. It was
salisfrax
she was sprinkling, a carlins’ preparation; primarily a blend of salt, iron filings, and ash-wood shavings. All around the seeming walls she scattered the compound, but not across the fake threshold.

Asrathiel knew the night air was bitingly cold this far north, though being invulnerable she felt no discomfort. Nevertheless, she stoked the fire with fresh sticks, sat down in front of the grate as if she was warming herself at the flames, and waited.

Presently she drifted into a doze.

The door flew open with a bang and a duergar barged straight in, but though the damsel woke with a start she remained steadfastly in her seat, disciplining herself to show no sign of surprise, no evidence of alarm.

Dressed in a badger-skin coat, galligaskins of rabbit-skin, and a hat made of bracken adorned with a partridge-feather, the swarthy dwarf stood barely higher than a man’s knee. He was barrel-chested and sturdy, with bedraggled, soot-colored hair and an even sootier beard. For a moment he glared at Asrathiel, then he strode across to the stool on the other side of the fire and sat down.

The weathermage guessed what would follow.

Before the malevolent manifestation could begin to spring his trap she leaped up, slammed the door and dashed a quantity of salisfrax across the threshold. Uttering a cry of rage the dwarf lunged at his captor, but bran-dishing the bag of salisfrax in his face she warned, “Do not approach me, wight, for I have the power to overcome you.”

“Ih siue arleske,”
the dwarf threatened in guttural accents.

“I am a weatherlord!”

Growling, the hostile creature drew back, while keeping well away from the strewn mixture.

“If you answer my questions,” said the damsel, “I will set you free.”

Impaling her with a look of hatred, the dwarf kept his mouth as tightly sealed as a snail in its shell, but neither did he move from the spot, so, without further ado, she proceeded to cross-question him, while the fire died down until it went out altogether.

An hour or so later the damsel was forced to admit defeat. The duergar proved as devoid of knowledge, or as intractable, as the rest.

“Go then,” she said at last, sweeping the scatterings of salisfrax away from the doorway with a leafy branch from the bundle of kindling. The duergar hurled himself over the threshold and charged out into the night, spitting invective in some foreign tongue.

A light breeze arose, and far away an owl hooted. The damsel wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and looked about. She was standing at the summit of a crag, on the very lip of a gorge. The hut and the fire were nowhere to be
seen; the four walls had not been walls at all, but empty air. On the ground, a scattering of salisfrax in the shape of a rectangle was the only sign of the glamor. Where the stools had been, now crouched three grey stones. To one side, exactly where the logs of firewood had lain, the gorge plunged fifty feet straight down to a rocky stream.

“How many human lives have you taken with your death-traps, duergar?” Asrathiel wondered aloud. It gave her some small satisfaction to know that it would grievously provoke the dwarf to have been mastered by a human being. Kneeling, she scratched furrows in the thin soil within the nonexistent walls. Then she withdrew a handful of seeds from another pouch at her girdle and planted them; the germs of four-leafed clover.

Vexed at her failure to extract a useful testimony from the wight, she set off down the hill to continue her hunt.

It was after midnight. Within the Red Lodge, the Councilors of Ellenhall, awaiting the consideration of their royal host, rested uneasily. By unspoken agreement no one lay down to sleep. The sounds of a gathering of military forces filtered through the log walls from outside; men’s voices, the jingle and clank of metal, the tramp of boots.

“Why do they bring men-at-arms so close to the Red Lodge?” they asked amongst themselves. “And why so late at night?”

“This is the Hall of Knights,” answered Baldulf Ymberbaillé. “Perhaps those soldiers have recently arrived after some long march. I daresay they would be quartered here if it were not for our presence.”

“Lord Rainbearer, let my knights bar all the doors and windows,” Sir Isleif said suddenly.

“Whyfor?” asked Baldulf.

“My heart tells me something ruinous is imminent this night. Let us fortify this place.”

“To do so would be discourteous to our host.”

“Better to risk offending him than hazard the welfare of those who are under my protection,” said the knight. “My charge is to guard you. Will you agree to this precaution?”

A vote was taken, after which the windows and doors were barred. Subsequently the entire company felt more at ease. As the night deepened, some of the weatherlords engaged in conversation, while others sat in contemplative
silence, allowing their senses to wander out beyond the massive walls of oak into the currents of the upper atmosphere. Ryence Darglistel discovered a checkered board and a casket of heavy chess-pieces. Each piece was cast from bronze and finely detailed, spiky with weapons and crowns. He and Galiene arranged the toys in formation, and began to amuse themselves with a game.

Meanwhile, two figures swathed in drab raiment glided through the encampment of Chohrab’s Desert Paladins, moving barely noted amongst the groups of carousing soldiers. Easily the spies proceeded, because they knew the passwords.

Far away, Fedlamid macDall on horseback, who had been picking his way through the streets at a leisurely pace to avoid attracting attention, burst at last from the city gates and began galloping full pelt towards Orielthir.

A cool breeze rippled the velvet cloak of the dark, and a few desultory panes of cloud slid across the stars. When the two spies reached the hill’s summit, where the walls of the Red Lodge soared out of the barren ground, they prowled, keeping to the shadows cast by torch-flame and fitful star-gleam.

“The Hall of the Knights is well fortified,” muttered Chohrab’s henchman. “The door is barred, the windows few, narrow and bolted shut. I do not see how our task is to be accomplished.”

A rod of yellow light beaming forth overhead caught the attention of Uabhar’s man. “Look there,” he said, pointing to a narrow window, high up, not much more than an arrow slot. Beneath the window an unyoked cart stood abandoned. “Clamber upon the cart’s sides,” Uabhar’s lackey urged. “Try to reach that embrasure. I will help you.”

Taking this advice, Chohrab’s henchman vaulted up to the floor of the conveyance and began to climb.

On the other side of the wall, bathed in firelight and candle-glow, Galiene and Ryence played chess in silence. As her opponent picked up a barbed bronze knight and prepared to move it to another square, a movement caught the attention of Galiene, and she glanced up. Following her gaze, Ryence glimpsed a face peering in at a high and narrow slot. To add to the insults heaped upon them, they were being surreptitiously watched! Sudden indignation seized him and he hurled the chess piece at the spy. His accuracy was unerring. A hoarse scream ripped through the quietude, and the face disappeared from view.

“Someone was spying on us from that window,” cried Ryence. He had jumped onto the table, scattering the chess-pieces, and was craning his neck in an endeavor to stare through the lofty aperture. The weathermasters listened in consternation as the agonized shrieks faded into the night.

“What is Uabhar about?” growled Engres Aventaur. “He now sends hawkshaws to observe us secretly. One can only deduce that his intent is hostile!”

“I believe we are all in agreement,” Galiene said vehemently, stepping for-ward and flourishing her clenched hand to emphasize her words. “He wishes us ill. I am certain this is some trap. We must break free from here as soon as possible.”

Sir Isleif, who had by this time hoisted himself to the window by way of a couple of rusted wall-hooks and managed to obtain a good view of the surrounds, leaped lightly down to the tabletop. “The lodge is encircled by armies. They wear the harness of Ashqalêth. Their banners proclaim them to be the Desert Paladins.”

Several voices were raised in alarm. “Chohrab’s knights! How came this to pass? What can we do?”

“We must summon levin bolts,” some cried.

“Stay! We have no substantial cause to take action against Uabhar or Chohrab,” Baldulf Ymberbaillé said authoritatively. “They have not actually made any aggressive move against us. We must remain vigilant, that is all. Let us not allow passion to cloud our judgment. Neither of the two kings has reason to launch an attack upon the Councilors of Ellenhall. We have not wronged them in any manner.”

“I ask again, do you truly believe that the madman Uabhar Ó Maoldúin requires reasons?” demanded Galiene. “It was foolish of us to come here. I suggest we begin weather-wielding without delay. It will take a long time to alter the patterns sufficiently to brew a squall with enough impetus to aid us.”

The usual well-memorized admonition hung unspoken between them:
The first lesson learned by a prentice is that any upset to the natural equilibrium causes far-reaching consequences.