Wings of Flame (20 page)

The Vashtin king strode forward into the midst of the brigands. “Halt!” he cried in a ringing voice. “I, your king, command you to throw down your weapons!”

“Auron, you ass—” Kyrillos muttered frantically. Then he ceased his martial labors in amazement. The remaining enemies seemed caught in uncertainty, standing where they were and staring at the one who confronted them, their long knives wavering in the air. Kyrem also stood with sword at the ready but, his father saw, in some sort of expectation. Kyrem knew Auron's power, and he did not know how much the past few weeks had weakened it.

“Drop your weapons, I say!” Auron shouted sharply. “To whom do you owe more allegiance than to your king? Tell me the name of your leader!”

The brigands whispered anxiously to each other. One man laughed harshly. “He's not your king!” he barked out, scoffing at the others.

“He rode the white-headed horse,” an outlaw tremulously replied.

“He's a blasphemer then, to ride a holy horse, and no king. Death to him! Death to the Devan dogs!”

“By the old man!” It was a Vashtin oath that Kyrem had adopted, and he strode forward suddenly to stand beside Auron. “By my beard, I know you! Weasel-face, from the inn! Come meet me here if you are a man.” He handed Auron his sword and drew instead his long knife of single edge. “The rest of you, do as your king commands.”

They did not drop their weapons, but they shuffled back so as to open a sort of arena, still whispering among themselves. Kyrem's old enemy came forward, carrying his knife and laughing wolfishly. “Where are the dozen who rode with you over the Kansban, dog?” he taunted. “And where is your precious shuntali?” Kyrem went white with fury, and as he raised his knife and drew a panting breath, his foeman crouched and attacked. The fight was on.

Upward stabs, aiming for the gut.… Knife fighting was not a poised and princely sport, and weasel-face seemed to be an experienced brawler. Kyrem essayed a thrust and the man caught his wrist, nearly pulling him onto his own wickedly waiting blade; Kyrem turned in time and the blow raked across his ribs, leaving a long track of red. Only in desperation was the prince able to tear himself loose from the other's grasp, and he lost his footing in the struggle, going down to one knee on the steep slope, nearly rolling into the gorge or the ranks of his enemies, and then the other was on him with knife and fist and even teeth; he held off only the knife. Dust flew up as the two scrambled and grappled on the treacherous slope.

Kyrillos watched from his mount, sweating but silent. He would not interfere with the contest, no matter how badly it should go, for he knew that every man, every son, must someday prove himself in fight, even fight to the death. He had already lost two sons that way, over nothing more substantial than women. But this son, so long lost, so recently found.… He bit his lip to keep from groaning as Kyrem took a shrewd blow. Blood stained the prince's cloak at the shoulder. Kyrem was all heart, the other all cleverness. Heart had to win.… Kyrillos stole a look at Auron. The Vashtin stood as pale as the pale horse of moonlight.

Then a roar went up from the men at his side. Kyrem was on his feet at last, rising like flame, all blood and fury. His weasel-faced foe lunged and kicked, but the prince met his thrust with an arm like rock, his foot with a booted foot; the man howled, and for a moment his knife hand hung slack, and Kyrem grasped it, gripped. The man shrieked again, feeling small bones crack, and the knife fell flashing into the gorge. Kyrem forced the other down and held him pinned, blade at his throat. The roar fell off to a taut silence as men of both sides waited to see if Kyrem would deliver the deathblow. If he did, Kyrillos thought tensely, the brigands were likely to mob him before he could rise. Barely moving, he tightened the grip of his knees and his will on his horse. He would charge to save his son, even if it meant his own destruction in that chasm.

“Where is Seda?” Kyrem demanded of the man on the ground. He got no answer, and pressed the knife harder.

“Who, the shuntali?” The words came out in drawling derision from under that blade. “What makes you think we dirty our hands with such filth? We are not Devans.”

“You slime, I saw her!” Rage possessed Kyrem; his knuckles went white, and a thin line of blood ran down from under the knife he held. “I saw her in your horror of a cave—but what have you done with her since? Where is she now?”

“Nowhere!” The man laughed, a defiant laugh that was ghastly to see, for it forced the knife even deeper, and yet he laughed insanely. “The Nameless One sent her off to wail in the wind weeks ago. Nowhere, I tell you! We dropped her bones off the farthest cliff we could find.
Nihil est
—she does not exist.” He hooted with laughter.

Kyrem gave the stroke, lifted the body at arms' length above his head and hurled it down into the stream. It lay there with the others, sullying the water. Kyrem turned and faced the ring of many watchers, and they did not move. Only a shadow moved, sweeping along the deeps of the gorge, and the black, winged demon above it, whinnying.

“Filth!” it cried, making for the outlaw forces. “Bloody, craven filth!” The men scattered and ran, scrambling along the steep bank. The flying monster came speeding straight at Kyrem, who glanced at it and wearily raised his knife, standing as though all the heart had gone out of him—but Auron threw his lance, and to his surprise, it found its mark. The horse-headed thing fell fluttering and spiraling into the gorge, where it lay black in the water beside the white-headed sacred steed.

Kyrem lowered his weapon and came slowly back to stand beside his father.

“Lad, let me wrap those cuts for you,” Kyrillos offered, but he shook his head.

“So she is dead,” he said to Auron in a flat voice. “I thought as much when I stopped sensing her presence. I could not win through to her.”

Neither of them knew what to say to comfort him.

“The enemy awaits us,” he told them grimly. “The true enemy. Up on top. Up at the cave.”

The old man moved unhurriedly from cage to cage, opening each one, shooing out the denizens. The birds flapped off with insulted squawks and occasional mimetic curses. “Go lay eggs,” the old man told them indifferently. Presently, as if in afterthought, or as if she were an odd bird of a different sort, he turned to Seda. With palsied slowness he brought out a key and unlocked the shackle from her leg. Staring at him, she did not move.

“Your bastard prince is coming,” he told her with only a hint of malice in his voice. “Killed my captain for your sake, he did. Filth.” The word might have applied to the captain, or to Kyrem, or to her.

Kyrem. Kyrem was dead,
nihil est
. Kyrem did not exist. Her mind would not move properly, to tell her whether he had really died or the old man lied, but it did not matter. Either way, he had abandoned her, like her mother. Coming—he came far too late. Years before would have been too late.

“Go on,” said her captor impassively. “Crawl off somewhere. Surely you don't want him to see you the way you are, dead thing.” He turned back to puttering among his birds.

She opened her festering mouth as if to say “thank you,” but did not; human speech was not in her any more, nor were human emotions. Even her gratitude was scarcely human, for she hated it, hated herself as she dragged her crippled body across the dung at his feet. She crawled out of the cave and off among the thorny brush. She could not walk, for the curses had taken their effect, and her bones were bent, warped and useless, her teeth rotting, her skin covered with sores, her eyes burning and half blind. Remnants of her maidenly finery hung about her in filthy rags. For once the god had spoken truth: Indeed she did not want Kyrem to see her. Nor did she very much want to see him. She was full of pain and bitterness and wanted only to hide.

Omber awaited atop the bank by the waterfall. Kyrem vaulted onto the horse, helped Auron up behind him and led off at once, the others trailing after. He took them splashing through a ford above the force—the way, Auron surmised, that Kyrem had come to them some few hours before, though Auron did not care to ask; the set of Kyrem's jaw and the stiff feel of his back did not invite conversation.

“You know the terrain, lad,” Kyrillos remarked almost diffidently.

“I have been trying to get through their lines for weeks,” said Kyrem harshly.

Silence, except for the hollow sound of hooves on reddish rock and the whine of wind through black trees.

“The power up there,” Kyrem said at last, “whatever it is, seemed always to know where I was, directed those ruffians somehow to stop me. I can sense that enemy now, Auron, and the curse. You were right all along.”

“Of course,” said Kyrillos, his tones bland and innocent. The others ignored him.

“When you came, you two, it focused on you mostly. I hoped I could win through after all.”

“You knew we were here and did not join us?” Auron was shocked. Kyrillos, though, had lived his life by the warrior code, and he admired the courage of his son.

“It was a forthcoming thing to do,” he said to Auron.

“But we were worried,” Auron told Kyrem reproachfully. “We came here to look for you.”

“I thought you came to look for your enemy.” Kyrem tried to turn on the horse to see Auron's face, but he could not without stopping the steed. “Could you not sense my well-being?” he asked over his shoulder.

Auron shook his head, silenced, and Kyrem could not see the bleakness of his face. For his own part, Kyrem looked as pale as the mist wraiths over the Ril Melantha.

“It was no use anyway,” he mumbled. “She was already gone. I don't know what they did to her. She just … faded away.”

Without preamble the trees to either side of them burst into flame with a roar like that of great wings.

The horses reared before their startled riders could control them. The men clung on by the manes, brought the steeds down, forced them forward once again as more blackthorn trees blazed up with fire that popped and sizzled through their crooked boughs, making a blinding trail of flame all the way up to the mountaintop. Kyrem sent Omber straight through it, sensing challenge and rising to it scornfully. But then, in the very midst of the fire, they came to a barrier they could not comprehend.

They could see nothing, but they all felt it and came to a halt. It might as well have been made of stone, whatever it was; it barred them. They ventured along the steep terrain to one side and then the other, the fire following them each time. The barrier stood there as well.

“A wall of will,” said Kyrem. “Nothing more.”

The horses were becoming frantic. When they could be driven forward by legs and heels, they were manageable, but standing still under scorching flames and burning, falling thorns, they could no longer be restrained; they reared and fought, and all the riders' energies were bent toward controlling them. Only Kyrem seemed to have any inner strength to spare, strength of grief and rage. He brought Omber around to face the invisible barrier, and then, with a wild shout and a body clenched hard as rock, he sent the stallion plunging through.

Auron went with him, willy-nilly, hanging to his waist. And Kyrillos leaped his thick-necked charger through on Omber's heels with a lion's roar of his own. The others could not manage it. They let their maddened horses turn and run away, down the mountain, out of the fire, and the fire no longer followed them.

“We are within the shadow of that enmity,” Kyrem murmured to himself or Auron or his father.

A mighty presence sought to crush them with its weight, its curse, its hatred. Hot fires of hatred. Fire filled the mountaintop, and the curse bore down on them like molten lead. They sagged under the weight of its unseen presence, and the horses slowed to the slowest of walks, their heads hanging, in spite of all urgings. And even though fire seared all around them, the way seemed almost as dark as night.

“We have to get out of this,” Kyrem said, perhaps to himself, a small note of panic in his voice.

“Let him wear himself out on us,” Auron said in reply, speaking directly into the youth's ear, his voice labored but calm. “We can withstand his worst. That is all I am good for any more, lad—enduring.”

They endured, and the horses took them at a snail's pace forward until they came out of the burning trees into a stony clearing on the mountaintop. Heat and the leaden weight of unseen hatred fell away from them and their heads came up as, with a scream, the demons attacked them.

More than a dozen demons. Their hard, heavy black hooves hung down on their yellow legs, swinging like maces as they swooped low, shrieking and going for the head. Kyrem, who had witnessed this mode of attack once before, crouched over Omber's neck, pulling Auron down behind him, and sent the stallion cantering forward. Kyrillos drew his curved slashing sword and joined battle with the horse-headed birds.

The old man awaited Kyrem at the gloomy entrance of the cave.

The prince brought Omber to a halt and stared at him, all other sensations lost in surprise. The frailty of this ancient, his limbs protruding thin and twiggy from under a patched and grimy robe, his back hunched, his head emaciated and the thin hair on it grizzled with age. He seemed one to pity and succor rather than one to fear. But his colorless eyes stared far too bright from out of a brown and expressionless face, and Kyrem remembered how he had at first scorned Auron.

Warily he slid down from Omber to face his adversary. Auron remained on the horse.

“Why have you killed Seda, old man?” Kyrem asked, his voice low, his eyes never leaving those of the one he faced. “And why do you curse us with your enmity?”

For answer the Nameless One only stretched his lips, baring his teeth in a mirthless rictus. He stirred, slightly lifting the arms that hung at his sides, and the sorrel rocks of the mountaintop began to move. Omber neighed in panic as his footing shifted under him, and Auron hastily grasped hold of his mane. From somewhere behind them Kyrillos gave an alarmed shout. Kyrem did not glance around to see how the others were faring; he did not dare to take his gaze from the sorcerer he faced.