“No, friend Garan,” she said quietly, firmly. “This will be no sally to slay your enemies, but a quiet venture. What Spellbinder may do for now, he has done; now it is my turn. And this is best done alone.”
Grudgingly, Garan accepted the logic of her arguments, insisting only that he be allowed to escort her through Tywah Gate and arrange for some diversion to be made. This Raven accepted, as she did his offer of a cloak fashioned from some strange material that was both silky-fine and warm, and of the colour of the snow.
Then, breathing a silent prayer to whatever powers had so far guided her path, she went with Garan down the long tunnel to Tywah Gate.
A captain called Maran na Kelt had that day’s command, and he readily accepted Garan’s suggestion that he let fly with his catapults and send out a raiding party to obscure Raven’s egress. Some thirty warriors formed into battle-array, Raven in their midst, and Maran gave the word for the onagers to fire.
There was a rattling of machinery, the complaint of tight-winched ropes, and then the whistle of the stones as they hurled out through the hidden orifices of Tywah Gate. From the snow beyond, a great shouting went up then screams as Maran na Kelt ordered fire-balls to be discharged. Twice more he let fly, then shouted down to the waiting men. With Garan at their head, the party surged out on to the snow.
Flame seethed about them, reeking where it consumed men and gleevahs with equal disdain. The smell of scorching flesh and burning hair was vile in Raven’s nostrils, but it put the gleevahs to flight and obscured her own scent as she raced across the snow. Garan halted his men, cutting at those barbarians courageous enough to oppose him—or too confused to see safety—until Raven was safely amongst the hummocks of the ice-bound foothills.
From the cover of a low ridge, Raven watched the Quwhonians fall back to Tywah Gate. Then she drew the camouflaging cloak tight about her and began to crawl eastwards, in the direction of the barbarians’ great encampment. She paused, flattening against the ice, as a shadow passed over her, wondering if a tsabeen had caught sight of her passage. She rolled over, peering up, and smiled as she saw the thing that threw the shadow.
High above her, pinions dark against the sky, hung the bird, the raven, its great head down-turned. It cried once and wheeled away towards the pavilions ringing Tywah lake. Raven followed after.
Seven
“Beware of those who would block your path with words, for words will oftimes prove a greater obstacle than stones.”
The Books of Kharwhan
Like some great arrow launched from a war-engine flew the bird, straight at the gaudy pavilions decking the shores of the lake. Its hoarse cry rang out over the snow; challenging. And a flight of the loathsome tsabeen rushed to meet it.
Headlong, reckless, it drove into them, talons flashing red as flesh ripped asunder beneath its attack. Beak darted and wings beat, the raven’s flight too swift, its jinking evasions too fleet, for the slower-moving blood-drinkers to avail against it. Barbarians crowded below that aerial battle, loosing arrows carelessly into the fray. Two of the tsabeen tumbled icewards, wings crumpled and bellies rent by the bird, then three more with arrows sprouting from their bodies.
The raven lofted upwards, rising out of arrow range, its raucous cry drawing fresh hordes of tsabeen in desperate pursuit. Up and up it went, leaving behind a dark trail of falling corpses. And, furious, the vampire-creatures followed after. The bird folded its wings, dropping like a falling star through the spiraling monsters, killing more with the sheer, hurtling force of its descent. Then it was through them and beating away to the east, hotly pursued by all the tsabeen.
Raven smiled her thanks and slipped down through the hummocks to where the outer grouping of tents defiled the snow.
Snow moved slowly, wriggling on her belly, the obscuring cloak spread to hide her coming. There were no guards here, and she kept the tents between her position and the gleevah pens, the mists that held the charga.
She halted beside a tent striped with blurred streakings of red and black, listening. There was no sound and she used her sword to slash a hole in the near side. Cautiously, she peered in, hoping that all the barbarian pavilions were the same. Across from her position, a triangular opening spilled sunlight through the interior, revealing a fur-swathed floor on which stood a bed of bone and leather, a cook-stove and a scattering of weapons thrown carelessly down. The rank odour of unwashed bodies and half-cured hides offended her nose and she withdrew, creeping onwards towards the next canopy.
Pressing an ear to the canvas, she caught the murmur of voices, listening for a moment, she calculated the numbers inside, and guessed that three men waited within. A long pole stuck out form the centre of the pavilion, tufts of hair fluttering in the breeze beneath a streamer of black and yellow. A skull sat atop the pole, and she decided the tent must belong to some barbarian chieftain.
Hefting the familiar weight of the Tirwand blade in her right hand, she plucked a throwing star loose from her belt. Then she jumped to her feet.
One slash of her sword split the canvas wall down all its length and she sprang through the gap as the men inside turned, mouths gaping in surprise. One bore a circlet of gold about his head, the others were poorer clad and died for it.
Raven’s left arm swung out, spinning a star across the tent. A barbarian coughed blood as the razor-edged missile sank into his wind-pipe and he clutched hopelessly at the flood of crimson that gushed from his severed neck. The other twisted, trying to reach the sword he had tossed down on the furs. Before he could touch the hilt, Raven’s blade flashed down, cleaving through his skull so that his brains spilled out over his face and he crumpled soundlessly on to the gore-spattered floor.
The third man got one hand on his blade before Raven’s foot smashed down, breaking his fingers, and her sword swung back, the flat of it landing heavy along his temple. He grunted and fell back, an angry weal trickling blood through his greasy hair.
Swiftly, she sprang to the entrance, looking around for sign of fresh danger. Those barbarians not occupied on the lake shore were still watching tsabeen and the bird, and the area about the tent was empty. Raven cut through the thongs holding the flap back and used a length of the cord to bind the wrists of the unconscious man tight behind his back.
There was a crudely-fashioned beaker of water against one wall of the pavilion, and she used this to rouse the barbarian. He stirred, opening furious, red-rimmed eyes that glared up at her. He opened his mouth and shed thrust the point of her sword between his jaws, smiling coldly as his sallow face paled with fear.
“Can you understand me?” she asked.
He nodded as best he could.
“Good: I can tell how you will die if you try to betray me.”
Succinctly, she described a particularly painful method of disembowelment, then stuffed a rag into his mouth, binding it in place with more of the cord. She fastened a cloak—the heaviest one of the three there—about his shoulders and motioned for him to stand up. Close to, the barbarian stank even worse than did his tent, a rancid odour of fat and sweat and blood. Raven was glad to go back into the cleaner air outside.
Fear-sweat ran free down the man’s cheeks as she pricked him on through the tents, the tip of her sword resting snug and deadly against the base of his neck.
“Try to run free,” she whispered, “and I shall have the time to gut you as I promised before any of your followers can hope to slay me.”
The barbarian’s head turned slightly, eyes bulging as her blade pricked his cheek round again. Moving soft and swift as a stalking cat, she steered him through the tents on to the empty snow.
Between her position and Tywah Gate there was a throng of the fur-clad warriors hurrying to renew the watch around the ice-fortress, so she turned off to the south, heading back into the ice hummocks. For the latter part of that leg, she was in full view of the gleevah pens and to her annoyance, a keeper saw her.
For some moments—which often may make the difference betwee
n living and dying—the man gaped, open-mouthed, before shouting a warning to his fellow watchman. Then, grasping his pike in both hands he ran at Raven. She thrust a food hard against her prisoner’s knees, tumbling him face-down on the snow as she rasped a warning of her promise, then turned to face her attackers.
The first barbarian charged in with lowered pike. Raven deflected the barbed head with her sleeve-shield, slashing at the man’s arm. He wore mail beneath his furs, and her cut glanced useless off. Before she could strike back, the second guard was on her, swinging his pike in a wild lateral movement. She ducked under the blow closing with the barbarian and driving her sword up into his gaping mouth.
The point rammed through his skull, piercing the brain to kill him instantly, but his jaw snapped shut, trapping the sabre. Before Raven could tug the blade free, the other pike smashed into her back.
Her armour saved her life, but the force of the thrust hurled her against the toppling corpse so that she fell tangled in its limbs. Blood splashed on to her face, blinding her, and she rolled, her sword dragged from her grip.
Dimly through the red haze, she saw the barbarian lift the pike high above his head, preparing to drive it clean through her body. The arduous weapon training drilled into her by the mercenary outlaw Argor came to her aid, instinct controlled her movements so that It seemed to her that time slowed down, the barbarian’s attack unreeling like some mechanical puppet play.
The pike drove at her stomach. She rolled sideways, thrusting out one hand to slap the head away. The barbs, turned by her blow, gouged snow, not flesh, and she seized the haft in her right hand. Her legs lifted to kick at the man’s ankles. Already off-balanced by the force of his thrust, he fell forwards. Raven rolled on to her back, lifting her left arm, first clenched to expose the needle-tip of the Ishkarian sleeve-shield. For the final instant of his life the barbarian saw the shield dart at his face, then it was gone from sight, hidden beneath his jaw. The deadly point cut deep into his throat; then it turned, cutting off his cry. Raven pushed him away, slashing the shield back across his neck so that a thick spill of crimson stained the snow.
She sprang to her feet, reaching down to tear her sword form the other’s face, and ran back to where the prisoner still sprawled, trying clumsily to get to his feet.
She dragged him upright and began to push him back towards the hummocks of ice. Then, hidden behind the ridges, she turned to check the camp. There was no sign of further pursuit, nor any indication that her kidnap had yet been discovered.
Smiling, she drove the man westwards to Tywah Gate.
Night fell before they reached the broken ground fronting the battle zone on the southern side, and Raven grew once more aware of the danger that must come with the darkness. Torches flared where new guards ringed the fortress, and she could hear the snuffling of gleevahs as the great bear-beasts paced the snow in irritable impatience. The Storm-runners, too, were now a fresh danger, for they would be abroad with the waning of the light. And off to the east, she thought she heard the leathern beat of the tsabeens’ wings.
She crouched amongst the hummocks as the beating drew closer, then breathed a sigh of relief as a harsh cawing rang down from the moonless night. The wing beats faded in the direction of the Gate, and she waited, trusting in the bird to bring an answer to her problem.
It came in a great arcing rush of fire that lit the snow and threw the barbarians into renewed confusion. The catapults were aimed to ring the area with flame, and through it came a rush of warriors mounted on gleevahs. Raven stood up, dragging the barbarian prisoner beside her as she ran for t heir crowd of fighting men. The Quwhonians had planned their sally to a nicety, for they cut straight through the siegers, galloping for the nether ground in a furious wave of flashing swords and roaring beasts.
Garan na Vohl rode at their head, screaming his battle-shout as he raced toward Raven. Hauling his gleevah to a slithering halt, he shouted to one of his companions who hauled the barbarian roughly across his saddle, clouting the unfortunate man with the pommel of his sword when he attempted to wriggle free. Raven swung astride the nervous gleevah behind Garan, clutching the animal’s thick hair as it reared up and lunged back into the fray.
Riders flanked them on either side, a solid phalanx that smashed through the barbarians as the onagers spewed fire behind them. The great door opened and they went through at full gallop, spreading out around the inner chamber as the gate closed, leaving the besiegers to count their losses again.
Garan jumped to the floor, handing Raven down with an admiring smile. The prisoner fared less comfortably, for the gleevah-rider holding him in check simply pushed him away, letting him fall, sack-like, to the hard floor.
“How fares Spellbinder?” Raven asked. “Is he recovered yet?”
“Recovered both in spirit and in temper,” chuckled Garan, obviously pleased with the day’s events. “He woke shortly before your return and set to ranting about willful women and such like.”
“Where is he?” she queried. “Why does he not greet me? Can he be so angry?”
Again Garan chuckled, this time at her concern.
“What?” he laughed. “Can the warrior-made fear a man’s words when she shows such disregard for swords? No, he does not sulk—I do not believe such pettiness is in his nature. He is still weak, so I ordered him to bed awhile, though he managed twice to reach the door before collapsing. He rests still, gathering his strength.”
By now, fetters held the barbarian at wrists and ankles and he was bundled unceremoniously into a gleevah carriage. Garan and Raven climbed on to the platform, the Quwhonian urging the beasts to a loping run that soon brought them within the city walls. Word of the venture had gone ahead, and they found a deputation of nobles awaiting them. The dignitaries themselves formed a guard, hurrying through the darkened avenues to Erhkol’s palace.
The besieging forces were clearly angered by the effrontery of the kidnap, for their catapults hurled rocks through the steam of the lake, the missiles crashing noisily against the translucent walls. The siege engines of Tywah replied in kind, and as Raven paced through the streets her progress was orchestrated by the whistling of the stones and the thudding of rock on the ice-like material. Of the bird there was no further sign, and Raven assumed that it had returned to some secret place of its own to await further developments. There was little point, she knew, in attempting to fathom its movements or reasoning, and so, with the natural calm of a warrior, she chose instead to simply accept it as an ally.
Erhkol met them at the palace gates, Spellbinder at his side, seemingly recovered from his supernatural ordeal. He offered no admonishments to Raven, simply greeting her with a few quiet words as Erhkol issued orders that the prisoner be taken to the chambers of the Koh na Vanna.
The priests meet them there, temple guards taking charge of the barbarian to the annoyance of the nobles who were curious to hear at first-hand what the prisoner might reveal. Only a small party, however, accompanied the man into the depths of the great, black building. He was taken down to a small, brightly-lit chamber where the guards set him down on a slab of milky-white stone, fastening his wrists and ankles to manacles and binding wide straps of leather across chest and waist. Then they withdrew, leaving Erhkol, the four priests, Raven, Spellbinder and Garan na Vohl alone with the man.
He was frightened now, his eyes darting nervously about the chamber, obviously expecting torture.
When his gag was removed, however, the first thing he did was to try, snarling, to bite the priest’s hand, and Raven felt a stir of admiration for his bravery.
“What will you do?” she asked Garan. “Think it will go hard if you seek to loosen his tongue with pain.”
The Knight of Tywah smiled: “Pain is a clumsy tool, Raven. No, we shall not torture him. There are more subtle means of persuasion.”
He fell silent as two of the black-robed priests set to turning a wheel mounted in the wall. There was a creaking and a slab of the roof slid back as a silv
ery, mask-like object descended towards the prisoner. Twice the size of a man’s head it was, and as it came down Raven saw that the lower part was fashioned of some soft material to the contours of a face. The barbarian began to curse vilely, craning his neck back and round to avoid the object. Two priests seized his head, holding it still as the mask fell upon him, covering his face.
For a moment there was a muffled shouting, then the man fell silent, his chest rising and falling as though he was suddenly asleep.
“Go to it, Ylkar,” commanded Erhkol. “The sooner we drew some answers from him, the sooner—mayhap—we can lift the siege.”
“Aye, my lord,” answered the priest. “At once.”
He move to the head of the slab, touching the tips of his fingers lightly against the smooth outer surface of the mask. The other robed figures positioned themselves at the foot and both sides of the supine body, beginning a low, sonorous chanting.
Within the chamber the light flickered and dimmed, as though its source of power was tapped, draining into the body of the barbarian through the silver headpiece that began to glow as the priests’ murmuring grew louder. Raven could not understand what it was they said, for they seemed to use some ancient language, similar to, but older than the common tongue of the city. On and on it went, the air becoming strangely chill, filled with impalpable menace. She glanced about her, wondering if the others felt the same ominous malevolence. Lord Erhkol appeared calm, engrossed in the machinations of the priestly interrogators; Garan, too, seemed to notice nothing. Spellbinder, when she caught his eye, was frowning, his brow creased, his head cocked slightly to one side, as though listening for something. She mouthed a silent enquiry, but he shrugged, motioning her away, his concentration focused on the priests, the prisoner, and the mask…and something else.
“We are ready,” murmured Ylkar, ending the chant.
“Excellent,” said Erhkol. “Commence.”
The Frozen God Page 8