“Crossroads?”
“Yes. It’s of no importance, though; for Dûsarra you ride straight through on this same road, making no turn.”
“What is Weideth?”
“The village at the crossroads; a small town, with no wall. You’ll have no trouble there.”
Garth was less certain of that than his informant seemed to be. This man seemed to accept an overman and warbeast calmly enough, but would an entire village?
“Is there no way around it? I do not wish to be seen.”
“Around? No, my lord, not that I know of; the terrain thereabouts is very rough, and Weideth lies in a narrow pass, astride the road. It’s a wonder they don’t charge a toll, in truth.”
“I see. My thanks, man.”
The man bowed and stepped back, and when Garth made no further comment nor move to stop him, he turned and departed at a brisk pace.
This village, Garth thought as he urged Koros forward once again, was a nuisance. He did not dare risk losing his way at this point; he would have to ride through and hope he did not create too much of a commotion. Ten leagues to Dûsarra, and that three leagues past Weideth, the man had said; that meant he was seven leagues from the village. Seven leagues was two or three hours ride, perhaps a trifle more if the terrain was bad; if he kept riding he would pass through the village well after full dark, and reach Dûsarra in the middle of the night, while if he stopped and made camp he would arrive at midday tomorrow. Midday was scarcely a good time to try and slip unobtrusively through a village, nor was it a good time for reconnaissance in Dûsarra. He was not tired, and Koros was well-fed; he should have no trouble in completing his journey without further delay. If he were to be a thief, then he would arrive as a thief in the night; he spoke the command for a trot and the warbeast strode on, the only sound the soft crunching of cinders.
The moon was near full, making it easy to follow the road even after the sun was well down, though it was not actually necessary to see it since straying to either side would mean passing through the tall grass of late summer, easily two feet in height, that flanked the way. Besides the pale light of the moon, Garth noticed as well a dim red glow flickering about the mountaintops that grew as he approached—volcanic fires, of course. He began to share Koros’ dislike for this country; such eerie lights seemed threatening. A volcano active enough to light the clouds at night could well be active enough to bury its surroundings in ash and lava, yet here he was riding ever closer.
It was more than two hours after he spoke to the farmer, well after the last trace of daylight had faded in the west, with only the white moonlight and the red glow of the volcano to see by, that he was first spotted by one of the sentries. Garth did not see the young woman, nor would he have paid her much heed if he had, but she saw him, and studied him closely before slipping from her hilltop post and running back to Weideth with her report.
The Seer of Weideth was finishing his final cup of wine and seriously considering retiring for the night when the sentry burst into the village’s single nameless inn—which also served as the public meeting house and in rainy weather as a makeshift marketplace—with her news. She looked about wildly for someone to report her discovery to, but the village elders were all long abed; for want of a better audience, she directed her shout at the Seer.
“There is an overman on the East Road, riding upon a creature like none I have ever seen!”
The Seer smiled at her melodramatics. “Have you, then, seen every sort of beast there is? There are frequently overmen on the north and west roads, and they do not all make do with horses and oxen.”
“Yes, but this one is on the East Road, and wearing armor!”
The Seer started to dismiss her with a wave. “Overmen do not use the East Road,” he began.
“This one does! If you will not listen to me, I’ll find someone who will!”
His hand fell, and for the first time the Seer looked directly at the girl’s face. He realized that she spoke the truth; a part of his talent was knowing the truth when it was spoken, and this young woman—she could have seen no more than eighteen years—was not merely excited or mistaken. There was an overman on the East Road, which no overman had ridden in three hundred years; an overman had come out of the east.
“The prophecies say that death and destruction lie in the east,” he said.
“So I have heard,” replied the girl sarcastically, her hands on her hips.
“We must wake the elders.”
The sentry nodded. “They will know what to do.”
“Yes. We cannot let an eastern overman reach Dûsarra.”
It was several minutes later when Garth turned a corner in the winding road, which for the last three leagues had twisted its way through the foothills and now led along the bottom of a narrow defile, and caught a glimpse of Weideth. It was only a very brief glimpse, however, for the village he had thought he saw vanished almost instantly, leaving only another few hundred yards of highway that stretched out from his warbeast’s feet and turned right out of sight behind a hill up ahead.
He blinked. There was no village. There was no sign of a village; there was only the road.
He stopped his mount with a word and studied the road. There was nothing there. After a moment’s consideration, he arrived at a few possible explanations for what he thought he’d seen—a neat row of cottages on either side of the highway, a widening of the gorge into a respectable valley. It could have been a trick of the moonlight, though it had seemed too detailed for that. It could have been a mirage caused by some unknown effect of the volcano, letting him see a village that in fact lay somewhere else. It could have been a hallucination caused by volcanic gases; he had heard of such things. It could be that he was more tired than he had known, and his mind or his eyes were playing tricks in consequence.
Or it could have been magic.
This last possibility seemed actually the most likely, and it did not bode well; still, there was nothing he could do about it sitting where he was. He signaled to Koros, and the warbeast strode forward. Nothing unusual happened; the barren hills continued on either side. When they had traversed halfway to the next turn without incident, Garth relaxed. There seemed to be no danger.
If it were magic, Garth mused, what sort of magic had it been? Had an entire village been transported away in an instant? That seemed unlikely. Perhaps the village had been a mere illusion. If so, had it been intended for him, or for someone else?
As it neared the bend in the road, Koros hesitated; it seemed unsure whether to follow the road around to the right, or to proceed straight ahead up the side of the defile. Garth turned its head right, and it resumed its steady forward progress.
This served to distract Garth momentarily; it was not typical of the beast’s behavior. It usually knew to follow the road unless directed otherwise. Ah, he told himself, it meant nothing; the creature was tired. Perhaps he had just imagined the village in his own fatigue. As he had just been thinking, perhaps the village had been an illusion.
Or perhaps this deserted gorge was an illusion, and it was the village that was real.
That thought had a disturbing plausibility, and Garth stopped his mount. The village of Weideth was supposed to be around here somewhere, yet he had seen no trace of it except perhaps that single fleeting glimpse. It was at a crossroads, and Koros had hesitated as if uncertain of the correct path—as if at a fork or crossroads.
But why, assuming that he was in fact in the middle of Weideth, was such an illusion created? He looked down at his mount, and at himself; the warbeast’s fangs gleamed in the moonlight, and his sword slapped his thigh as he moved.
He was not, he admitted to himself, the sort of character whose appearance inspired confidence in strangers. No doubt the villagers had some sort of magician amongst them who used illusions of this sort to render the town invisible to any travelers who looked dangerous.
If it were an illusion, he reminded himself.
That could be t
ested, he decided; he ordered Koros to stand and guard, and dismounted cautiously.
He still seemed to be in a rocky, empty passage through the hills, not a village—but there was no reason the illusion should be less effective on an unmounted overman than upon one riding a warbeast. He stepped carefully off the road; and reached out to touch a convenient boulder.
It was there, all right, and felt very much like stone. He ran his fingers across it. Yes, it was smooth stone. He flattened his palm against it, and slid it downward a few inches.
One of his thumbs slipped into a crack; he looked more closely. Yes, there was a crack visible; he must have missed noticing it in the moonlight, if it had actually been there all along. What was under his thumb felt very much like mortar. He ran his hand sideways; the crack was dead straight and perfectly horizontal. He reached over further, where there appeared to be nothing but open air.
His hand struck something; he felt it carefully.
It was glass. It was a small square pane of glass held in lead, and beside it was another, and another. He blinked.
He was standing before a small house built of cut stone, his hand touching a casement window; other houses stood to either side. Behind him Koros growled uneasily.
He whirled. He stood near the middle of a village, just as he had seen it. What had appeared to be a turn in the highway was indeed a crossroads. That meant that he had been diverted from his route; he had turned north instead of continuing westward.
He growled in annoyance. He did not like this. He did not like magic. He did not like the necessary conclusion that there was somebody with unknown preternatural abilities actively trying to deceive him. His hand fell to his sword hilt as he looked about, and he mentally commended himself upon traveling well-armed since leaving Skelleth—armor was uncomfortable, but prudent.
The village was still and silent; the only sound was his own footsteps. The houses were all shuttered and dark—except for one. At the crossroads stood a building rather larger than the average cottage, with a signboard hung above its door; whatever message the sign might bear was invisible in the darkness, but the place was probably an inn or public house, and light showed through its curtained windows.
His magical antagonist might be working at some distance, or might be hidden in darkness somewhere—but it seemed more likely he or she was in that single illuminated room.
What, then, was he to do about it?
He had two choices; he could ignore the incident and be on his way, or he could confront whoever lurked behind those curtains. If he ignored it he would be leaving a potential danger behind him, able to attack from the rear, and sitting on his route home. That would not do.
He reminded Koros to stay where it was, loosened his sword in its scabbard, and marched to the inn. The door stood slightly ajar; he kicked it open and stood aside, lest an ambush be prepared for him. Nothing happened; he stepped forward again and looked within. A sudden wave of vertigo swept over him; he blinked, and looked through the door.
He was looking into his own home in Ordunin, the rambling stone and wood house that he had built with his own hands. For a moment he froze in astonishment, but the incongruity suddenly seemed unimportant. He was home!
He stepped inside and looked about. Through the large window to his right he saw the wide plank terrace and the spectacular view of the bay beyond; sunlight sparkled from the waves and poured warmly into the room. He listened, and could hear the ocean’s roar very faintly; nearer at hand a bird sang somewhere.
He noticed that he still wore his helmet and breastplate, his sword on his belt and axe on his back; such precautions were surely unnecessary here in his own domain! He reached up to remove the helmet, but paused; how had he come home? He had no memory of the journey, and he had not intended to come here; returning home meant that he would have to speak to the Council, in accordance with his oath to the Baron. Something was peculiar about this, and until he recollected what it was, it would do no harm to keep his armor and weapons on. He was not particularly uncomfortable—though a trifle overwarm—and he could bear to take such a simple precaution.
There was a sound somewhere further inside the house; that would be one of his family, of course. It would be a pleasure to see them all once again. He wondered what the date was; he seemed to have forgotten, yet he always kept track of such things, to know when to expect his wives to be in heat. He would have to ask. He called out, “Ho! Who goes?”
A door opened and an overwoman entered; Kyrith, his favorite wife. Her scent reached him, and warmth spread through him; she would be ready any time.
By human standards she was far from beautiful; she was as tall and flat-chested as any overman, and her face as inhuman; to Garth, she was a fine, handsome creature. Her golden eyes were warm and inviting; her black hair was long, for an overwoman, and Garth reached out to run his fingers through it. Her scent was entrancing.
She smiled, and caught his fingers; he smiled back.
He felt his body reacting to her odor; that smell was the only sexual stimulus that affected an overman, and it was irresistible. He reached out both arms for her; she smiled, and poked at his breastplate.
“Shouldn’t you remove your armor?” she asked.
He growled playfully, reached up to remove his helmet, and stopped. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
Kyrith was mute. The real Kyrith was mute, at any rate; she had fallen years ago while skiing, a fall that sent slivers of ice through her throat. She had lived, with only a slight scar, but her voice was gone forever. This was not her: The whole thing was an illusion.
He thrust the false Kyrith away and drew his sword; the illusionist had made a fatal error in giving Kyrith a voice, but there was no doubt that his or her magic was effective. Not only had the image of his home been perfect, but the sounds and smells, and his memory had been befuddled as well. Garth dared not take any further chances.
“Show yourself, magician, or I will lay about with this blade until I find you!”
His home vanished, and he was in a small village tavern; a fire burned low on the hearth, and a chandelier held a dozen stubby candles, casting their wan light across a dozen empty tables and five human beings.
One was an old woman who lay sprawled on the floor where he had flung the false Kyrith; she wore a hood and cloak of pale blue that spread about her in disarray, revealing her bony blue-veined legs and wrinkled face. Her hair was long and silvery-white. She made no move to rise, but lay where she was, watching Garth with terror in her expression.
The other four sat clustered about a table. There was a young woman in brown leather helmet and tunic and black skirt, a bow leaning against the back of her chair and a quiver of white-fletched arrows slung on her shoulder. Beside her sat a man of indeterminate age, his face hidden beneath a gray hood, his gray cloak hiding all but his hands—muscular hands, one of which clutched the handle of a pewter mug.
The remaining pair wore pale blue robes that matched that of the woman on the floor, and both were likewise old; one was a man with steel-gray hair and gray-streaked black beard, the other was another white-haired woman, shorter and thinner than her fallen comrade.
There was a moment of silent consideration, and then Garth demanded, “Why have you beset me?”
There was an uneasy silence; no one answered him.
“Is this the way you treat all travelers? Or is it because I am an overman? Because I wear armor? What do you want of me?”
The old woman at the table said, in a high and broken voice, “We meant you no harm.”
“Then what did you mean? You have twice attacked me with your illusions; why?”
“We did not attack you; we sought only to have you pass through our village without seeing it.”
“You diverted me from my path; I am not bound northward.”
“We did not know that; we thought you must be, for it is to the north that overmen are said to dwell.”
Garth considered t
hat for a few seconds; it did have a logical ring to it. “You attempted to deceive me when I entered this tavern.”
“We sought only to remove your weapons, so that we could deal with you more easily.”
That accorded with the facts. Garth relaxed slightly. This handful of humans was no threat to him, save for their magic, and he seemed to have beaten that; only one even bore arms, and that one a mere girl.
“Which of you conjured those illusions?”
The man in the gray hood, silent heretofore, spoke up. “It is a joint effort; no one of us is essential.”
Garth considered this, and chose to doubt it; such a claim was good tactics, and more likely tactics than truth. “Who are you all, then?”
“I am the Seer of Weideth, and these three are the village elders.” He indicated the other man and the two old women.
“Who is she?” He pointed at the girl with his sword.
“She is just the one who saw you coming in time to warn us. She is no one of importance.”
“You call yourself a seer?”
“Yes.”
“Can you read the future, then?” Garth had heard of such talents, and had in fact dealt with an oracle, the Wise Women of Ordunin, who seemed to know something of events yet to come; he could see many uses for such an ability.
“On occasion. I’m afraid I’m not much of a seer, if the truth be known. I do have knowledge and talent beyond the ordinary, but I have little control over it. I am the last and least in a long line of Seers in Weideth, and I spend more time studying the prophecies of my predecessors than making my own.”
That explained why he had failed to foresee that Garth would not be deceived by the illusions, and therefore Garth decided to believe it. He had the impression that the man was being reasonably forthright. Perhaps a similar frankness on his own part would enable him to resolve this episode in short order and get on his way once more. He wanted to reach Dûsarra before morning; before midnight would be nice.
The Seven Altars of Dusarra Page 5