Stormwarden

by Janny Wurts

  VII

  Crossroads

  The road became crowded as the sun rose higher. By mid-morning, Jaric rode through dusty clouds raised by herds of livestock being driven to market. Buffeted by sheep and cows, and forced aside by the fast passage of the post riders, he strove to calm his restive mount. The gelding jigged nervously, ears pricked and neck muscles taut as cable beneath a sheen of sweat. Jaric's back and shoulders ached without letup. Long before noon, the joints in his elbows and wrists developed the shooting pains of stressed tendons. Yet exhausted as he was, the sorcerer's summons granted him no quarter; he must continue, it seemed, until he collapsed.

  At length the dirt track from Gaire's Main merged with the stone highway which paralleled the Redwater River to Corlin Town. Here caravans congested the route; the rumble of ox wagons and the ceaseless shouts of drovers made Jaric's head swim. His eyes and nostrils became irritated with grit. The reins skinned his hands to the point where he feared to dismount. Should the horse shy in the tumult, he could never keep hold of the bridle; neither could he reach the food Kencie had packed in his saddlebag. Jaric hunched miserably over the gelding's mane and hoped enough silver remained in the Earl's purse to pay for a bath and a night's lodging in Corlin.

  The afternoon wore on. The teamsters joked and grew boisterous in anticipation of the women their pay would buy when they reached the taverns. Encouraged, Jaric glanced ahead. Thin as pen strokes on parchment, the spires of Corlin notched the horizon to the east. Below lay the valley where the barge ferry crossed the Redwater; the road resumed on the other side, shining like ribbon against the dark border of Seitforest. Jaric counted clusters of pack animals and wagons on the near bank. At least four caravans awaited the barge. He wondered whether he could get across before sundown. By night, Corlin's guardsmen closed the gates to protect against the bands of outlaws who plied the trade routes for plunder. Alone and unskilled with arms, Jaric made easy prey for such robbers. Apprehensively, he eased the gelding into a trot.

  The gait aggravated his discomfort. Dazed by fatigue, and with his thoughts flickering on the hazy borders of delirium, Jaric failed at first to notice the sting of Anskiere's geas. He crested the hill where the road swung north to meet the ferry, and was suddenly jabbed by an irrational urge to turn down a footpath which branched to the right. He resisted. To abandon the security of a well-traveled route invited disaster. Jaric turned the gelding's head firmly toward the ferry and rammed his heels into its flanks. The horse sprang into a run.

  Yet even survival held no sway over the geas which had claimed his destiny. The instant Jaric drew abreast of the footpath, a vortex of force erupted under the gelding's hooves. Wind arose, and a rushing prison of air whirled around horse and rider, forbidding them to pass. The animal scrambled in terror and reared. Blinded by whipping mane, the boy fought to stay astride.

  Energy slashed into Jaric's mind. He cried out as the sight of ferry and road splintered, replaced by a vision of ice cliffs mauled by the endless crash of storm breakers; the air smelled of damp and dune grass, and the sour cries of gulls haunted the sky overhead. Threaded through the melancholy of that place, Jaric sensed the call which summoned him would relent only when he reached that desolate shore; that the blood debt of Ivain had fallen upon his puny shoulders made not the slightest difference. Anskiere's command would stand, whether the boy's suffering brought the wrath of Koridan's Fires, or his life became forfeit. Jaric would go, or be driven haplessly as a leaf in the gales of autumn.

  The fabric of the dream parted, leaving Jaric shakily clinging to the saddle. His mount quivered under him, paralyzed with fright. The boy stroked its neck mechanically, while the scent of the sea faded, overlaid by the tang of dust. The turn-off snaked like bleached cord across the meadows which flanked the Redwater, then lost itself in the gloomy fringes of Seitforest.

  For a rebellious moment Jaric refused to move. A gust fanned in warning through the weeds beneath the gelding's legs. Anskiere's powers never slept. The boy sighed. With beaten resignation, he gathered the reins and pulled the horse's head southeast, away from the ferry and safety. Jaric's face bore the weary stamp of hopelessness, for the geas led him to ruin with all the finality of a calf marked for slaughter.

  The horse quieted once the road fell behind. Jaric tried not to look back at the towers of Corlin. Reddened by the lowering sun, the grass tips glistened as if dipped in blood. All too soon the meadowlands ended, and the trail led him into Seitforest.

  The slanting rays of sunset dappled the forest with light; Ancient as time, oaks and beeches rose over delicate carpets of ferns. Moss-streaked trunks rose up on either side, massive as the pillars of a king's hall, and the backlit foliage between glowed like lanterns at summerfair. Yet Jaric rode numbed with dread. For all of its bewitching magnificence, Seitforest was renowned as the domain of the lawless; none but the desperate rode its twisted trails without torches and an army of stout retainers. The vast wood seemed to swallow Jaric's presence, and even his horse's hoofbeats were deadened by musty drifts of leaf mold.

  In the rosy pallor of the afterglow, a forester clad in dyed leather stepped from a thicket. Ebony hair streaked with white tumbled over the fellow's shoulders. A full game bag hung at his hip, and the bird snares which dangled from his belt swung gently as he paused to stare at the boy on the horse.

  "Boy," the forester called softly. "You'd best turn back. Camp beside the ferry, if you'll take a stranger's advice. If you must travel this way, at least wait until you can join someone with a company of men at arms. Those who ride alone fare badly hereabouts."

  Jaric made no effort to reply. Tortured by the memory of Kencie's pity, he chose not to pause and explain his plight. As he passed, the forester shrugged and ducked back into the undergrowth. Jaric gripped the reins tightly and restrained an urge to call him back.

  The trail wound deeper into the wood. Shadows lengthened, until the evening star pricked like a fairy jewel through the leaves. Jaric traversed a chain of open glades, each more serene than the last. But all of nature's loveliness failed to ease the boy's unrest. In the gloom of twilight, the lawless of Seitforest overtook him.

  Warned by a furtive rustle in the foliage, he reached for the Earl's sword. The weapon was heavy. Jaric needed both hands to lift it. Even before the blade cleared the scabbard, a man leapt from the brush, gauntleted hands stretched to seize the bridle. The gelding shied and smashed sideways through a clump of bracken. Tossed against the animal's neck, Jaric tugged the sword free. He slammed his heels into the horse in a desperate attempt to ride his attacker down. The man shouted angrily and dodged aside.

  The gelding plunged on across the clearing, its reins flying loose. Over the sharpened edge of the sword, Jaric saw more outlaws run from the trees. Several carried clubs. They blocked his escape. Alarmed by their rush, the horse swerved. Its iron-shod hooves slashed through a stand of saplings. Branches whipped, clattering across the swordblade. Jaric fought to keep his seat. Suddenly the bridle snagged on a dead bough. Jerked short, the gelding staggered onto its haunches. Jaric heard a grunt of human exertion. Tough fingers grabbed his collar. He swung the sword. Steel clashed with the metal-bossed wood of a club. The shock stung Jaric to the shoulders and broke his grip.

  The blade fell, slithered through undergrowth, and stabbed deeply into the earth. The outlaw yanked the boy from the saddle. Jaric tumbled, his cheek raked cruelly by the rings sewn on his assailant's jerkin. He landed with a thump in the bracken. Torn fronds framed a glimpse of a scarred face, and the rising silhouette of a club.

  "No! Please! Have mercy!" Jaric raised his forearm to ward off the blow. Fenced by the rapid, trampling thud of hooves, he heard laughter. The club descended and struck. Bones snapped like sticks. Jaric screamed in agony. With a savage whistle of air, the club fell again. Jaric rolled, and caught a glancing blow on the head. His skull seemed to explode into fire, and he fell into darkness.

  * * *

  The moon shone high overhead w
hen the forester reached the clearing to check the last of his snares. He paused, warned by the stillness that something was amiss. Where night-thrushes normally flourished, he heard only crickets, and by the path fronds of bracken dangled, crushed and torn on their stems. Attuned more deeply to the wood than his fellow men, the forester stooped and studied the ground. There he uncovered a tale of violence; soft moss had been gouged by the hooves of a frightened horse. The predator too left his mark; the forester traced the heelprint of a man's boot. Touched by a deep anger, his fingers clenched into a fist. Hurriedly, he followed the tracks down a swath of lacerated vegetation, and there found the robber's prey. A boy sprawled face down on a bed of leaves, his naked limbs veined like marble with blood.

  Very likely the child was dead. Such tragedies were common in Seitforest. The forester sighed, grieved such brutality had overcome one so small and helpless.

  "I warned you, didn't I, lad?" the man said aloud, and around him the crickets fell silent.

  But when he touched him, he discovered the child was alive, and several years older than he had first assumed. Gently, the forester explored the boy's injuries. One arm was cleanly broken; a dark congested swelling and a gash remained from a severe blow to the head. The wound would require a poultice. The forester draped the boy with his cloak of marten skins, and cursing the folly of youth, drew his knife and cut a straight sapling for splints. If this boy recovered, he swore by Kor's fires to teach him how to defend himself.

  * * *

  Fine curtains of mist and rain turned the night into ink. Water beaded on the pinnace's seats, and the sails flopped, disturbed by the swell, and teased by uncertain wind. Drenched after five hours at the helm, Emien drew a deep breath. The warm earthy scent he had noticed a moment ago was now unmistakable. Seventeen days had passed since Tathagres appointed him command of the pinnace, and after a second gale and two spells of calm, an unknown islet lay ahead.

  The wind veered south. Emien adjusted course, and the mainsheet slapped with a rattle of blocks. Landfall could hardly have occurred at a worse time, he thought sourly. Since the weather had closed in, the watches sailed on compass heading, visibility reduced to a few yards; no stars had shone for several days. By dead reckoning, Emien calculated the Isles of Innishari must be nine leagues distant. But swift currents might have set the boat off course, and here where archipelagoes strung like beads across the Corine Sea and submerged reefs frequently clawed the waters into combers, an exact position was a necessity.

  The breeze slackened. Again Emien caught the cloying smell of vegetation and sand. The shoreline was dangerously near.

  In the darkness he could see nothing, not even the white ruffles of foam spread by the bow wave; an attempt to beach the pinnace might well spill them all onto the razor fangs of a coral head. Presently, over the squeal of tackle, Emien heard the thunder of the surf off the bowsprit.

  Gooseflesh prickled his arms. He might have left his decision too late. The pinnace was almost on top of the island. Emien bit his lip, agonized by responsibility. Drained by exposure, the sailors would rouse too slowly if left to themselves: No leeway remained for mistakes; and Emien knew he could never endure Tathagres' scorn should he fail to bring the pinnace in safely.

  He undid the knotted cord which bound his breeches to his waist, then brought it whistling down on the nearest seaman's back. "All hands awake! Second watch, man the oars!"

  The pinnace's occupants surged into action. Emien caught the man he had struck, shoved him into the sternsheet. "Take the helm, you, and head up. Into the wind and hold her there."

  While the boat swung, Emien pushed his way forward, shouting instructions to shorten sail.

  "Boy!" Tathagres called imperiously out of the dark. "What's amiss?"

  Emien answered curtly. "Land. Much too close, and on a bad heading. We drop anchor, or risk our lives. The pinnace can't beach on a strange shore at night with safety."

  The crash of breakers was unmistakable. Now even an inexperienced ear could detect the suck and boom of undertow dragging over rock. As he bent over the lashing which secured the anchor, Emien felt the bow lift, tossed as the swell rolled over the shoals and peaked into knife-edged crests which immediately preceded a breaking wave.

  The boy shouted, frantic with recognition. "Out oars!" They had only seconds left. His blisters tore as he jerked the knots. The cord gave with a slither. "Row! Get lively, you bastards! Row! Or by Kor we'll swim!"

  Emien knelt, clutching anchor chain in both hands as the oars rumbled out and bit raggedly into the sea. The pinnace jerked, shoved by the forces of loom and wave. Emien shouted an order. The oarsmen swung the pinnace starboard. A crest slapped her thwart as she turned, and a fringe of spray shot over the gunwale. The craft lay perilously close to broaching.

  Yet Emien held steady. Fevered as he was, he made himself wait. On a bottom of rock or coral, the anchor would not hold unless he allowed plenty of scope. This close, the pinnace would be aground by the time the line came taut; breakers would smash her planking in seconds. But patience became torment, with the taint of earth thick on the breeze. Emien gripped the chain. Rusted links bit into his hands as the oarsmen steadied, synchronized, and the squeal of leathers against the rowlocks blended into rhythmic stroke. The pinnace made tortuous headway. Emien listened intently over the slap of the halyards and loosened canvas. The mutter of surf fell slowly astern. Now his judgment was critical; if the anchor did not grab on the first try, the oarsmen must have stamina remaining to pull the pinnace clear once again.

  Emien gritted his teeth. The men were worn, sun-blistered and starved. Exhaustion would overtake them swiftly, and the over-laden pinnace could easily become unmanageable. With a whisper of appeal to the spirits of the deep, he let the anchor go. Chain clanked, dissonant as death bells. Emien strung the line through his hands though it burned him, counting the knots which slipped across his palms. Two fathoms, three, four; at five the rope slackened. The anchor struck bottom.

  "Reverse stroke!" Emien payed out more line, made swift allowance for the depth, current, and consistency of the bottom, then made the rope fast to a cleat. Stressed plies moaned taut as the pinnace swung, pulled short on her tether. Yet Emien knew better than to count the danger past; whether the hook would hold without dragging would be close to impossible to determine with no visible landmark.

  Wearily Emien ordered the oars run in. He dismissed the helmsman and the sail crew and permitted the remaining hands to rest at their benches. Then he seated himself beside the lashed bar of the tiller to stand anchor watch. Through the long hours before dawn, he waited in the misty dark, listening to the waves, tuned to the texture of the swell which jostled the hull. Sound and sensation alone would warn whether the pinnace drifted into the shoals which lay only yards from her rudder.

  * * *

  The rain stopped. By sunrise the mist lifted, streaming scarves of rose and gold across skies like mother of pearl. Curled against the stern, Emien hugged his cloak close to his body. A chill prickled the length of his back as daylight brightened, revealing the contours of the land mass so narrowly evaded during the night. The island rose from the sea like a behemoth, ribbed with cliffs and terraced ledges and shadowed by crags which seemed to comb the roof of heaven. Waterfalls unreeled down rocks flecked like ice with flocks of perched gulls. Below, where crescent beaches met the incoming tide, all image of serenity was spoiled. The sea between pinnace and shoreline was slashed into spray by the jagged knuckles of a reef. Emien rummaged in the stern locker for a ship's glass. He surveyed the boiling rush of breakers, horrified to discover how closely the pinnace had skirted disaster in the dark. Carefully as he searched, he saw no safe route to land.

  He turned and studied the seaward horizon with the glass. The mist had dispersed, leaving the humped blue outlines of several surrounding islands visible to the southwest. Emien checked his charts, snapped the glass closed, and rose to consult Tathagres.

  He found her propped against the
mainmast. Her hair was snarled from water and wind, and beneath the tattered shoulders of her blouse the fine skin he had once admired was sun-blistered and cracked. Even closed, her eyes were hollowed with dark circles of exhaustion. Emien hesitated, reluctant to rouse her. A moment later he was grateful for his temerity.

  Tathagres spoke without moving. "Boy? If you have something to tell me, speak."

  Emien flinched, too startled to note her derisive tone. "Lady, we are anchored off the northeast shore of Skane's Edge. Innishari lies seventeen leagues due north, against an unfavorable wind."

  Tathagres' lids flicked open, violet eyes narrowed with annoyance. She said nothing, but her silence struck the boy like a breath of cold.

  Emien stiffened, knuckles balanced against the brass bands of the ship's glass. No longer the simple fisherman's boy who had left Imrill Kand, he did not tremble, nor did his uncertainty show. "Lady, I would not trouble you without reason. The casks are empty. Badly as the crewmen need water, I hesitate to consider a landing here. If you would step aft, you'll see the risks."

  He offered his hand and helped her rise. Weather and starvation had not robbed Tathagres of grace. She moved like a panther, the slender lines of muscle and bone accentuated all the more by her leanness. Embarrassed to discover he could not repress a thrill of desire, Emien let her go ahead. The deckhands also followed her with eyes like hungry dogs. The boy felt a hot stab of jealousy. That moment, he wished Tathagres would command him to sail to Innishari with the casks still empty. Let the sailors row until they shriveled in the heat, Emien thought, unaware that a scant week past he would never have dared to regard his mistress possessively.

  Tathagres paused in the stern, a hand posed on the backstay for balance. She regarded the shores of Skane's Edge with a strange and ruthless intensity. Emien chose a place at her side. Absorbed by the tumble of waves over the reefs, he soon forgot his quarrel with the deckhands. The breeze had freshened out of the north, and sunlight jeweled the spume like sequined lace. Yet to a sailor such beauty clothed murderous hazard; between wind and rocks, no safe landing was possible on this beach. Emien knew he had no choice but to sail on and seek a more favorable harbor. The weight of that conclusion oppressed him. That the oarsmen must suffer fresh hardship now filled him with revulsion; the risk of losing even a single life became not sacrifice but intolerable waste.