by Janny Wurts
Kharadmon felt the chill, that the threat posed by this transmigration of wraiths might forerun the most dire peril of them all. He aligned his course for the beacon which signaled the cause of that distant unrest.
Once there, he held no illusion; the work he must shoulder lacked safeguards. No margin existed for slipped concentration, or the misstep of chance-met error. His peril embraced threat of widespread destruction, with Athera's frail balance and intricate life drawn into jeopardy with him. Enveloped by the hostile cold of deep vacuum, alone with the whisper-thin chime of the stars, Kharadmon drew himself inward. Seeking camouflage like the chameleon, he collapsed the fields of his being in stages and settled into a stillness as seamless as the quiet before Ath's creation.
The Sorcerer dissolved his very self. His presence bled into the fabric of space. At one with vast forces that abided, unseen, in the sensory illusion of emptiness, he stripped out his personal identity. Pared down to the quiescent spark of blank will, he poised, the mantle of unbridled wisdom and power smoothed into total passivity. Then, only then, he extended his inquiry into the shimmering red cipher Marak's wraiths had aroused.
The self-contained vortex of energies sucked him in. Ripped out of space-time, hurled past the annihilating fringes of chaos into the blank-glass calm that encompassed unborn possibility, Kharadmon resisted the suffocating urge to rebuild the templates of Name and character. Consumed, scoured blank as darkness itself, he became the transparent lens, a circle of focus aligned to observe without casting a ripple of distortion.
Kharadmon traced the cipher's root source back to Marak. Chilled to a patience that eschewed all activity, he recorded the foray of twelve questing wraiths, stirred to leave the voracious pack of their fellows. Without doubt, the disharmony of Morriel's meddling had whetted their predator's appetite. The resonance of that upset had predictably escaped the blanket of Athera's magnetic field through the distressed consciousness of the trees, a signal spun out like a carrier wave along the defunct path of a homing spell wrought at past need by the Fellowship.
Wraiths sensed even subtle shifts in vibration. Wedded to hatred, they savored the taste of human malice and conflict. Any breath of upheaval piqued their raw needs like the scent of freshly spilled blood. Tugged by their insatiable drive to consume, they left Marak and groped down the tenuous thread through deep space, beckoned on by faint promise of a world lush with teeming life. Other wraiths trailed in the wake of their brethren, this second wave pressured on by a rivalry that clawed tooth and nail for survival.
Kharadmon saw at once that the ongoing exodus would not dwindle into attrition. The wraiths in the lead sensed the horde crowding their heels. They would scarcely turn back, to be slashed and torn in a rage of psychic aggression. Their fellows would attack at the first sign of weakness, or the apparent uncertainty of retreat.
Gently, slowly, Kharadmon withdrew his awareness from the spelled cipher of warning. Freed at long last to react to his findings, he battled a wave of stark fear. No safe means existed to deter those wraiths strung down the back trail of spent spells. Once those pioneers sampled life on Athera, whether they encountered defenseless prey or the drawn lines of vigorous defense, their bloodlust would rise in earnest. Their frenzy would swiftly draw rampant thousands, excited by starveling need and the prospect of unconquered territory. Nor was Athera's hampered Fellowship equipped to handle an invasion with the requisite, seamless subtlety.
Alone in the icy void between stars, Kharadmon faced implacable fact. Resolution of the crisis at hand demanded no less than the diligent work of two Sorcerers: one to mask Marak, blindsiding the massed entities still seething at large on the wasted planet. Only then could the inbound wraiths be reeled in and contained, each spirit laboriously winnowed separate and Named, then restored to its shattered identity.
Nor would the next likely option bear weight, that a masterbard's talent might be pressed to assist. Arithon s'Ffalenn was already set in grave jeopardy. If his flight to reach sanctuary at Ithamon succeeded, if the ancient protections there let him stand down Desh-thiere's curse, too many unknown factors must still be put to the extreme test. Yet Kharadmon foresaw a dearth of alternatives. Paravian wards were already proved to restrain invading wraiths. In theory, a masterbard's trained gift of empathy could sound out and define the identity of misaligned spirits. Through Arithon's matured talents, the keyed tones of compassion could open the means to rename Marak's wraiths and restore their lost human awareness.
Yet until the s'Ffalenn prince achieved safety, and unless Luhaine received the vital assistance to attend the damaged protections at Rockfell, Kharadmon could do nothing more than engage a stopgap measure to buy time.
At least he had thoroughly tested the method to meet today's raw necessity. That knowledge granted no comfort as the Sorcerer launched past the interlaced construct of wards that stood sentinel for Athera. His journey dispatched him on a spiraling course through the chartless deeps of the void. He must first intercept the wraiths' course, then deploy spells to delay them, blind them, deflect their track into intricate, stalled circles. Start to finish, with no slack for error, his work must be wrought with seamless finesse. His adversaries must never suspect their straight course had been deliberately tangled. Nor could the waylaid pack of wraiths be permitted the opening to sense the bold power that arranged their manipulation.
Kharadmon had suffered pursuit once before. Evasion had required help from Sethvir and Luhaine, their paired strengths backed by the mighty defenses laid into Althain Tower. All three Sorcerers had barely survived the ordeal with their faculties free of possession.
Nor were the stakes this time one whit less threatening. Kharadmon grasped the terrible crux. At all costs, his memories and his knowledge of arcane practice must be guarded. He must not fall to the wraiths' obsessed drive to absorb conquered victims in assimilation.
Winter 5670
Trackers
The hour before dawn, the brick guardhouse in Jaelot held a stew of relentless activity. The clangor of metal as men sorted arms reechoed through shouted orders, and the tangle of raised voices, arguing. Just arrived on the threshold, his old man's quaver overwhelmed by the rush and commotion, the Lord Mayor of the city stood irate. Arms crossed on his chest, and both feet wrapped in flannel to cushion his limping gout, he howled at the browbeaten coachman who took the place of his usual, effete manservant. 'I don't care whistling blazes who you find to ask questions. Someone hereabouts will find me the guard captain, if I have to seal a writ for his arrest!'
Windburned and irritable from the buffeting storm, the coachman gave way with ill grace. The first boy he hailed failed to hear his bull bellow through the thundering rumble of supply barrels three lackeys rolled across the plank flooring. In the maelstrom of arrivals and frenetic activity, nobody paused to note livery colors, or spared proper time to grace the prerogatives due to servants of ruling rank.
The irritated coachman was forced to jump clear to avoid being milled down, an ungainly leap that slapped his wet coattails against the spindle shanks of his calves.
The next boy he collared spun around in his tracks, staggered under a double load of horse harness. 'Let be, sir! I'll catch a lashing if the last of these bridles aren't cleaned. The riders have orders to leave at first light!'
'Impertinent wretch!' Run out of patience, the coachman grabbed rein leather and twisted, noosing the boy by the throat. 'Do you see, over there? That's his lordship, the mayor. He's the one asking your service. Now find me somebody who can flag the guard captain's attention, or I promise, you won't live long enough to catch whippings, or carry anything, anywhere.'
The boy with some difficulty swiveled his head. His ruddy cheeks paled as he noticed the glittering personage, fuming red-faced on the fringes. 'My lord, forgive.' He unloaded the harness in a jangling heap and scampered, the coachman left cursing as he unlooped his feet from the mess of dropped headstalls and rein leather.
Through the subsequent wai
t, the mayor steamed, silent. The guardhouse reechoed to its hammer-beamed ceiling with the rushed noise of men under pressure. Their snappish talk came and went through the continuous dinning screel, as the armorer's boy sharpened blades and pole weapons on a pumice wheel spun by a half-wit.
At due length, a breathless equerry dashed up. Shouting, he offered to escort his Lordship of Jaelot into the guard captain's presence.
The mayor stamped a gout-ridden foot, then winced at the twinge of sharp pain. 'Damn your impertinence, it's himself should be coming to me.'
Since the harried equerry looked likely to bolt on the pretext of some other errand, the coachman entreated, 'My lord! I beg you, please follow.'
The mayor shot back a rankled glare, then embraced better sense and gave way. He waved the equerry onward and gimped headlong into the tumult.
The disgruntled party tacked an erratic course through mounds of provisions, overseen by anxious clerks busy checking off lists on their tally slates. They sidestepped, and just missed getting skewered by a man bearing bundles of furled banners on poles with lethally sharpened steel finials. Men polished armor, fitted spurs with new straps, or checked stitching on targets and scabbards. By the snatched words of conversation and the bellowed instructions that surfaced through racketing mayhem, the mayor learned that a cavalcade of five hundred prepared to ride northward at daybreak.
'I gave no such order!' he huffed over the press, buffeted by fellows lugging a field tent who failed to look where they were going.
The lanky coachman shortened his stride, belatedly reminded that his lordship suffered from cruelly swollen feet. Worn to boredom by the incessant upset caused by the Master of Shadow, he expressed sympathy, then held the plank door in forbearance as the boy led into the candlelit closet that served as the bursar's office.
The stuffy space already held two muscled sergeants armed with chain mail and swords. They faced off against an overstrung baker who shook fat, pink fists in brisk argument. 'Damn your haste to the eighth fire of Sithaer! I can't supply a half company of men on a mountain foray at short notice! You want loaves, and not bricks shaped of flour, you'll wait. Bread dough takes time. Can't hurry that. You want your provender delivered in three hours, we can make good on half what you've listed, provided you settle for soda biscuits.'
'What foray!' bellowed the Mayor of Jaelot, ignored where he stood at the threshold. 'No such command was sealed by my hand! Who dares presume to send mounted men haring off into the Skyshiels?'
Hobnails grated as the sergeants spun volte-face. The baker squeaked and fell silent. Beyond them, a sparkling, deliberate movement, the guard captain arose from the trestle. With the shutters latched closed, sullen light from the candle lamp chased his mail shirt with glitters of reflection. Bypassing rank, he spoke first to the baker. 'Bring biscuit in casks. We'll hold the supply train, and send them along when they're loaded.'
The mayor flushed purple. Choking with outrage, he tugged at his pearl-stitched collar of state.
Before he could howl, the guard captain turned on him. Too large a man for the confines of walls, his no-nonsense manner seemed stripped away to a magma core of aggression. His weathered, flint face displayed chilling resolve, and his stare held a sharpened, fanatical intensity. 'You do want the Spinner of Darkness destroyed?'
The mayor shut his gaping mouth like a trout. Set aback under scrutiny that bored like an auger, he sucked in a shaken breath. 'We have patrols already in pursuit of the Master of Shadow.' Wary as the man who handled hot coals when he had expected an ice cube, he added, 'I've come to demand why my orders concerning the Koriani witches have failed to be carried out!'
'The messengers you sent only got underfoot.' No longer the stolid commander at arms who paid ruling rank proper deference, the guard captain's mood took on a terrifying edge. 'And the demons-accursed witches don't signify.' He kicked back his bench and stalked past the boards of the trestle. 'The watch had your warrant to arrest them last night. Wasted effort, of course. The Koriathain had gone, though the hour before, my sentries reported the good sisters seemed to be everywhere. No search will contain them. Whether or not they're inside town walls, no weapon I have can break through their wards of protection. Since they'll hide behind spellcraft and slink where they please, the larger concern should take precedence. We must turn every resource we have in pursuit of the Master of Shadow.'
The mayor advanced a gimping, short step. 'How dare you!' Flushed to his wattles, no small bit afraid, he let his shrill tirade gain force. 'Those witches allowed our prized quarry to go free! They have their own web of secretive politics, and I rue the hour we gave them our trust. We were without doubt betrayed by their senior. That small, bronze-haired healer broke her word as well, though she swore me a vow of life forfeit. I want her brought to justice for the bastard's escape. Reassign your men here. I won't sanction the authority to send our best company to break their fool necks in the mountains.'
The guard captain's baleful stillness held threat. 'I say again, do you want the shadow-bending felon taken down? Or are you not sworn to the Light, with Jaelot's resources pledged to support the Divine Prince's Alliance?'
'We're pledged, not possessed,' the mayor hedged, his gloved fingers clasped in dismay for the change that made his captain a volatile stranger. 'The s'Ffalenn pretender is criminal, and sorcerer, and likely by now, he's made his escape to the seacoast.'
'The coast is cut off. Bastard can't slip by us that way.' The guard captain advanced, the mailed fist on his sword tensed as though ready to kill. 'By my tracker's report, since the hour we flushed him, the criminal has turned northwest. He's alone, and in flight toward the high ground. We'll pin him against the ravines, or break his heart and spirit in the Skyshiels.'
At the mayor's hissed protest, he flexed his hand, the sword inched from the sheath a glittering fraction. 'I won't argue further! In this case, the Light of true justice must prevail, no matter the cost of our sacrifice. Stand aside, old man! Whether the slinking fiend of a sorcerer leads us a chase through Baiyen Gap, I'll take our best lancers and hound him. No haunts, and no threat of old wives' tales will stop me. Nor will your shrinking, faint heart.'
Overfaced, whitely shocked, the mayor backed down.
His guard captain shoved past with obstinate force, the spark in his eyes the blazing flame of a lethal dedication. 'I'll do what I'm trained for, to my last thought and breath. The men I select will bear arms until the Master of Shadow lies dead.'
Winter 5670
Red Dawn
Four days after the solstice that brought the outbreak of dire portents, a wounded drover staggers into the gates of Karfael, within the crown territory of Tysan; brought before the posted Alliance officer, he delivers grim tidings from Westwood, of a caravan attacked and burned by a pack of free-flying Khadrim . . .
Several hundred leagues to the west, under the bruised colors of a cloudy dawn, the Prince of the Light and his picked cadre of field officers ride east, fired with resolve to achieve their sworn charge, and bring down the Spinner of Darkness . . .
While daylight brightens the peaks of the Skyshiels, and the blizzard disperses beneath the roaring winds of high altitude, a dark-haired royal fugitive on a stumbling horse sights a golden eagle perched on a branch; yet when he attempts a closer survey, he finds no trace of any winged being, but only the vague and lingering sense that uncanny eyes watch his back . . .
Winter 5670
III. Baiyen Gap
By morning, true to Luhaine's promise, the two horses Dakar had picked for hard journeying had exhausted the last of their stamina. Dismounted, as wearied himself from breasting the pocketed gullies and crossing ridges cloaked with stunted trees, Arithon paused to take stock. His night of brisk riding had carried him well into the Skyshiel uplands. Here, the forested foothills of the coast gave way to slab-sided ravines, notched with the gashed seams of past rockfalls and spindled thickets of fir. The relentless winds funneled through the high gaps, driving p
lumed streamers of snow. The steep vales yielded poor prospect of shelter, deserted except for the pine sparrows that chirped and fluttered in the branches, dauntlessly pecking for seeds.
Bone tired and chilled, with his boots sodden from crossing a fast-flowing stream, Arithon acknowledged his stark need for rest. He had descended from the scoured stone of the heights, driven by threat of exposure; the subtle inroads carved by exhaustion could creep up on a man unawares. Cold dulled the wits. Many a traveler perished in these wilds, lulled into the stupefied peace of fogged judgment. Every gut instinct for survival, and the seasoned experience of woods wisdom, urged Arithon to find a snug hollow and hunker down.
Yet the forbidding, flint spine of the Skyshiels balked preference. The terrain offered no secure cranny. He required dry ground, a windbreak, and a fire, and a fold in the hills where two horses could be tucked out of sight.
Arithon rested his forehead against the steaming crest of the gelding that had borne him through most of the night. 'Onward, brother,' he whispered. Wary, even here, since incautious sound might travel an untold distance, he addressed the back-turned ear of the packhorse lagging behind. 'I promise we'll stop at the first safe place. You'll both get the grain and the rubdown you've earned.'
He tugged on the lead rein, heart torn as the wearied animals resisted his effort to urge them ahead. Yet now was no time to hang back out of pity. Jaelot's patrols would be dogging his track. Should they overtake, the chase would be short. Exhaustion had claimed all his resources. His best chance to grant his horses reprieve lay in keeping the lead seized during the night.