Four days had brought them to their obstacle the last time, and as the sun wound down on the fourth, Loren could feel relief wash through the party. It made little sense, she knew; there might well be a rock slide still ahead, just around the next twist. But when they stopped to make camp, a light mood seemed to have settled over the party. Albern hummed a song as he removed his saddlebags, while Gem and Annis spoke with spirit to each other — though still not to Loren.
But Xain did not join their cheer. He fared ever worse by the day, and Loren had begun to worry. He seemed little more than skin and bones. The defiance and anger in his eyes were now heavily tempered with pain. More, he seemed to be senseless much of the time. Occasionally when Jordel took him from the horse, the wizard would stare at them not with fury, but with fear — a wide-eyed, frantic terror, as though he did not know who they were or why he was bound.
She barred her thoughts from Xain, though Loren thought she heard him whispering at the back of her mind while standing first watch. The night was warmer than usual, and her time passed quickly. When Jordel shook her awake just before dawn, she found the skies clear and a rosy glow above the eastern mountains.
Albern gestured toward the sky. “A fair morning, and promise of a fair day.”
“Mayhap our luck has changed at last,” said Gem.
Loren wanted to warn him against boasting, but held her tongue. He was angry enough with her as it was.
But mayhap she should have anyway, for not long after they started riding, Albern called a sudden halt. He gestured to the side, and they all guided their horses to huddle against the mountain.
Jordel stepped up beside him, hand on his charger’s reins. “What is it?” he said in a low voice.
“Satyrs ahead,” said Albern. “They have not yet seen us.”
They leaned out to look ahead. There they were: smallish creatures, a few inches shorter than Loren, with bodies like men but legs like goats, and horns sprouting from their foreheads. At first Loren thought they were floating in the air; then she saw that they were sitting on the mountainside, though she could not see how. The cliff face looked almost sheer, yet the creatures perched upon it as though it were a level shelf. They were perhaps thirty feet above the path.
Loren quaked in her saddle. She whispered, “Satyrs? We should run.”
Albern looked back at Loren with a grim smile. “You have heard stories, then. Fear not — they are not so dangerous as many tales might suggest, though it is true that they are nothing to trifle with. They are a quick and cunning breed. Though thankfully they do not poison their arrows.”
“Will they attack?” Jordel locked his eyes on the beasts.
“Difficult to say,” Albern turned from the creatures to Jordel. “Sometimes satyrs will strike at travelers, and other times allow their passage with nary a word. They see the mountains as their kingdom, and dislike others passing through. Most often their mood depends on their elder. If a satyr of honor and peace rises to power, the clan is less dangerous. They will even trade with humans, if they have need. But if a young and headstrong bull takes charge, he will encourage his followers to violence as a way of proving himself.”
“And are they ruled now by an honorable elder, or a dangerous one?” said Jordel.
“I have not been this way in many years. Last I knew, their elder was old and cautious. He bore no ill will for men. But much can change in their clan, and quickly.”
“I have heard they can rip a man’s heart from his chest,” said Loren, “and that they feast on children they steal from cradles in the night.”
“That sounds like vampires,” said Annis, scoffing. “Satyrs are nowhere near so fearsome. I learned much about them in my studies. Even at their worst they are like wolves: left alone or shown a sharp blade, they will leave you be. Or at least, that is what I was told.”
“Your teachers told you true,” said Albern. “They are neither numerous nor dangerous; Loren could take one easily in a fight. Their chief strength lies in their ability to traverse the mountains, for they can strike unawares from a cliff face you thought was only a wall. But now we have seen the satyrs, they should be avoided.”
“How do you mean to do that?” said Jordel.
Albern bit his bottom lip. “We could turn back and make for the valley floor again.”
“No,” said Jordel quickly. “We have lost too much time already. At this rate I fear we will not make Feldemar before autumn, and that truth would be a disaster.”
“I thought you might say so,” said Albern. “Very well. See how the cliff face leans back, before forming a sort of wall beside the path? If we stay close to the mountainside as we ride past, and if we are quiet, I think we can pass them unawares.”
“Let us do it then, and quickly,” said Jordel. “Remain silent, all of you — but be ready to fight, if it should come to that.”
“I would find myself more ready with a blade,” said Gem.
“Can you wield one?” said Jordel. And then, at Gem’s bashful look, “I thought not. Come.”
They dismounted — on horseback their heads would be in full view — then led their horses forward at a slow walk. Only Xain remained hanging on the back of Jordel’s charger. The wizard did not move, and Loren thought he might be sleeping. They turned one curve, which put them in view of the satyrs for a heart-stopping moment, then another curve hid them from sight.
Loren hissed, “They could have seen us!”
“You need not worry,” said Albern. “Their eyesight is poor, though their ears and noses are better than ours.”
Step by step they went, keeping their bodies close to the mountain. Every so often Albern would duck his head out ever so slightly, and look up to inspect the cliff.
“Still they have caught no sign of us,” he whispered. “But do not speak again until we are well past.”
Loren’s heart was pounding. Despite Annis’s assurances and Albern’s soothing words, she could think only of stories she had heard in the Birchwood. Parents would tell their children to return home at night, or else satyrs might find them in the woods and drag them away, never to be seen again. Of course her own parents had never resorted to such ruses; the threat of her father’s fists had been more than enough to keep Loren from straying.
The wall of rock drew ever closer as the path narrowed. Loren felt sure the satyrs must be able to see the heads of their horses, but there was no cry of alarm. Albern had pressed himself against the rock wall, and the rest of them followed. The horses seemed to catch the tension, for they nickered nervously and joined their riders in hugging the cliffside.
Then without warning, Jordel’s charger screamed and reared up. Loren saw Xain nearly tumble from the horse’s back, but his straps held. The other mounts started and shied, dancing out to the far edge of the mountain path, while the plowhorse dragged Gem and Annis into view.
A great keening erupted, a sound between a sheep’s bleat and a man’s battlecry, then the sharp click-clack of hooves on rock. With great leaps and bounds the satyrs came flying down the mountainside. They landed hard on the pass, both ahead of and behind the party, their hairy legs bending to absorb the shock of their fall. There were ten, by Loren’s count, with three behind and the rest in front.
The moment the satyrs landed they began to shout with a terrible fury. Their words were garbled and alien, like listening to a warthog try its hand at speaking. Loren thought she caught some semblance of familiar words, but the chatter all came at once.
Albern’s bow had met his hand when Loren was not looking, and Jordel was drawing his blade. Loren’s hand went to her dagger, but Albern threw a hand back to stop them both. “Wait! Do not draw your weapons. We may still be able to parley.”
“They do not look in a mood to talk,” said Jordel, whose sword was still half out of its scabbard.
“They never do,” said Albern, “and yet sometimes they will.”
He turned back to the goat-men, holding out his hands in a calming ges
ture, though holding the bow surely dulled the effect. Loren snatched the reins of the plowhorse, drew it further along on the path, then stepped back with Midnight to put herself between the satyrs and the children.
“There now, friends,” said Albern. “Calmly now, calmly. We wish you no harm. We are only travelers. Please, put up your weapons.”
His words had little effect. If anything, Loren thought she saw the goat-men grow more agitated. Most held long spears, though two held small bows of yew. Their arrows were little more than sharpened sticks, slightly bent.
One great satyr stepped forth, shoving two others out of its way. He threw his head back and gave a great scream. The others fell silent. The leader fixed his beady black eyes on Albern and crossed his arms. He gave a huge grunt, and the other satyrs quietly echoed.
“I take you for the leader, then,” said Albern. “Are you the elder? Do you command these brave warriors?”
So far Loren had seen nothing to show her that these creatures understood the tongue of men. But now the leader tossed his head and spoke, his voice broken and guttural. “I am no elder. I am warlord. I am Tiglak, son of the Lord, like my brothers here. And I know you, human.”
At first Albern did not answer. Loren had been watching the satyrs behind them, but at the bowyer’s silence she turned to eye him. Deep concern etched his brows. He shook it off and held Tiglak’s eyes.
“The Lord is your elder? I have not had the honor of meeting him. But I remember you, Tiglak. You were young when last I walked this path, but now I see you have grown tall and mighty.”
Tiglak unfurled his arms and rolled his shoulders. Though larger than the others, he was still not quite so tall as Jordel, and his muscles were scarcely more impressive than Gem’s. But he seemed to take the compliment well. “I am mighty — more mighty than you. Humans cannot walk the mountains any more. The Lord has told us.”
The shadow grew darker on Albern’s face. Again, he asked, “The Lord is your elder?”
“The Lord is mightier than our elder. Our clan bows before the elder, but the elder bows before the Lord. All bow before him. Even humans, who he says cannot walk the mountains.”
“We are only passing through your lands,” said Albern. “We ask no boon, and bring our own food.”
“The lord does not care,” said Tiglak, growing angry. Bleats sounded in his voice now, and he gripped his spear tighter. “The lord says no humans walk the mountains, and you are human. You will leave, or we will bring him your skulls.”
The other satyrs gave a great shout and thrust their spears forward, though the tips were still several feet away. The creatures were not as brave as they tried to seem. Loren caught them looking at each other, then back at the party, almost as if daring a strike.
To her surprise the bowyer straightened, and lowered his hands. “Do not threaten us, Tiglak. If you remember me, then you know many in your clan fear my sight.”
“I do not fear you!” roared Tiglak, throwing his fists into the sky. “I fear no one! The Lord gives our clan strength, and weapons and much food! We fear you no longer, human!”
Albern did not flinch. “I have given you more than fair warning and much lenience, Tiglak. Stand aside, or I will not be so kind.”
Tiglak answered with a mighty shout, then snatched one of the other satyrs by the neck to thrust him forward. With the first one flung into the fray, the rest quickly followed, leaping forward to attack.
In a blur of motion, Albern drew and fired. He wore his quiver on his hip, not his back, a practice Loren had always seen as strange. But now she saw its purpose: Albern could snatch an arrow and return to the bow in a blink. He drew and fired faster than a bolt of lightning before fetching another. He unleashed three shafts, and all found their marks; three of the creatures fell to the ground, dead or dying.
But the satyrs behind the party were attacking as well, and Loren turned to face them. She nearly fell over while trying to step back, long wooden spears thrusting at her face. But a blade caught and shattered the weapons, and Jordel stepped forward to protect her. His sword spun with a dizzying flash, sunlight gleaming on the metal as he struck one of the satyrs down where they stood. The other two backed off, still holding the broken ends of their spears forward. Jordel held his sword at the ready, daring the creatures to take another step.
With their rear protected, Loren ran forward to help Albern. With the satyrs near he had drawn a short sword, and used it with practiced ease to keep the creatures at bay while still holding the bow in his left hand. Three tried to surround him, while Tiglak stood in the back urging them on. But they could not breach Albern’s guard, and he could not get past the long spears to reach them.
Loren snatched the new bow from her back and drew an arrow. She felt like a child after Albern’s display, but still reveled in the smooth feel of the fine weapon bending in her hands. She loosed her shaft, and it struck one of the satyrs in the shoulder. The goat-man fell to the ground with a cry, and the other two gaped. It gave Albern the moment he needed, and he dropped the sword in favor of another arrow. But he did not fire at the creatures — his arrow sailed between them to strike Tiglak in the leg.
The satyr staggered, bleating in pain and fear. The others scampered back, leaving Albern an opening. He ran through and tackled Tiglak, bearing him to the ground before lifting him back up and pressing a sharp dagger to his throat.
“I will pay the price of passage with Tiglak’s life! Let us go, or he dies.”
“Yes!” cried Tiglak. “Yes, we let you pass! I swear it.”
“By the moon goddess,” said Albern.
“Do not speak of her thus, you hairless—”
Albern tightened his arm around Tiglak’s throat, and the satyr fell silent. “I know the words. Swear it in the name of Skal, holy mother between the moons.”
Tiglak did not look pleased, but he subsided. “I swear it in Skal’s honor.”
Albern waited a moment, then released his hold and shoved Tiglak away. The satyr fell to hands and knees. With a great shout he bounded back up, and Loren’s heart found her throat. Then he jumped up the mountainside, leaping along the sheer cliff face like it was a ladder. The others followed, leaving their dead and wounded behind. Albern ran to retrieve his arrows from the scattered bodies. Loren ran to join him, though she had only one shaft to reclaim.
“Will he honor those words?” said Jordel.
Albern turned to the Mystic. “They always have. But still it would be best not to tarry. Tiglak and his warriors are oathbound now, but if their elder dislikes the promise, he will kill Tiglak and consider the burden released. Mount up and ride. We must move with haste. It will take them some time to muster the courage if they should decide to betray us. We would do well to be gone before then.”
eleven
THE CHILDREN CLIMBED ON THE plowhorse, and Loren quickly gained her saddle atop Midnight. But Jordel waited a moment before mounting. He went to the back of his horse and seized the back of Xain’s neck. The wizard’s head came up, and Jordel slapped him open-handed.
“Jordel!” cried Loren.
He ignored her, pulling Xain from the horse’s back and casting him to the ground. Xain fought for his feet, and Jordel helped him by snatching the front of his collar to drag him up. Then he slapped him again.
“Stop it!” cried Loren, climbing down from Midnight. Albern watched with a dark look in his eyes.
“I know you goaded the horse to rear, Xain.” A dangerous undercurrent of fury in the Mystic’s voice chilled her heart. “We might have passed without incident but for you. Your weakness endangered us all.”
He seized Xain’s throat in his hands, and the wizard’s face turn red. Loren ran forward and pulled at the Mystic’s arms, but she might as well have been trying to move a mountain. Xain stared daggers at Jordel, and even through his pain hatred burned in his eyes.
“I know you suffer now,” said Jordel. “I know your hunger eats you from the inside, until you wish you cou
ld die from the pain. But you brought it upon yourself, wizard. You have no one to blame, and certainly not these children. I will not let you use your agony as an excuse to endanger their lives.”
He pushed Xain back, until he stood inches from the mountain’s edge. Annis screamed in fright.
“Risk their safety again, and I will fling you to the valley floor. You are a mighty wizard, but cannot fly. I need you, but will trade your life for theirs and lose no sleep in the exchange.”
He released Xain, who fell to the ground. Loren seized his coat and dragged him away from the path’s edge. She looked back with worry and saw Gem and Annis watching. The girl’s eyes were filled with fear, but Gem’s held a curious light. He watched not with terror or nerves, but with a grim sort of approval. That worried her more.
Jordel stalked back to his horse and from his bags fetched a fresh length of rope and a pair of leather bags. They reminded Loren of the hoods used to shield falcon’s eyes, but larger.
Jordel wrapped the hoods around Xain’s clenched hands, then bound them tight. He undid the rope connecting the wizard’s wrists and feet, moved his hands behind his back, retied them, then fastened the knots so tightly that Xain could scarcely move his hands an inch above his lower back. Finally Jordel threw him over his horse and bound the wizard back to his saddle.
“That will be a far harsher ride,” remarked Albern.
“He has earned it,” said Jordel. “Come. Lead us on, and quickly.”
They rode at a gallop, Xain bouncing terribly on Jordel’s horse. At first Loren could hear his small yelps of pain, but they finally subsided as he slumped on the horse’s flanks, senseless.
The Mystic did not command them to stop at midday for a meal, nor for anything else. Only once did he allow them to walk the horses, and gave them all provisions to eat as they rode. He took no food himself, using his time to fasten his angry eyes upon Xain. Everyone seemed to have caught his dour mood like a plague; no one spoke, not even Gem to complain.
Darkfire: A Book of Underrealm Page 7