He would not see the sea this day, at least. He had that comfort. Surayon had never reached so far. Folded or open, it had never made a wall across the width of Outremer; the river splayed out, he'd been told, as the mountains fell, and a broad salt marsh lay between the valley and the coast, where sea and river mingled. Going north or south, men followed the road that hugged the hills, unless they chose the nutshell ride and took a boat to sea.
When Surayon was Folded, that road acquired a Fold of its own. Marron had told him of it, carefully not saying from whom he had heard the story. Jemel knew: silence, namelessness meant Sieur Anton.
But the road was open now, it led into Surayon like a woven thread and not directly through it like a stitch in a hem. An army had marched up that road yesterday, one of the armies that had come to harrow the valley. Jemel could not reach the sea today if he had chosen to; half the fighting men of Outremer lay between it and him.
The formal fields and their defensive, deceptive walls had been left behind swifter than he had looked for. As the mountains had diminished to north and south, so too had the walls; as the valley had broadened and stretched itself, so too had the fields. Now they rode through olive-groves and pastures, there was sheep-dung in the turf and ought probably to have been the sheep themselves cropping in the shade, except that war had come to Surayon and the flocks were taken or fled.
That was the only way that he could see the war, in its absences: no flocks of sheep or goats, no women fetching water from the springs, no idle men or boys at play among the trees. As he could hear it only in its silences, no voices on the wind, no birdsong. The harsh sounds of crickets he could hear, louder than they ought to be against the hush; anything more clever than a cricket was gone or simply beaten down by dread, by the taint of wet smoke encroaching.
There was nothing to be seen but the low shoulders of the hills outflung in scarps and vales, these gentler slopes he rode on, groves and orchards and sweet green forage. Nothing was burning in his sight, though he stood high in the stirrups; there was only the smell of it like a song to destruction, a promise of what he was to find.
That smell must be riding further than he'd thought it could on this wet and heavy wind. He was still confused by the scale of the country, confused both ways at once. He had problems with the idea of borders in any case, of a line drawn across the land to say that this is one people and that is another. There were tribal boundaries in the Sands, of course there were, but they were as fluid as the Sands themselves, shifting in the winds or with the strengths of the tribes that held them. Permanence was different, difficult, he'd take the steady rocking of a camel's saddle any day over the steadiness of rock. And tribal lands were measured in days of riding, a week was not too long to span Saren country; here he had stood on the Princip's terrace and seen the northern border of Surayon, turned his head and seen the southern, a single valley that he could walk across in half a day and they called it a country, an independent state.
So he had squeezed his imagination, compressed his understanding until he knew that Surayon was small, the pip within the lemon. But they had been riding since the first dawn, sun-up behind the mountains and its creeping light across the sky to say so, looking for the war and had not found it. There was no surprise that he could see among the men he rode with, so he supposed that the land had not been stretched during the hours of darkness, while time had been cruelly stretching out beside him in the bed. A man of Surayon should know his own borders, penned as he'd been all his life within them. The army they rode to meet was not so near as he'd thought; its smoke had far outrun it.
That might be just as well, as they were ill-provided to face an army. Two dozen men, well-mounted but lightly armed: this was going Sharai-style and all very well for a tribal raiding-party in the Sands, but his companions were Patric and would not understand the way of it. Patrics rode in battalions and fought like chained lions, face to face until one fell. They won their victories by weight — weight of armour, weight of numbers, as they ruled the lands they governed by the weight of the stone that they cut and moved and built with - or else by simple stubbornness, outwaiting their enemies, being the last in the field at the end. They would think it shameful to strike and run as the Sharai did. It was how the Patrics had taken all this country long ago, by standing and dying and never moving on. They had pinned it down with their castles, ripped it open with their ploughshares, built a web of roads and cities all throughout. So he had heard, at least, that these lost lands had been made bad country for the Sharai way of war. But this band was fitted for nothing more. Perhaps they might come upon other Surayonnaise, before they met the army out of Ascariel; perhaps they might make a little army of their own. If so, Jemel would still not stand and hack in line, as the Patrics did. He could ride scout, stand off and use his arrows, harry the enemy's flanks, whatever came best to him at the time, how it all fell out...
Or none of those, if it all fell out as the wise men had been urging all night. Riding in the stink of war with weapons at belt and back, it was hard to remember that they might not fight with those they went to meet. Riding in a weary rage, it was hard to remember why he had chosen to ride with these Patric companions sooner than fight against them; it would be harder yet if they did not bring him to any kind of fighting.
There was still none to be seen as he guided his mount between twisted trees to the crest of another rise, a running rib from the southern hills. Gazing westerly, he saw land roll and roll into a far-distant haze, thicker and wetter than the shimmering heat that brought the mirage; he thought he might almost see a gleam at its heart, sunlight dazzling on immeasurable water. If Marron had been with him and no one else, if things had been utterly other than they were, he thought that one or other of them would have said the word, and they would have ridden on together until their horses were knee-deep in an ocean.
He had never seen an ocean, and still never thought to see one.
He turned his head away from what might have been the sea, and looked left to where the man Markam had ridden up beside him.
'You promised me a road, from south to north; you promised me an army, and I do not see either one.'
The smile he got in response showed no teeth, and no humour. 'Patience, hornet. You see that shale cliff, a league to the west and south of here? That marks a break in the hills, and a long vale running southerly. That's where the road lies, and that must be where the army lies; they have made a scorched hell of the vale,' and for the first time there was real passion in his voice, a pure fury, 'and have spent the night sleeping in their own creation. For now, we will ride on towards the road, which runs low behind a ridge ahead; and if we meet a scouting-party before we come to the vale's mouth, and if those scouts have yesterday's orders still in their minds, to do to all of us here what they have done to our friends and cousins in the vale there — well, perhaps we will see If a desert hornet deserves its reputation. I confess, I would welcome the chance. The Princip could have no complaint if we were attacked, and had to defend ourselves.'
Jemel thought he would be equally glad of it, for very different reasons. He had no love of this ravaged land and nothing invested in it; only a raging distress that was easier to handle if he called it simply rage, and would be easier yet if he could stop thinking at all and channel it simply from his heart into his hand.
And then he could, and did; and there was nothing, nothing at all to be glad about.
They came out of the ground, out of the harsh and sour soil that was compacted so hard around the roots of ancient trees, that had been trodden for generations by foot or hoof and disturbed only by the slow stretching of those roots beneath, soaked and baked and soaked again until it made a solid coherent mass with the rocks it covered. No grass grew there in the trees' shade, nothing grew but the trees themselves and they had to reach far down between the rocks to find anything good to feed on. Embittered by a lack of care, that soil could have nurtured nothing but the twisted olive and its black
thoughts.
Nothing till now. Now the ground, that soil, those rocks all trembled beneath the gathered horses' hooves, startling beasts and riders both. Jemel had heard tell of tremors in the earth, that could rattle mountains till the land slipped from its stony core, shake buildings into their component dust, rip cracks in solid ground wide enough to swallow camels and their burdens too. He had never felt one himself and gave the stories little credence, preferring the certain knowledge of his own feet as they told him that sand might shift on the wind, shale might slip under a man's weight but what lay beneath was immovable with age and mass and endurance, all the potent majesty of rock.
His horse danced, or the ground danced beneath it; it whinnied with anxiety, and he had to bend low over its suddenly sweating neck to reassure it, when he felt most like crying out himself with shock and fear. There was a terrible wrongness to this, the same chill touch as when the sun went black in the middle of the day, and that he had seen once in his childhood.
Stooping forward with his head against the horse s ear, he could watch the earth below. He could see dust rising in little puffs and wisps, like steam forcing from under a pot-lid. He could see the hard-baked cracks in that crusty soil stir and widen, he could see great plates of earth pull free of rocks they must have bound like mortar for a century or longer; he saw a gnarled and blackened tree-root twist as though the olives themselves were coming alive within this living land, as though they would pull up their deep-delving taproots and join the march of armies. Perhaps they would, perhaps the trees would be the Princips last defence, a long-hidden sorcery of horror.
But the trees, all this grove of trees would topple before it marched. It must do, with no binding at its roots to hold its old trunks upright. The soil seemed to upwell suddenly, all along the ridge where the horses fretted; and then it burst open, shattered, erupted into clods and dust. It broke like eggshell before the many-headed battering of innumerable serpents, all coddled as it seemed in the same deep nest. They hurled that smashed shell high, and Jemel had just a moment to see them clearly before the debris fell back in a blinding, unbreathable cloud.
Thick as his thigh they were, and black as the olives' thoughts. They flowed up and out of their dark dwelling like those thoughts made viable, twisting and glistening like the distant river as it picked itself apart like so many silverdark threads fraying into the marshland ahead.
Serpents did he name them, in that moment of their eruption? They had mouths like serpents, though their teeth were something other, unnatural needles and far too many of them, no mortal creature could eat with teeth like that. They broke out like a knot of vipers, bodies all tangled together, and they surged apart something like the river indeed, what had been one becoming many, a twisted rope in all its separate threads; but these threads were obsidian and they looked as hard as stone, as flexible as wire, as swift as a whip.
Even those needle teeth were black, and the brief glimpse he had of a gaping throat behind, ridged like a dog's. Then the choking murk descended, most of it crumbled into a bitter grit that stung the eyes, invaded nose and mouth and stifled breath.
Jemel had lived through a three-day sandstorm once, and lesser storms were commonplace in the deep of the desert. For this, he needn't even think of hood and veil; it would pass, and worse things would happen before it did.
Worse things were happening already. Horses were screaming beyond where he could see. A man's voice joined the screaming there was no terror in that cry, nor in the horses', only pure agony, the voice of courage driven beyond extremity. Those teeth were finding out their targets in the filth; 'ifrit were feeding.
No question in his mind, but that these were 'ifrit. All but buried in all that black, he had seen hints of red like jewels aflame, eyes hidden deep where it would take a long needle to come at them. He could see them still, flashes of fire through the dust as the serpent-beasts quested for men.
Or for horses. He hadn't realised, hadn't felt it rise, only his body reacting all unaware to keep him mounted and balanced while his eyes strained and his mind raced, but his own mount had reared, its forelegs kicking wildly as though it scrabbled for a safe stand in mid-air; something worse than the lack of one made the animal topple suddenly sideways, made it crash hard to ground, made it scream.
Jemel was off already before it struck, diving and rolling. He felt more than the thick shaft of the bow beneath his back, in that tumbling roll; there was sharp rock and shifting clods of earth, but also there was something fat and hard that moved beneath his weight, reacted to it, reared up against it. He must have rolled clean across the body of an 'ifrit as it unwound itself from the tangle of its brethren, turning its hot eyes and chilly mind towards the slaughter to come.
He went on rolling downslope, letting his body's weight carry him as far as it would until he fetched up against a tree and couldn't kick himself on further.
Had to stand instead; battered and unready and half-blind, he must stumble to his feet, set his back to the tree and draw his scimitar. No hope of standing off to use his arrows in this melee, in this confusion of dust and bodies.
He looked upslope, squinting against the toils of dust, and saw a dark shape looming. The height of his own head it loomed and was a head itself, shining eyes and jaws agape ahead a bulk of shadow. It made a darting jab towards him, all teeth and throat like a doom awaiting, impatient for its prey.
Not he but his body ducked aside, he couldn't help it; he felt a blast of cold air above his head and the tree shake at his back as the monstrous beast slammed into it.
His eye was measuring, even as his body moved — thick as his thigh, had he thought those writhing bodies were? Thick as his chest around, rather. He couldn't see how long; too long, he thought, several times his height and this one at least would look better for being shorter.
His ducking had at least been a warrior's avoidance, not a child's fearful flinching away. He was poised and set, his scimitar drawn back and both hands now on the haft. He didn't pause, but he did pray; even as he swung, he prayed that all men's prayers might be equally effective. The grumbling and greedy Selussid priest, the Ransomers who were priests and killers both, the Surayonnaise this morning who was no kind of priest at all: they all prayed differently to different gods, and yet the lives of thousands depended on their separate blessings.
His own life was one such, here and now, and who could say whether Selussid and Surayonnaise might not have undone each other's work, the prayers of one nullifying the prayers of the other, one angry God blunting where another had made sharp ... ? He had no way to tell, except by learning; and so he swung, and his blade met the glossy black hide of the 'ifrit.
His blade met its hide, and bit; bit and sheared through, driven by all the strength he had in arms and shoulders, all the exultant power of his body as he felt it sink deep, deep into the body of the 'ifrit. The Selussid blessing had held, or else the Surayonnaise, or both together. The serpent-beast spasmed on his blade, coiled and twisted and tried to tear it from his grasp, and could not. Jemel turned the point inside the great gashing wound and heaved like a man at a hunt, opening up a carcase with his gutting-knife. No entrails gushed out but only smoke, as though all the solid heft of the creature had coldly and instandy burned to an insubstantial ash. Its glowing eyes faded, and were dull; its hide - its carapace, perhaps, hard as shell and smooth as shell, and yet it had been as supple as snakeskin - dulled also, as though there were smoke beneath the gleam; and then it dissipated and was gone, and left him with nothing at all.
As he had been fighting, so the wind had been carrying away all the fine debris that had stung and blocked his sight. Now, granted a moments respite, he could look around and see how much damage was being done; now he had the leisure actually to hear all the screaming.
It was an image of hell, worse than all the imams' teaching and all the tales told around a thin fire on a bitter night. Not a horse had broken free to escape the ridge, not a man remained mounted; men an
d beasts lay everywhere, dead and dying, broken and ripped asunder.
And yet there was hope, there were men still afoot and still fighting. Their swords were as potent as his scimitar, their companion's blessing was doing its work and so were they, cleaving brutally amid the carnage.
But even a twice-blessed blade took time and effort to slay one of these serpent-things, and there were many, many and more coming; the earth still churned, the rocks themselves were shifting with its movement, trees that had stood a thousand years were falling as new demons erupted from their roots.
Two more were coming for Jemel. He couldn't even go where he was most needed, to the heart of the battle; he must guard himself and fight his own fight for his own survival.
He set himself against the tree again and met the first serpent's hurtling charge with his blade between its teeth, felt those lethal needles rake his arm even as the fire died in its eyes, too close to his; and heaved arm and blade sideways, all the strength he had, so that the scimitar cut its way out of the first dead 'ifrit even before it had faded, and cut savagely into the second before it could strike.
That one took more killing, he took more hurts; and when he next had time to look, it was sweat that was stinging his eyes now and there were fewer men still standing, still fighting, and it seemed an inexhaustible number of the monsters to oppose them.
He stumbled over the broken ground to help them, though all the help he could offer was to draw some few of the creatures to himself, to his own slaughter. His mind had narrowed and narrowed with his eyes, his focus was so intense it was almost painful: there were 'ifrit to kill with this wondrously heavy scimitar, that grew heavier yet with every blow and yet less potent, which was strange but didn't matter, it meant only that he must strike again and yet again. And duck, too late because the creatures were moving more swiftly now, and that one had scored his shoulder; but the sharp sting of it was a spur and he'd seen horses spurred, the Patrics did that in their armour and he knew what it meant, it was to drive the horses harder and so he would be driven, another blow and another and this blade of his must be drinking the deaths of these endless 'ifrit, absorbing all the weight they lost, it was so heavy now he could barely lift it, and yet he must...
Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04 Page 51