He paced the room, then paused at the window, unable to decide what to do next. A glint of moonlight on the lake caught his eye, and he remembered the song he had started on the ride into Tinbri. With renewed enthusiasm, he went back to the harp and began picking out chords, pausing frequently to try different variations of words or music.
Flindaran did not return until nearly midnight. When he arrived he was clearly well pleased with his evening. As the door closed behind him, Emereck looked up from the small harp. “Flindaran! Listen to this and tell me what you think.”
“Dark water, still water, darker yet the sky;
Shadowed was the path beyond and cold the wind on high.
Black forest, clouded road, where still the bloodstains lie;
Dark the day and dark the way when Corryn went to die.”
“I like the tune,” Flindaran said.
“I think there’s something wrong with the third line.”
Flindaran shrugged. “It sounded fine to me. But don’t you ever write any cheerful songs?”
“I should know better than to ask you for criticism.” Emereck set the harp down. “What are you doing back already, anyway?”
“There are still two customers left downstairs, and Sira won’t be available until they’re gone. So I left, to provide them a good example.”
Emereck shook his head, half in envy, half in admiration. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Talent, hard work, clean living…”
“Luck, more likely. Much more likely. Though, knowing you, I’d be willing to believe you’d stacked the odds in your favor somehow.”
“Certainly not,” Flindaran protested. “I come by it honestly, whatever it is.”
“How can you come by something like that honestly?”
Flindaran shrugged. “It runs in the family. Father has seven or eight half bloods at home, and Gendron has been flipping skirts for years.”
“You mean your whole family is as bad as you are?”
“Oh, no. Gendron’s the heir; he has to keep up family traditions. Oraven isn’t nearly as bad, and the girls are too young.”
“I can see it’s going to be an interesting visit,” Emereck said dryly.
“You’re too stiff in the backbone. Now, if you’d just—”
A loud shout from just below their window interrupted Flindaran in mid-sentence. Emereck glanced toward the window, but Flindaran shook his head. “Drunks,” he explained, “only get noisier if you shout back.”
“Who’s shouting? And if you’re going to talk about drinking, I think you’ve—”
This time the interruption was a scream, ending in a choked, gurgling sound. Flindaran and Emereck lunged for the window.
Two armored men stood in the courtyard below. One held a drawn sword that glistened wetly; a body sprawled in front of him, half in, half out of the pool of light that spilled down from the windows of the inn. As the swordsman bent to wipe his blade clean, Flindaran stiffened and sucked in his breath. “Syaski!”
“What? They can’t be!”
“No one else wears that kind of armor; I got a good look when he leaned over.”
“Maybe they’re just a couple of stragglers,” Emereck said, but even as he spoke, four men rode out of the darkness to join the first two.
“So much for that theory. That means there are at least eight of them; they’ve probably left two more in back of the inn.”
“I don’t believe it,” Emereck muttered as the six men in sight spread out around the front of the inn. “Syaskor is nearly a week’s ride north! And they wouldn’t risk provoking Kith Alunel like this.”
“Tell it to them,” Flindaran said grimly. “But keep a dagger handy while you do. They don’t look much like figments of your imagination to me.”
“What’re they after in a town this small?”
As if in answer to Emereck’s question, one of the men outside shouted. “Ho, Narryn! Come down and play!”
“Come fight, Cilhar scum,” added another in a heavily accented voice. “Or we burn you out.”
“Now you know.” Flindaran stepped back from the window and glanced around the room, then began scooping their belongings into their packs. Emereck stayed where he was, frowning down at the soldiers and listening intently to their continued taunts. Something was wrong about this; he was sure those weren’t Syaski accents, though he couldn’t quite place them. Then the light outside changed, and he tensed. “Better hurry up,” he said over his shoulder. “They’ve set the building on fire.”
“Bloodthirsty half-wits.” Flindaran buckled his sword-belt in place, then shoved the packs and the harp case at Emereck. “Here, take these. I’ll go first.”
Flindaran pushed the door open. The hallway was dark and already filling with smoke. Muttering curses, he stepped out of the room. Emereck followed as closely as he dared. He could hear shouts and screams from the lower floor, and the sounds of fighting outside. He tried to ignore them, and concentrated instead on the steady, muffled cursing ahead of him. If he lost Flindaran now, they might never—The cursing stopped. Emereck hurried forward and almost immediately ran into his friend from behind.
“Ouch! Demons take it, can’t you watch where you’re going?” came a furious whisper.
“In the dark? Anyway, why’d you stop?”
Flindaran hesitated. “I think we’ve missed the stairs.”
“Keep going. There ought to be a service stairway at the end of the hall, and we still have a little time before the fire gets here.”
Together they blundered on. When they reached the end of the hall there was a moment of confusion; then Flindaran found the right door and they half fell into the narrow stairwell. Emereck shoved the door closed, shutting out most of the smoke. They groped their way to the foot of the stairs. The door at the bottom was closed, but sounds of fighting came clearly through the cracks around the edges. Cautiously, Flindaran eased it open far enough for them to see what was happening on the other side.
They were standing at the rear of the kitchen near the back door of the inn. Ryl and the white-haired Cilhar stood on the other side of the room. Three Syaski faced them, their backs to Flindaran and Emereck. Wisps of smoke curled up from the edges of the far wall. The door leading to the main taproom was already ablaze. Ryl was fending off one of the Syaski with a long chopping knife, while the Cilhar’s sword danced back and forth between the blades of the other two. A fourth Syask lay motionless on the floor beside the Cilhar.
Emereck had only an instant to absorb the scene; then Flindaran flung the door open with a crash and leaped forward. Emereck followed, wishing momentarily that he had some weapon. He saw Flindaran pounce on one of the Syaski. Another was a fraction too slow in recovering from his surprise, and the Cilhar ran him through. The third Syask stepped back and glanced quickly around.
Automatically, Emereck shifted his weight and swung one of the packs in a slow arc. It hit the man’s head with a satisfying thud just as he opened his mouth to give the alarm. He collapsed with only a huff of air. Feeling a little surprised, and rather pleased with himself, Emereck hefted the pack and looked for another opponent.
There were none. Flindaran was just dispatching the last of the Syaski. The Cilhar wiped his sword on the cloak of one of the fallen Syaski, then glanced at the burning wall behind him. He looked at Ryl. “I don’t suppose—”
“It would take too much concentration,” Ryl said.
“Then we’d best get out of here. Quickly.”
Emereck did not wait for the suggestion to be made twice. He took a firmer grip on the two packs and the harp case, and kicked the outer door open. A moment later he was standing in the courtyard behind the inn, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the darkness and hoping fervently that none of the Syaski would spot him in the interim. He heard the others behind him and turned.
Flindaran and the Cilhar came out of the doorway first, their swords held ready. The Cilhar seemed to have no trouble adjusting to the re
lative darkness of the courtyard. He scanned the shadows thoroughly, then sheathed his sword with an absentminded flourish. An instant later, Ryl appeared, dragging the body of the Syask Emereck had knocked down. Emereck looked at her in surprise as she dropped the man in the shadows a short distance from the doorway.
Ryl saw him and frowned. “You’d rather I left him to burn to death? He’ll not wake until we’re gone.”
Emereck’s lips tightened, but he did not feel like explaining that his expression had been caused by Ryl’s strength, rather than her actions. Dragging an armored Syask for even a short distance would be a heavy task for a large man, much less a small woman, but the innkeeper wasn’t even breathing hard. Then the last half of her statement registered, and he said, “No, he should be coming to any minute now. I didn’t hit him that hard.”
Ryl looked at him. “I did. Now, shall we get the horses?”
As Emereck turned toward the stable, he heard Flindaran ask, “Where’s Sira?”
“Heading for the woods with the rest of Tinbri,” Ryl said. “She fled while we were holding the Syaski. You need not worry about her; she’s safer now than we are.”
The four headed for the stable. Their luck held; none of the Syaski appeared before they were safely out of sight. Inside the stable, they saddled their horses as quickly as they could. Even so, Emereck took time to make sure his harp case was securely fastened to his saddle. As they led the horses to the door, the Cilhar said, “I have not thanked you for your assistance. Will you give me your names?”
“Emereck Sterren of the Minstrel’s Guild,” Emereck replied, and glanced at Flindaran.
“Flindaran Sterren,” Flindaran lied, bowing. “Both from the Guildhall in Ciaron.”
The Cilhar raised an eyebrow. “I am impressed by your training. It is unusual to find a minstrel who is also such an excellent swordsman. Your skill does you credit.”
Flindaran flushed with pleasure. “I am honored by such praise, especially from a Cilhar.”
“I owe you a life,” the Cilhar replied. “And if chance ever takes you to the Mountains of Morravik, claim hospitality there in the name of Kensal Narryn.”
“First we have to get away,” Ryl said. “And if there are more Syaski coming…”
Flindaran leaned forward and peered out a crack in the stable door. “Looks quiet; they must still be around front.”
Kensal Narryn shot a sharp look at Ryl. “When we’re clear of the yard, turn to the left and head southeast around the lake toward the woods,” he said as they left the stable. “If there are more of them, they’ll be coming down the road on the west side of town, and we’ll gain a little time.”
Flindaran nodded and swung himself onto his horse. “Anything that keeps us out of the way is fine by—Uh oh.”
Four Syaski stood by the corner of the inn, silhouetted against the flames. Emereck mounted hastily, hoping that they still had a chance of escaping if they moved quickly enough. When he looked again, the Syaski had not moved, but a row of mounted men had joined them, completely blocking the only exit from the courtyard.
“So there was a sentry,” Kensal said calmly. He and Ryl had not yet mounted, and he had to look up to study the horsemen.
“Of course,” said the man on the end of the line. “Now, throw down your weapons, grandpa, and we’ll let you live.”
“Will you indeed?” Kensal’s voice expressed mild curiosity. His lips curved in a faint smile. Emereck thought he had never seen anyone look so dangerous.
“Even a Cilhar can’t win against ten men at once. And there are your friends to—”
The Syask’s speech was interrupted by a shout from the other side of the inn. As he turned in his saddle, another Syask appeared, running toward his mounted companions. He called a warning as he came, and Emereck stiffened as he recognized the language. “Lithmern!” he blurted in shock. “That’s why the accent was wrong. These aren’t Syaski, they’re Lithmern!”
Flindaran turned and stared at Emereck as if he had gone mad. Kensal looked at Ryl, his face an expressionless mask. The innkeeper herself stood motionless beside him, staring with tense concentration at the riders.
The leader of the false Syaski glared at Emereck, then transferred his attention to the runner. “Well?” He spoke in Lithran; apparently he had decided there was no further need for pretense.
“The sentry’s back,” the runner panted. He took a deep breath and poured out a stream of Lithran. Emereck caught the words “Syaski” and “road,” but most of the speech was too rapid for his meager knowledge of the language.
The leader gestured impatiently and the runner fell silent. The leader sheathed his sword and reached under his cloak. He drew out a small pouch, opened it, and sprinkled a pinch of black powder out of it into his hand. Carefully, he closed the pouch and replaced it, then hesitated and glanced at Kensal. “I’m afraid we’re out of time. My apologies; I was looking forward to the fight.”
With his last words, he stretched his hand out to one side and began to chant. The words were harsh and repetitive, and they bore no resemblance to any language Emereck knew. He could tell from the way the soldier spoke that the words had no meaning for him either; he was speaking from memory alone. Emereck glanced uncertainly at his companions. He saw Kensal half draw his sword, but Ryl put her hand on his arm and stopped him. She said something in a low voice, and then Emereck’s attention was jerked back to the chanting Lithmern.
A thread of blackness moved in the man’s upturned palm, like a wisp of smoke or a thin black snake. It curled and coiled around the Lithmern’s hand, moving almost too rapidly to follow. Emereck’s horse moved uneasily, and the riders nearest the spell-caster shifted nervously in their saddles. The smoke began to grow, and the leader flinched slightly, though his voice did not falter in the chant. The blackness thickened, and the man’s arm sagged with the weight of it. Suddenly the blackness dropped to the ground and flowed toward Emereck and his companions like a carpet of clouds unrolling rapidly.
Emereck’s horse reared, and he almost lost his seat. The blackness rippled slightly and came on. The horse came down fetlock-deep in darkness, and stuck fast. Emereck could feel the animal’s muscles straining, but not a foot stirred. Flindaran’s horse was caught, too, and the smoky carpet had almost reached Kensal and Ryl. Kensal was eyeing it measuringly, as if trying to decide whether his chances were better if he remained standing or tried to mount his skittish horse. Ryl’s eyes were closed; she seemed to have withdrawn completely.
The blackness touched the hooves of Kensal’s mare, and the animal rolled its eyes in fear. Suddenly, Ryl’s voice cut across the chanting, crying out in a language that pulled at Emereck though he knew he had never heard it before. “Miramar! Niterbarat cebarrelja rykar rinarnth!”
The chant faltered, and the advance of the blackness slowed. Nothing more seemed to happen. Kensal and Ryl stepped back a pace, then another, until their backs almost touched the stable wall. Then Emereck saw something move out beyond the fence that enclosed the courtyard; a fog on the surface of the lake. It thickened into a dense wall of gray wool and swept toward them. In another instant, it reached the fence that surrounded the courtyard and covered it.
The Lithmern leader faltered again at the sight of the unnatural wall of mist, then redoubled his efforts, chanting more loudly than ever. It had no effect. The mist rolled on over the courtyard. Emereck saw Ryl smile as she vanished into it; then Kensal and Flindaran were swallowed up as well. Emereck had time to hope that he would be as pleased as Ryl by this unexpected development, and then the fog engulfed him.
The mist was warm and damp and smelled, impossibly, of halaiba flowers. Emereck could make out a few dim shapes where the Lithmern stood; then the mist thickened and they were gone leaving only an orange glow on his right to mark where the burning inn stood. He could hear the leader’s voice calling instructions to his men in Lithran, and the answering shouts of the soldiers. Wondering what good a concealing mist would do t
hem if they couldn’t move, he looked down. The black smoke was slowly dissolving where the mist touched it. As the last of it disappeared, Emereck’s horse reared again, screaming, and bolted.
All he could do was hang on and hope that the horse was still heading toward the courtyard gates. He passed Flindaran in a rush and was among the Lithmern. One of the soldiers started to draw a weapon; another tried to grab his horse’s reins. Then he was through them, and out of the courtyard.
Behind him he heard shouting and the clang of steel on steel. He hauled on the reins, but the horse ignored him. Gradually, the sounds faded into the distance. He hoped fleetingly that the horse would not stumble; at this speed they’d probably both break their necks if it went down.
Suddenly the horse shied violently, nearly unseating him. As he struggled for balance, Emereck glimpsed the startled face of an armored rider. He saw the man’s sword coming down, and tried to twist away, but he was not quick enough. The shock of the blow grated along his ribs. Pain lanced through his side. His horse gave a shrill, frightened whinny and bolted into the mist once more.
Grimly, Emereck clung to the saddle. He had never been more than an adequate horseman; staying with his terrified mount taxed his ability and the pain of the wound only made matters worse. He had no idea what direction they were going, for the mist hid everything. The ride quickly became a nightmare of figures looming unexpectedly out of the gray darkness and then vanishing again. Some were men; some were trees; some, Emereck was sure, were only his imagination.
He did not know how long it was before his horse slowed at last. He was vaguely aware that the animal had settled into an exhausted plodding, but by then it took most of his concentration just to stay in the saddle. He had lost a good deal of blood, and he was having difficulty thinking clearly. He knew he should stop and rest, but he was afraid that if he did, he would be found by the Syaski or the Lithmern or whoever they really were. Besides, he doubted that he would have the energy to start again once he stopped.
[Lyra 03] - The Harp of Imach Thyssel Page 2