Trying to make her way out of the press she stumbled over a body—by his armor one of the guards, though his hair was matted with brains and blood, his face reduced to an unrecognizable ruin. Struggling for balance in that battering confusion, she had it, then almost lost it again, tripping over a fallen acolyte.
Those of the men still mounted fought for control of their panicking horses; those who had managed to regain their feet were engaged in a furious battle with a horde of creatures who seemed to consist mostly of bone and shriveled flesh. Armed only with broken teeth and long hooked nails, they were literally tearing their way through her guards.
It was very dark. All but a few of the torches had been extinguished and those few lay guttering on the ground. She searched for Camhóinhann or Dyonas but could not find them. She knew they had been somewhere near the head of the column when the horses went mad, but she had been so pushed and jolted and turned around ever since, she was no longer certain which way to look.
And the men around her, they were putting up a valiant fight, but even as swords swiped off bony hands, skinless arms, or heads with stringy hair and carious teeth, the separated parts went on snapping, slashing, and crawling. Bones cracked and splintered, tendons snapped, rotten flesh sloughed away, yet still the severed limbs continued to bunch and move with wormlike writhings.
An eyeless head came bouncing toward Winloki with clashing jaws. Despite her efforts at evasion, it attached itself to the hem of her gown—until one of the horses kicked it aside and sent it flying into darkness. All around her there were shrieks and groans. Two of the guards were beaten down trying to defend her. Seeing one of them move, she tried to reach him, but something or someone knocked her aside and spun her around, so that on regaining her balance she could not find him.
Someone tossed her a knife, which she snatched out of the air and used to skewer a crawling hand that was pawing at her boot. Held in place by the point of the knife, the fingers continued to squirm until the hand tore itself apart in its efforts to get loose.
Then there was a flash of crimson, a smell like lightning, and all three Furiádhin broke through the wall of bodies around her, spitting out spells, crushing severed limbs underfoot, causing the horrors to sizzle and burn.
When it was all over, those who had survived rekindled the torches and looked about them, counting up their losses.
Six men had died: two acolytes and four guards, Merrac and Lochdaen among them. In spite of everything, Winloki could not help grieving. They had been so young; they had treated her always with as much kindness as their duty allowed; she was sorry she had been angry with them. Two geldings and her beautiful cream-colored mare had been killed as well, their throats bitten or their bellies slashed. The remaining horses had retreated down the passageway, where they stood shivering and sweating.
“We dare not ride,” said Camhóinhann. “The horses are not to be trusted if the ghouls attack again. And we will leave the bodies of the men behind, for we would be foolish to encumber ourselves. Therefore, let them lie here entombed with the kings.”
No one protested; they simply gathered up weapons and gear from their fallen comrades and stripped the saddlebags from the dead horses. Yet Winloki could feel the fear radiating off every one of them as they reckoned up all the grim possibilities of their situation. They had reason to be afraid. Not only had the journey turned unexpectedly perilous, it was likely to take longer, walking, than anyone had anticipated. And every extra hour adds to our danger. We may all end up lying “entombed with the kings.”
Sometime in the hours that followed she heard two of the Furiádhin talking, their voices echoing faintly in the dark passageway.
“A mistake,” said Goezenou in that gloating voice of his. “One for which Camhóinhann is likely to pay dearly.”
“For which we are all likely to pay dearly,” Dyonas answered coldly. “Or do you really imagine you will escape your share of the blame if anything happens to the Princess?”
She heard Goezenou laugh, but this time she thought she detected a note of uncertainty. “Ironic, surely, when hers was the presence that attracted the ghouls in the first place.”
“It may be so,” said Dyonas, in the same level voice as before. “The ghouls were not here eleven years ago, or if they were they never troubled us. And that much latent power can bring about unexpected effects—especially when it is beginning to unfold.”
22
The road Sindérian and her travelling companions followed was an old one and not well marked—it was more like the memory of a road than a road itself. But they had left the ghosts and haunts of the hill country behind, and if the air was thinner, it was also cleaner. Falcons and eagles nested on the cliffs high overhead; she could hear their far, lonely cries, see them soaring with wings dark against the pale sky. Wind boomed between the ridges and sang among the pines, but it spoke with its own voice and no other.
Still, it promised to be a difficult ascent. This time of year there was always the danger of snow in the high passes. But it can only delay us, not defeat us, she told herself whenever her spirits began to flag. The worst blizzards are still many weeks off.
She believed the Furiádhin had chosen the underground journey only to avoid weather in the passes up above. Camhóinhann was in no great hurry, that much had already been proven. Beyond the mountains there was all of Lünerion, Alluinn, and Rhuadllyn still to cross before they came to the ocean; surely, over such a distance, it would be possible to overtake them. And then…
Her heartbeat fluttered and her mouth went dry. Better not to dwell too much on journey’s end, on what she had resolved to do no matter the cost. If she thought too much about that she would lose her nerve.
It rained during the night, but they found a hollow place at the base of a cliff and managed to avoid the worst of the storm. In the morning, the sun whitened a cloudbank to the east, then burst forth in glory.
They had not ridden far when Prince Ruan’s quick ears caught sounds he had not expected: a rattle of pebbles, followed by a regular patter like footsteps on one of the ridges above. He scanned the mountainside. “I think there is someone up there following us. Or at least observing us.”
“It is the wind,” said Sindérian. “What else could it be? If anyone was spying on us, Faolein would have spotted them, or the birds would have told him.”
Whatever it had been, it was silent now. And though he continued to listen, the sounds were not repeated.
Sindérian had been animated all morning, but she now turned somber and introspective. Ruan would have given much to know what she was thinking. By this time he was well accustomed to her fluctuating moods, to the rise and fall of her spirits a dozen times a day; they were the inevitable result of her ardent nature. A richer blood flowed in her veins than that of any woman he had ever known; he would not alter her in that respect if he could. No, what troubled him now was a desperate resolution he saw in her eyes, as of some set purpose that remained through all her mercurial changes.
She had reached an important decision, he was all but convinced of that, and her silence on that point was a very bad sign.
“There is something I wish to tell you.” Sindérian’s offer came so suddenly, it caught him off guard. She stole a glance at the others, then pitched her voice so that only Ruan could hear. “Something I would rather not say to Prince Kivik or Lord Skerry.”
But if he expected some personal revelation, he was soon disappointed. “I have often wondered why the Furiádhin keep Winloki alive. What use could they have for her living, when her very existence is a continuing threat to their Empress-Goddess? Now I think I have found an answer, and it is not…not an encouraging one.
“We know,” she went on, “that there was a time when Ouriána meant to circumvent the prophecy by passing the crown to her son Guindeluc. He would rule Phaôrax, but she would rule him. But Guindeluc is dead these two years, and she has never shown much favor to her younger sons. Oh, there can be little do
ubt of her intentions when the Princess was born, but now…” Her voice trailed off.
“You think she is looking for an heir rather than a sacrifice?” It was a possibility he had never considered; he was not even certain he was prepared to consider it now. “Yet why Winloki and not Prince Cuillioc? She may not favor him but he is her own son, while the Princess—Ah, I see. Winloki has great magical gifts; Prince Cuillioc none at all.” Now he too stole a glance at the riders up ahead. “But would she allow herself to be bent to Ouriána’s purpose?”
“Our friends, I think, would say no. But living in Skyrra all of these years, what does the Princess know of us or our wars, what does she know of Ouriána except rumor and reputation? And Ouriána would offer her an empire—she has seduced many over the years who were far older and far wiser by offering them less.
“And I,” she added, in a much lower voice, “have an idea of the temptations she might offer. I cannot say I would not have found them…beguiling, when I was Winloki’s age.”
They rode on together in a thoughtful silence until Sindérian spoke again.
“And there is something else. I have asked myself again and again: if I were Ouriána, and I meant for Winloki to come to Phaôrax already half persuaded, who, of all the Furiádhin, would I choose to bring her? Perhaps you can guess the only answer that ever made any sense.”
“Camhóinhann—perhaps Dyonas, by what one hears of him. Yes, those two before any of the others,” said Ruan. “Although it’s difficult to see why she would choose Goezenou, if those were her intentions.”
Sindérian shrugged. “Perhaps only because he was in Mere with the others when they first set out. Or maybe to frighten the Princess, so that when she arrives in Phaôrax and finds Ouriána gracious and welcoming, she might turn to her as a kinswoman and a refuge.”
Ruan narrowed his eyes, considering what followed from that. “Then you are afraid if we don’t rescue the Princess very soon, she may not wish to be rescued, she might not choose to come with us.” It was a disturbing idea, yet one that was all too plausible. He began to understand the urgency driving Sindérian all of these weeks. Nevertheless, he did not think that she had told him everything that was on her mind.
They camped that night in the shelter of a ridge topped with wind-writhen firs. When they started out at dawn, the sky was overcast and the air smelled of snow. Unless he was much mistaken it was falling already on the peaks above. But Faolein, flying ahead by moonlight, had discovered a trail and a pass. Speaking through Sindérian, he had assured the others they would not have to climb so high.
By érien, the midpoint of the day, the sky had cleared. And the road—curiously—had become more like a real road, as though it had seen recent and frequent use. He could see no tracks but those of bear and lynx, but the rain two nights ago would have washed away evidence of men and horses.
A sudden change in the direction of the wind brought a scent that was musky and earthy; at the same time, there was a rustling in the heather to either side of the road. He reached for his sword, but before it was free of the scabbard a dozen squat figures sprang out from the bushes, and it was all that he could do to control his horse.
Then a pair of gnarled brown hands reached up and took a firm hold of the harness. The gelding stopped in its tracks, suddenly turned so meek and compliant that Ruan could scarcely believe it was the same animal. Within seconds, the other horses were caught in a similar fashion and the entire party brought to a halt.
Sindérian looked down at the dwarves, and the dwarves stared steadily back at her. This was a meeting she could hardly have expected. The Corridon were a secretive, reclusive race. So far as she knew, they had not had contact with Men for more than two hundred years.
“Courtesy would dictate that you dismount,” said the dwarf attached to her bridle. He wore a circlet of gold in his dark hair and had an altogether lordly manner. “For we mislike craning our necks in order to speak with you.” As he spoke, some of the rocks up on the slope began to move and became more dwarves, in grey cloaks.
It seemed to Sindérian that they had no choice but to comply, for they were assuredly outnumbered. All of the dwarves carried weapons; two held crossbows cocked and aimed. And whatever influence they had exercised on the horses still seemed to hold.
“We have no quarrel with your people,” said Prince Ruan, his turquoise eyes glittering and his chin jutting out at an uncompromising angle. Nevertheless, he dismounted along with the rest. “It is to be hoped that you have no quarrel with us.”
“That remains to be seen. If you resist us you will die. If you put yourselves in our hands, it may—just possibly—be to your advantage.”
On equal footing, none of the dwarves appeared quite so small as they had from the saddle. Big boned with short thick limbs, it was not, Sindérian realized, that they were ill proportioned, their proportions were simply…different. They wore belted tunics of green, grey, or brown and high leather boots that turned over at the top in wide cuffs. Some were ferociously bearded, none were clean shaven. Broad-shouldered and sturdy, they looked tough as old tree roots.
She spoke to the men in a low voice. “It seems we have trespassed without even knowing it. Let us try to make amends.”
Winloki walked until she saw everything through a grey haze of exhaustion, and still Camhóinhann allowed no one to rest. The cold of the tunnels had numbed her feet, but miles of walking over hard stone floors caused a dull ache to climb her legs and lodge in the small of her back. Though her world had grown dim and narrow, she could hear the men panting, their feet stumbling. She was not the only one whose strength was failing.
At last the High Priest took pity on them—or simply realized they had reached the outermost limits of their endurance. They all sat down on the floor of the passageway, some with their backs to the wall, others reclining against gear they had dropped when Camhóinhann gave the order to stop.
Winloki rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Nothing had been said about eating or sleeping, so she supposed it was only a temporary rest. Could anyone sleep after the horror of the ghouls? But it would be days before they were safely out of this place, and they would have to sleep long before that.
When she lowered her hands and looked up, she saw Camhóinhann looming over her in his scarlet robes. He crouched down beside her, and from somewhere in the heavy folds of his outer garment, he drew out a leather flask. “Drink this. It will put heart into you.”
“I am not afraid—nor in any danger of swooning away.” It was a lie and perhaps he knew it. Fatigue had dulled only a little the sharp edge of fear.
Under his level, dispassionate gaze, she found she could not, after all, refuse what he offered her. She accepted the flask, unstoppered it, and took a swallow of honey cordial. It felt cool going down, but became warm as soon as it reached her stomach. That warmth diffused swiftly through her veins, until she began to feel, if not braver, at least a little stronger.
He had not moved from his place beside her. “Though you ask no reassurance, still I will offer it. If anyone leaves these tunnels alive, it will be you. There is not a man here but will lay down his life on your behalf.”
“I don’t want anyone here to die for me!” She realized even as she said it how petulant, how childish she sounded. “I want nothing from any of you, except my freedom. I want to go home.”
The priest rose smoothly to his feet. “We are taking you home, home to Phaôrax. You may not understand that as yet, but you will.”
After too short a rest, they were up and walking again. Winloki had thought they had seen the last of the burial chambers, the last of the petrified bodies, but she soon discovered her mistake. After stumbling through a dozen more rooms, she felt she could not possibly bear another sight of them.
When they did stop to eat and to take a longer rest, Winloki found that she could sleep after all. Despite fear, aching muscles, and the hardness of stone floors, the body made its own demands. While she slept,
with her feet tucked up inside her cloak and a blanket to warm them, the pain woke again in her insteps and ankles.
She soon stopped counting the intervals of weary trudging punctuated by short snatches of sleep. As miserable as she was, she knew there were those who suffered far worse. Two of the men who had sustained minor scratches during their battle with the ghouls had grown weak and feverish. Their comrades supported them as they walked.
Wherever they went, the horses followed at a short distance, sometimes in a straggling line, sometimes in a tight little herd. They would not come too near; neither would they drop far behind. And though they ate the grain the men scattered for them, they would suffer no one to touch them. Even when she slept, Winloki could hear the horses stamping the ground and shrilling their distress.
In time, water ran low, all the leather skins and bottles they carried with them empty or nearly so. The horses still carried water, but it was impossible to get at it. Only the injured men were allowed more than a sip during their brief periods of rest. Though food was a little more plentiful, the priests rationed that out carefully, too. With mouths so dry, eating became a chore; Winloki chewed and swallowed only because it was necessary to keep up her strength.
As for the men, she had given up hating them for who and what they were—it had been a pretense anyway, a lie she told herself and never entirely believed. They were so brave, so cheerful in adversity, so generous and considerate to her that she would have been ashamed to despise them.
“We will not drink any of the water we find here,” said Camhóinhann when they came to a place where moisture trickled down from a crack in the ceiling and formed a little pool, “not unless we are forced to do so.”
The water did smell of minerals, and remembering the stone men and women in the burial chambers, Winloki was content to go thirsty a good while longer. “But the horses—”
A Dark Sacrifice Page 24