by Angus Wells
Calandryll had half expected a byah to appear—that manifestation more comforting for having once been seen—to speak, bidding them enter, but these things were infinitely more menacing, and he felt his skin grow cold as his eyes struggled to discern them.
He could not, even as they drew closer, moving past the oaks to the outer growths of elder and rowan, to where the bones lay. It was as though they remained constantly on the periphery of his vision, never quite in focus, but always shifting too swift, too sudden, for his sight to hold them. He heard them, though, as they flitted ever closer; not speaking, it seemed, but communicating with soft whistles, sighs, murmurs, such as the trees themselves make, when the wind stirs rustling through the branches.
He thought of the syfalheen of Gessyth, of Yssym and his kin, who had, at first, seemed very strange, but proven true friends, and told himself that these creatures—the Gruagach, of that he had no doubt—were no more odd, nor any more dangerous. But then he remembered the bones, and wondered if he only sought to reassure himself.
A hand fell unwittingly to his sword, reflex action as a shape stepped closer still, picking a delicate way among the thickets of blackthorn, halting in the bushes’ shadow. It raised an arm, long, oddly jointed fingers curling in an unmistakable gesture.
“Come,” Bracht said in a soft, almost hesitant voice.
Calandryll felt saliva fill his mouth, and spat as he took the chestnut’s reins. To his side, he heard Katya let out her breath in a long, wary sigh as she followed Bracht toward the waiting figure.
The Kern led his stallion forward, halting on the edge of the wood and calling, “Do you grant us entry into Ahrd’s holy forest?”
The Gruagach beckoned, and in the fast-waning light Calandryll saw that its elongated fingers were tipped with sharp claws. It was difficult, in the twilight, to be sure, but he thought its skin was a mottled fusion of green and grey, like the bark of some ancient tree, and when it opened its mouth, he saw serrated teeth set in double rows, like a shark’s. Its eyes were huge and pale, the pupils vertical slits, overhung with ridges of bone that sloped dramatically back to form a broad forehead, the nose vestigial, a flat hump that flared wide over the nostrils. It spoke, or seemed to, the sound a fluttering whistle, and gestured again.
Calandryll saw Bracht’s shoulders square as he led the stallion toward the strangeling creature. The Gruagach stood immobile as the Kern approached, and then extended one long arm, pointing at Bracht’s right hand. The man, in turn, thrust out his arm, the hand suddenly grasped, turned this way and that as the Gruagach brought it close, examining it, sniffing it, touching the healed skin with a delicate claw. It whistled then, answered by a chorus from the darkness, and let go its hold, moving away. Bracht stepped a pace forward and the Gruagach fell back, as though, satisfied, it was now unwilling to stand too close, or to allow itself to be clearly seen, moving with such fluid grace it seemed not to walk, but to glide, drifting from the shelter of the thicket to halt again, beckoning, beneath an elder.
Bracht followed, and it seemed to Calandryll that the hedge of blackthorn parted, shaping a narrow avenue into the edgewood. The Kern led his horse in, Katya behind, and then Calandryll, glancing back to see the thicket spring up impenetrable, the glow of the Lykard fire a distant spark off on the open grass. Ahead stood ash and rowan, all filled with the subtly shifting shapes of the Gruagach, their guide leading them steadily deeper, past the outer palisade of trees to the great oaks that formed the true forest. The creature halted there, beneath the wide boughs of a mature oak, so still it became invisible, seeming no more than some offshoot of the great tree until it waved its long limbs and emitted a series of fluting notes, like the call of a night bird.
Its language was incomprehensible and it clashed its sharp teeth in frustration as it saw the three questers did not understand, pointing at them, then at their horses. Bracht studied it a moment, and then, tentatively, set foot to stirrup. The Gruagach nodded enthusiastically and the Kern swung into the saddle, ducking low as the branches of the oak threatened to strike his head.
“How can we ride through this?” Katya indicated the now-moonlit forest with a jutting chin. “By day’s light, perhaps, but by night?”
The Gruagach whistled, the sound somehow indicative of irritation, and Bracht said, “Do as it bids.”
Katya shrugged and mounted; Calandryll followed suit, seeing the Gruagach nod approvingly and turn, motioning them to follow as it loped away.
It ran swift as a horse, using all four of its limbs, leaving them no choice but to heel their mounts in pursuit, praying no low-hanging branch would sweep them from their saddles.
None did. Indeed, just as the blackthorn of the edgewood had parted before them, so it seemed did the oaks, affording them clear passage into the forest, so that in a little while they grew more confident and sat upright, chasing the racing Gruagach ever deeper into the heart of the Cuan na’Dru.
The creature remained a constant distance ahead, only just visible, though its brethren were soon lost, seen but occasionally as shadows that flitted through patches of moonlight. Calandryll saw that they swung with prehensile agility from tree to tree, seldom touching the ground, apparently preferring to travel through the canopy of overhanging boughs rather than along the forest’s floor. They were, he surmised, arboreal, reminded of the monkeys he had seen in the jungles of Gash, and the one he followed, therefore, elected to lead the way . . . To Ahrd? He supposed so, for it seemed impossible that they should be able to travel so fast without divine intervention, the horses no longer nervous, but galloping now, freely as if they traversed the open spaces of the grasslands, sensing what their riders’ eyes denied. The oaks grew thick, and while their wide-flung limbs and heavy roots denied undergrowth much purchase, still it was not possible so swift a pace could be maintained without accident. They rode in single file, and he at the rear, but still, beyond Bracht, he saw trees stand directly athwart their passage, with boughs hung so low as to deny even the horses a clear way. Yet the Gruagach ran and they followed after, and even though it seemed they charged directly into a barrier of solid trunks and interwoven limbs there were no obstacles, no hindrances, as if the oaks dissolved before them, moving aside on agile, dendrous feet. More than once he chanced a backward look, and saw only trees, impenetrable, behind.
And all the while, at first unnoticed in the urgency of their ride, there grew a sense of peace, of tremendous calm, that rose to a point undeniable, at which it became a palpable thing. Only then did Calandryll realize that since entering the wood he had heard the natural night sounds of a forest: the rustle of breeze-stirred leaves, the trilling of night birds, and the small cries of nocturnal beasts, the pounding of hooves on ancient soil. Now there was another silence, not the forbidding stillness that had marked the edgewoods, but one of venerable tranquillity, akin to the quietude of a temple. It seemed then that time fell out of gear, that the motion of the horse beneath him slowed—though he knew somehow that he still rode at breakneck pace, impossibly swift—becoming a rhythmic sensation, gentle as the rocking of a boat on a calm sea. All around the timber blurred, like shapes seen through water, unclear, shafts of moonlight lancing in random patterns through boughs that swayed and danced to some unheard music. Like a dream, he thought.
Not a dream, said a voice inside his head, strangely familiar. Did you not seek to cross my forest?
“Aye,” he answered, the word torn from his lips and carried off on the unnatural wind of his passage.
And did you think I should refuse you, when Bracht asked it of met? Have I not twice shown him my favor? The once in Lysse, and again, when I healed his wounds?
“You have,” Calandryll replied, recognizing the silent voice now, remembering the byah that had warned of Rhythamun’s treachery. “And I thank you for it.”
How else should I treat with those who defend me, save by granting what aid is mine to give? To the farther edge of the forest the Gruagach shall bring you safe.
/> “And shall we find Rhythamun then? Shall we be ahead of him?”
That is not mine to know. Calandryll sensed a hesitation in the god’s words. He has not entered the Cuan na’Dru. Nor shall, for not even he can with-stand my guardians, nor come within my aegis unharmed.
“Then surely we must outpace him.”
Perhaps. For my sake and yours, hope it be so.
“Denied the camps, forced to hunt his food—surely he must be slowed. The men with him must surely learn his nature and turn from him.”
Aye, for they are only misguided. But even do they, still he has such power as may overcome them.
“He has slain them? Taken their horses?”
And likely more.
Now Calandryll felt a great regret in the voiceless communication, such as made his skin prickle with horrid anticipation. “What do you say?” he said.
That such as Rhythamun live beyond the pale, beyond mankind’s compassion, or human feelings. That six lives are as nothing to him, save steps along his fell path. That six men may provide such as he with more than only mounts to bring him onward, but be his meat, too.
“He becomes a cannibal?”
Calandryll spoke low, struck with the horror of that likelihood, no more for the advantage of speed it must surely afford the warlock than loathing for the act itself.
I say it may be. I cannot know for sure—only that Rhythamun inhabits a place of darkness where few men venture.
“Then we must catch him before he reaches the Kess Imbrun; before he enters the Jesseryn Plain.”
What aid is mine, I give you, and my blessing with it. More than that, I cannot. But know that all we Younger Gods are with you.
Ahrd’s voice rustled into silence, like a wind departing trees. Calandryll sat stunned, leaving the chestnut to pick its own way after Katya’s racing grey. Would even Rhythamun sink so low? he wondered, knowing the answer even as the thought formulated, spitting disgust from a mouth that seemed suddenly tainted by the contemplation of so filthy a deed. By all the gods, he deserves to die.
That his comrades, too, had heard the god, and held similar conversations, he saw when Katya turned a paled face back, horror widening her eyes. Beyond her, he saw Bracht gesture angrily, and heard a curse float by. Unspoken, all urged their mounts to greater effort, thundering through the heart of the Cuan na’Dru without concern for pitfalls or obstacles, utterly confident that Ahrd himself loaned divine aid to their quest and would not, while they remained within his domain, allow them to come to harm.
How long that passage lasted was impossible to tell, for they rode beyond the laws of time, sped by the god himself, so that as night brightened into dawn they saw before them the ending of the forest, the rising sun striking brilliant through the timber of the northern edgewoods.
Their guide halted there, waving them on before fading back into the timber, and they went on, northward, the horses fresh, running eagerly as if they had not already galloped through the night, over more leagues than might be encompassed in so short a time. For that, they all gave thanks to Ahrd, but underlying their gratitude was a terrible doubt that despite all their efforts Rhythamun would still reach the Kess Imbrun before them, would take the Daggan Vhe down into the great rift canyon and lose himself in the unknown land that was the Jesseryn Plain.
CENNAIRE studied the two men with an enigmatic smile, aware that she held their lives in balance in her slender hands. For all they carried the long dirks favored by the Kerns sheathed on their belts, and their swords set carefully within easy reach, for all they were hard-muscled, still she was confident she might slay them, did it come to that. Indeed, it might be the quicker way to obtain the information she sought—to disable the one and slay the other before his brother’s eyes: a token of her power.
And yet, not knowing why, she hesitated.
Perhaps she grew a conscience. Perhaps it had something to do with the loyalty she sensed in them, palpable as the desire, the curiosity she smelled oozing from them. She had found them readily enough for Gannshold still buzzed with rumors of the skirmish they had fought, the trick worked on those Kerns hostile to Bracht ni Errhyn, to whom these brothers were, in some obscure manner she did not entirely understand, related. Gart and Kythan ni Morrhyn, they were named, and she had found them, her way paved with seductive smiles and tentative promises, in this hostelry called The Horseman’s Rest.
At first they had been suspicious, but her courtesan’s wiles had charmed them enough that before long they boasted of their part in her quarry’s escape. There were few enough men could resist her when she fixed them with her huge brown eyes, attentive on their every word, leaning forward so they might catch a glimpse of cleavage, her musky scent heady in their nostrils, and these had proven no exception. Save, her preternatural senses told her, that they held something back. That the three she sought had come to Gannshold and quit the fortress city, she learned soon enough, but their destination, that was withheld—and it was that knowledge her master would have her discover.
She had debated the swiftest means of unlocking their secret, realizing as she sat with them, utilizing all her powers, that likely overt violence was not the key. Behind their boasting, behind their desire for her, she had sensed some greater concern, and behind that, hot and steady as the blood in their veins, the certainty that they would die before revealing that secret knowledge. Their loyalty transcended the physical and she had known past doubting that each would fight her to the death, would sooner see his kin sacrificed than besmirch the honour that lay at the core of their existence. In that they were very different to such as Darth, and that—to her surprise—had touched her, prompting her to doubt. It was a kind of pride, but different to that Menelian had evinced, a loyalty, a bonding, that she did not understand in any articulate fashion, but rather felt deep in her being, as if it struck some mysterious responding cord that she could not readily define.
It was a dilemma, for the knowledge they held she must have—on pain of failure, of Anomius’s displeasure—and she had left them with the promise that she would return later that day, allowing herself a little time in which to order her disturbed thoughts.
She had found an answer of sorts and gone back to the inn, to the private chamber they had arranged for the tryst, with at least the possibility of an alternative to their deaths. Now she wondered if she should use it, or the more direct method.
They had bathed and dressed themselves in clothes that smelled a little less of horses, and that she found appealing. Equally that they treated her not as some harlot to be bought and used, but as a woman of gentle birth. One they desired, certainly: that particular odor emerged powerfully from beneath the scents of soap and recently applied oils. Also a tremendous curiosity, a wariness akin to that of an animal not entirely satisfied with the overtures of a stranger. They hoped—this overwhelmingly obvious—to bed her; but they did not yet trust her. Did they know her for a revenant, did they learn that she hunted the questers, they would, she was sure, oppose her to the limits of their fragile human bodies.
That thought amused her: that were she to reveal herself they would fight her and die. To own such power was intoxicating, but there was also that other, unfamiliar, awareness. Respect? She was not sure, only that she felt an odd reluctance to take their lives, a hesitation she had not known with Menelian or Darth, a thing that troubled her.
Her decision was made unwitting, born of instinct and emotions she did not comprehend.
She joined them in the emptying of one bottle, bidding them remain seated as she rose, playing the part of serving maid as she went to the table by the window, where more wine waited. Furtively, she unstoppered the little vial she had purchased, the spilling of its contents hidden, the colorless liquid blending instantly with the dark red wine. She brought the bottle to them, filling both their cups and her own, drinking deep—it would have no effect on her—while they drank deeper.
The bottle was soon drained. The two Kerns beamed slackmo
uthed, observing her with glazed and lustful eyes.
“Ahrd, but this vintage is powerful.” Gart’s words came slurred. “My head spins.”
Kythan chuckled, lolling in his chair, threatening to turn it over as he nudged his brother. “Surely you’d not so offend this lady?” he mumbled, raising an empty cup in toast to Cennaire.
She favoured him with a radiant smile and said, “Tell me of Bracht and his companions. Where do they go? Why do they quest so?”
THE night was passed as Cennaire drew the shutters closed over the windows of her room and lit two candles for all the early morning sun shone outside, and even in the mountains the days grew warm. Checking her door was bolted shut, she fetched the ensorcelled mirror from its wrappings and set to polishing the gleaming surface, absentmindedly studying her reflected image as she sought to compose her thoughts, not yet ready to utter the words that would replace her face with that of Anomius, wondering at the enormity of all she had learned and what it meant for her.
As a child she had heard the ancient tales of the Godwars, of how Tharn had waxed prideful, vying with his brother Balatur until all the world lay in ruins; of how the god had gone down into madness, and his parents, his creators—Yl and Kyta—had set him and his sibling both aside, banishing them to a dreaming limbo, their places taken by the Younger Gods. And she had forgotten, as children do, that in such tales there lies often truth; as an adult, she had thought nothing of such things, being, as is the way of the full-grown, far more concerned with her own affairs than with such vague matters of theology and myth.
Now it seemed the seed of truth in those old tales sprouted, preparing to spring up full-blown again—if what she had learned from Gart and Kythan was true. She frowned a moment, then smoothed her unlined brow, her lips pursing. Of how Anomius would take this startling news she entertained little doubt: he would want the book, the Arcanum. Of how it might affect her, however, she could only guess, and that with little enough certainty.