by Anthony Ryan
Sollis saw the young brother mask his relief with a regretful shrug before leading his horse back to the stable. The man was no coward, Sollis knew, but neither was he a fool. “Mount up,” he told Oskin and Smentil. Of the two, only Oskin betrayed any outward sign of trepidation and that just a hardly perceptible shake of his head before he climbed into the saddle. They were the two most experienced brothers in the Pass, both having served here for years before Sollis arrived. Risking them on this mission might rob the Order of two of its most valuable assets, but he knew there was little chance of success if he chose to leave them behind.
Vensar, Sollis’s own mount, gave only a small snort as he swung himself into the saddle. He had ridden the stallion since being posted to the Pass four years before. The stallion’s plains origins were evident in his name, an Eorhil word for a comet that would appear in the northern sky once a century. Sollis assumed it had been chosen for the teardrop blaze of white on the animal’s forehead. Despite being bred for the hunt rather than battle, Vensar’s mostly sedate nature would disappear in combat, his hooves and teeth proving deadly weapons on more than one occasion.
Red Ears loped ahead as they made their way through the outer walls and the northern gate. The hound never barked, the trait having been bred out of her bloodline generations before. Instead her signals consisted of a sudden stillness, the severity of the threat revealed by the speed at which her tail wagged. Sollis saw her crest a low rise just beyond bowshot of the gate, whereupon she came to an abrupt halt, tail swishing at a slow tempo.
“Well,” Oskin said, reining his horse to a halt at the hound’s side. “Seems there’s something on the wind today.”
“The Lonak?” Sister Elera asked.
“No. When she catches their scent her tail becomes straight as an arrow.” Oskin angled his head at Red Ears and made a soft clicking sound with his tongue. The hound looked up at him, brows raised a faint whine escaping her maw. “Something unfamiliar, looks like,” Oskin mused, rubbing his grey-stubbled chin. “She doesn’t like it, whatever it is.”
Sollis spared the hound a brief glance before turning Vensar’s nose towards the west. Without any clue as to the nature of whatever alien scent had troubled the hound’s nose there seemed little point dwelling on the mystery. “We’ll make for the Saw Back,” he said. “Cut north once we’re through the Notch.”
“Forgive me, brother,” Elera said as Sollis kicked Vensar into a trot. She prodded her mare to follow suit and quickly drew alongside. “But our destination is to the north-east, is it not? Your course appears to be taking us directly west.”
Sollis’s eyes flicked to her for an instant before he slapped his reins against Vensar’s neck and the stallion accelerated into a gallop. “The mountains have eyes, sister,” he heard Oskin explain to Elera. “It doesn’t do to follow the compass needle too closely up here.”
The Saw Back came into view as the sun neared noon. It was a twenty mile long ridge that rose from the plain to snake a northerly course into the mountains. Centuries before the Renfaelins had named it for its resemblance to the jagged bones of a boar’s back, but the Lonak called it Irshak’s Tail and believed it to be the remnants of their god of birth. Irshak, so the shamans taught, willingly allowed her spirit to depart her mighty body so that it would sink into the earth, giving rise to the mountains thereby gifting the Lonak a home for all eternity.
Sollis followed the line of the ridge for a mile or so until the Notch came into view. It was a narrow channel that traced a jagged course through the ridge from east to west. Despite being a perfect site for an ambush, the Lonak assiduously avoided the place and no brother had ever been attacked in its vicinity. His attempts to elicit some explanation for this from captives were always met with a scowling refusal to speak a single word on the matter. He wondered if they believed the Notch to be cursed, as if venturing near such a scar in the stone flesh of their dead god was somehow blasphemous. It was likely he would never know and had long resigned himself to the fact that gaining a true understanding of these people was probably impossible.
They dismounted before leading their horses into the Notch. Elera’s mare gave voice to some disconcerted snorting as the steep granite walls closed in on either side, but the Order mounts were accustomed to this route and remained quiet. Sollis called a halt about halfway into the Notch where it opened out to create an oval large enough to provide a campsite of sorts.
“Half-moon tonight,” Oskin said, gazing up at the mostly grey sky. “Looks like the cloud’s inclined to linger for a bit, though.”
“Light a fire,” Sollis told Smentil before moving to the northern wall of the Notch and starting to climb.
“We’re stopping for the night?” Sister Elera asked. “We’ve barely travelled more than a few miles.”
Sollis ignored her and kept climbing.
“And won’t a fire reveal our position to the Lonak?” she called after him.
“It’s likely they already know our position,” he said, not turning. “And will continue to do so as long as you keep shouting.”
He ascended to the top of the granite wall and took a moment to scan both the eastern and western approaches, predictably seeing nothing of interest. Sollis faced due north and sat down, closing his eyes and slowing his breathing to allow the song of the mountains to fill his ears. Long years of training at the Order House instilled in him a deep regard for the value of utilising all senses. Today the song was a familiar refrain of swirling winds rebounding from the vast, irregular edifice of the mountains and the rustle and rasp of sparse vegetation. If a Lonak scouting party were to reveal themselves it would be with a small discordant note in the song of the mountains, just a faint series of ticks that indicated unshod hooves on loose stone. Today, however, there were no such ticks. In fact, he found the song unusually muted and it took some time before he detected anything of note.
Hawk, he thought recognising the faint birdcall, opening his eyes to scan the sky. He found it quickly, a faint speck circling against the grey blanket of cloud. The bird’s presence brought a puzzled frown to his brow. Mountain hawks would hunt for mice or rabbits in the foothills, but neither were plentiful at the Saw Back. Also, they would normally only cry out to warn off those who might encroach on their nests, but these were typically found atop the steepest cliffs. It could be trying to attract a mate, though he judged it too late in the season for that.
Sollis watched the hawk until its voice faded and it stopped circling, angling its wings to fly off towards the north. Voicing a soft grunt of frustration at a minor mystery, Sollis rose and climbed back down into the Notch. Brother Smentil had used the firewood from his saddle bags to craft a decent sized blaze, sending a tall column of grey smoke into the dimming sky.
How many? he signed as Sollis moved to unsaddle Vensar.
“None,” Sollis replied. He smoothed a hand over the stallion’s back before laying the saddle down and extracting a handful of oats from one of the bags. “That I could find, that is.”
“Meaning none at all,” Oskin said. “Unusual.”
“I can’t be certain. We need to assume they’ve spotted us.”
“You were expecting the Lonak to find us?” Sister Elera asked which drew an amused glance from Smentil.
We should tie her up and put her on my horse, his hands told Sollis. He’ll make his own way back to the Pass. Any Lonak scouts will most likely leave her be if they still have us to chase after.
Sister Elera stepped into Smentil’s eyeline, face set in a hard mask as her hands moved with swift, if angry fluency. The signs she made were brief though the meaning was colourful and evidently heartfelt.
“I don’t think there’s any need for that kind of language, sister,” Sollis said, holding the oats to Vensar’s snout. The stallion let out an appreciative snort as he munched on the snack.
Elera took a slow calming breath, clasping her hands together before speaking again. “Brothers,” she began in a tone of measured
calm. “I realise I have not your experience in this place, nor do I possess your skills. I am, however, your sister in the Faith and Mistress of Curatives at the House of the Fifth Order. I do not request your respect, I both deserve and expect it. Our mission, as you know, is of the gravest import and I feel its chances of success will be greatly improved if you would be so good as to just answer my bloody questions when I ask them.”
Smentil raised an eyebrow in Sollis’s direction, receiving a nod in response. Smentil tossed some more sticks onto the fire before turning back to Elera. If there are any watching, he signed, as long as this stays lit they’ll believe we’re still here.
“I see,” Elera said. “Meaning we’ll soon move on and leave it burning.”
“We’ll wait for darkness,” Sollis said. “As long as the moon stays hidden we should be able to head north without being tracked, at least for a while.”
“Very clever, brother,” she replied, inclining her head a little.
“Cleverness is Brother Sollis’s business, sister,” Oskin said, sitting down close to the fire and wrapping his cloak about him. “The Grey Eyed Fox the Lonak call him.”
“One,” Sollis said, seeing his brothers exchange a glance of muted amusement. He was not a man easily baited but had always found the notion of being named by others decidedly annoying, especially his enemies. “One Lonak said that, then he died.”
“They tend to do that when you feather them all over with arrows. Mark my words, sister.” Oskin cast a wink in Elera’s direction. “We travel with a veritable legend. A scourge of Lonak kind.”
A stern rebuke came to Sollis’s lips but he stilled his tongue. Oskin was a veteran brother who had earned a certain leeway not enjoyed by most of his comrades. Instead, Sollis confined himself to an irritated sigh. “It’s a few hours yet until nightfall,” he told the sister. “We’ll be pushing hard throughout the night. Best unsaddle your horse, we can't afford for her to tire.”
* * *
Night fell quickly in the mountains, the sun dipping behind the western peaks to leave the Notch in near-pitch darkness. The clouds had lingered in the sky meaning there was no betraying moonlight as they made their way to the western flank of the Saw Back, the fire burning bright at their rear. The firelight faded as Sollis led them through the cramped passage, guided by touch and memory. The Notch had some side-channels which would trap or delay the unwary but he had memorised the route years before. Soon the granite walls fell away to reveal a broad, rock strewn slope stretching away into the gloom.
Sollis ordered the others to mount up and they struck out for the north, keeping to the upper edge of the slope where it met the crest of the ridge. He spurred Vensar to a steady canter, unwilling to gallop in the darkness. Even so it was a risky endeavour and even a seasoned Order mount like Vensar sometimes came close to losing his footing on the loose stone of the slope. Sister Elera’s mare, lacking the same expertise, was less fortunate. Sollis heard the horse let out a shrill whinny and turned to see her sliding down the incline on her rump, forelegs extended as she attempted to stall her descent. Elera held on with valiant resolve, hauling on the reins as shingle cascaded around her.
Horse and rider came to an untidy stop some thirty yards down the slope. Sollis heard the sister give voice to a muffled curse and reined Vensar to a halt, preparing to dismount and go to her aid. He paused, however, at the sound of displaced shingle and fiercely whispered instructions. Peering into the gloom he made out the sight of Elera coaxing her mare into a standing position and slowly guiding her back up the slope. He was impressed with the sister’s skill in the saddle, though her stern and embarrassed visage as she fell into line led him to believe any compliments wouldn’t be welcome.
“We’ll keep to a walk until dawn,” he said.
“That’s not necessary…” Elera began.
“A walk,” Sollis cut in, kicking Vensar forward.
* * *
Ten miles north of the Notch the Saw Back joined the southern flank of a steep sided mountain, its slopes becoming too sheer for horse or human. Sollis led them around the peak’s western base and into a narrow valley marked by the swift stream rushing through its centre. The morning sun soon began to banish the shadows and he spurred Vensar into a gallop, following the line of the stream as it curved towards the east. He was keen to cover as many miles as possible. They were a decent remove from any sizeable Lonak settlement but he knew it was only a matter of time before a hunting party happened upon their trail. The marks left by steel shod hooves were as good as a signpost in the mountains.
They exited the valley shortly before noon, Sollis slowing the pace as they ascended the forested hills beyond. Once within the trees Oskin sent Red Ears ahead to scout the route, the hound keeping about thirty yards ahead and always staying within sight. After another hour of riding Sollis saw the hound come to a rigid halt, nose pointing off to the right. Her tail wasn’t swaying this time, but nor was it straight. Instead, it maintained a steady, nervous twitch.
“He’s scenting a beast not a man,” Oskin said quietly, brows bunching as he scanned the surrounding trees. “Something with sharp teeth otherwise he wouldn’t have stopped.”
Sollis nodded to both brothers and all three dismounted, Smentil signing to Elera to follow suit and holding a finger to his lips. The brothers each unlimbered their bows and notched an arrow. Sollis signed for Smentil to stay with the sister and the horses then he and Oskin moved to Red Ears.
“What is it, old pup?” Oskin whispered, crouching at the hound’s side and running a hand through the sparse fur on her shoulders.
Red Ears’ nose pointed at a dense patch of woodland a dozen paces off, the pines so closely packed as to banish sunlight from the forest floor. A low growl emerged from the hound’s muzzle and her lips began to curl, revealing her impressive teeth.
“Rock ape?” Sollis asked Oskin in a low murmur.
The older brother shook his head. “They don’t come down from the mountains until winter.” The tracker’s features took on a familiar frown of concentration, nostrils flaring in unconscious imitation of his dog. “Can’t be,” he said in a whisper, a bemused squint creeping into his gaze. “Not this far south…”
Sollis saw them then, two small pinpoints of light in the gloom. Eyes, he realised. Cat’s eyes catching the light. His finger tightened on his bowstring as two more pairs of eyes appeared on either side of the first. A grating, piercing squeal cut through the hushed forest air an instant before the cats exploded from the gloom, grey and silver fur flickering as they charged, mouths gaping wide to reveal teeth the length of daggers.
4
Sollis only had time to half draw his bow, loosing the shaft at a range of less than a yard and sinking the broad steel-head into the cat’s mouth. Then it was on him, claws reaching up to clamp onto his shoulders as it sought to stab its elongated teeth into his neck. Sollis rolled with the force of the beast’s charge, letting his bow fall from his grip and kicking out with both legs. His boots slammed into the cat’s ribcage, propelling it away.
Sollis came to his feet in a crouch, drawing his sword from the scabbard on his back. The cat scrabbled on the ground a few yards away, rasping and shaking its head as it sought to dislodge the arrow jutting from its mouth. Sollis surged forward, bracing the hilt of his sword against his midriff to spear the cat in the chest, blade angled so it made easy passage through the ribcage. It let out a grating, gurgling yowl as the sword point found its heart. Sollis dragged the blade free and stepped away, sparing a moment to watch the cat thrash out its death agonies before whirling to check on his companions.
Another cat was already down, pierced in the chest by two arrows whilst the third was being kept at bay by the combined efforts of Red Ears and Oskin. The pair assailed the beast from two sides, causing it to whirl at each of them in turn, lashing out with its claws as blood leaked from the wounds Oskin’s sword left in its flanks. Behind him, Sollis heard the hard thrum of Smentil’s bowstri
ng. There was a rush of air and the dark shaft of an arrow appeared in the cat’s haunch, causing it to let out a grating, agonised yowl. Its hind quarters became suddenly limp, though it continued to hiss and slash at its assailants until Red Ears darted forward to clamp her jaws on the beast’s neck, biting hard. She shook the cat until it sagged into death, limbs twitching.
Sollis retrieved his bow, glancing over to see Smentil notching another arrow. Sister Elera was close behind, clutching the reins of their horses. There was a good deal of fear in her eyes but he detected none of the panicked twitching exhibited by one about to flee.
“Shouldn’t be here,” Oskin muttered, squinting as he cast his expert eye over each of the fallen cats. Now he had a clear view of them Sollis was impressed by their size, six feet from nose to tail with broad, sharp clawed paws. Then there were the teeth, curved ivory blades eight inches long. He had never seen the like, but Oskin’s knowledge of the wilds was far greater than his.
“What are they?” Sollis asked him.
“Snow-daggers,” Oskin said. “Least, that’s what the Eorhil word for them means in Realm tongue. Never seen one south of the coastal crags.”
“And yet here they are,” Sollis pointed out.
“Can’t rightly explain it, brother.” Oskin’s normally placid features darkened as he scanned the surrounding trees. “Don’t know what’s happening here, but it ain’t natural.” He moved to crouch at the side of the cat Sollis had killed, running a hand over its pelt. “Ribs are near poking through its skin. And the belly’s empty. I’d say this beast hasn’t had a meal in a good long while.”
“Wouldn’t that explain why they attacked us?” Elera asked.
“Snow-daggers are solitary beasts, sister,” Oskin replied. “Don’t hunt in packs, and they’re clever enough to avoid the scent of man, no matter how hungry they get.” He rose and nodded at Red Ears who was busy worrying at the gash she had torn in the other cat’s throat. “Looks like there’s no more close by, at least,” he said. “She wouldn’t be feeding otherwise.”