She looked down, avoiding the questions in his gentle brown eyes; but she did not walk away.
‘Medrian,’ he said, ‘you misunderstand the nature of love. Why should it have a limit of one friend, or five, or twenty? It is a blessing, something to be glad of, not to question. Yes, we are like this in Forluin. It’s not a philosophy; it’s just the way we are.’
She continued to gaze at nothing in particular, but her expression changed from harsh to merely cold and a little sad.
‘And this is the way I am,’ she said.
‘You seem to dislike yourself.’ He took her hand and tried to warm it in his own. ‘I don’t know why. There is nothing unlovable about you, but I’m sure there’s a real reason for your despair.’
‘Stop,’ she told him quietly. ‘I know you think you can help me, but… I cannot bear warmth. I can only live in the cold. Don’t trust me or confide in me… or give me love. I can’t return it. You may be most cruelly betrayed.’
In spite of her words – or because of them – he suddenly realised how strong his feelings for her were. Some strange, dark, indefinable quality about her had drawn him since he first met her, transforming his natural compassion for any creature in pain or sorrow into an affection that went far deeper than simple friendship. Yes, he loved her, but there was no point in telling her. The realisation was painful.
‘Medrian,’ he said, ‘don’t you have a home and family to return to when the Quest is over?’
‘Something to make me seem more human?’ she said, her face bleak. ‘Once… long ago… but there’s nothing left. Still, when choice is gone and the last journey is ahead, that has a kind of comfort of its own, doesn’t it?’
And she gave a smile so chilling that he almost recoiled from her. He thought of her sinister black horse, dying as she pulled a knife from her own unharmed throat. And he suddenly saw her as a fiend hurtling towards him across a void, all black, flapping shadows; a dual thing of sorrow and evil, an unwilling child of the Serpent.
At the same time, he wished he could hold her until all the coldness and sadness left her.
#
That night they mounted no watch, but all slept. The cloud cleared and two half-moons gleamed coldly down amid myriad points of light. Ashurek felt he could almost see the movement of inconceivably vast, distant powers as they ebbed and flowed about the universe, heartlessly dangling the three on puppet-strings.
‘For when we started upon this path to destroy the power, we instantly became its victims,’ he thought. ‘What if the Serpent.is not only a channel for evil, but for the life-force itself? Still, I care not if the world is destroyed… it must die.’
He knew more strongly than ever that reaching the Blue Plane H’tebhmella was their only chance of finding the means to complete the Quest. Tomorrow they must find a river, and sail for Forluin.
Before dawn they were awoken by the sound of Skord screaming. Ashurek leapt to his feet to see a silver figure standing before the cowering boy, casting a silver aura into the black forest. He felt anger rise in him.
‘Get you gone!’ Ashurek shrieked at the demon, and now he had his hands on the boy’s shoulders, pulling him to his feet. The demon gave Ashurek a strange, quizzical look and folded its arms.
Behind the figure, darkness flickered, a doorway to the Dark Regions. Something seemed to float through; a young woman, insubstantial as a phantom, with long dark gold hair. She stared at Ashurek, and he left Skord and made to run towards her.
But he found he could not move. The demon slowly turned to Silvren and placed its hands on her shoulders. Her face fell in dismay, and both figures began to elongate into two albescent shapes. They mingled into one monstrous ghost-form rising above the trees, while the air was torn by a black-and-blue wind that seemed filled with the chattering and droning of a million demons. Against this hellish commotion both screams and laughter were heard.
Then the shape was gone. The rift in the air’s fabric was healing. Ashurek uttered a cry of torment and looked wildly about him. ‘Curse them – damn them!’
Estarinel was bending over Skord, who had collapsed. Trembling and white-faced, the Forluinishman said, ‘I take it that was his demon, Siregh-Ma… I never dreamed they were so…’
‘Malevolent? Terrifying? Yes, and worse…’ Ashurek was untethering Vixata. ‘And they hold Silvren, for her courage to challenge M'gulfn's rule.’
The Forluinishman shuddered.
‘Come on,’ said Ashurek, ‘we’ll get no more rest in this place. Let’s be on our way.’
They stamped out and scattered the fire, and Estarinel lifted the witless Skord across Shaell’s saddle. Medrian quickly readied her own horse without comment. Then they rode on, Ashurek leading. He cantered recklessly through the trees, head down, teeth clenched to bite back the re-awakening of bitter misery.
They travelled for three days, cutting through the tree-flanked hills, heading north and east. They were searching for a path to the coast, or a river that opened into the Western Sea, so that they could find a ship and sail for Forluin. Avoiding roads, they saw no sign of habitation at first; but presently heard two horse-drawn carts passing each other on a pathway through the forest, and a cheery greeting called between the two. Later they saw a small band of horsemen in the distance. It seemed likely they would come upon a village or town soon.
Although they were wary of contact with unknown people, after what had happened at Skord’s farm and Beldaega-Hal, they had to find a safe place for the boy to stay. Since the last visit of Siregh-Ma, Skord had been growing weaker. He refused to eat or drink. His formerly healthy, rosy face was sallow with great, dark hollows round his eyes and he had a fever that would not abate. He hardly spoke or slept, but spent the hours staring witless out of fear-eaten eyes.
They could not abandon him to die, or to be taken by the demon. Abandoning subterfuge, they joined a well-worn road, hoping it would lead to a village.
The road cut through low pasture lands and curved around an outcrop of rock. As they rounded the curve, a neman jumped into their path, brandishing sword, axe, spear, and a shield emblazoned with a strange six-limbed symbol.
‘Halt,’ the creature cried. They reined in sharply, causing the horses to snort and stamp. The tall, bronze-skinned figure stared at them. Its eyes alighted on Ashurek and showed first fear, then curiosity, then surprise. ‘You are… alive?”
‘Yes,’ said Ashurek drily. ‘It appears so.’
‘And who are you all?’ demanded the neman.
‘Travellers,’ Ashurek answered curtly. ‘Travelling, as you can see.’
The neman gave an explosive laugh of disbelief. ‘You’re mad! You’ve no idea–? You’d better come with me.’ The neman beckoned with the axe.
‘Why should we go with you?’ asked Ashurek.
‘Because if you continue along this road, you will be massacred in the battle that’s raging less than a mile away. Either follow me or clear off back the way you came.’
Estarinel glanced at Ashurek, and said, ‘We have a very sick boy with us. He’ll die if he isn’t attended to.’
‘Contagious?’
‘No. He’s… injured.’
The neman looked at Skord and sighed.
‘In that case, I’ll take you to the village. Setrel will take care of you. I’m Benra. Your names?’
Estarinel told him, speaking softly and quickly in the hope that Benra would not overreact to the name Ashurek. He added cautiously, ‘And how should we address you?’
‘Just Benra. Nemen aren’t much for titles.”
‘I meant… How do you term yourselves? He, she, or something else? I don’t wish to cause offence.”
Benra gave him a long, cold stare. “Great gods, no one’s ever thought to ask me before. How courteous. We have our own terms, among ourselves. But to ordinary humans, “he” will suffice.’
With that brusque answer, the neman sheathed the sword and axe on his belt. His manner was matter-of-fact, not thre
atening, but they were unsure what ‘take care of you’ might mean. Exchanging looks, they began to follow him. Ashurek’s hand rested on his sword-hilt.
‘I can’t wait to tell everyone about this,’ Benra said as they walked. ‘No one travels into Excarith at the minute. Unbelievable!’
Excarith lay north of Belhadra. Ashurek said softly to Estarinel, ‘Then we’ve covered many miles indeed.’ To Benra he said, ‘Are you still fighting the Gorethrian army?’
‘Gorethria!’ The neman laughed. ‘D’you think I’d be so brave about meeting you if we were? Where have you been? They’re all pulling out of Tearn now – the Empire’s a complete mess. No offence meant, of course.’
‘None taken,’ Ashurek responded quietly.
‘Well, if you were a little further east you’d be massacred as soon as show your face... but I must say I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be happier to see a living Gorethrian than a dead one!’
‘And why should that be?’
‘You really don’t know, do you?’ the neman said curiously. ‘It’ll be hard work explaining what we’re at war with. Still, we may have a practical demonstration on the way down.’
‘You don’t sound particularly concerned about your war,’ Ashurek observed.
‘Why should I? This is my job, fighting other folks’ battles. I’m one of Sphraina’s merry outcasts. Born to a man and woman, like you, but…’ his voice faded on the last two words, ‘Unnatural. Unwanted.’
They took the left track of a fork in the road as it climbed a tree-cloaked hill. As soon as they entered the trees they noticed unearthly silence within the juniper-green depths of the forest. No birds were singing. The branches joined above the road to form a leafy roof that muffled the clop of horses’ hooves. Grass straggled down the centre of the flint track.
In the distance a horn sounded. The neman listened intently, as if divining some message, then placed a hand on his sword hilt. There was a faint noise in the trees above them.
A few minutes later, three more nemen, bearing swords and axes, loped up the road towards them at a long-legged run. They stopped and saluted their comrade.
‘Ho, Benra! We’re under attack on both sides of this ridge, about a mile on. Where are you going?’
‘I’m taking these four to Setrel,’ replied the neman.
‘How? The only way to the village is to cut straight through the battle unless you want to make a mad dash across the top of the ridge and straight through the marsh – or go down and jump the Boundary Wall,’ one of the nemen said scornfully.
‘I know – more fun than keeping watch on a miserable deserted road, eh?’
‘Who are they?’
‘That’s the question. Aside from their names, I don’t know and I don’t care. Setrel can sort it out. They’ve been co-operative so far,’ answered Benra.
The other three nemen were staring at Ashurek.
‘A live Gorethrian – co-operative? Wonders will never cease,’ one said. ‘Perhaps we’ll see you for a skin of wine later – if we survive.’ The bronze-skinned warriors strode down among the trees and were soon out of sight. The notes of a horn were heard, conveying messages back to the encampment. Presently the reply came, high and distant. Benra listened.
‘Well,’ said Ashurek, ‘I’m as eager to reach this village as you are. Which do you prefer–’ he addressed Medrian and Estarinel, ‘the wall or the marsh?’
‘Shaell can jump anything,’ said Estarinel, and Medrian shrugged.
‘The wall then,’ said Ashurek.
‘This way,’ Benra said, a smile touching his long and sombre features. He jumped a small ditch in the grass verge and started running through the trees where the hill sloped up to their left. The riders followed. Benra ran so fast that they had to canter to keep up.
The first part of the hill was steep and difficult, overgrown with rhododendrons with large, waxy green leaves and great white and mauve blossoms, with clumps of green-fronded bracken, and carpeted by a soft floor of trailing bushes, twigs, and fallen branches on rich, dark earth. The trees were widely-spaced, with tall rough trunks, arching branches, dark leaves.
The neman unsheathed all his weapons. He pushed swiftly through the undergrowth, strong and lithe as a mountain cat. The horses picked a way through, jumping fallen logs and pressing through tangles of undergrowth. As they climbed, the hill began to flatten, becoming easier.
Still no birds sang, but now and then came a horn cry, or faint voices raised in battle-cries.
‘The Boundary Wall,’ Benra was saying, ‘was built hundreds of years ago when this country was divided in two. The gateway through it is on the far side of this hill – unfortunately, right on the bare hillside where the battle is. As for the wall, it’s falling into ruin. You may get across if your horses are enchanted. It’s safer than the marsh.’
They crossed a large, grassy clearing and forged up through more trees. At last they pressed their way to the peak of the ridge, but the forest and undergrowth were too thick to allow any sight of the battle, or to hear anything but faint sounds. Two nemen warriors passed below them, running. More horn calls rang out. The riders began to descend, with masses of young leaves and twigs brushing their horses’ flanks.
‘They still have their own army in this country, don’t they?’ Ashurek asked.
‘Oh, indeed. They’re camped on the far side of the village. This is only a small battle, a preliminary raid,’ Benra answered.
Half-way down the hill, they heard a scuffling some way below and to their right. The ring of sword blows, the thud of blade dropping on shield.
They began to trot downhill. A scream split the air, then silence.
‘Oh no.’ Benra cursed, quickening pace. Soon they came to a thin muddy track that ran across their path through the forest. To the right, about a hundred yards on, the track branched in two. Here Benra halted, looking up and down both paths. They could see nothing unusual.
They were about to move on when a figure appeared, walking from the trees at the fork. ‘We’d better run. It may not notice us,’ said Benra. But the riders stared, fascinated.
A Gorethrian, Ashurek noticed with a jolt.
Its clothes, though, were tattered and muddy, and the figure walked with a leaden, unfaltering gait. As it drew closer, they saw in shock that its flesh – bared in many places – was covered with great gashes and weals that did not bleed and seemed to cause it no pain. It stared out of unseeing, unblinking eyes. Half the flesh of its face had rotted and fallen away.
‘By the Worm,’ gasped Ashurek, ‘if I didn’t see him walking I’d swear he was dead.’
‘It is dead,’ said Benra, preparing to fight. ‘That is our enemy.’
Ashurek seized Benra’s shoulder.
‘Who has done this – abused the corpses of my countrymen?’ he hissed.
‘Never mind – get back into the trees,’ Benra said, but Ashurek was spurring Vixata into a gallop towards the figure.
He had no great love left for his country, but the hideous necromancy that had been practiced upon the Gorethrian was to him the ultimate, appalling blasphemy. A tearing scream of horror and anguish issued from his mouth as he bore down upon the thing. And as he wielded his sword, the blade shone with a leaden light, as if instilled with the hell-driven rage of its bearer.
The creature swung a mighty sabre, but Ashurek dodged; then his own blade cleaved the air and the creature’s head was severed, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Vixata galloped on, a streak of dull gold, but as Ashurek pulled her around, he saw with horror that the corpse still walked.
Benra faced it as it advanced, and hacked off its sword arm. Ashurek approached again and with a series of violent blows to its legs and trunk, finally felled it. Estarinel and Medrian watched, frozen in horrified fascination.
‘This is our problem,’ said Benra. ‘You can’t just kill them. Each one must be hacked into pieces to stop it fighting. Always go for the arms, and legs too if you have a c
hance.’ On the ground, the mutilated corpse still jerked and writhed. Ashurek glared down at it, shaking, his eyes blazing with baleful green fire.
‘Whoever is responsible for this is going to die,’ he said quietly.
Chapter Fourteen. The Village Elder
They continued down through the trees. The bracken grew more prolific, the trees younger, until it seemed the woodland’s edge was not far ahead.
They heard rustling in the trees to their right. The neman blew three short blasts on his horn but no reply came.
‘Those aren’t our soldiers,’ the neman said.
Now they could hear two or three people running towards them.
‘Let me take the boy,’ Benra suggested to Estarinel, and cast Skord across his shoulder. ‘It’ll be easier for him and for you.’ As they cantered on, they caught a glimpse of three more living corpses, just to the front and side of them, lumbering through the trees with a swift mechanical gait. One limped, for it had a foot missing. Another’s arm was hanging off. Two were Gorethrian, but the third was a dead nemale warrior.
Ashurek and his companions sent their horses into a gallop. The warrior-corpses burst from the trees in front of them. The horses swerved and darted past their swinging blades unscathed, and flew on downhill, while the dead soldiers sped after them like automatons.
They ran unnaturally fast, as fast as Vixata could gallop. Ashurek found one gaining on him; he swung his shield with a thud into its face, sending it off balance, and spurred Vixata on. Galloping hard, she began to outpace them.
A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1) Page 27