So with their dependants and wounded on their backs, they forced their tired limbs into a renewed climb through roots and thorns. A wave of Shee melted into the trees to become the outer ring of defense. Alan climbed in company with Kate and Qwenqwo. Progress was labored. The children did not understand what was happening, and in their exhaustion they cried out repeatedly to their struggling parents.
Waiting for the last of the stragglers to clear the top of the slope, the party paused only to account for all before driving on again.
They gasped for breath at every stride, shaking with weariness. But as they arrived at first one proud head and then another, they took direction and were encouraged where earlier they had been frightened. Increasingly, it was Alan now who forced the pace, his fingernails clawing at the slope, his feet kicking into the mud when he found himself sliding back down embankments. The dark was oppressive. Still, an iron will in Alan’s heart pushed him on. He needed no reminding of why he had come here. He remembered his mother and father and what had happened to them. He was going to find the guy, or guys, who had murdered them. And when he did find them . . .
That was what drove him on. Drawing on his need for vengeance, he ignored the moans of pain and frustration, the gasping breaths that rose from hanging jaws to form clouds in the torchlight.
On and on they persevered, each pace a further achievement through a gloom so oppressive they might have been threading their way through the depths of a cave. Torches were lit to illuminate their way between twisted trunks that seemed more like the merging of stalagmites and stalactites, so ancient they had fused into dense pillars that supported the roof of foliage.
At last, with dawn’s first glimmerings invading the sky, and when few seemed able to take another step, they reached a third barrier, its footings cut into the very bedrock, and its lichen-encrusted boulders rising sheer to a battlemented summit fifty feet above their heads. With eyes hollowed with weariness, Alan lifted his gaze to the summit and beyond, where, even higher than the inner barrier, he could make out the ruined walls and towers of a great city. They had reached Ossierel.
Ramming the butt of the Spear of Lug into the ground, he probed the city with his oraculum. There was no doubt about it: he knew, absolutely and overwhelmingly, that the calling had come from here. A sudden wave of anger rose in him. He felt it close dangerously around the oraculum. But then Kate was beside him, grasping his arm, calming him.
“Look into the sky!”
When he looked overhead, the sky had filled with thunderheads, and lightning crackled between them.
“It’s you—it was you, back there, at the ice-bound lake!”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“Oh, Alan, it’s your oraculum. Be careful: you don’t understand how powerful you’ve become.”
He shook his head, shut his eyes tightly. “It’s here—the calling came from this place.”
She kissed the back of his hand. “Yes. I feel it too.”
He hugged her to him. “Oh, Kate, I don’t know who the hell has called us here, or why, but maybe—just maybe in this crazy world—we might find out what really happened to our parents!”
Ossierel
Straggling in a long, disordered column through a ruined arch in the inner barrier, the company climbed a steep ramp onto cobbled streets. Everywhere their eyes fell on delicate masonry, a tracery of ornate carving and shapes designed to rest the senses and delight the eye. Mullioned windows of stone gazed out from even the humblest building. No street or alley ran in straight lines, but followed curves and spirals to beguile the senses, as if love of nature had married the art of the mason with ornamental trees, now dead or overgrown, decorating every street. On and on, their tired gazes took in the beauty that had been Ossierel, its meandering streams and sculpted bridges, its fountains. There was a poet’s eye in the curve and flow of form, the joy of permanent springtime in the weave of nature and architecture, the music of running water, cascades and fountains, the soul of a great spiritual capital framed on every twist and turn by the staggering views over the forests and blue distances of the Vale of Tazan.
Even in its ruined state it was breathtaking.
The Shee called a halt while they probed for any signs of an ambush in the dark caverns between broken walls. But they found none, only desolation. Street by street, and ruin by ruin, they searched for safety and shelter until, in roughly the center of the city, they entered a plaza in front of a building large enough and sufficiently preserved to accommodate the injured. Alan was amazed by the deep-carved entrance, flanked by the inwardly sloping jambs and surmounted by a great triangular lintel. Inside, the great chamber was so generous it must have been some kind of meeting place. Outside the entrance, to the west and east, paved roads led to walled gardens and courtyards.
The Shee wasted no time making a careful inspection of the damaged defenses. Alan left them mapping out the breaches; meanwhile he needed to assess the situation with the Olhyiu. Siam joined him, leaving Kehloke to organize the nursing of the exhausted and injured now scattered about the great hall.
“You have succeeded, Mage Lord, where none believed it possible.” Siam’s voice was a ragged whisper. As he walked now by Alan’s side, it was with the stagger of a man making the best of exhausted muscles and blistered feet. They halted next to one of the small fires that had been lit within the chamber. Alan nodded in sympathy with the chief, whose dark eyes reflected the orange glow of the fire. His own voice was little above a whisper. “Siam, I know how many of your people have died.”
“I fear more will follow.”
The Kyra, arriving to discuss the situation with Siam, interrupted their conversation. “The Death Legion will not attack today. Unlike the Legun, they are ordinary flesh and blood. They will have to endure the same journey through dense forest to get here, hauling malengins of war. Yet we should be wary of smaller groups—sporadic attacks designed to harry our positions while testing our resolve and strength of numbers.”
Siam grunted, his calloused fingers twisting the crumpled hat he had preserved through attack and adversity. “We need rest first and foremost. Then if die we must, let us die bravely in the dignity of these hallowed ruins.”
Alan clapped his hand on the chief’s tensed shoulder before he allowed Ainé to lead him away to speak with him in private. The Kyra had shown little emotion before, but now, looking up into her eyes, he couldn’t mistake the gleam of desperation he saw there.
She spoke bluntly. “Even a day’s rest will not refresh these exhausted limbs and demoralized spirits. And there is little food left.”
“I know.” Alan’s eyes swept over the huddled masses of frightened and demoralized people. “I need to talk to Milish.”
They found the Ambassador, her hair awry, kneeling before a wounded mother. Milish’s sleeves were rolled up, and her hands and forearms were stained with blood. Alan could see that the wounded Olhyiu was on the point of death. Her husband must have carried her all the way up the mountain.
“We have run out of healwell,” Milish whispered.
They drew the Ambassador away from the scene of anguish. Walking out into the plaza, where the fitter of the Olhyiu were settling, they watched the tired hands spreading their impoverished bundles around the fires. Others among the exhausted had fallen into stupors, with ice crystals condensing on their cooling flesh. How many, Alan wondered, would wake up again? Even as he gazed down on them, there was an explosion in the forest. He followed the sound to a pillar of fire, closer to the river, perhaps three or four miles downslope.
Ainé spoke softly. “The Legun taunts us by destroying stone heads.”
Milish tugged at Alan’s arm, drawing him to one side so she could confront him eye-to-eye, as if weighing what he must be thinking. “Do not despair. Consider what has been achieved.”
“I’m not sure it counts for much.” He sighed. “We are facing attack—and we’re never going to be ready for it.”
A squa
ll of wind rattled the needles of some nearby trees. “I think the time has come for you and me to be a little more open with each other.” He hesitated before continuing. “I’ve talked to Qwenqwo. I know about the Fáil, Milish—the fact that it is believed to hold all the answers.”
“You must stop such discussion!” Fear caused Milish’s pupils to grow, as if devouring her speckled brown irises.
“I can’t stop asking these questions. I need to know. And you’ve got to be honest with me.”
Milish was swaying on her feet with exhaustion. Alan reached out and supported her before she fainted. Yet still she shook her head at him, her exhausted eyes firmly shut.
“Why won’t you answer my questions?”
“I cannot. There are dangers more perilous even than Leguns.”
Abruptly there was another explosion; another head destroyed.
Alan stared sightlessly into the distance. Then, suddenly, from the nearby forest came the clash of battle. It had to involve the Shee guarding the perimeter. He hurried back to join those sheltering in the great hall. Siam was alarmed by what was happening close to the sanctuary. “Arouse yourselves, warriors of the Tilikum Olhyiu!” Siam did his best to sound confident, but he was unable to hide the hoarseness in his voice as he staggered among his people, attempting to inspire them to a final effort. “Let a proud people make a valiant stand!”
Alan hefted the Spear of Lug. From outside, in the plaza, he heard Ainé’s shout of command. The Kyra too was injecting her determined leadership into what could only be a hopeless battle. And then, plaintively, he heard the brave chant of the Shee. But the chanting of so few voices was drowned by the explosion of legionary weaponry.
Maybe the main army of Death Legion was still struggling with the ascent of the steep slopes, but a considerable advance guard must have arrived at the barrier. The sky nearby grew ominous with the flickering green fire. Alan’s ears pricked in the direction of the nearby conflict. Surely it wouldn’t take long for the small guard of Shee to be overwhelmed. Then he heard the Shee battle hymn begin again, louder, more powerfully—so powerfully . . . Siam tore past him, his blistered feet forgotten, running out into the plaza. Alan blinked repeatedly. No—it was mere wishful thinking that had entered his mind! All the same, through the weariness in his limbs he ran after Siam.
“By the Powers! Mage Lord—see who comes!” It was Siam’s voice, laughing like a crazy man, throwing his hat into the air.
Alan saw the gangling figure of Turkeya making his way through the tide of human bodies on the plaza. Suddenly, Turkeya was running toward his father. Siam’s hair was standing up wildly on his head, and his side-whiskers stood erect like outstretched bird’s wings as father and son embraced.
And then the glinting of silver on the cape brooches was the first Alan saw of the new arrivals. An army of Shee flowed into the plaza in a chanting wave. They expanded out to fill the space, eyes darting about warily as if searching for evidence of a trap. Their battle song overwhelmed that of Ainé and the small gathering of her companions. From the weary Olhyiu a great cheer broke the air, as bruised arms thrust their weapons aloft.
A wizened newcomer—she could have been Layheas’s twin—pressed a flask of healwell into Alan’s hand as he gazed about himself in amazement. He felt diminished by the stature of so many gigantic women. There appeared to be as many as two hundred of them already within the square, their great capes twisting and turning: an army of new faces, many bruised and bloodied from conflict, with different colors of braided hair, different armor and uniforms, and everywhere the flash of weaponry at the ready.
Alan found himself facing a remarkable woman whose skin was as magnificently black and fine-haired as that of a jaguar. Though she moved with the same stealth and grace as the other Shee, she was not quite as tall and she looked older. Her long hair, braided over her left shoulder, was threaded with white.
“I am Bétaald,” she said, in a clear, deep alto. “And you are Duval! The Mage Lord who bears the Oraculum of the First Power of the most holy and sacred Trídédana. I am honored to meet you!”
Between Bétaald and Ainé he sensed a wordless communication.
Bétaald bowed. “It is the very air of legend I breathe.”
Alan could only gaze into her eyes, the orange yellow of sunflowers, with astonishment. More and more Shee were arriving by the moment. Already they greatly outnumbered the Olhyiu.
Milish rescued him from his confusion, arriving at his side to take his arm. As he struggled to comprehend all that was happening, Bétaald held a hand to the air as if to demand quiet, and Alan realized that the sounds of battle had ceased. An ominous silence pervaded the encircling forest.
“Fortunately we encountered only a scouting party of Death Legion. But they bore new weaponry, which may carry their foul discharge over greater distances—and Gargs in such numbers as have not been seen outside of the Wastelands. I fear that there is a great force of them at large in the forest—tens of thousands—and still more legionaries are arriving from Isscan by the river.”
Alan’s heart sank with this news even as he took a welcome sip of the healwell. His gaze returned to Bétaald, noticing that Ainé treated the dark-skinned newcomer with respect. Bétaald herself carried no weaponry. He assumed that she was their spiritual leader.
Her return of his gaze was frankly assessing. “We must conclude that this is the spearhead of the invasion we have long anticipated, a first step in their strategy to take Carfon.”
“Then,” declared an exhausted Olhyiu elder, “all is surely lost!”
“Not so!” growled the voice of Qwenqwo Cuatzel, who had appeared from the hall, with Kate, Mo, and Mark in tow. “Not while the Vale of Tazan still holds them back. You might ask yourself why they move with such patience, destroying heads with the energy they might otherwise devote to city walls.”
Bétaald lifted her eyelids at the intrusion of the Mage of Dreams. She gazed at Qwenqwo with interest. “Perhaps you are right, Fir Bolg—it may be that in such a vortex of ancient forces their malengins do not function well.”
Alan joined Kate and the others and headed back to the circles of fires, where supplies of food and drink, and much-needed flasks of healwell, were being distributed among the Olhyiu. While Siam needed no more than the safe return of Turkeya to bolster his spirit, Aides were busy treating the wounded. Like Layheas, these were a curious-looking people, wiry and tough in build, with dry, almost leathery skin. The newly arriving Aides had come decorated for war with broad lines of ochre, red and blue painted on their cheeks. Alan knew from conversations with Milish during the journey that they included metal-smiths, weapon makers and architects among them. In fact, the more he saw of them, the more he understood how essential they were as partners to the Shee.
Kate grabbed his arm and led him away from the bustle of the plaza to stare at the silhouette of the eagle, observing it in the process of alighting on the formidable crag that reared up through the morning mists to the north, dominating the ancient city.
“Do you see the staircase?”
Alan’s gaze picked out the winding steps hacked out of the stone that led to the summit, where, soaring above the wheeling clouds, he saw the black fist of a pentagonal tower with its ancient roof remarkably intact. From one high corner protruded a single stellate window. The window appeared to be glazed, judging from its twinkling reflection of the mid-morning sunlight.
Beside him Kate shivered. A prickle of fear also invaded Alan as his gaze lifted beyond the lofty tower to the very pinnacle of the crag, immediately above it, where he now realized that Qwenqwo’s eagle had alighted—atop the very statue of the Dark Queen, Nantosueta.
“Such omens does it conjure up within one’s mind!”
Alan and Kate turned to welcome Qwenqwo, who joined them in staring up at the statue on the pinnacle.
For Alan it felt as if many pieces of the mysterious jigsaw were coming together here, in this ancient capital, where the High Archi
tect, Ussha De Danaan, had met her death, and where two thousand years earlier Nantosueta had plotted and warred. In answer to the look in Kate’s eyes, Alan squeezed her hand. He spoke quietly. “Qwenqwo, I know how crazy this might sound. But this place, with all of its terrible history, has put an idea into my head. Is it possible that Ossierel holds memories—memories that could be recovered, like . . . well, like dreams?”
A frown invaded Qwenqwo’s features, still staring skyward.
But Alan persisted, “I think you know what I want you to do for me. I want you, the true Mage of Dreams, to see if you can recover those memories.”
The dwarf mage flinched, his right hand rubbing at his broken arm through the sling.
“I wouldn’t ask it of you if I could see any alternative.”
The dwarf mage looked directly into Alan’s eyes, making no attempt to hide his disquiet. “I have anticipated such a request. Yet so fearful am I of its implications, I beg you to reconsider.”
Alan felt Kate’s hand tighten on his.
A Heart of Iron
“It’s a lot bigger than I thought—it’ll be even harder to defend,” Mark remarked to Kate and Mo as they gazed out from the vantage of a roof terrace over the ruins that extended over several acres of the plateau. They were leaning over a corner that came close to the third barrier and from here they could enjoy a panoramic view of the river as it meandered through the valley. How glorious—and deceptively peaceful—it looked!
The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) Page 41