To the Wythwood, they replied, and all spurred southward along the Gleen. While behind, high upon the wall of the hollow, in the dancing light of the morning sun reflected from the river, the painted gaze of a grinning fox drawn in ancient times seemed to shift and follow their progress as they swiftly rode away.
Downstream the Gleen widened and they forded its waters, swimming as they reached the deepest part, and two days later in the lengthening shadows of eventide they came to an ancient stone ruin—Kitter’s Tower—named after a lady besieged rather than after the wizard who built it. Behind and rearing upward stood the mass of a jagged mountain—Galamor’s Crag—its snow-covered crest glowing red in the dying sunlight.
As Ky and Kane and Arton pitched camp, Lyssa and Arik and Rith rode the angle of the slope behind, faring up the mount’s stony foot. Some distance away from the ruins, at the base of a small rounded hillock, Lyssa reined to a halt and dismounted. “Wait here,” she said, giving over her reins to Arik. “I will see what I can discover.” And while Rith and Arik stood ward, Lyssa clambered to the crest of the mound.
She sat down cross-legged facing the mountain and took a deep breath or two. Then muttering arcane words she closed her eyes and stopped breathing altogether, her ranger’s inner eye seeking, seeing . . . animal trails—deer, wolf, and bear—and one ancient line faintly glowing, wending upward into the range.
“It’s a trail, all right, and one I think which crosses over, but I cannot be certain, for it is enspelled, warded in a fashion where I cannot see to the end.”
“Magically marked, you say?” Arton spooned beans into Lyssa’s mess kit, adding a flat of hardtack.
Lyssa took the proffered meal. “Yes. It is wizard’s work, of that I am convinced.”
“Probably the wizard who built the tower,” said Rith.
Arik scooped up beans with a piece of hardtack. “Warded or not, is it safe?”
Lyssa shrugged. “If there were ambushers along the trail, that I could discover. But as to magical things, well, I only sense that they are there, but I cannot divine their nature.”
Kane turned to Rith. “What do the legends say?”
“Virtually nothing,” answered the bard. “Only that the way was fraught with hazard. Of course, that could have been because of natural obstacles . . . or pursuit by demonkind . . . or peril of a magical sort. The saga does tell of precipitous trails, but that’s all.”
“Perhaps that’s all the hazard that there is,” suggested Ky, “narrow paths along sheer drops.”
Kane groaned and then brightened. “Ah, you know how these sagas are—everything blown up to heroic proportions. By the seven hells, let an old champion swat even a bug and before long ’twas a dragon he slew.” Grinning, the warrior healer shoveled another mouthful of beans into his mouth.
Arik looked ’round the campfire. “What say you, Foxes? How shall we fare? South through Vilmar Pass? Back north and through the Gapton notch? Or here across Galamor’s Crag?”
Hastily, Kane swallowed. “Perdition take the other two, I say we cross right here.”
The next day dawned to a chill mist swirling at the foot of the Rawlon Range. Quickly the Foxes broke camp, eager to be gone. And shortly—Lyssa in the lead, Arton in the rear, the others scattered between—they wended upward on the slopes of Galamor’s Crag, along a trail visible only to the ranger’s eyes.
As they ascended the great stony flank the sky darkened with gathering clouds, and a cold wind blew the vapor scudding among the crests of the range. The Foxes drew their cloaks close about them, the grey-green side showing, blending with the verdigris-hued stone.
Higher and higher the trail took them, up toward the distant snow, the way now twisting within a labyrinth of tall, stony crags, now faring along steep precipices, sheer drops plummeting down.
“Dretch,” rumbled Kane, peering out of the corner of his eye at the abyssal rift following along to their right, “but how I do hate heights.”
“They’re not as bad as those close walls back among the crags,” replied Lyssa. “Plague take those monstrous looming stones ready to crush the unwary traveler.”
Kane took a deep breath and averted his face from the precipice on the right, his gaze now seeking solace in the solidity of the vertical stone bluff rising to the left. “Given a choice, I’d rather something fall on me than I fall on it.”
“Given a choice,” called Arton from the rear, “I’d rather neither happened.”
Around a sharp turn the trail once again entered a maze of huge monoliths. Now Lyssa concentrated on the trail, attempting to ignore the colossal blocks jagging upward all ’round.
Up and up they went toward the high, white crest, the Foxes now riding, now walking to spare the horses, now resting to spare them both. And the sky grew black with clouds. In the distance lightning stroked down among the peaks and rain began to fall. The trail Lyssa followed grew treacherous with running water, the rock slick in the assault. Lyssa found an overhang and led them under. “Here we’ll hold awhile, until the water has washed the way clean. Then we’ll resume.”
As they waited they fed the horses and mules a portion of grain and took a meal of their own. Lightning whelmed down among the crags, thunder booming after, and windblown rain hammered into the stone. With each flare Arton flinched and pressed back against the wall.
“Think you this tempest is part of the warding of the way?” asked Arik.
“If it is,” replied Rith, “then whoever set the spell was powerful indeed, for control of storms is a great feat.”
Kane took a bite of waybread then said ’round the mouthful, “Bah. I think we just chose an ill time to cross.”
Lyssa took off a glove and stepped to the trail, where she squatted and ran her hand ’cross the stone, rubbing thumb to fingers. Standing, she turned and made her way back. “When the animals finish their grain, we can move on. The trail is now washed clean.”
And onward they went, shivering in the wetness, wind and rain and lightning and thunder shaking the dark day with fury. Up they climbed and up, through crags, along precipices, massifs rearing, canyons plunging, and water running over all. Now the rain turned to sleet, and the way was slick beyond measure. Even so, still they pressed on, for they could not camp in such, and they forbore turning back. Higher still the trail took them, and as they came to the snow line the sleet turned to swirling white flakes. But still the lightning and thunder hammered at them, and the wind howled all ’round.
In the driven white, they reached the apex of their climb. But here Lyssa stopped, for before her an abyss plunged down beyond seeing, the chasm bridged by a slender span of stone. And barely glimpsed in the hurtling snow, on the far side enclosing the trail stood a great freestanding archway with mighty runes of power carved thereupon. Lyssa dismounted, as did they all. She handed the reins of her horse to Kane and then stepped to the abyss while wind-driven snow slammed into them and lightning stroked down and thunder hammered after. Left she looked, then right, but no other way was seen to cross over this great cleft. She went to one knee at the beginning of the windswept span and took a deep breath then closed her eyes. And while she knelt in the snow, Rith came and stood behind her and looked long at the archway beyond. Finally Lyssa opened her eyes and stood, and together they stepped back to the others.
“The archway,” said Rith, “I think it’s responsible for the storm, for the runes are written in an ancient tongue and speak of tempests and trespassers . . . powerful magic, indeed.”
All eyes turned to Lyssa. “This is the way,” she said. “The trail goes across. More than that I cannot tell, for the arch blocks all beyond.”
“We could turn back,” said Ky, peering up at Kane.
The big man glanced at the slender stone span and the endless drop below, then swiftly looked away. But he said nothing.
Arik removed a glove and wetted a finger and held it up in the wind. As he slid his glove back on, he eyed the bridge and shook his head and turned
to Rith. “As the saga said, and I would agree, the way is sinister indeed.”
The black bard shrugged. “We’ve come this far.”
Arik looked at the others. One by one they nodded, all but Kane whose face was stark and rigid.
“On foot or ahorse?” asked Ky.
“Oh lord,” hissed Kane, “on horse. Else I’ll never get across.”
“Kane is right,” said Arik. “Horses take height in stride.”
“Too, they’re less likely to be blown off,” added Arton, flinching as lightning flared overhead.
Kane rolled his eyes and groaned.
“All right, then,” said Arik. “Onward it is. Cross one at a time.”
Lyssa took the reins of her horse from Kane and mounted. Without a word she lightly touched her heels to the steed’s flanks, and out onto the narrow span they went, the stone swept clean by the wind, the drop below terrifying. Arik gritted his teeth and sucked in air as Lyssa’s mount stepped onto the bridge. Foxes watched with knuckles gone white in their gloves, and Kane refused to look altogether, turning his face aside. Slowly the horse trod along the narrow way, the wind buffeting rider and steed alike, as if to hurl them into the appalling depths below. Lightning stroked and thunder rolled and snow hurtled whitely, yet onward went mount and rider on the slim stone span . . . to finally reach the other side.
The moment Lyssa’s horse gained safety, Arik exhaled the breath he did not know he had been holding. Shakily he turned to the next in line. “Your turn, Kane.”
Kane took a deep breath and let it out with a groan. He turned to his horse to mount up, but couldn’t seem to find his stirrup. Ky stepped forward. “I’ll take the mule with me when I cross.” With trembling hands, the big man gave over the pack animal’s tether.
Rith closed her eyes and concentrated a moment, then she began to sing a soft melody, and even though the wind blew, her voice reached Kane clearly. He took another breath and let it out, then mounted his horse. Onto the span he rode, wind and snow and lightning and thunder blowing and pelting and flashing and whelming, yet Rith’s song murmured in his ears. Across he went, his horse finding its own way, for Kane’s eyes were shut tightly.
Next to cross was Arton, mule trailing after, the thief crouching down in his saddle away from the flashing storm. Then came Arik with another mule, Rith coming after. Last to cross was Ky, Kane’s mule following, the syldari leaning precariously from her horse to see down into the depths below.
On the opposite side just beyond the arch was a small, wall-cupped flat, some seventy feet wide and perhaps thirty feet deep. It fetched up against the concave arc of a vertical bluff rising upward a hundred feet or so, and five ways led onward: first was a narrow trail along the abyss to the right, the way disappearing ’round a corner; second came a large arched hole boring into the face of the cliff, a level path leading into darkness; next was a narrow cleft straight ahead, its walls rising up to the top of the bluff, the way no more than six feet wide and sloping slightly downward; fourth was another notch, this one perhaps twelve feet wide and twisting upward past a bend and out of sight; and last on the left stood a narrow jagged hole, the rock face all ’round raddled with cracks, the entrance low and dark, the path pitching downward steeply, and from within could be heard the howl of the wind, or so it seemed.
Arik looked at Lyssa. “Which way?”
The ranger shook her head. “I don’t know. The power of the arch blocks all my attempts.”
“Anyone have any ideas?” asked Arik, turning to the others.
“Holes and notches!” declared Kane. “Let’s just pick one and go; let us get off this cliff face before I go mad.” He looked at the trail along the abyss at the far right. “Not that one, please.”
Lyssa cleared her throat. “If it’s preferences we’re stating, then I say to forego the holes . . . especially the one on the left.”
Arton looked at the notches. “Well then, of the two ways remaining, I’d rather go down away from the storm than up into it.”
Arik turned to Rith. “What says the saga here?”
Rith shrugged. “Nothing. Not one blasted thing. The true way is probably minutely described in the accursed lost stanzas.”
Arik sighed. “Well, if no one has anything to add, then one way seems as good as another. I suppose we can follow Arton’s desire. The narrow notch downward, eh?”
Lyssa looked at the cleft ill at ease, knowing once they entered that cramped slot they would be confined like bugs in a trap and at the mercy of whatever might await them within.
20
Interesting Times
(Coburn Facility)
The medtech turned to Doctor Ramanni. “Adrenaline, heart rate, blood pressure, respiration, kinesthetic tension: all are up for the whole alpha team, especially Caine Easley’s . . . he’s really terrified. Of course they’re all tense, apprehensive that is, er, all but Miss Kikiro—she’s just excited.”
Alya Ramanni looked at the monitors. “Any of them critical?”
The medtech shook his head. “Not yet.”
Alya walked around the central holo. In the blizzard Kane was unsuccessfully trying to mount his horse to cross over a slender stone span above a yawning abyss. “No wonder he’s scared. I would be, too.”
“It’s an old rule of writing,” called out Timothy Rendell.
“It is?” Alya turned to the computer scientist. “What?”
Timothy grinned. “Never make it easy on your hero.”
Alya returned to her console. “Well, Avery certainly isn’t doing that. Kali! but they’ve not had an easy time at all—bloody slaughter, an enigma hidden in silver, a desperate warning, a demon in disguise, savage monsters loosed from stone, brutal murder, and now an arduous climb up a slippery mountain in a raging storm only to discover a perilous crossing.”
“But isn’t it exciting?” responded Timothy. “I mean, without those difficult and interesting challenges it would be dull, dull, dull.”
John Greyson laughed. “I am put in mind of an old curse.”
Timothy raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”
“Just this,” replied Greyson, “when you think about it, our literature, history, holovids, games, other medium—including our virtual realities—are filled with mysteries, puzzles, chases, struggles, murder, violence, combat, war, disease, plague, flood, famine, disasters, catastrophes, and the like. All are challenging, especially those which are desperate struggles filled with strong emotions—jealousy, rage, hate, love, revenge, terror, horror. Those are the things of compelling interest, the things that writers of fiction or reality feel driven to record, and readers driven to read. The same is true no matter which medium we examine—no matter whether it’s fiction or fact, those things which are held to be the most compelling, the most riveting, are terrible to those who experience them.
“Hence, if it is your desire to bring woe and calamity down on someone’s head, you simply invoke the ancient Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times.”
As Timothy laughed, Alya pointed at the holo, where Ky gawked down into the storm-shrouded abyss as she nonchalantly rode across. “Well, they are certainly living in interesting times.”
In the holo, the Foxes peered at five separate routes lying before them: two holes, two notches, and a narrow path along the abyss.
Alya sighed. “What’s next, I wonder?”
Timothy shrugged. “Let’s ask Avery.” He leaned forward and keyed his microphone. “Avery?”
“Yes, Doctor Rendell.”
“What is it we observe?”
Avery’s swirl spun slightly faster. “Here the Black Foxes must make a choice as to which path to take.” Avery fell silent.
Timothy glanced at Alya and shook his head then turned back to the mike. “And . . . ?”
Avery remained silent.
Alya keyed her own mike. “Avery, what is so special about these five ways?”
“Two are dead ends, two are traps, and one leads dow
n the mountain, Doctor Ramanni,” answered Avery.
Now Greyson keyed into the conversation. “These traps—are they dangerous?”
“They are both fatal, Doctor Greyson.”
“Lord, lord,” replied Greyson, “you mean that they have but one chance in five of picking the correct way—?”
“And two in five of being killed?” interjected Alya.
Before Avery could reply, Timothy amended the odds: “Actually, Alya, if two are dead ends, then that leaves three, um, meaningful choices. So, the odds are two in three of being killed and one in three of gaining safety.”
Alya’s eyes widened. “That’s even worse. The odds of being killed go up from forty percent to sixty percent.”
“If you look at it that way, Doctor Ramanni,” said Avery, “then the odds of choosing the correct way also increase—from twenty percent to thirty-three and a third.”
“Aren’t you being rather unfair, Avery?” asked Greyson.
“I don’t think so, Doctor Greyson,” replied Avery. “You see, my programs dictate that I give the Black Foxes all the information necessary to make the correct choice.”
“And have you done so?”
“Yes, Doctor Greyson.”
“But what if they make the wrong choice?” asked Alya.
Avery said nothing.
The three keyed off their mikes and watched as the Foxes took the central path: the narrow notch. Timothy rekeyed his mike. “Did they choose correctly, Avery?”
Avery’s swirl reappeared on Timothy’s holo. “They have chosen one of the fatal paths, Doctor Rendell.”
21
Silver Road
(Itheria)
Into the confining strait rode the Black Foxes, Lyssa leading, Arton trailing. Out of the wind at last, they proceeded in relative quiet, snow sifting down from high overhead to lie in the narrow slot and muffle the sound of the animals’ hooves. Gently the path curved downward, gradually arcing more steeply. The walls of the cleft became smooth, as if well worked by adze. Rith peered at this crafting, glancing from the left wall to the right. Of a sudden her eyes widened and she cried, “Wait! This is a trap!”
Shadowtrap: A Black Foxes Adventure Page 18