by Clare Smith
Coberin had served King Duro, but had betrayed him to his brother. He’d had a wife, his mother, but he didn’t know anything about her, and he had died violently at the hands of Tallison. It was Tallison’s fault that he had no past and no father to guide his magic, and it was Tallison’s fault that his magic was buried so deeply that he might never be able to touch it. He looked up as Tissian came to stand in front of him, a look of concern on his face. Whether it was for himself or him he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter, his mind was made up; he knew what it was he had to do.
“We leave for Sandstrone in the morning.”
*
Perhaps coming through the Crosslands Gap had been a mistake. They had heard men talk about it when they had stopped at the inn high on its hillside on the other side of the Blue River and had thought that people exaggerated. They were wrong; the place was as nasty and as treacherous as people had said it would be. It was caused by a freak of nature allowing the river to become wide and shallow. Whilst it was bound on the Tarbis side by high banks of clay there was only shale on the Sandstrone side resulting in there being no boundary between the river and the land. The Blue River spread and soaked into the ground forming a huge bog interspersed with sheer-sided stone islands big enough to take a horse but not an easy place to make an overnight camp.
The other thing which made Crosslands Gap such an unpleasant place was the tall cliffs which formed the outer rim of the Stone Hills. Constantly and without respite, apart from a few hours of darkness, the sun blazed from a deep blue sky burning the rocks and radiating heat out across the marsh like a baker’s oven with the door open. Water, red with acid, ran from fissures in the rock adding to the river water, so that instead of the Stone Hills offering a distant refuge, the land at their base was a swamp of stinking pools and sucking quicksand. Above all of that flew the insects, some as big as sky flyers but most of them no bigger than tiny flecks, which made their way into eyes and ears and nose and between clothing to suck blood.
Some enterprising person had marked a safe passage across the gap using long, brightly coloured poles which were supposedly sunk into the bedrock beneath the sucking mud. They had been warned though that the poles had been known to move depending on the flow of water from the Blue River or the Stone Hills or both. There was also a rumour that the savages who inhabited the deserts of Sandstrone came down the cliffs at night to move the poles around. They then sat on the high cliffs above and laughed as travellers disappeared into hidden gullies of deep water or were sucked down into the quicksand. Other rumours said that the savages moved the poles, so that travellers would leave the gap through narrow canyons in the Stone Hills where they would wait in ambush, taking their captives alive for sacrifice to their evil god, Talis.
Jonderill and Tissian had ignored the two pieces of advice which the innkeeper had given them; firstly, not to cross the gap into Sandstrone and secondly, not to go into Sandstone at all, which was full of bloody savages. They were now regretting not taking at least the first piece of advice. It had taken them two days and a night to cross the gap, during which the only rest they had been able to take were a few minutes standing on one of the stone islands which was just big enough to take their two horses, if neither of them moved. All the time they travelled within touching distance of each other, Jonderill’s magic kept the insects at bay, but once they separated by more than an arm’s length, Tissian and his horse became the focus for every insect in the swamp.
It had taken them longer to get across the swamp than they had anticipated. This was partly due to Tissian’s horse pulling a hamstring climbing onto one of the stone islands and partly because they were certain that the poles had moved during the dark hours they had spent crossing the gap. They could, of course, have been turned around in the night despite Tissian guiding them by the stars, but when the sun rose again like a fiery ball, the poles were further south than they remembered. For the rest of the day they had kept watch for laughing nomads sitting on cliff tops, but the only life they had seen were two giant raptors gliding over the distant hills and swarms of biting insects.
Now they were camped in a small gully with cliffs towering up on either side and a track leading east into the direction of the open desert. It wasn’t an ideal location, but they had been too tired to go on and find somewhere better. At least there was a small spring with drinkable water flowing from it, and some shelter from the cold night winds. It had been their intention to enter the Stone Hills further north and skirt along the edge of the desert until a firm plan of how they were going to achieve their objective came to them. Instead the land was leading them east and so far, they had found no way to change direction.
It was still dark when Tissian shook Jonderill lightly on the shoulder, his form barely discernible against the shadowy rocks. In the darkness he could hear the horses move restlessly and Tissian’s horse pawing nervously at the ground.
“Master, there are people about.”
Jonderill sat up and peered into the darkness. When he had finished his watch everything had been quiet but the horses were now clearly unsettled. “Where are they?”
“Above us I think, around four or five of them on the top of the northern cliff.”
“Do you think they can get down to us?”
Tissian shook his head and then realised that Jonderill wouldn’t be able to see it in the dark. “No, I don’t think so but they might have bows or spears. I think we should get out of here as soon as we can.”
“Now seems a good time.”
Tissian nodded again and held out his hand to haul his master to his feet. In the dark it took longer to saddle the horses than usual so the sky was just starting to change colour as they led their horses east, the clatter of their hooves echoing against the stone walls. By the time the sky was light enough to ride, the gully had opened out into a wide canyon with side passages leading off it. It reminded Jonderill of the maze in Wallmore only with eyes and much more dangerous. They tried one or two of the north facing side gullies, hoping that they would allow them to change direction, but one led to a dead end, and the other was blocked by a recent rock fall. Tissian spent some time trying to find a way over or around the barrier but came back shaking his head.
“There’s no way we’re going to get past there, it looks like someone has levered down half the cliff face and it would take days to clear a way through.”
“Did you see any signs of life?”
Tissian looked searchingly up at the top of the cliffs before he answered. “There were no hoof prints or footfalls but the dust was still settling and I thought I saw movement high up on the rocks.”
Jonderill nodded. “Me too, a quick flash of light which looked like the sun reflecting off a blade.” He frowned in concern and started to feel fear rising within him. “What do you suggest we do?”
Tissian looked back the way they had come and then in the opposite direction, further down the canyon. The track they were following ran straight for a short while and then twisted to the right and out of sight. “We could go back, but I guess whoever is following us will have that way blocked off too. That makes our best bet to go forward down the canyon and ride straight through whatever they have waiting for us.”
He turned and lifted his armour from behind his saddle and started to prepare himself for battle. Jonderill knew how well Tissian could fight, but they had no idea of the size of the opposition they would be up against. “How about making a stand here?” he asked.
Tissian pulled his body armour over his head and replaced his baldric. “We’re too exposed, and I’ve no way of protecting you from archers or spears.”
He pulled on his wrist shields and then held out his arms whilst Jonderill strapped his armour in place, being careful to keep away from the hilts of his knives and swords and trying desperately to think of a way out of the situation. It was times like this when he wished that he was a soldier, as he had always wanted to be, and not a helpless magician that needed to be pro
tected. He waited, his fear growing all the time, as Tissian wrapped the steel-studded, leather skirt around his thighs and loaded his bolt bow.
For once Tissian didn’t smile. “Pull your hood over your head, master, it will give you some protection and keep behind me. When I shout ‘ride’, go as fast as Sansun will take you. The goddess willing, I’ll meet up with you later.”
He mounted his horse and led the way down the canyon without looking to see if Jonderill was following, his bolt bow in one hand and spare bolts in the other. The canyon was silent as if the stone walls themselves were holding their breath; the only noise the steady clopping of the horse’s hooves and the stones shifting beneath their feet. They reached the last dozen paces before the turn in the canyon and Tissian shifted in his saddle, bringing up the bow and resting it across his arm ready to fire. He drove his heels into his horse’s sides and it leapt forward with Sansun just a nose behind, galloping at full stretch as they left the shadows of the canyon and burst into the searing brilliance of the open desert.
Tissian shouted a warning and yanked on his horse’s mouth bringing him to a slithering halt in the burnt orange sand, the bolts from his bow already released and embedded in their targets. Behind him Sansun swerved sideways to avoid the collision, sending a spray of sand in every direction. Jonderill clung on, half blinded by the glaring light and not able to take in what lay before them. There were at least a hundred men spread in a semi-circle and mounted on huge war horses. They were dressed in dark flowing robes and armed with long, curved blades. He had seen the likes of them before in his nightmares, in Maladran’s probing and in Sadrin’s searching. He knew who they were and what they would do to him if they caught him.
His fear peaked and his magic exploded in a concussion of power which beat at the ears and made the ground heave beneath him. Sansun reared in panic and threw him from his back and next to him, Tissian leapt to the ground to protect him, leaving the two horses to bolt. The ground heaved and rippled outwards in rings around them sending up choking clouds of dust and sand and cracking the rock behind them. Jonderill staggered under the uncontrolled release of power, hollowed out and deafened by the noise. Next to him Tissian regained his balance, planted his feet firmly on the shuddering ground and raised his bow waiting for the sand storm to clear.
Had the land been solid rock or packed earth, the release of power would have ripped it apart into deadly splinters of rock and shattered stone but it wasn’t, it was sand, and once the shock waves had passed, the sand settled again as if only a breeze had rippled its surface. As the dust cloud cleared horses milled around in panic, some had bolted and some had fallen, their legs broken by the shifting ground. They had fared better than the men, coughing and choking on the dust, lying on the ground crushed and trampled by the horses or wiping blood from their faces where the sand had scoured away exposed flesh. At least half were out of action but that still left more than fifty, far too many for one man to stand against, even a protector.
Jonderill searched inside of him trying to find something else to defend their position, a spark, anything, but there was nothing there. Tissian stepped in front of him giving him a grim smile.
“Stay behind me, master. It’s my fight now.”
The first of the riders, those who had managed to stay on their horses when the ground moved beneath them, charged. Four hit the ground with metal bolts embedded in face or chest and the fifth, a huge warrior who closed with Tissian, missed his stroke and lost his leg, as the protector cut it from him just below the knee. He galloped by screaming with blood pumping down his horse’s flank. Tissian quickly reloaded his bow and waited for the next attack. Behind him Jonderill peered around his side, trying to ignore the nausea caused by the magic’s backlash, and the threat of the men with curved swords who had moved back into their semi-circle formation. He concentrated on the small group to one side where a dark-haired man was directing the attack. If he could just find something in his magic to take him down then the attack might falter.
They charged again, all at once this time, but on foot. Tissian fired his double bow three times missing with only one bolt and used three of his knives on the far end of the line which was in danger of encircling him. Men went down screaming and the line faltered and then retreated. The screams of their leader, as he berated and threatened his retreating warriors, could be heard above the groans of dying men, so Jonderill concentrated on him, forming a compunction spell which he had worked once before with some success.
He released his power and watched as the man staggered backwards, his shouting turning to a terrified shriek. A slight figure in some sort of flimsy gown, which Jonderill couldn’t quite make out, stepped in front of the man and the shrieking instantly stopped. A moment later the magic’s backlash hit him making him cry out, stagger and go to one knee. Tissian took a pace back to cover him.
The warriors charged again and Tissian used his last four bolts and two more of his knives to deadly effect before the charge faltered but this time they didn’t retreat. Tissian dropped his bow and pulled the first of his swords from his back daring them to come on. Behind him he heard the distant rumble of horses galloping across hard ground and knew their time was running out. He threw his last three knives in quick succession bringing down two warriors but only slicing the arm of a third. With his free hand he drew his other sword and waited.
The noise of the horses behind him became louder, barely a score of paces away and he could feel Jonderill trying to stand. There was a shout and the sound of horses snorting as men dismounted on the run and charged. The warriors in front of him reached him first their curved swords cutting the air around him whilst Tissian danced in the way that only a protector could, his blade rising and falling and cutting flesh with every movement.
He felt the impact of the men behind him and heard Jonderill’s scream of warning. Tissian tried to turn to protect his master but rough hands were already pulling him away. He reached with his blades, taking two lives with one sweep, but no man can defend themselves when they are surrounded on all sides, and he went down in a welter of blood.
Jonderill screamed and fought as they dragged him across the ground by his arms and shoulders, neck and hair. Behind him he could see Tissian’s last stand, his swords making his devotions to his goddess and then there was just descending blades and blood and he was gone. The warriors dragged him to where the dark man with the mad eyes waited with a curved sword in his hand. He saw the man smile and the flash of the descending blade but not his own blood as it stained the sand scarlet.
* ~ *
EPILOGUE
He knew he must be dead, everything was black and cold and his mind was as empty and as raw as if someone had scraped it with a rusty knife. His eyes were sealed shut, their lids too heavy to open and the lashes held together by dried tears. And he couldn’t move. Every muscle was frozen in place, held there as if the weight of the world was pressing him downwards and inwards until there was nothing left but a small hard ball of what he used to be. Inside the ball something moved, a tiny, fluttering heartbeat and in that instant Jonderill knew he was alive.
Then the pain hit, a searing, burning fire of agony that tore through his fingers and ruptured the skin into blisters. His hands burst into flame and he screamed, tearing his eyes open to shatter the darkness. They were gone. The long fingers with their clipped nails, the palms with their calluses from years of hard work, the hands with their fine tracery of blue veins, all were gone. In their place were two stumps, black and charred, burnt and bleeding.
With the pain came the memories and he closed his eyes to block them out but they were still there, the only images which had not been seared from his mind. Memories of Tissian fighting to protect him, his swords moving so fast they were streaks of silver in the air. Memories of hands pulling at him, dragging him away and Tissian fighting to get to him. Memories of Tissian surrounded, bloody, beaten and hacked to pieces under a dozen descending swords.
He o
pened his eyes again hoping that the light would burn the images away, but they were still there along with the agony of his missing hands. Desperately he tried to move, to shift his shoulders and push the tormented stumps away from the heat of his body but he couldn’t flex a single muscle. There was a weight pressing down on him and around him as if he were bound in his own coffin. Panic joined the pain and the torturous memories and he struggled against them fighting to be free until he was once again plunged back into darkness.
When he opened his eyes once again the pain and the memories were still there, but the panic had gone, extinguished by a tiny flicker of light which burnt in the darkest corner of his mind. He was in a cage; he could feel the bars pressing against him, digging into his feet, curling over his head and holding him down. Crouching in a cage which swayed slightly from side to side he was unable to move, hardly able to breathe, with his stained robe around him, his missing hands on fire and his memories seared into his mind. He closed his eyes and prayed to the goddess for death.
Voices penetrated his darkness, voices which perhaps would bring him some relief from his torture. He opened his eyes and blinked away their wetness until he could focus on the three figures before him. The one kneeling on the ground was a stranger to him. He smelled of fear and filth and abuse. A slave then, only slightly better off than he was. The woman, dressed in transparent silk and bangles looked different than the girl he remembered, the look of hate changed to one of triumph. Only the eyes remained the same, the pale green of sea ice, the same as his own. The other one’s features were imprinted on his soul, small and dark with the eyes of a madman. He smelled of perfume but with the sickly smell of rot beneath the cloying scent. Tallison, the one who had taken his hands.