‘Let’s catch her up first,’ Tawny Owl cut him off, urging on his grey with his knout. ‘Boreas! Keep your eyes on the trail!’
The valley was filling up with a dense blanket of fog, but they knew that down below was a lake, because there was a lake in every valley in Mil Trachta. The one, meanwhile, to which the black mare’s hoof prints were leading, was undoubtedly the one they were looking for, the one Vilgefortz had ordered them to look for. Which he had described to them precisely. And whose name he had given them.
Tarn Mira.
The lake was narrow, no wider than an arrow shot, crowded into a slightly bent crescent between high, steep hillsides covered in black spruce, beautifully sprinkled with a white, snowy powder. The hillsides were swathed in such a silence that there was a ringing in their ears. Even the crows–whose portentous cawing had accompanied them on the trail for the last fortnight or so–had fallen silent.
‘This is the southern end,’ stated Bonhart. ‘If the mage hasn’t made a hash of everything and landed us in it, the magical tower is on the northern shore. Keep your eyes on the trail, Boreas! If we pick up the wrong one, the lake will separate us from her!’
‘The trail is clear!’ Boreas Mun called from below. ‘And fresh! It’s leading towards the lake!’
‘Ride!’ Skellen brought his grey, skittering on the steep slope, under control. ‘Downhill!’
They rode down the slope, cautiously, reining back the snorting horses. They struggled through the bare, black, ice-covered thicket blocking the way to the bank.
Bonhart’s horse stepped gingerly onto the ice, crunching through the dry reeds sticking up from the glazed surface. The ice creaked and long arrows of cracks diverged like a star from under the horse’s hooves.
‘About face!’ Bonhart pulled in the reins and turned his snorting horse back towards the bank. ‘Dismount! The ice is thin.’
‘Only by the bank, in the reeds,’ Dacre Silifant judged, striking a heel onto the icy crust. ‘But even here it’s at least an inch and a half. It’ll hold a horse sure as anything, no need to wo—’
His words were drowned out by cursing and neighing. Skellen’s grey slipped, sat down on its haunches, and its legs spread apart under it. Skellen struck it with his spurs, swore again, and this time the curse was accompanied by the harsh crunch of ice breaking. The grey pounded with its fore hooves. Its hind ones, imprisoned, thrashed about in the tangle, breaking up the ice and churning the dark water spurting from under it. Tawny Owl dismounted, tugged on the reins, but slipped and went sprawling, miraculously not falling under the hooves of his own horse. The two Gemmerians, now also on their feet, helped him up. Ola Harsheim and Bert Brigden hauled the whinnying grey out onto the bank.
‘Dismount,’ Bonhart repeated, his eyes fixed on the fog covering the lake. ‘There’s no sense risking it. We’ll catch up with the maid on foot. She also dismounted, she’s also moving on foot.’
‘How very true,’ confirmed Boreas Mun, pointing at the lake. ‘It’s plain to see.’
Only at the very edge, beneath overhanging branches, was the crust of ice smooth and translucent, like the dark glass of a bottle. Under it reeds and water plants turned brown were visible. Further from the bank, the ice was covered in a very thin layer of wet snow. And on it, as far as the fog permitted them to see, were dark footprints.
‘We have her!’ Rience cried heatedly, throwing his reins on a broken bough. ‘So she’s not as cunning as she seems! She set off on the ice, straight across the middle of the lake. Had she chosen one of the banks or the forest, it wouldn’t have been easy to pursue her!’
‘Straight across the middle of the lake…’ Bonhart repeated, giving the impression of being lost in thought. ‘The shortest and straightest way to the alleged magical tower Vilgefortz talked about leads across the middle of the lake. She knows that. Mun? How far ahead of us is she?’
Boreas Mun, who was already on the lake, knelt down over a boot print, leaned over low and examined it.
‘A half-hour,’ he estimated. ‘Not more. It’s getting warmer, but the print isn’t fuzzy, you can see every hobnail in the sole.’
‘The lake,’ mumbled Bonhart, vainly trying to look through the fog, ‘stretches north for more than five miles. So said Vilgefortz. If the maid has half an hour’s start, she’s about a mile ahead of us.’
‘On slippery ice?’ Mun shook his head. ‘Not even that. Six, seven furlongs, at most.’
‘Even better! March!’
‘March,’ Tawny Owl repeated. ‘Onto the ice and quick march!’
They walked swiftly, puffing. The quarry’s closeness excited them, filled them with euphoria like a narcotic.
‘She won’t escape us!’
‘As long as we don’t lose the trail…’
‘And as long as she isn’t leading us up the garden path in this fog… It’s white as milk… You can’t see twenty paces ahead, dammit…’
‘Move your arses,’ Rience snarled. ‘Quick, quick! As long as there’s snow on the ice, we’re following her trail…’
‘The trail is fresh,’ Boreas Mun suddenly muttered, stopping and stooping down. ‘Very fresh… You can see the print of every hobnail… She’s just in front of us… Just in front of us… Why can’t we see her?’
‘And why can’t we hear her?’ Ola Harsheim wondered. ‘Our footsteps boom on the ice, the snow creaks. So why don’t we hear her?’
‘Because you’re yakking!’ Rience cut them off abruptly. ‘Keep marching!’
Boreas Mun took off his hat to wipe his sweat-covered forehead.
‘She’s there, in the fog,’ he said softly. ‘Somewhere there, in the fog… But the devil knows where. The devil knows whence she’ll strike… Like back there… In Dun Dare… On Samhain Eve…’
He began to draw his sword from its scabbard with a trembling hand. Tawny Owl leaped at him, seized him by the arm and tugged him forcefully.
‘Shut your trap, you old fool,’ he hissed.
But it was too late. The terror had spread to the others. They also drew their swords, involuntarily positioning themselves to have one of their companions behind them.
‘She’s not a spectre!’ Rience snapped loudly. ‘She isn’t even a witch! And there are ten of us! In Dun Dare there were only four and they were all drunk!’
‘Spread out,’ said Bonhart suddenly, ‘to the left and right, in a line. And move forward together! Don’t lose sight of each other.’
‘You too?’ Rience grimaced. ‘Has it infected you too, Bonhart? I thought you were less superstitious than that.’ The bounty hunter looked at him with eyes that were colder than ice.
‘Spread out into a line,’ he repeated, ignoring the sorcerer. ‘Keep your distance. I’m going back for my horse.’
‘What?’
Bonhart didn’t grace Rience with an answer again. Rience swore, but Tawny Owl quickly placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Leave it,’ he snapped, ‘let him go. And let’s not waste time! In a line! Bert and Stigward, left! Ola, right…’
‘What for, Skellen?’
‘The ice will break more easily under men walking in a group,’ Boreas Mun muttered, ‘than spread out in a line. Furthermore, if we walk in a line abreast, there’s less of a risk the wench will outflank us.’
‘Outflank us?’ Rience snorted. ‘How could she? The tracks in front of us are as plain as a pikestaff. The maid is going straight ahead. Were she to try to turn, the trail would betray it—’
‘Enough chatter.’ Tawny Owl cut them off, looking back into the fog into which Bonhart had vanished as he left them. ‘Forward!’ They went on.
‘It’s getting warmer,’ Boreas Mun panted. ‘The ice on top is melting, it’ll form overflow ice…’
‘The fog’s getting thicker…’
‘But the footprints can still be seen,’ said Dacre Silifant. ‘Moreover, it seems the girl has slowed down. Her strength is waning.’
‘As is ours,’ Rience tore off his hat and fanned him
self with it.
‘Quiet,’ Silifant suddenly stopped. ‘Did you hear that? What was it?’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’
‘But I did… Like a scraping… A scraping on the ice… But not from there,’ Boreas Mun pointed at the fog, into which the trail was fading. ‘It seems to be over on the left, to the side…’
‘I heard it too,’ Tawny Owl confirmed, looking anxiously around. ‘But now it’s gone quiet. Dammit, I don’t like it. I don’t like it!’
‘The footprints!’ Rience said with wearied emphasis. ‘We can still see her footprints! Don’t you have eyes? She’s walking straight ahead! If she took even a single step to one side we’d know it from the trail! Quick march, we’ll have her soon! I give my word, we’ll see her in a moment—’
He broke off. Boreas Mun sighed so hard his lungs groaned. Tawny Owl cursed.
Ten paces in front of them, just before the limit of visibility bordered by the dense fog, the tracks ended. They vanished.
‘A pox on it!’
‘What is it?’
‘Has she taken flight or what?’
‘No.’ Boreas Mun shook his head. ‘She hasn’t. It’s worse.’
Rience swore crudely, pointing at scratches in the icy crust.
‘Skates,’ he growled, involuntarily clenching his fists. ‘She has skates… Now she’s darting across the ice like the wind… We won’t catch her! What, damn his eyes, has become of Bonhart? We won’t catch the maid without horses!’
Boreas Mun hawked loudly and sighed. Skellen slowly unbuttoned his sheepskin coat, uncovering a bandolier with a row of orions slung across his chest.
‘We won’t have to hunt her,’ he said coldly. ‘She’ll be the one hunting us. I’m afraid we won’t have long to wait.’
‘Have you gone mad?’
‘Bonhart anticipated this. That’s why he went back for his horse. He knew the girl would lure us into a trap. Beware! Listen for the grating of skates on ice!’
Dacre Silifant paled visibly despite his cheeks being flushed from the cold.
‘Fellows!’ he yelled. ‘Beware! Take heed! And gather together! Don’t get lost in the fog!’
‘Shut up!’ Tawny Owl roared. ‘Keep quiet! Absolute silence or we won’t hear…’
They heard. A short, strangled cry reached their ears from the fog to the left, from the furthest end of the line. And the sharp, rough grating of skates, making the hair stand on end like iron scoring glass. ‘Bert!’ Tawny Owl yelled. ‘Bert! What’s happening over there?’
They heard an unintelligible cry, and a moment later Bert Brigden emerged from the fog, fleeing pell-mell. As soon as he was near he slipped, fell over and slid across the ice on his stomach.
‘She got… Stigward,’ he panted out, struggling to get up. ‘She cut him down… as she flashed past… So swiftly… I barely saw her… She’s a witch…’
Skellen swore. Silifant and Mun, both with swords in hand, whirled around, staring goggle-eyed into the fog. Grating. Grating. Grating. Quick. Rhythmic. And more and more clearly. More and more clearly.
‘Where’s it coming from?’ roared Boreas Mun, spinning around, flourishing the blade of his sword two-handed. ‘Where’s it coming from?’
‘Quiet!’ screamed Tawny Owl with an orion in his raised hand. ‘I think it’s from the right! Yes! From the right! She’s coming up on the right! Look out!’
The Gemmerian walking on the right wing suddenly cursed, turned around and ran blindly into the fog, sloshing through the melting layer of ice. He didn’t get far, not even out of sight. They heard the sharp grating of skates gliding and made out a blurred, flickering shadow. And the flash of a sword. The Gemmerian howled. They saw him fall, saw a broad spray of blood on the ice. The wounded man thrashed about, curled up, screamed and moaned. Then he fell silent and stopped moving.
But while he was still moaning he drowned out the sound of the skates. They didn’t expect the girl to be able to turn back so swiftly.
She fell among them, right in their midst. She cleaved Ola Harsheim as she flashed past, low, beneath the knee, folding him up like a penknife. She spun in a pirouette, covering Boreas Mun in a stinging hail of icy shards. Skellen leaped aside, slipped and caught Rience by a sleeve. They both fell over. The skates grated just beside them and cold, sharp fragments stung their faces. One of the Gemmerians yelled and his cry broke off in a savage croak. Tawny Owl knew what had happened. He’d heard many people having their throats cut.
Ola Harsheim shouted, rolling around on the ice.
Grating. Grating. Grating.
Silence.
‘Mr Stefan,’ Dacre Silifant gibbered. ‘Mr Stefan… You’re my only hope… Save me… Don’t let me—’
‘She’s fucking crippled meeeee!’ Ola Harsheim bellowed. ‘Help me, for fuck’s sake! Help me get up!’
‘Bonhart!’ Skellen yelled into the fog. ‘Bonhaaaart! Heeeelp us! Where are you, you whoreson? Bonhaaaart!’
‘She’s got us surrounded,’ Boreas Mun gasped, spinning around and straining to hear. ‘She’s skating around us in the fog… She’ll strike at will… Death! That wench is death! We’ll breathe our last here! It’ll be a massacre, like it was on Samhain Eve in Dun Dare…’
‘Stick together,’ Skellen groaned. ‘Stick together, she’s picking us off one by one… When you see her looming up, don’t lose your heads… Trip her up with swords, saddlebags, belts… Use anything to stop her—’
He broke off. This time, they didn’t even hear the scraping of skates. Dacre Silifant and Rience saved their lives by dropping flat onto the ice. Boreas Mun managed to jump aside, slipped, fell over and upended Bert Brigden. As the girl flashed by, Skellen swung and threw an orion. It found a target. But not the right one. Ola Harsheim, who had managed to get up, tumbled over in convulsions onto the blood-spattered ice; his staring eyes seemed to cross on the steel star sticking out of the bridge of his nose.
The last of the Gemmerians threw down his sword and began to sob in short, choking spasms. Skellen sprang at him and struck him hard in the face.
‘Pull yourself together!’ he roared. ‘Get a grip on yourself! It’s just one girl! Just one girl!’
‘Like in Dun Dare on Samhain Eve,’ said Boreas Mun softly. ‘We shall never get off this ice, off this lake. Listen out, listen out! And you’ll hear death gliding towards you.’
Skellen picked up the Gemmerian’s sword and tried to shove it into the sobbing man’s hand, but unsuccessfully. The Gemmerian, racked by spasms, turned his dull gaze onto him. Tawny Owl threw down the sword and jumped at Rience.
‘Do something, sorcerer!’ he roared, tugging at his arm. Terror redoubled his strength, and although Rience was taller, heavier and more powerful, he flopped around in Tawny Owl’s grasp like a rag doll. ‘Do something! Summon that high and mighty Vilgefortz of yours! Work some magic yourself! Work magic, perform witchcraft, invoke spirits, conjure up demons! Do something–anything–you little turd! Do something, before that she-phantom kills us all!’
The echo of his cry boomed across the forested hillsides. Before it died away, the skates grated again. The sobbing Gemmerian fell to his knees and covered his face in his hands. Bert Brigden howled, flung his sword away and bolted. He slipped, fell over and scampered for a few paces on all fours, like a dog.
‘Rience!’
The sorcerer swore and raised a hand. As he chanted the spell, his hand was trembling, his voice too. But he was successful. Though not, admittedly, completely successful.
The threadlike, fiery lightning bolt spurting from his fingers carved up the ice, fracturing the surface. But not crossways, as it should have, to bar the way of the approaching girl. It broke lengthways. The crust of ice cleaved open with a loud cracking sound, black water gushed and rumbled, and the rapidly widening rift shot towards Dacre Silifant, who was looking on in stupefaction.
‘Jump aside!’ Skellen yelled. ‘Ruuuuuun!’
It was too late. The crack sped betwee
n Silifant’s legs and split open, the ice shattering like glass and breaking into huge slabs. Dacre lost his balance, and the water stifled his howl. Boreas Mun fell into the breach, the kneeling Gemmerian vanished under the water, and Ola Harsheim’s body disappeared. Rience plopped after them into the black depths, followed by Skellen, who managed to catch hold of the edge at the last moment. Meanwhile, the girl pushed off powerfully and flew over the breach, landing so hard the melting ice splashed, and darted after the fleeing Brigden. A moment later a hair-raising scream reached the ears of Tawny Owl, who was hanging onto the edge of the ice floe.
She’d caught up with him.
‘Sir…’ moaned Boreas Mun, who by some miracle had managed to crawl out onto the ice. ‘Give me your hand… My lord coroner…’
After being hauled out, Skellen turned blue and began to shiver violently. The edge of the ice was breaking under Silifant, who was struggling to drag himself out. Dacre vanished beneath the water again. But he surfaced at once, choking and spitting, and dragged himself onto the ice with superhuman effort. He crawled out and collapsed, exhausted to the limits. A puddle spread out beside him. Boreas moaned and closed his eyes. Skellen was trembling.
‘Save me… Mun… Help…’
Rience hung onto the edge of the ice, submerged up to his armpits. His wet hair was plastered smoothly to his skull. His teeth were chattering like castanets, sounding like a ghoulish overture to some infernal danse macabre. The skates grated. Boreas didn’t move. He waited. Skellen was trembling.
She approached. Slowly. Blood trickled from her sword, marking the ice with a trail of drops. Boreas swallowed. Although he was soaked to the skin with icy water, he suddenly felt unbearably hot.
But the girl wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at Rience, who was vainly struggling to get out onto the ice.
‘Help me…’ Rience overcame the chattering of his teeth. ‘Save me…’
The girl braked, whirling on the skates with the grace of a dancer. She stood with legs slightly apart, holding her sword in both hands, low, across her thighs.
‘Help me…’ Rience howled, digging his numbing fingers into the ice. ‘Save me… And I’ll tell you… where Yennefer is… I swear…’
The Tower of Swallows Page 45