A Place Among the Fallen [Book One of The Omaran Saga]

by Adrian Cole

  Wargallow thought of his prey, this man named Korbillian. Could he possibly wield power of some kind? It went against the things that Wargallow had been taught, his code of behaviour, the Abiding Word. Only the Preserver could wield power. But what if this storm had aided Korbillian to escape? Wargallow shut such thoughts off as Djemuta came to his side.

  'Not too many miles to the east, sire, is a river. It runs south and turns to meet the Swiftwater. If our enemies seek passage to the east, they will likely follow this river and try to cross the Swiftwater at the gorge, the only place for miles where there is a bridge.’

  Wargallow agreed. ‘Are there villages about?’

  'Strangarth's lands lie below us, sire. There should be.’

  'We need horses. We must reach the bridge first.’

  Djemuta understood that this was not a request but an order, although there was little he could do about it. He spoke to the men, instructing them to travel more quickly and he detailed two of them to go on ahead down into the woods to look for signs of people. He expected little in this remote place. The party moved on, keeping above the tree line, where the ground was strewn with boulders but not impassable. They no longer expected to be attacked from the skies.

  An hour later they were moving down a narrow ravine cut by one of the many fast-flowing streams. Wargallow, wrapped up in cloak and hood, had said nothing, though Djemuta sensed within him an anger, a strange passion to succeed in this particular hunt. He knew Wargallow to be a relentless man, faithful to the Word, and yet there was an edge to his sharpness now, a chilling dedication, as though this man Korbillian had committed crimes beyond all reason. It made Djemuta the more determined to bring him to earth, as he would earn a favourable report if he did, and that could well lead him to promotion. He yearned for the day when he could lead his own party of Deliverers out from the Direkeep and not have to bend to the will of Wargallow. The man frightened him.

  Wargallow held up a hand and immediately the entire party stopped. Djemuta was at his elbow in a moment. ‘Sire?’

  'Movement. On the rim.’

  At once Djemuta barked curt orders to the Deliverers and was pleased to see them position themselves defensively without delay. If he did come to command his own men, they would likely be less effective than these excellent Deliverers. He freed his killing hand and studied the ground. It was not a good place to be attacked, for they were near the stream, down in the throat of the little valley. There now appeared to be movements in the larger of the boulders, but it was not clear what was happening. The ground gave an unusual grumble, as though a stream tumbled far below into a great pool, wearing away a subterranean passageway.

  'What do you see?’ hissed Wargallow.

  'Nothing, sire. Only shadows. But something is there.’

  As Djemuta spoke, a number of the great boulders before them began to rise from the earth as if forced up by something powerful beneath them. Impossibly the massive stones split to reveal dark, mouth-like openings, and although silent they emitted a foulness of air that made Wargallow and Djemuta reel back. One glance showed them that the entire party was surrounded by these frightful stones, though they no longer moved. Yet, like wolves, they seemed to be waiting their moment to pounce. The earth itself breathed, a mighty beast asleep, but on the edge of wakefulness, and Djemuta felt his gut writhe in terror.

  From between the two largest of the boulder-things stepped a new creature. It was short and squat with hideously large eyes and a skin that was encrusted with earth, as if it had just burrowed its way to the sunlight. It hopped forward. ‘Wargallow,’ it called in a distorted voice, raising an arm and hand that seemed to be more tree than flesh.

  'I hear you,’ said Wargallow, but his face and fear remained hidden. The Earthwrought he had tortured before now had spoken of such beings under the earth, and he knew that there were others there that even they would not talk about.

  'We have not come to kill you,’ came the croaking voice, implying that it would have been easy to destroy the Deliverers had they chosen. ‘You seek the man of power.’

  Djemuta gasped. What could these abominable shapes be? Nowhere on Omara had he heard of such things, although stories were whispered of terrors far to the east, beyond the Silences.

  'I seek any man who claims to possess power,’ said Wargallow. He held up his killing hand. ‘Any man or being.’

  The unsightly creature hopped forward and made a sound that could have been laughter. ‘Those I serve have no love of the man you wish to find. He is far to the south of you. Without help, you will never catch him.’

  Wargallow said nothing. There was more to come.

  'I can set you on his trail with all haste.’

  'And who do you serve?’

  The laughter came again. ‘The Children of the Mound. Be not alarmed. They respect the men of the Direkeep. Your cause is theirs. They wish no more than to help you destroy the man of Ternannoc.’

  'Ternannoc?’ said Wargallow, feigning ignorance. ‘Where is that?’

  The creature hopped angrily forward and growled. ‘You ask too many questions. Accept what is given.’

  'Which is what, precisely?’

  'Go to the river that feeds the Swiftwater. There will be a craft large enough for your men, and a steersman. Let him ferry you to the south. At the mouth of the gorge there will be horses for you and your men. Ride to the Swiftwater Bridge. You will be there before Korbillian.’

  'And in return?’

  Yet again the laughter rang back from the strange rocks. ‘All that is required is the man's death.’

  'Why have your masters not attended to it themselves?’

  There was silence for a moment, but the creature chuckled for a last time. ‘You are strong, Wargallow. You have your Deliverers. You will need them all if you are to kill this man. My masters will send help.’

  Wargallow nodded. ‘Very well. But tell me, where are your masters? The Preserver will want to know. If you are not prepared to tell me, he will likely wish to send Deliverers to find them.’

  The creature considered. ‘I have no answer yet. But when the work is done at the Swiftwater Bridge, we will talk again. For now, find your craft.’ With this the creature disappeared so quickly that he seemed to have become one of the rocks. Slowly they slipped back into the ground, so that only a fraction of them remained above the surface.

  Djemuta broke the ensuing silence with a hoarse whisper. ‘Dare we trust these things?’

  'They seem anxious to dispose of Korbillian, though I wonder at their motives. But as we need to get to the gorge quickly, let us look for the preferred craft.’

  Silently they went down to the trees, each man guarding his thoughts.

  * * * *

  Kirrikree flew low across the tops of the pines, unable to go higher because of the low cloud that restricted his visibility. Satisfied that the path ahead for Korbillian's party was free of danger for many miles, the great owl turned to the north, in search of news of Wargallow's men, and for other information that would help avoid danger of any kind. He spoke to other birds, most of which were terrified of him, fearing he would prey upon them, but who nevertheless told him things that he needed to know. He picked up particles of news from creatures on the land below, which were unaware of his passing. No other white owl had come down out of the mountains, that was clear, and it looked as though the Deliverers had been forced to go far to the north.

  He was about to turn back with a mind to scout along the way to the Swiftwater, when he picked up word of a party of men riding northward. He could have ignored them and returned to the south, but he decided to give them a cursory inspection. Swooping quickly over the green sea of trees below, he came to an area cleared by another fierce stream from the mountains that was chopping its way to the east. Below him he saw the riders, some two dozen of them. They had stopped to drink at the river and a number of them had taken fish from it, and their laughter came up clearly through the cool air as they cooked them.


  Kirrikree chose a high branch as a perch and observed the men without being seen. He recognised the yellow tunics with the twin black border: they were the Emperor's men. Before long it became apparent to him from snatches of conversation that this was part of the party that had attacked Ilassa and Taroc's fellows. Although the owl could not find out what they were doing here, he could see by their casualness that they were not acting with any urgency. They evidently felt quite safe from attack, and as Kirrikree was not aware of any wandering parties of Strangarth's men, the men below him seemed justified in their ease. The owl watched them stripping and washing in the icy stream, laughing like young boys. He had seen enough to know that they would not be a menace to Korbillian's progress, so again took to the skies.

  He had not gone far, however, when a flight of pigeons tore past him as if fleeing a fire. Abruptly Kirrikree turned back to see what had alarmed them. He came again to the place where the Emperor's men were, and found complete horror. Most of the men that had been laughing no more than moments ago were stretched out across the rocks and grass, their bodies crushed, covered in blood as though they had been smashed aside by the fist of something gigantic. Those that were alive appeared to be maimed, unable to walk. There was nothing to indicate what had so thoroughly destroyed them. Kirrikree watched for a long time, but the cloud rolled in like a shroud, and nothing moved. The last of the men died with hardly a murmur. Kirrikree heard their minds wink out, but they gave up nothing of the frightful secret of their murder.

  Although he searched carefully in all directions for an hour, Kirrikree found nothing. It was as though the men had been cut down in a moment by an invisible foe. The owl flew as quickly as he could to the south. He had not gone far when he picked up the trail of horses and knew that he had found the mounts of the dead men. As one, they tore through the trees below, and he could feel their combined terror coming up to him in a wave. There was one rider, one fortunate survivor, or so he thought until he flew directly above it. It was not a man, but a half-man, a creature the like of which the owl had never seen before, and its thoughts were like the growling of a wild beast at a kill. The evil that permeated the grim being spoke instantly of the east, and all the rumours that seeped from that place. The half-man urged the leading horse on dangerously fast, and the others ran with it, far away from the scene of the terrible killings.

  Kirrikree flew away, still unseen. He had no wish to find out what evil was occurring here. It could have no bearing on his own quest. Instead he made his way back over Strangarth's lands. Some time later he realised that other men were coming, and he found a secluded place where he could observe privately. He soon discovered that Wargallow had survived the mountain crossing, for below him, on foot, was the Deliverer, his party almost intact. They were heading directly east and were well away from the path that Korbillian was taking. Moving so slowly, it was not likely that their paths would cross again. Kirrikree waited until they had gone, then flew away, satisfied that the pursuit had been confounded.

  * * * *

  Ilassa rode upon one horse with Taroc before him. The latter seemed tired and sluggish, not properly recovered from his wounds, though in truth only Korbillian had expected him to be so. The others were surprised that his wounds had not worsened and at least made him feverish, and they had to concede that Korbillian had worked something with the unknown power of the earth. Ilassa was the most wary of this, as his people had little time for ‘power'. They had, however, seen strange things in recent times and were prepared to accept things now, which once they might have scoffed at. For the moment, Ilassa was grateful that his companion had survived what should have been his death.

  On the second horse rode Guile and Sisipher, though she was not happy to be so close to him. He had not, however, tried to push himself upon her, and she was glad of that, knowing that she would recoil if he did. She would have preferred Wolgren with her, for although his feelings for her were clear, she felt she could control him more easily. However, the youth still led the party, with Korbillian beside him. Kirrikree had gone away to find out what he could about the problems ahead, and although Sisipher found that she could retain contact with him for increasingly greater distances, there were long periods when he was beyond her. She missed his company; somehow it seemed to fill a void in her life, a sense of security that she knew had been missing since she had left her father. She thought of him, and of the pain she must have caused him, with guilt, but even so, she was sure that this journey had to be undertaken.

  That first day of travel on the horses it began to drizzle. At first, with the wind dying, it was not so cold as it had been up in the snows (though they had never felt as frozen as they might have) but as the drizzle thickened spitefully, persisting for hour after dreary hour, they could not keep dry and the cold got into them. Even Korbillian seemed diminished by it. He told them, however, that it would at least keep at bay any wandering soldiery, and Ilassa agreed that even Strangarth's men would be loath to leave cover on such a grim day as this. If there were perils in the endless forest, they too thought better of showing themselves. The travellers spent a restless night under an overhang in the trees, a fire warming them, but not their dreams.

  It was the same for the next two days. They were out of the evergreens now and moving through deciduous forest, leafless and skeletal, the drizzle less screened. Wolgren's enthusiasm had waned, and he began to despair of ever coming to the end of the miles of trees. The ground was heavy, in places treacherous, but they moved on, until at last the floor of the forest began to slope steeply away to the southeast. Ilassa seemed relieved.

  'The river below us feeds the Swiftwater,’ he said, but he seemed drained by the tedious journey. Taroc, beside him, had hardly spoken at all, as if his mind were tuned to something far away, and they had wondered if he had mended as well as he might have. They began the descent, and the riders soon had to dismount. As Sisipher's feet touched the ground, she shuddered as if she had trodden on the back of a sleeping beast.

  Korbillian was beside her at once. ‘What do you see?’

  'The river,’ she said softly, her words almost inaudible. ‘It carries blood from the north.’

  'Whose?’

  She shook her head. Moments later she brightened, for she had sensed the return of the great white owl. Sure enough, Kirrikree appeared in the trees above them. He spoke of the things he had seen, confirming that Empire men had died.

  'It must have been their blood you saw,’ Korbillian told the girl. ‘For we turn south to the gorge.’

  Kirrikree told the girl of his feelings about the east. He confirmed that something spread outwards from those lands like a plague, waves of evil that made things happen unexpectedly. He had searched the other side of the Swiftwater, and although he had found nothing there, he had sensed a deep malice locked into the very stones, as if they were only too ready to welcome intrusion. There had once been a village across the gorge, Kirrikree said, a place where some trade was carried out with the men of Strangarth's lands, but the houses were down, the men long since gone, or dead.

  Sisipher agreed that Kirrikree should go on again to continue scouting ahead for them. She kept contact with him, and always he reported that there were no signs of men about. Yet she could feel the clammy grip of something about her, telling herself that it was no premonition, only a blind fear. The party found a path beside the riverbank and they made their way along it easily. Still the drizzle came down, obscuring vision, and below them the water foamed and boiled, heavy with rain and melted snows from the far mountains. When they came to the place where it tumbled into the Swiftwater, another valley cut even deeper into the rocks and was thickly treed; they veered southwest along the narrowing path.

  'Our border,’ said Ilassa above the noise. ‘In an hour we will be at the bridge. After that, Taroc and I will leave you.’

  'What of the lands immediately across the bridge?’ asked Korbillian, and Sisipher looked away.

  'Hil
ls mostly, thinning out beyond the escarpment to the plains that lead in time to the edge of the Silences. Empty. Used to be villages, but the people moved further south years ago. Keep to the east, along the top of the escarpment and you should be well clear of any Empire patrols. Far below you, you'll see the lands of the Three Rivers. The first of them, the Camonile, will be stretched out below you.’

  Kirrikree had returned, bringing with him a freshly killed wild goat, and they paused to cook and eat it. Ilassa had come to accept the extraordinary bird, as he had many things about this unusual party, but he bore them no ill will. If they had not been so determined to cross the bridge and go to lands where only a madman wanted to walk, he might have gone with them, though he was not happy about Taroc. The man had become even more sullen, drowsy. He responded to commands, but showed little emotion, and more than once Ilassa had seen Korbillian looking at him with a shade of suspicion, as if not sure of him.

  The gorge deepened, the sound of the Swiftwater's fury coming up from shadowed depths, booming off sheer rock walls, while the pathway led up and around the twists of the great swathe the river had sliced into the escarpment in order to forge through it. Wolgren was the first to see the bridge above them. It was a remarkable piece of architecture, quite out of keeping with the orange rock about it, cut from grey stone, and Korbillian wondered who had put it there. The stones of the bridge must have come from far away, and the knitting of the stones, the fitting of the arched pieces, spoke of great skill. Yet nowhere in the surrounding lands was there evidence of such a degree of civilisation.

  Ilassa insisted on leading the way, and he now walked, with the two horses barely able to negotiate the narrow path. Both were nervous, eyes rolling at the frothy depths below, out of which the spray came up like steam, though there was no warmth in it. At the bridge Ilassa stopped. It was fifty yards across, but looked as solid and enduring as the walls of the gorge itself. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the noise of the Swiftwater. ‘I will speak well of you to Strangarth,’ he said.