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

by Adrian Cole

  Korbillian nodded and stepped out on to the span, and Wolgren was first to follow. His eyes scanned the rocks, the ridges that towered high above them beyond the bridge, for there was much climbing to do yet once they were across the span. The ridges seemed deserted. Sisipher went next, smiling at Ilassa, who bowed. Taroc seemed fixed, waiting for Ilassa to give him his next instruction.

  'Is he well?’ the girl asked him.

  'Better than I had hoped. But it will be a while before he is himself. I will long remember the trick with the earth that saved him. But hurry, girl, your master has already forgotten me.’ Ilassa chuckled. She was a delight to the eye, he thought, and worth fighting for. But not in the east. No one was worth following there.

  Guile stepped after her on to the bridge, and he shuffled with fear, not liking the great height. The bridge was flat and without walls, so that each puff of wind that blew made anyone crossing it fully aware of just how high above a rocky death he walked. Guile trembled, aware that Ilassa could see his fear. But the warrior understood.

  'Here,’ he told Taroc, handing him the reins of the horses. ‘Hold these.’ Taroc obeyed wordlessly and stood without moving. The horses scuffed the earth with their hooves, eager to be away from this place. Ilassa strode on to the bridge, but it was slick with the rain, which still fell steadily. He came to Guile and spoke softly. ‘I see your fear. Let me take you across.’

  Guile was far too afraid to argue, and he gripped the man's arm thankfully. He let himself be hurried over the span. Korbillian and Wolgren turned to watch, now no more than a few yards from the other side. As they did so, Sisipher screamed, and the sound rose high above the roar from below. Korbillian saw her eyes and whirled. Appearing from nothing, a dozen figures were waiting beyond the ridge, dressed in grey cloaks, exposing hands of steel. Kirrikree, beyond the ridge, seeking danger, heard the scream and turned as quickly as he could back to the bridge.

  One of the figures came to the span.

  'Deliverers,’ said Korbillian. Wolgren's knife came out as if he would throw it, but Korbillian whispered to him to hold it tightly. Ilassa had seen what was happening and looked back over his shoulder. Beyond Taroc, climbing the path, were more of the cloaked men.

  'Taroc!’ he yelled. ‘Leave the horses! Come to me, quickly!’

  Taroc was not quick, but he did as he was told. Ilassa pulled out his sword and Taroc did the same. They stood shoulder to shoulder. Guile dropped to his knees, terrified not so much of the Deliverers, but of the dizzy fall. Without Ilassa's hand on his, he was unable to move.

  Sisipher had run back to stand with the two warriors, her own sword dangling in her hand, though she could not imagine how she would use it.

  'Korbillian!’ came a shout from across the span. Wargallow came closer, Djemuta beside him.

  'Stand aside,’ said Korbillian. ‘We have no business with you.’

  'I think you do.’ Wargallow's killing hand gleamed. He was pleased with the events of the last few days. The strange boatman had brought them to the beginning of the Swiftwater gorge, just as promised by the servant of those who called themselves the Children of the Mound, and soon after stepping from the craft, Wargallow had again met the half-man. With him he had brought the promised horses, though they were frightened and had taken a long time to quieten. The time spent waiting for Korbillian's arrival had not been pleasant for the Deliverers, as the eastern lands sat like disease around them, ugly and corroding. Korbillian's coming was a great relief.

  He himself did not seem perturbed by the meeting, Wargallow thought. He watched as the man opened his black-gloved hands and spread them, as if to show they were empty. Wargallow stopped at once. He had no idea what the man would do, and he was not prepared to test him. To capture him would be extremely difficult, but he had been planning carefully, guided by the half-man that lurked somewhere beyond him in the rocks. That vile corruption of life would have to be cheated also.

  Wolgren pointed. High above them all could be glimpsed humped shapes, devoid of detail, but they were not Deliverers (if they were men at all) and seemed poised and eager to taste the blood of those below them. Ilassa saw the cruel hands of the Deliverers who were approaching him from his side of the bridge. He stepped forward to meet them. ‘Here, Taroc. Here's a feast for your blade. Let's give the river a few of these vultures.’ He swung his blade in readiness. Silently the Deliverers came on.

  Sisipher felt her mouth drying up. She tried to lift her own blade but it had grown in weight and scraped the ground uselessly. Taroc seemed numb, but at least he shambled forward, like a man half-awake. His sword came up, and to her horror, Sisipher saw him aim a blow at Ilassa. It was not slow, but incredibly fast and competent. Ilassa heard it and whirled. His sword came up by reflex and parried the chop, the blades ringing together. But the damage was done, for Ilassa's footing was lost on the rain-slick stone. His free hand shot out to grip the bridge for balance. As he went down, Taroc came to life, though Sisipher knew now that something was frightfully wrong with him. He swung at Ilassa with tremendous strength, and although Ilassa parried the blow again, he was sent tumbling off the bridge. Seconds later the rising spray had swallowed him. Sisipher stood dumbfounded.

  Korbillian and Wolgren were also rooted, unable to understand what had happened, but then Korbillian knew. The earth! It was his fault, for he had been so wrong about it. Heal? No, it had bled evil into Taroc, and now he obeyed it. No longer was the wounded man slow and dazed. His face had become wild, eyes alive with someone else's hate. He was now a vessel, and had been filled. He turned on the girl and grabbed her by the hair, fingers knotting in it as he dragged her to him. With a great wrench he swung her across the bridge. Her feet left the ground and she rolled over, but the Deliverers had her. They got her to her feet.

  Wolgren flung his knife with every ounce of his strength and it flew like an arrow towards Taroc. The warrior had turned to face Guile, about to cut him in half, but Wolgren's blade took him below the chin. It struck with such force that Taroc staggered back, dropping to his knees. Guile wanted to scream, so deep was his terror, but he could see that Taroc might not die. Whatever non-human force had him in its grip would not let him fall, in spite of the blood that now pulsed down his chest from the wound. Guile scrambled up and swung his sword as though he, too, were possessed. It was a clumsy, inexpert act, but the flat of the blade cracked into Taroc's temple. The man flopped over the edge of the bridge, leaking blood into the depths below it. There was no further movement from him, and Guile sagged down.

  One of the Deliverers gripped Sisipher's arm with his free hand, his killing steel inches from her neck. He held her rigid, waiting, though his silence was filled with grim meaning. Guile felt himself go very cold, as did Wolgren. Korbillian turned to Wargallow. Only a moment had passed since the Deliverers had first shown themselves.

  'Obey me now, Korbillian,’ said Wargallow. ‘Otherwise I will have the girl killed first.’

  'Spare her.’

  'Certainly, and your heroic comrades, but obey me.’

  'Very well.’

  A figure sprang up from the rocks across the gorge, hopping from one to another dangerously, although it seemed assured of its footing. Squat, almost batrachian, it waved its twisted arms at the leader of the Deliverers. ‘An excellent trap!’ it shrieked. ‘The Children will be pleased. Now you must finish it, Wargallow. Kill them all. Then the work is done!’

  Wargallow turned angrily to the creature that commanded the things that lurked on the ridge above. ‘Not yet. Go back to your masters. I have no further need of their help.’

  'The price, the price! It was to be Korbillian's life!’ screamed the furious figure. ‘Or shall I bring the stones-that-move down upon you?’

  From out of the misty air there now came a swirl of white movement as Kirrikree arrived. He had recognised the vile half-man at once: it had been this creature that had led the horses from the scene of the murder of the Empire men. The bird sensed at once also
that it meant harm to Sisipher and the others. Quickly he flew down and his talons snapped shut in the flesh of the half-man, lifting it up into the air and rising with ease. The revolting creature struggled like a fish taken from the sea, but Kirrikree's anger would not permit it to shake itself loose. Not until he was high over the gorge did he release the creature. It tumbled over and over in the air, through the mist. Wargallow saw it fall and smash like a dropped egg on the rock wall opposite. He smiled grimly, searching the sky for the strange bird, which he could have sworn was more owl than eagle. Well did he remember the white owls of the mountains.

  Sisipher spoke to Kirrikree. ‘Keep away!’ she warned him. ‘There may be a better time to help.’

  Korbillian had watched in silence, aware that Kirrikree had killed an enemy that could be even more dangerous than Wargallow. ‘If it is not my life you seek,’ he called across the bridge, ‘what then?’

  'We must leave here quickly,’ said Wargallow, indicating the ridge behind him. ‘Whatever hides up there will not be pleased that the half-man is dead. We must all cross to the other side.’

  'And then?’

  'We will travel to the Direkeep. The Preserver will want to meet you. Your fate will be in his hands, not mine.’

  Korbillian nodded. ‘Very well. I am prepared to come. But you must release the girl.’

  'I will consider it. For now, hurry across.’

  Wolgren recognised, furiously, that Korbillian was not going to use any powers that he possessed to thwart this man. He would have spoken under his breath to him, but as they turned, Korbillian spoke first. ‘Gently, little warrior. I wish to meet this Preserver. But we will draw Wargallow's sting yet. I must see that Sisipher is safe.’

  They crossed the bridge, followed at some distance by Wargallow's men. Djemuta brought up the rear, watching for movement behind him, his blood chilled by the possibility of what might pursue them.

  Above them all, out of sight, Kirrikree watched. He knew he would have to be patient. He was angry with himself: why hadn't he seen the Deliverers when he had been scouting? And worse, what were these stones-that-moved, which were unseen? Could something like them have slaughtered the Empire men in Strangarth's lands?

  PART THREE

  CONFRONTATIONS

  * * *

  11

  RUAN

  If the Journey to the Swiftwater gorge had been dreary and subdued, the one away from it and along the escarpment rim back towards the west was worse. Korbillian and his companions now sat astride their own horses, those steeds brought from the north where the Empire men had been cut down. Each of them, isolated from the other on instruction from Wargallow, had only his thoughts for company. Korbillian was the only one not tied, for no one had dared touch those sheathed hands. He was silent, his thoughts and mood closed in upon themselves. His concern was for the safety of his companions, but it seemed that the Deliverers would not harm them if he made no move to disobey any of Wargallow's orders. Wargallow's intention clearly was to take them all to the Direkeep, but Korbillian had decided that it would be best for him to confront the Preserver. Yet he wondered if, at some point in the future, at the Keep perhaps, he would be forced to resort to the unleashing of power.

  Wolgren, his hands tightly tied, had taken a long time to cool his anger and frustration after being taken by the Deliverers, although he knew he could do nothing about it. His life was in their hands and at any moment they could dispatch him. It should have terrified him, but he was far more worried about Sisipher. The Deliverers watched her closely, knowing that through her they controlled Korbillian. They were ready, at a glance from Wargallow, to kill her. Wolgren reflected on the killing of Taroc. He had never killed before, never seen death, and there had been a disturbing pleasure in seeing his knife sink home. But Taroc had to die, he reasoned, and there must be no remorse. He had become somehow alien, either mad or possessed. Something had taken him, Wolgren thought. Since he had learnt that power did exist, he accepted other apparently supernatural things that his fellows in Sundhaven would have scorned. How narrow their world was! What he could not understand, however, was the fact that Wargallow, a man sworn to destroy belief in power, should have used power—evil power—to bring his enemies to heel.

  Guile, no longer trembling with the fear that the dizzy bridge had poured into him, sat on his horse with mixed feelings. Death hovered very close at hand, for these Deliverers did not seem to have minds of their own and operated strictly as instructed by their leader. Why had Korbillian not unleashed his powers to destroy them all? Ratillic had told him that it would be simple enough. Korbillian seemed afraid to use his powers, possibly because of whatever consequences would arise, but he was also, so it seemed, prepared to be taken to the Direkeep. He wanted to meet the Preserver: that must be it. Guile brightened. Even though Korbillian would not allow himself to kill, he would not allow his companions to die. True, he had not been able to save Ilassa, but that had been unexpected. As long as we remain with him, Guile told himself, we are reasonably safe.

  Sisipher had felt herself shaking for a long time. It was as though she had been touched by a night creature that had considered drawing her to its black domain. She could still feel the chilling nearness of the Deliverer's claw, so close to her neck: in vain she tried to put from her thoughts that frightful moment. Taroc had been terrifying, for he had not been human. She had read something vile in him, animating his body as if moving a dead thing. Whatever Korbillian had tried to do with the power of the earth had turned back on itself. And the evil shapes beyond the rim of the gorge, they had been even more awful. Wargallow's stronghold could not possibly harbour anything as grim, or so she told herself. The future was a dark pool to her, and though she sought to see into it, she could not. Pain swam there, alongside fresh fear, but at least she could not see deep enough down to foresee her death.

  Wargallow rode at the head of the party with Djemuta beside him. He had not so much as glanced back at his prisoners since they had been taken. He wanted them, particularly Korbillian, to understand how confident he was that they were secure. Djemuta rode haughtily, a smug grin on his face: his master was quite excellent, he reflected. How cunningly he had used and rejected the Children of the Mound.

  'We are not at the Direkeep yet,’ Wargallow told him quietly.

  'Sire?’

  'You seem to think our work is over. I doubt that it is.’

  'You think those creatures will follow?’

  'They want Korbillian dead. More than anything.’

  'And you, sire?’

  'I want him alive, for the Preserver. There is something uncanny about him. From another world, they say.’

  'Ridiculous!’ snapped Djemuta, dutifully. I have to be careful, he thought. By law, these people should be dead, but Wargallow is in command.

  'It concerns me,’ said Wargallow. ‘We have been taught that even such thoughts deserve instant death. The Preserver will not tolerate them, of course. But does Korbillian truly possess power?’

  'You cannot believe that, sire? Power does not exist.’

  'I cannot believe it, no. But those creatures that serve the Mound, what are they? Not allies, for all their help. I cheated them, of course.’

  'The Preserver will decide.’

  'Of course. If there is doubt, we must go to him and confess our doubts. If doubting is itself a sin, he has the power to absolve it. That, or we must accept punishment for our doubting. If you can do that, Djemuta, you are a true Deliverer.’

  This must be a test, thought Djemuta, trying to understand, knowing that he must pass it if he were to gain favour with the Preserver, whom he saw as supreme. ‘These people are clearly transgressors, sire. Why not kill them now and give their blood to the earth?’

  'Because I feel that it is for the Preserver to decide. He may wish to make a supreme example of Korbillian, and by so doing, silence many doubters. He may have many secret followers.’

  Djemuta accepted this: he had no dou
bts about Wargallow's loyalty to the cause. Wargallow smiled within his hood, having at last concluded that Djemuta would take the course that best served the Preserver. Whenever he had tested the man, it was clear he was committed to the Preserver and saw in his loyalty advancement. No, he would not be worthy of consideration to that inner circle of Deliverers, chosen by Wargallow to be his own Faithful, most secret of men. Wargallow had another reason for not killing Korbillian: he doubted his own ability to kill the man from Ternannoc. Ternannoc! he thought. Show me the door to this other world. Can it really exist? Has the Preserver hidden certain truths from us all?

  They reached a place on the escarpment where it looked possible to descend to the plain below and where they could see the first of the Three Rivers winding westwards to the sea. Wargallow's plan was to cross the Camonile and follow its southern bank to the east before branching into the rugged foothills that led to the Direkeep. Wargallow thought briefly of the east and the powers there. He would have to take a strong force to investigate in the future, for the threat there could be more dangerous than was realised. He did not want to dwell on what he had seen of it, for it spoke of power, grim power, which could not be ignored.

  The descent of the escarpment was difficult but not impossible, and the party managed it without injury. Once beyond the lower slopes, they soon rode into a vast expanse of woodland, leafless and bare, and their passage across the plain was easy enough. The skies brightened and all hint of storm dissipated, with even the eastern horizon free of cloud. Wargallow was making for a small trading post where there was a long bridge across the Camonile. The people at the post would not be troublesome, as they knew of the Deliverers and were careful to abide by the Word. Like many of the inhabitants of Omara, they wanted as little to do with the Deliverers as possible. Wargallow did nothing to dissuade them from their attitude.