by Adrian Cole
Korbillian said nothing, letting Wargallow speak for him, hoping that he might reveal his true motives.
The Preserver was speaking again to the Deliverer. ‘However, you do my work better than any other, Simon. Since you have brought this man here, you must have good cause.’
'I believe so, sir. But, of course, I am open to your judgement. You may yet feel that I have failed you in allowing this man to live, in which case I will submit to your decision.’
Korbillian frowned. So easily, so willingly? Wargallow could surely not be so dedicated to the Preserver's law.
'Tell me about him,’ the Preserver said, sitting back in his pillows as comfortably as he could, closing his lids as if asleep, but in fact listening acutely to everything.
Wargallow nodded to Korbillian. ‘You have made many claims. I have told you that my duty should have been to give your blood to the earth. Now you must explain yourself in full. My master will act according to his judgement, and in the best interests of Omara, which he serves.’
A sudden flame burst into being a few feet from Korbillian's eyes, forming itself into a white-hot ball. It fizzed, emitting sparks. Wargallow drew back, not afraid, but uneasy. This, Korbillian saw, was the sort of spontaneous expression of power that had kept him at his master's heel. No doubt there had been many other such bursts of energy from the ailing Preserver. In the fire, there was far more power than Korbillian would have expected.
'I hope,’ he said wryly, ‘that he is a better servant to Omara than he was to Ternannoc.’
The Preserver went rigid, as though a poison snake had raised its head inches from his neck and he could see it poised to strike him. His mouth hung open, saliva dribbling from it. The fireball danced at Korbillian, but a gloved hand moved, bursting it effortlessly. Wargallow leapt up, horrified by the entire incident.
'Don't let him near me,’ gasped the old man to Wargallow, shaking his head pitifully. Wargallow whirled round, his killing hand raised instinctively.
Korbillian shook his head. ‘Put your weapon away, Wargallow. It will be useless.’
Wargallow did not obey, but guessed that Korbillian spoke the truth. In the first play, the Preserver had been rebuffed.
Korbillian had not moved from his seat. ‘Stand aside. I will not touch him.’
'His hands,’ said the Preserver. ‘Sheathed?’
Wargallow felt the same iciness at the back of his neck that he had felt at the Camonile river. ‘Aye,’ he said, fending off dread.
'When I saw this tower,’ said Korbillian, ‘and how it had been sucked up from the stone lands around it, sculpted by forces only a Hierarch could control, I wondered. But when I saw you, Grenndak, I did not recognise you at first.’
'What do you mean?’ said Wargallow. If he had ever been in a position of advantage, and as the minutes ticked by, he began to doubt that he ever had, it was lost now. He had never manipulated this stranger, even with the girl, for how easily he had snuffed out the fire! Wargallow had seen what that flame could do, how it could seek out life a hundred miles from this place and burn it away in a moment. Yet the Preserver was terrified, terrified! For all his power, all his mastery, he had been reduced to this. And Korbillian spoke of Ternannoc, as if the Preserver knew of it!
'This man you call the Preserver is Grenndak, and he and I have met, long, long ago. He is scarcely able to preserve himself against the onset of time.’
Grenndak's reaction amazed Wargallow. ‘Don't kill me,’ he said, tears in his eyes. ‘Leave me in peace, Korbillian. After all this time, let me be. Forget me.’
'Strike him down at once, sir,’ said Wargallow, but he was merely playing a part. His master was helpless, already beaten.
'You could not have known, Simon, but you have brought me my death.’
'Surely not.’
Korbillian stood up, knowing that a part of Wargallow had been hoping for this, as if he resented serving his master. ‘There are things you must be told, Wargallow. If you truly wish to serve Omara faithfully, you had better hear me out. Call all the guards you wish, but they will not prevail. I did not know that it was Grenndak I would find here, though I should have guessed it would be someone like him. So you must be told.’
'The east?’
'Exactly. The death of Omara waits there, as it did in my world, in his world.’
Wargallow turned to Grenndak. ‘Who is he?’ he said softly.
From the pillows came what sounded like the last croak of a man who has given up the will to fight an illness that is killing him. ‘He is the executioner.’
13
UP FROM THE DARK
Brannog now had a full company of some fifty Earthwrought to accompany him on his search for Korbillian and his daughter. They led him through a remarkable system of burrows and caves, Ygromm explaining that many of these were the work of creatures long extinct, others were made by beings who had migrated far to the west and gone below the sea. At times it was impossible for Brannog to negotiate the narrow workings and detours had to be made, while at others the delvings were almost like caves. They came to one place where a vertical shaft about a hundred feet across sank down into what must be the very bowels of the earth. There were tunnels that they rushed past for fear of something unpleasant emerging, and others where the Earthwrought spoke with sadness of friends who had strayed and never returned. Ygromm insisted that it was yet safer to keep below ground until word came to them from above. Brannog was not certain how far-seeing the Earthwrought could be down here, but they had allies, it seemed, and had their own special communication with creatures of earth and sky. He had no reason to doubt them, but knew that they held the surface in great fear, having been mistreated there whenever they dared emerge. Yet now they were working their way nearer to the surface with every step, and Brannog could see far more complex and larger root systems about him. He was supplied with food from time to time, mostly a peculiar fungus-like growth, although he dared not eat too much of it as it seemed to put strange visions in his head. On the move, he felt at times as if he were gliding through the ground, and had to shake himself to escape the mild hallucinations. Any sleep he snatched down here was full of dancing lights and abstract shapes, so that whenever he felt himself on the edge of real sleep he dragged himself back, panic lapping at him.
At last Ygromm came to him, somewhat breathlessly, after he had sent scouts upward through a narrow funnel of earth to possible daylight. ‘They have been sighted!’ he said. ‘The scouts have spoken to the horned folk, who saw them, and the skywatchers say that they are in the gorge of the river Swiftwater. But there is great danger.’ Ygromm answered Brannog's rapid questions, and the latter learned that it was Korbillian and the others in the gorge, with two men he knew nothing about.
'One of these men is evil,’ said Ygromm with a shudder. ‘I have heard this from other sources beneath the land. This man was put into the earth.’
'Buried?’
'Not dead, no. He was put there to heal him of wounds he had received. The man Korbillian knows the old rituals and sought to draw strength from the earth. Yet something got the scent of the wounded man and instead of succouring him, the earth poured darkness into him, the darkness that the evil from the east controls. Now he rides with Korbillian, and from what I hear, none of them understand what it is that sits with them. Also above the gorge there is terrible evil. The stones-that-move.’ Ygromm described them and Brannog shuddered.
'How soon can we get to the gorge?’
'By evening at the earliest, with every speed. There is a cave system not far from us that will take us to the bottom of the gorge far more quickly than a surface journey.’
Brannog wondered if this were the truth, knowing Ygromm's fears. At night they would be far happier on the surface. He nodded, however, and encouraged the little figures around him to make all speed. ‘What are these stones-that-move?’ he asked Ygromm as they sped along.
'The eastern power can pour life into them like blood into v
eins. The power of this black blood gives a kind of life to the stones. I have never seen them, only heard of them and tales about them are probably distorted. But I am afraid that even the worst tales about the east, even the most exaggerated, may be less than the real truth, for the east is truly a bad place. Have you seen madness?’ he added.
Brannog thought carefully. ‘Once, in a village dog.’
'There is no reason in such a thing. The east seems to be invested with such a madness, and yet with a purpose. I cannot say why.’
'Korbillian does not realise this,’ said Brannog. ‘To him the east is like the mad village dog, wild and without purpose. Mindless. It is vital that he be told the truth.’
They made all haste, but Brannog feared they would get to the others too late to prevent their impending clash with whatever lurked across the Swiftwater. Even though they were now in well-worn passageways that made progress easier, Brannog and the Earthwrought knew that evening had come and that Korbillian had been in the gorge many hours before. Much depended on where they would stop for the night. Ygromm was hoping to have word from the surface, from the deer he called the horned folk, or from other wild creatures, but the land above was devoid of such. The skies were also empty. Something had long since frightened them all away from the gorge, leaving a residue of terror clinging to it.
'Can you hear?’ Ygromm asked Brannog at last, and the latter nodded. It was the roar of the river, surging through the bottom of the deep gorge. It sounded some distance away, but as they rounded a curve in the tunnel, they found they were very close.
The noise rose in volume and they had to shout to make themselves heard. ‘They will have crossed the bridge, high above us,’ said Ygromm. ‘When we learn if they have gone over, we can follow. Best for us to go beneath the river.’
They emerged now from the earth, and Brannog blinked. Daylight was fading and hardly reached down to this great gash in the rock. He stood on a broken slab that jutted over the foaming water, watching in fascination the mad plunge, the boiling foam. The sides of the gorge seemed to rise up forever, their tops lost way overhead. ‘Is there no word?’ he asked.
'Scouts are searching,’ replied Ygromm, scowling at the river. But there is no life here. Only the river, and it has nothing to say to us.’
'And the stones-that-move?’
'Gone, I think. Eastwards.’
'In pursuit?’
Ygromm shrugged. They waited, deafened by the waters, until the various scouts came back. Some had scaled the rock walls, nimble as spiders, some had gone under the river to tunnels there, but all reported the same thing, that there was no life. Ygromm said they must go up to the Swiftwater Bridge. Only there could they know for sure that Korbillian had passed by.
Brannog stared up into the darkening fastness above. ‘Can I climb this gorge? You have skills that I do not possess, Ygromm.’
Ygromm pointed down the gorge. ‘There is a way that is easier.’ As he did not elaborate, Brannog assumed that he referred to a path of some kind. Possibly wild goats lived here and had made a path up, just as the wild sheep of the mountains behind Sundhaven did. If not, the climb would be bad enough by day, but at night, not one he wanted to contemplate. His role as champion of these little people was a fragile one, he knew.
A few hundred yards down the gorge they stopped. Another scout was coming towards them from down river, his scowling face anxious. ‘Here!’ he barked. ‘I've found one!’
Brannog's heart pumped and his body froze. At once he went over the rocks, moving dangerously quickly, for there was always the threat of a fall, a smashed limb, and yet his feet were surprisingly sure. Which one had been found? Dead? There was no time for talk. High above them they could just discern the span of the Swiftwater Bridge, but there was no movement.
The scout pointed to a place among the rocks where sand and shingle had built up over the centuries, forming a basin, a miniature beach trapped in walls of rounded rock. Brannog had his axe ready, for he trusted nothing in this ominous landscape. There was a body there. His heart pounded. It was a man. With Ygromm beside him, he went to it, scrambling down the slippery rocks to jump into the shingle. Carefully he turned the body to see the face, but it was that of a stranger.
'A man of Strangarth's kingdom,’ Ygromm said, and explained. ‘He was with Korbillian, one of the two strangers.’
'The evil one?’
But Ygromm shook his head. Brannog started to examine the body. He found bruises, but no wounds. ‘He must have fallen from the bridge,’ he said, peering up again at the span high above. ‘A fight?’
Ygromm had stiffened, his head bent upwards like that of a scenting wolf. ‘Blood!’ he hissed. ‘On the bridge.’
Brannog felt caged, trapped down here without knowing what had happened. Were they all dead? Prisoners? ‘We must get up there as fast as we can.’
Ygromm scowled down at the body. He bent to it, putting his ear to it, then gasped, and the sound came clearly to Brannog in spite of the roar of the waters so close to them. ‘He lives!’
'It's not possible.’
'It may not be for long.’ Ygromm gave a great shout and the Earthwrought scampered towards them from where they had been keeping watch. Ygromm hissed instructions and at once as many of them as could gathered around the body of the fallen man. Brannog could not see clearly, but they all appeared to put their hands on the man. Ygromm began a deep rumble, which was quickly joined, and the Earthwrought worked together. Brannog shook his head. Here was another aspect of power, magic, whatever it was, that he had been taught did not exist in Omara. But he knew now, could feel in his own bones, that it was very real.
Long moments passed, until eventually Ygromm drew back. There was a unified sigh from the Earthwrought, which Brannog felt like a ripple through his body. The little men relaxed, slumping back on to the rocks, breathing heavily as if they had all been running for many miles. Ygromm beckoned Brannog to him.
'Can you save him?’
'We have read things,’ said Ygromm. ‘There was a fight on the bridge. Swords.’ He was able to tell Brannog everything that had happened up to the moment that Ilassa had fallen from the span. Beyond that Ygromm could not say. ‘I think,’ he ventured, ‘that Korbillian and the others must be prisoners, not of the east, but of Simon Wargallow. Unless he has already given their blood to the earth. But I doubt that. We would know.’
'Whose is the blood on the bridge?’ said Brannog.
'It is a man's. It may be the blood of the man Taroc, the evil one, who sent Ilassa over the edge, or it may be the blood of a Deliverer spilled in the fight. We must climb to find out. There will be a trail to follow.’
'To the east?’
'The stones-that-move are not commanded by Wargallow, and yet—”
'You fear an alliance?’
Ygromm grimaced. ‘We will know when we reach the bridge.’
Brannog looked down at Ilassa. The man was white, one side of his face badly bruised, swollen and blackened. ‘We should bury him, or is it dangerous?’
'We will carry him. He still lives, but it will need many more workings to save him.’
'Then he can be restored? Is that possible?’
'I cannot promise it.’
'Then you must try.’
Ygromm nodded. Soon afterwards he called to his fellows and they took up the burden without a hint of complaint. Ygromm told them sternly that this was to be an important test for them, to see if the new sharing with the overmen was to be approved by whatever powers watched over them all. ‘Do well with this fallen one,’ he said, ‘and it will bring great favour with the Wormslayer.’ If circumstances had been different, Brannog would have smiled at the little man.
They began the long climb, and although it was tortuous and hazardous for Brannog, he surprised himself, drawing on strength he had not been aware of previously. The land held no terrors for him, and the Earthwrought made light work of the climb, even with their burden. They reached a place where
they could join the path that led along to the Swiftwater Bridge. Once on this path they moved quickly, surrounded by darkness. There was no moon, and a thick screen of cloud to hide any peering stars. Brannog found he could see better than he would have expected. What is happening to me? his mind whispered.
As they came to the span, Ygromm held him back. ‘Someone is there,’ he said.
Brannog's lips drew back in a silent snarl. ‘If it is an enemy,’ he breathed, but did not finish.
They went forward cautiously, but saw no one. The bridge was deserted. Ygromm sniffed at the air in each direction. He whispered to Brannog. ‘The stones-that-move have gone, back to the east. I sense them, but far beyond the rim.’
'Then who is here?’
'I cannot say. But it is evil. A solitary watcher. A guard set by the east. But alone.’
'The bridge, then.’
Keeping together, the party moved on, watching every shadow. They came to the ancient stonework. Ygromm insisted on going to the bridge alone, saying he would be safe enough from attack there, although Brannog was not so sure. He watched the stooped figure cross the bridge, pause, then return. The roar of the river came up from below, but nothing moved to suggest an attack. Ygromm trotted back, keeping hunched over, making himself a tiny, difficult target. Again he stopped on the bridge before returning.
'The blood is the man Taroc's. There is no other. And I have more heartening news.’
Brannog gripped his shoulder. ‘Yes?’
'Korbillian and the others did not cross to the east. The trail will be confused here, with so many comings and goings. But I feel sure that Wargallow took them away. He would have sacrificed them here if he had been going to. They must be alive. Korbillian and three others, one a girl.’
Brannog jerked upright. ‘She is well,’ he breathed.