But the sounds were a torment. Whistles, hoots and howls: the noise of countless birds and beasts, never seen except as shadows, flickers of movement, hints of wings. Worst of all were the insects. His altered hearing made their whines, drones, chirps and buzzings hideously distinct. When they bit him near his ears he heard the piercing of his skin.
Up they went, hour upon hour. Rain came and went with astonishing force. When it grew strong enough to blind them Ott would signal a halt, and the horses would stand steaming in the cold spray as the path became a river gushing about their legs. Pazel covered his ears, deafened. But the downpours were brief, and it seemed that the instant the last drops fell the sun came dappling through.
Once more Pazel’s mind became clouded, and he lost all sense of time. One minute he would be clinging to the horse’s mane as the animal struggled up some narrow ravine; the next he would be staring at a hairy vine as thick as his arm, only to discover that it was a monstrous centipede, scurrying up a trunk.
At still another moment he found himself listening to the halfhearted daytime hoot of an owl. No one else seemed able to hear the bird, and Pazel could not find it in the canopy overhead. But he heard its mate answer, and a soft flutter of wings. And then (Pazel caught his breath sharply) the first owl spoke in words. Its voice was black and velvety, the voice of a night hunter woken by day.
“I should like to know where they think they’re going.”
“You could ask,” said the other, in a higher voice.
“They’re savages, my dear fool. They speak no tongue of Bramian.”
The second owl trilled uneasily. “I do not like this mountain. I can taste sea air, and it frightens me. The shorebirds’ talk is always full of fear, warships, movements of men. Let us go inland tonight. Where the world is still whole.”
“We will go to the Court of Grethim,” said the first owl. “The priest will welcome us, and let us hunt in the spice gardens, and perhaps I will read another story from his book of leaves.”
Pazel never told anyone about the woken owls. He had an awful image of Sandor Ott trying to shoot them from the branches. He stopped searching for them with his eyes, and the birds did not speak again.*
Onward, upward. At last Pazel’s acute hearing diminished, and he began to feel more like himself. Far above them, he thought the texture of the forest changed, as though something immense stood among or behind the trees. Then Drellarek reined in his horse. He pointed up into a nearby tree. A large white monkey dangled there, its back to them, motionless, dead. It was pinned to the trunk by an arrow.
Ott cursed. “We’ve startled them,” he said. “The Leopard People don’t just abandon their kills. And blood is yet leaking from that wound. Forward! It is a race now, and we must win.”
He said a soft word to his horse and it charged up the slope, abandoning the trail in favor of a straight line for the summit. Pazel heard the other horses thundering behind.
Suddenly a human voice spoke from the jungle. “What are they, Uncle?”
Pazel jumped, startling both Ott and the horse.
“They are men like us,” replied another, older voice. “But they are slavers from across the sea. Don’t fear them, boy. They will take no slaves today.”
“Damn you, be still!” growled the spymaster.
“Mr. Ott,” said Pazel, struggling to keep his voice low and calm. “They’ve found us. They’re watching.”
Suddenly Erthalon Ness gave a squeal of terror, pointing a finger at the jungle to their left. Pazel turned and saw them: scores of long-limbed figures, racing through the forest with the swiftness of cats. They wore loincloths only, and their pale yellow bodies were dabbed all over with spots of black. Some of the men carried strange iron hooks, and all had bows over their shoulders.
The riders cried out, and the horses increased their speed. But the footing was terrible now that they were running sidelong to the slope, and more than once Pazel would have been thrown from the saddle if Ott had not held him fast.
“Talk to me, Pathkendle!” he roared.
“Talk?”
“Why do you think you’re here, fool? Use your Gift! Tell me what they’re saying!”
Pazel listened. But the men were only shouting things like Fast and That way and Not the horses!
“Just keep going!” he said to Ott. “They’re only—Wait! Damn! They’re in the trees, Ott! They’re going to shoot us from the trees!”
Even as he spoke Alyash howled in pain. A long black arrow quivered in his thigh. Somehow the bosun managed to spur his horse on. Above them scores of voices cried out, like hounds on the hunt. More arrows whizzed about their ears. Looking back, Pazel saw the trees filled with the spotted men, climbing down headfirst from the upper canopy, using the hooks they carried like claws. In a heartbeat they had dropped to the ground.
“Turn!” cried Ott. “They will drive us into another trap if they can! We must gain the mountaintop!”
Once again they aimed their steeds uphill. The poor creatures were frothing with the effort now, their legs and bellies plastered with mud. But they ran on, and seconds later Ott’s fears were confirmed. An even larger band of the Leopard People rose from the underbrush to their right: just where the horses would have carried them in another few strides.
The pursuit was fierce, but not even those born to the forest could run with the speed of horses. Soon only the fastest runners were still giving chase. Pazel heard them shout to one another as they fell behind:
Why do the horses obey them?
They enslave horses too.
They’re going to the Ma’tathgryl.
They will die.
For ten minutes longer they charged uphill. Then at last the spymaster reined in his mount, and they walked, dazed and stumbling. Chadfallow rode up alongside Ott and Pazel.
“Your savages climbed higher on Droth’ulad than you reckoned with, Ott.”
“They hate us a great deal,” said Ott, grinning wolfishly. “They take all outsiders for Volpeks, who set snares for their children and make mercenaries out of them, or hawk them to the flikkermen.”
“Then their hate is warranted,” said Chadfallow, “since your operations here depend on Volpek supply ships. Let me extract that arrow, Bosun, before you faint.”
“Pah,” said Alyash. “We should not stop here. I have lost but little blood.”
“You may before we reach the summit.”
“Look up, Doctor,” said Sandor Ott.
Pazel raised his eyes, and gasped. They stood nearly at the mountain’s crest. And looming over them, all but lost in the trees crowding the summit, rose a wall.
It was clearly a ruin—but such a ruin! Pazel had seen walls as high in the great keeps of Etherhorde and Pól, but those walls lay in the hearts of mighty cities, not lost in the wilderness. And the wall before him ran east and west along the mountaintop until it vanished in the trees. The builders, whoever they were, had not flattened the ridge but carved mammoth, sinuous yellow stones to fit its curves. The effect was of something more alive than constructed.
They drew closer; Pazel arched his neck. High overhead the wall sprouted turrets and towers and vine-laden balconies. Birds flew through gaping windows; orchids flowered in cracks. Yet for a thing so clearly ancient the wall was surprisingly intact.
When they reached the wall Ott turned them east. Chadfallow trailed a hand over the mossy stone. “In Etherhorde we have one broken column, and a bit of an arch,” he mused.
“What’s that you’re saying?” asked Pazel. The doctor looked at him, startled. It was the first time Pazel had spoken to him on the island.
“I am saying that this is the work of the Amber Kings,” said Chadfallow. “That this whole great edifice was built before the Worldstorm, and survived it.”
“That’s a lot to swallow,” said Drellarek.
“Look at the stonework. Only the first lords of Alifros had such skill.”
“Why would the Amber Kings want to build in t
he middle of a jungle?” asked Erthalon Ness.
The riders stopped their horses, staring at him. Pazel had never heard half so sane an utterance come from the Shaggat’s son. Chadfallow looked the man up and down, clearly fascinated. Pazel half expected him to take the man’s pulse.
“Well?” the son demanded.
“The jungle has grown back,” said Chadfallow. “In their time—more than two thousand years ago—the Amber Kings cleared many a mountain, with fire and the axe. They built great cities atop them. Fortress-cities, whole settlements in one mighty structure. No enemy could dream of taking them.”
“No enemy but Alifros herself,” said the Shaggat’s son.
“Quite so,” said Chadfallow, still more amazed. “But the Worldstorm did not strike all lands equally. Somehow this corner must have been spared—perhaps the great bulk of Bramian sheltered it from the driving winds. In any event the Amber Kings ruled from their summit cities for hundreds of years before the Storm. By day farmers descended the slopes to grow food on terraces—those flat shelvings we crossed—and by night they slept soundly in their fortress chambers. That is what the old tales tell. Do you understand me, Erthalon Ness?”
The Shaggat’s son gave a nod. Then he looked back down the mountain.
“When my father returns he will cut no trees,” he said dreamily, “for I will ask him to be kind to the white monkeys. This will be their republic. They will bear my name.”
It was almost a relief to hear him raving again. They said no more, but walked on in the shadow of the wall. Pazel found himself wondering if a sane man lay trapped somewhere inside the lunatic. The fate seemed worse than any lightless prison. And could the reverse be true? he wondered. Do sane folk carry madmen locked in their minds?
After a quarter hour they came to the remains of a mighty gate. The ironwork had melted away with the centuries—only a few rusty spokes protruded from the stone—and no one could say what kind of sculpted beasts crouched on the pedestals to either side. A heaving of land that might once have been a road curved away from the opening and down into the trees.
Inside the gate was a portico, roofless and choked with greenery. Just beyond it a mighty staircase ascended, also open to the sky. It climbed all the way to the top of the fortress, where the sun beat down dazzling on the yellow stone.
Ott checked his horse at the threshold.
“Water the mounts,” he said, “and dig the stones from their hooves. Give them no food, but eat a bit yourselves. Here, Pathkendle, take the reins.”
With that he slipped to the ground, adjusted his weapons belt and ran with quick, cat-like movements up the stair.
“What in the Nine Pits is he up to?” said Alyash. “He said the fortress was our destination. Now he talks as though we’ve another ride to look forward to.”
“I think both may be true,” said Chadfallow. “But now I will see to that arrow, if you please.”
The tarboys picked rocks from the horses’ hooves while Chadfallow tended Alyash. The bosun never made a sound, but his face creased with agony when the doctor at last twisted the arrowhead (a barbed thing made of bone) out of his thigh. After that he was quite calm. He chatted and joked as Drellarek cut slices of bacon with his dagger, and Chadfallow plucked bits of legging from the wound with tweezers.
“Mend the trousers when you’re done with the leg,” said Drellarek with a laugh. “We want him to make a good impression on our allies, don’t we? Here, boys, eat.”
“Who are these allies, Mr. Drellarek?” asked Swift through his first mouthful. But the Turach shook his head and made no answer.
Pazel took his slice of gristly bacon. He was famished, but all the same he felt a stab of guilt. Eating from the Throatcutter’s hand. Part of the team. Like Chadfallow, just doing a job.
By the time they finished eating, Sandor Ott was descending the stair. As he reached them Pazel saw that his face was strained.
“What’s wrong, Master Ott?” asked Drellarek.
The spymaster’s hands twitched at his sides. When he spoke there was a tremor in his voice. “The stair leads onto the roof of the fortress-city,” he said, “and from there a path runs straight and level to the place where we descend. You will ride on my left, at a walk, and you will not speak. But if I give the order you must gallop like the very wind. I have just learned who is master of this mountain. It is an eguar.”
Chadfallow’s eyes snapped up. “You saw it?” he said.
Ott nodded. “It lies basking in the sun.”
“Fire from Rin,” whispered Drellarek.
“An eguar?” squealed Erthalon Ness. “An eguar! What is that?”
Ott whirled and struck the man across the face. “Something that will gladly devour you, if only you keep screaming.” To the gaping tarboys, he said, “Never mind, lads. We shall be in the city for but half an hour, or less. And eguars cannot outrun horses any better than the Leopard People can.”
Chadfallow shook his head. “They do not run far,” he agreed, “but at close range they move with blinding speed.”
“Enough of your airs!” snapped Ott. “There is no book from which to learn the truth about such a creature. And you have never walked the wild places of Alifros, as I have done all my life.”
“Yet I know this to be true,” said Chadfallow.
“How?” demanded Alyash.
The doctor closed his eyes. “From Ramachni the mage,” he said at last, “who makes his home in greater peaks than these, among dragons and shadowmambrs and hrathmog hordes. And yes, eguar. They can catch horses, Ott. And they have means of killing even that which they do not catch.”
“But what does it look like?” pleaded Saroo.
“You’ll see soon enough,” said Ott. “Now pay attention: if we are separated, ride straight at the lowering sun. You’ll see a little station-house, and beyond it a triple archway, the only one of its kind. Ride through those arches, and down the stairs beyond them. We will regroup at the bottom and resume our journey.”
“Master Ott,” said Drellarek, “there is always the sea route.”
Ott glanced at the Turach with disappointment. “We stand here because the sea route is closed. The waves are too high for smaller vessels, and we cannot wait for a calm.”
“But the Chathrand could easily—”
“The Chathrand must not be seen again by any living soul, Sergeant Drellarek. I thought you at least understood that.”
“What I should like to understand,” said Chadfallow, “is what we’re doing here at all.”
Ott took out his canteen, and watched the doctor as he drank. Then he wiped his mouth and said, “Shorten your stirrups, and check your girth straps. We’re running late.”
Alyash mounted, wincing as he swung his wounded leg over the saddle. Drellarek spat an oath, but a moment later he too was on his horse. The others reluctantly followed suit. As long as the Turach and the spies were united they had little choice. One old doctor and three tarboys could hardly fight the deadly men.
They walked the horses on the stair, trying to keep to the moss and leaf-litter, for the beasts’ iron shoes echoed loudly on the stone. Ott and Pazel were in the lead. The spymaster’s hand was on his sword-hilt. He whispered continually to his charger, who nickered deep in her throat despite his soothing. That falcon of his could be useful now, Pazel thought. Where’s he gone?
Some dozen steps from the rooftop, Chadfallow raised a hand, and the party halted.
“Listen to me,” he whispered. “You must not look directly at the eguar. To do so might provoke it, like a bull. And if you see some trace of the creature, some place where it has crawled, walk your horse around the spot—never through it. Above all, guard your thoughts! Stay calm! Eguar have a spellcraft all their own.”
Ott raked them with a final glance. “No more talking,” he said.
At the top of the stair the sun met them full in the face. Pazel shielded his eyes—and saw the eguar instantly, even before his mind took in his surr
oundings. Fear washed over him, irrational and huge. The beast was perhaps a thousand feet away, coal black, facing them. It resembled nothing so much as a great burned crocodile with its legs tucked under its body, and a spiny fan like that of a sailfish running down its back. A vapor surrounded it—a quaking of the air, as if the creature were a living bonfire. Pazel could not see its eyes. Was it sleeping?
Ott pinched his arm savagely. Pazel wrenched his gaze from the creature and faced forward. One by one the horses stepped onto the roof.
What he saw before him would have stolen Pazel’s breath, had he any to spare. It was as if they had climbed not just onto the roof of a fortress but that of the very world, and found it hot and blinding as a desert. The courtyard was vast and severe. Towers rose at its vertices, some intact, others shattered. Clusters of rooftop halls, like minor towns unto themselves, were scattered across its expanse. There were broken domes and standing colonnades, shattered fountains, pedestals with statues of men whose features, like those of the creatures at the ruined gate, had melted over centuries of wind and rain. There was a great amphitheater, and a bulbous cistern on stubby legs, and round shafts built straight down through the fortress-city, with staircases carved into their sides.
There were also many smooth, pond-like cavities in the stone. All were filled with black water that glistened in a way that somehow turned Pazel’s stomach.
Beyond the fortress, the jungle-clad mountains swept west into the heart of Bramian; a second row of peaks marched north. The structure, Pazel saw now, stood on a bend in the range. And along both arms of the range the mighty wall raced away. It was broad as a city boulevard, and he could not see the end of it in either direction.
The Ruling Sea Page 40