by Damien Lake
It was a trick he had mastered as a survival skill among the Earth God’s faithful.
The four posed no questions about how the archbishop knew the things he knew, or what they should do in the event he was wrong. They had found their way into Xenos’ reviving religion years before and had learned the wisdom of passing unnoticed by the top ranks.
A lengthy morning passed before a figure emerged silently from the trees, moving with the purpose of expectation. Mendell knelt in the fallen leaves in order to kiss Cardinal Xenos’ knuckles. The others followed without hesitation, obeying their rank and kneeling still lower to kiss the hem of his robe.
His ragged robe. The rich brown fabric sported tears in numerous places. Its cuffs bore closer resemblance to a shroud concealing a wraith’s wrists, countless holes perforating them until they could have been mistaken for moldy lace.
As war-torn as the clothing might be, the man bore not the slightest scratch. Xenos touched Mendell’s shoulder lightly and the two walked off side-by-side.
“For my ears alone.”
Mendell nodded. He trusted his superior would see to it any words spoken could not be overheard by the acolytes. Possessing no magical powers in any form, he relied instead on his faith.
“I’ve re-secured the lands leading down to the forest’s edge, but I suggest we move without delay. These Galemarans are a trickier bunch than the Tullainians. I never would have expected they could respond as radically as they did.”
Xenos nodded, a slight quirk to his lips. “The Galemarans are well known for their ability to overcome what are, I believe the term is, ‘long odds’.”
“I still don’t know how they overcame Harbon,” Mendell allowed, a trickle of sweat rolling from his brow. “Unfortunately my men are scattered hells to heavens. I haven’t been able to subdue any…problems we might encounter within the forest. Too many were left behind in Tullainia to maintain our hold. Most of the trustworthy believers were slain during Harbon’s battle.”
“A disappointment, that. I confess I had hoped for better. Still, one who has labored under such difficulties will find me reasonable.”
Mendell watched the cardinal through his peripheral vision. A rueful satisfaction played there. He held his breath and gambled. “If we go directly, we could be at the forest in a day-and-a-half. However, your eminence, with your abilities, we might be able to gain a stronger presence. Roughly two-dozen Taurs are running wild in the region. The few enlightened controllers I still have are unable to bring them to bay on their own. Also, if you are willing to delay slightly longer, several patrols I have out will return and we can march on the forest in force. Not that your eminence needs additional strength,” he hastily added at Xenos’ eyes studying him.
“Additional time. During which the fabled Galemarans might find it within their means to conduct a second counterstrike in the same vein as the last.” After Mendell’s sweating increased, Xenos smiled benignly. “Or in the chaos of the Citadel’s destruction, they perchance might find insufficient strength to act for some time. You are correct in that I require no additional strength, archbishop. Yet there exists little sense in carrying a heavy load when carts are so ready to hand. Take me to the nearest town you command to refresh and change garments, then, in three day’s time, we will take whatever strength has gathered with us into the Rovasii.”
Colonel Mendell bowed his head immediately. “Yes, your eminence. I will put together a guard sufficient enough to guarantee you’ll have no need to expend any of your strength before we reach the hidden village!”
“That would be service well rendered, my archbishop,” Xenos said, and the satisfaction played across his features as before.
Chapter 18
“No, I am not all right! If I said I was, then you’d know my head was addled, wouldn’t you?”
Caresse shrugged indifferently. “Is it polite manners to ask, so it is.”
“I do not think a travois would be the smartest idea, anyway,” Lynn commented in a tone suggesting that if she thought it, then surely it must be Absolute Truth. Marik noted she spoke in that manner with increasing frequency the longer he spent in her company. “There is no flat land. It is all points and ridges. If we put you in a travois, you would be toppled out within thirty feet.”
“I don’t remember asking for one,” he replied in irritation. “We can’t make decent speed across this terrain in any event. Don’t worry your heads over me.”
Lynn’s face puckered in exasperation that might have been insult. “You should keep in mind that none of us are in the mood to watch you kill yourself after the effort we put into hauling you this far in the first place!”
Marik refused to rise to the bait. The bandages around his ribs were so tight he could barely breathe and his leg ached as badly as the time it had been chewed on by Fangs, the psychotic hell-dog. He leveraged his weight off the mountainside, forced his legs not to wobble, then shuffled in the direction Wyman had left minutes earlier.
When he’d exited the crevice a short time earlier, he had expected surroundings similar to the overlook; flat areas broad enough for groups to stand on, slopes that any child could traverse with ease and views over the northern plains.
Instead, he learned what it meant to be in the heart of the Stoneseams.
Surrounding them were uneven flat areas the size of his torso. The problem was that no two were at the same level with each other. In-between most were cracked stone, loose rocks or wide gaps. Several areas were clogged with protrusions that reminded him of wolves’ teeth pointed upward in clusters.
That would have been enough to deal with. Worst of all, fewer than twenty feet from the crevice, the world fell away in a sheer void. Three-hundred yards across the chasm, the next mountain rose with walls equally as razor-edged. From where he stood he could peer into the depths. Far below were clouds! Or perhaps only fog, but they sure as all the hells looked like clouds, and he disliked the notion of being so infernally close to the sky.
Marik walked south with the sheltering crevice to his back, his hand following the monumental granite walls to his right. He moved with deliberation, determined to reach his destination in one piece, to defy his apparent destiny of falling to his death. The ground refused to help and insisted on sloping without mercy toward the yawning empty space to his left.
“Don’t go that way,” Lynn ordered from his rear. Perhaps it stemmed from his preexisting irritation, but her tone grated on his nerves. “It goes nowhere. You will be forced to return this way. Follow Caresse instead, since she knows what she’s doing.”
He paused to watch the wizardess step closer to the gap. Ahead, he could see a new ridge rising in their path, splitting the narrow track in twain. One angled up to the right, the distant ways vanishing around corners. The other appeared to run straight over the cliff’s edge.
“It seems safer to look for a way over a dead end than to walk off a mountain and end up dead.”
“You won’t find too many ways after you’ve broken your ankle. Caresse has felt out the right paths to take that won’t bring us higher than we already are.”
Marik forced his legs to carry him closer to the edge. Ten feet from an early demise, he could see what the broken ground had kept from being readily apparent. The gods must have been feeling playfully sadistic when they created what looked to be a four-foot wide path sloping down along the sheer wall. Cracks split the stone in numerous places, many of a width that it would be a stretch to step across without jumping.
“Your sense of humor is anything but funny,” Marik hissed through gritted teeth. “That’s a death sentence, or I’ve never seen one!”
“It’s the way out. I don’t think it is too much to ask after pulling you out of an avalanche.”
She moved without fear onto the downward track. If the imminent peril to her left unnerved her at all, she moved smoothly in its face.
He could feel his legs trembling. In fact, he doubted if any force short of cataclysmic woul
d be able to make them move. Had they ever been so unsteady?
One of the city mages looked at him with apprehension. Marik swallowed the saliva flooding his mouth and forced his foot to skitter forward along the uneven ground several inches. Oddly, as he had experienced before, once he began actually moving, most of the shakes subsided. The situation still gnawed at his sanity yet he could control his body as long as he didn’t focus too much on the dangers.
The going got slightly easier once the cliff wall rose enough that he could press intimately to it as he shuffled down. It would have been tough had the slope descended at a steady rate. Instead, there were times it was nearly level, others where it plunged as steeply as the back hillside of Kingshome.
It remained free of loose stones or scree, for which he offered silent thanks. His first test of faith came twenty feet below the crest. A three-foot fissure split the entire wall, including the pathway for good measure. He could not lean against the mountainside during the crossing or else he would fall inward.
Unfortunately he would be spared a splattering death. A hundred yards down, the fissure’s wound closed. He would instead be squeezed into a bloody mass when he struck the narrows.
Further along, Caresse mocked Fate by skipping over the cracks. Watching her made his stomach queasier still. His heart stopped after she vanished from sight, her hair billowing in weightless clouds when her body plummeted without warning.
A moment later, Lynn hopped over the same ledge. He goggled until Caresse’s bobbing head reappeared further away. There must be a drop down in the pathway. Sweat froze on his forehead at the mere thought.
He reached across the gap with his wounded leg. Trusting his weight to it would be suicide. If it were going to collapse on him he much preferred it to do so while he had the chance of propelling his body forward. That way he might be able to collapse on the opposite side.
For one terrible moment, vertigo made his vision swim. He lost sense of his body. It seemed he plunged in an uncontrolled free fall when, in fact, his foot only moved an inch.
The sensation of his foot coming down on the far side startled him. Marik nearly twisted off the path. Muscles surrounding the wound tightened. In a panic, he threw his weight across. He stumbled several paces until he regained control.
Ahead, the mountains loomed under a gray sky left over from the evening before. It would be just their luck if the heavens sent a deluge down on them while they clung like ants to the mountainside. Marik cast a quick glance behind and saw there would be no going back. The minor fissures could be crossed going down, except traversing them on an upward slope would be nigh on impossible.
He reached the drop where the women had so casually leapt without concern. It was shaped like a giant’s step. The stone shelf they crawled along continued after a plummet the length of his body. Six feet lower, the path waited maliciously for him to leap in the same childlike way Caresse had.
Marik’s gaze traced the dagger’s-breadth trail until he found, a hundred feet lower and a quarter-mile off, the place where the ridge merged with the mountainside again. The narrow path vanished. At the end, inset at the furthest point, he could see a small clearing littered with ancient boulders. Wyman stood there waiting for the others. There must be pathways through the peaks from the clearing. He scarcely cared as long as the journey’s next leg proceeded along a route away from this bottomless chasm.
And speaking of legs…
He studied the drop. The path below widened to an entire six feet. Nevertheless he would sooner tackle three Taurs at once than leap and trust his landing to his wounded leg.
“You’re going to have to help me,” he told the city mage dogging his heels. “Look, let’s try this. You hold my hands and I will go down like this.”
The man grasped his wrists tightly. It both reassured Marik to have such a solid connection, and unsettled him to have to trust another with his wellbeing.
He sank to his knees, his feet over the ledge behind him. Slowly he reached for granite with his toes while the city mage let him slide backward inch after inch. Marik winced when his ribs pressed hard against the sharp stone.
At last he felt the solid stone underfoot. His ribs ached enough that he leaned against the wall several feet on, allowing it to take his weight. The city mage sat on the ledge, his legs dangling over at the knee, and pushed off. He landed easily. A casual brush at his breeches to dislodge the dirt put end to his easy action.
Marik stared at the showoff without emotion. “You stay behind me.”
The man shrugged, as if to say it did not matter to him.
It took them a half-mark to reach the area where the others waited. Marik sat gracelessly on a handy boulder, his breath the heavy bellowing of oxen towing plows in their earthen wake. He knew the others stared at him and he mentally wished them each the pleasantries of afternoon tea in whichever hell most suited them. While he recovered from the horrible trip, he gathered the etheric mists. Within moments the energy was trickling through his network.
Though it bestowed no fresh stamina or additional strength, the gradual increase through at the damaged portions eased the pain. This ability to work inside his interior channels was proving highly useful. He gloated momentarily that the likes of old Tollaf and his ilk had gone generations overlooking this simple application of mage talent. The old man still demanded to know exactly what Marik had done to defeat Duke Ronley. Not a single one in the entire lot was capable of original thought. If they couldn’t find it in a book, then it must be impossible.
He amended the thought while his breathing slowed. His father certainly seemed to be practicing a similar technique. In fact, the mental training that had aided Marik so greatly had passed to him though Sennet from Rail.
“We must press on,” Lynn called to him. “It has been a goodly amount of time since we left, and we haven’t managed a single mile yet.”
“Lynn, I don’t care if we had a dozen white stallions and a grassy carpet leading straight back to the camp. We aren’t going to get out of these mountains today.”
“And we won’t make it back tomorrow, either, if you sit on that rock until noon.” She picked her way westward into the rocky area the path had led them to.
The gods must certainly be laughing at them. After the tortuous crawl down, the next leg required them to pick their way up along a broken slope. At some point in the past this must have been where an avalanche had cascaded stone over the edge into the chasm. He could not say whether the jumbled mess was the slope’s surface, or if a smoother one lay buried under the mountain rubble.
To the right, his gaze traveled upward along the wall. It towered over them. Behind it must be the dead ends Lynn had so sweetly warned him of. He could see that even if he had managed to climb over every obstacle, the final trial would have been the abrupt drop two-hundred feet to this stony junk pile.
A hundred yards further up he could see the avalanche’s path turn to the left. The rolling disaster must have struck the wall and been forced sideways by its own power. Could that mean this track was a natural channel that avalanches had been following for centuries? What if a fresh disaster were scheduled for…just about now?
Marik gnashed his teeth and forced his mind away from that pleasant image.
Any number of nasty situations could be waiting for his return. Torrance had the experience to keep his command as intact as circumstances allowed. Gibbon was far more worrisome. He would not put it past the man to have bungled the simple assault in such a way that most of the crossbows were seriously damaged.
Of course that relied on the assumption that they’d had the opportunity to react once the Citadel started breaking apart. In every scenario he’d anticipated, the bloody monster had come to a stop in order to prepare for battle. The fact that it had kept moving relentlessly forward must have caught the ground fighters off their guards.
No doubt about it, a mess must be waiting. One that could mean the end of all western campaigning until Kin
g Raymond ordered Tybalt to cut loose enough men from the eastern fighting to join against the Arronaths. The thought instigated a painful throbbing in his temples. Best not to think about that either.
When in need, the gods provided. Or so said most priests. They provided amply for him by giving him the worst terrain to traverse that he had ever been forced to deal with. All thoughts other than careful maneuvering to avoid a broken ankle left his mind.
* * * * *
With the journey including as much vertical as horizontal, Marik found it hard to judge distances traveled. By the time they stopped for the night he guessed they might have made a total of six miles south following the old crow’s measurement.
His sense of position was badly distorted by the Stoneseams’ rough interior. He believed they were still at the same altitude as the crevice they had left behind that morning. Except Caresse, while collapsing in that exuberantly cheerful way of hers, had observed that the air was growing thicker since they had descended so far back toward the ground.
He sensed no difference, either through his mage senses or the laboring of his lungs, yet he did not possess the geomancy talent. Marik disliked magic on general principal, and having to rely on someone else’s talent caused him disquiet. The only magics he could put his trust in were those he spun personally.
But what choices did he have? The task of bringing down the Citadel had demanded magical power beyond what he could wield. There had been no other alternative. Despite Tybalt’s admonitions while they stood around the Thrull Valley model, deploying mage groups to kill men in battle still repulsed him. That was no honest way to claim a victory.
Yet he had been swallowed whole by the situation, forced not only to take part, but to work hand-in-glove with the royal enclave. How could man possibly labor under the illusion that he, and not the gods, controlled his own destiny?