The Night of the Swarm

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “What, in the dark?” cried Mandric.

  “In the dark,” said Olik, nodding. “Yes, by damn, that’s a fine idea. This snow is packed: that will make for better footing than this trail.”

  “And that bad weather you say is coming?” demanded the Turach.

  “All the more reason to descend quickly,” said Hercól, “and along the path of the snowslide we can at least be confident of not losing our way. But you are right to be wary, Mandric. Tonight we must tie ourselves together as before.”

  It was decided. They retreated halfway down the snow mass, until its bulk hid them from the valley, and started straight down the mountain. The angle of the snow made walking difficult, but they were heartened by the thought of escaping the mountains sooner, and even the approach of nightfall did not dampen their spirits. Better to walk through the night than to try bedding down in this cold, Pazel thought. But the wind was rising, and the selk looked anxiously over their shoulders at Urakán.

  As darkness fell they climbed the snow-ridge again. Once tied together they began to feel their way downhill, with the sharp-eyed ixchel on the shoulders of the selk leading the way. While a little light remained they made steady progress, never straying far from the edge of the avalanche, and before long they crossed the first switchback. The moons were hidden by the peaks, but the starlight helped Pazel find his footing, and now and then a selk would look back at him with a glowing blue eye. They dropped from several ten-foot ledges without incident, although letting himself fall into darkness frightened Pazel more than he cared to admit. Enough! he thought, after landing hard for the third time. Someone can blary well strike a match at the bottom next time, so that we know how far we’re going to fall.

  They reached the second switchback and pressed on. But shortly thereafter the wind surged, cold and brutal, and snow began to fall. Pazel was appalled at the speed of the storm’s arrival. Before any of them could speak they were staggering and shielding their eyes from the driven snow.

  “Down, down to the trees!” roared Hercól. “Hold fast to the ixchel! Valgrif, keep that dog beside you!”

  They fled the open surface of the avalanche and began to burrow into its side. They used their picks, their scabbards, their bare hands. It was much harder than digging into the fresh powder on Isarak: this was old, dense snow, and many a broken pine lay buried within it, and there was no light at all. Meanwhile the storm became a blizzard, the snow slashing horizontally, the brittle pines crashing around them and the wind like a throng of tortured souls.

  Finally they were all out of the blast. They had dug a cramped burrow, mounding the excavated snow into a wall and propping branches against the opening to block at least part of the wind. But they were blind and soaked. The selk wine went around, but when Pazel’s turn came he found that he was shaking uncontrollably, and he spilled more down his chin than he managed to swallow. “Dry yourselves!” said Hercól. “Use the cloths from the selk. Use anything you like, but do it now.” Pazel’s cloth was at his neck. The outer layer was damp, but within its folds it was, amazingly, dry. He rubbed it frantically over his limbs, and a little feeling came back into them.

  “I have spread a canvas on the snow,” said Hercól. “Squeeze onto it, the closer the better.”

  “Night Gods!” shouted Corporal Mandric. “Mr. Bolutu, your pack is hot! The blary Nilstone’s giving off heat!”

  “Do not warm yourselves by the Nilstone!” said the selk. “Its heat is illusory; the old stories tell of just such a snare. It cannot warm you; it can only scald and kill. If Arpathwin were here he would explain.”

  “Well, he ain’t here,” growled the Turach, squirming, “and I don’t need a mage to tell me hot from cold. Give your pack here, Bolutu; let me move it to the center. We’ll see who don’t warm his hands.”

  “Stay away from the Stone!”

  It was Thasha—and it was not. Her voice had come out with more ferocity than Valgrif ever put into a snarl. Mandric froze, and neither he nor anyone reached in Bolutu’s direction again.

  Pazel had been cold before, but now he understood that it had only been a tease. This was agony, and they were all in it together, moaning, blind. Even the selk were quietly shaking. Hercól made them report one by one: were their toes dry? Were their heads covered tightly? Were they all sharply awake?

  “I’ve been more so,” said Myett.

  “Then sleep—if you never mean to wake,” snapped Hercól. “Where are you, crawlies? Come here.”

  In the ixchel tongue, Pazel heard the women laugh grimly. “He’s only trying to provoke us, to keep us alert and alive,” said Ensyl. “Of course,” said Myett. “Do you know, sister, I could almost love this man.”

  “But I do not love his armpit,” Ensyl replied.

  Then Hercól passed out dried fruit and seed-cakes and hazelnuts and hard black bread. “Eat!” he said. “The food is coal; your stomach is a furnace; you will see how fast it burns away.”

  “How long until daylight?” asked Thasha.

  “Long enough. Chew your food.”

  “Pitfire, now he thinks he’s Captain Rose,” muttered Neeps.

  It hurt to laugh. It hurt to breathe, to move, to refrain from moving. Someone (who cared who) had taken Pazel in a bear hug; Pazel himself held tight to Thasha, and found that she in turn had wrapped herself around Valgrif, who had curled into a ball. Pazel heard Neeps and Lunja whispering together—insults, surly apologies, then softer words he tried not to hear. Time slowed, as if they were trapped in some diabolical ceremony, sustained for cruelty’s sake and nothing more. They held one another. Little by little the howling of the storm died away.

  When the selk declared that dawn had arrived Pazel did not believe them: it was still dark as pitch. But then the nest of limbs and bodies broke apart (cramped muscles, fresh cries of pain) and light poured in suddenly from one side. The storm had piled another eight feet of powder against the side of the avalanche. They crawled out, dazzled, into bright sun and crisp, still air.

  The storm had left its mark. The humans had cold blisters on their hands and feet, and some of them were bleeding. For the dlömu matters were worse: their skin had cracked in places, and the blood in the wounds had frozen into tiny crystals that fell out when they moved like pink salt.

  “The caves would have protected us,” said Hercól. “I was wrong to insist on this course of action.”

  “No, swordsman,” said Prince Olik. “If we had lingered on the mountaintop, we would still be facing the whole descent, and under a much greater depth of snow. All this day we should have spent plowing through it, hip-deep or deeper, only to reach the spot where we stand now.”

  Hercól nodded, but he did not seem much inclined to look at the bright side. “We have won back a little time. We must win back more. Let us walk for an hour before we breakfast; it will do us good to move.”

  They struggled down along the side of the avalanche, wading through the fresh snow like bathers in the surf. The trail’s third switchback was of course quite lost to sight, but the selk found it anyway by the ever-so-slightly wider spacing between the trees. They followed it away from the peak, steeply downhill. The air warmed, their limbs warmed, and gradually the depth of snow decreased.

  Much of that day they walked in silence—around the edge of a frozen lake, through a forest of strange evergreens that smelled of ginger, along the edge of an ancient wall that ran for miles through the foothills: one more defense breached by the ogres of the Thrandaal. Again and again Pazel found himself scanning the skies. He saw any number of vultures, crows and woodpeckers, but no owl, no Ramachni.

  The old wall became still more ruined, and the travelers picked their way in the spaces between the tumbled stones. At one point Pazel found himself and Neeps walking a little apart from the others. He glanced around surreptitiously. Then he whispered in Sollochi, Neeps’ mother tongue.

  “Listen, mate, I need to tell you something. You, and no one else.”

  Neeps
blinked. “Pitfire. What?”

  “That night at the Demon’s Court, when I spoke to Erithusmé. I told you most of what she said. But just before she vanished she told me something strange: that there’s another … power, hidden on the Chathrand. The mage didn’t want to tell me. I had to badger her something fierce.”

  “What kind of power?” said Neeps. “Do you mean another way to bring her back?”

  “No, she’d have been more keen on that,” said Pazel, “and besides, she was obsessed with Thasha breaking through that wall inside her. As far as Erithusmé’s concerned, that’s the only right way now. This other power is something dangerous, something mad. You remember the spot on the berth deck, where I used to sling my hammock?”

  “The stanchion with the copper nails.”

  Pazel nodded. “She told me to bring Thasha to that very spot. And nothing more. ‘When she is standing there she will know what to do.’ That’s it. A moment later she was gone.”

  Neeps was clearly struggling for calm. “You mean,” he said, “that you’ve not told anyone? Not Ramachni, not Hercól?”

  “Just you,” said Pazel. “Maybe we should tell them. But what if they say something to Thasha? She’s the problem, don’t you see? If Thasha knew, she’d want to use this thing as soon as we set foot on the Chathrand. Even if it killed her.”

  “She is stubborn. Like a blue-blooded mule. And Pitfire, those copper nails? She must have seen ’em before.”

  Pazel looked at him sidelong. “Don’t be dense, mate. The compartment’s always full of bare-assed tarboys.”

  They almost laughed. Pazel needed a laugh. But he wouldn’t let himself, not now. The laughter could too easily spill into tears.

  “If something happens to me—”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Pazel.”

  “—and you take her there alone, please—make her be careful. Erithusmé was very clear on that point: whatever’s hidden there is a last resort.”

  Neeps gave his promise, and they trudged on into the lengthening day. The ruins ended; the land grew flat, and the forest rose about them tall and ancient and seemingly at peace. Suddenly Valgrif stopped, rigid. He lowered his muzzle and sniffed, then showed his fangs.

  “Dogs,” he said. “Athymars. They passed here in the night, or very early this morning.”

  “Many?” asked Neda.

  “Many,” said the wolf. “A large hunting pack, twenty or more. But they must be far away now, or well hidden; otherwise I should be able to catch their scent on the wind, not just here where their flanks rubbed against trees.”

  Pazel felt as if someone had just broken a cane across his back. Twenty of those mucking creatures! “So what now?” he said.

  “Eat,” said Valgrif.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The wolf looked at them urgently. “Eat, eat for several hours’ marching. Then wash your faces and hands, and wash your mouths out with snow, and bury the place where you spit. And you dlömu, change the dressing on your bandages. You must bury the old ones here, along with anything soiled or food-stained.”

  “What’s all this about?” asked Corporal Mandric.

  “Staying alive,” said the wolf. “A pack that size is far more dangerous than what we faced at the bridge. If they find us, they will kill us—and they will find us if they catch our scent. They would pay no heed to a single wolf, but they will know the smell of dlömic blood. And your food’s reek is unlike anything in this forest. You must remove any trace of it—and wash your hair, too, if you can stand the cold.”

  “We can stand it,” said Lunja firmly. “We saw what the athymars can do with those fangs.”

  They ate, and scrubbed with snow, and buried what Valgrif had told them to bury. Then they set off, more guarded than ever. The air beneath the giant trees was still and quiet. Valgrif ranged far ahead, and the noiseless selk followed, just near enough to keep the party in sight.

  For nearly an hour they crept without incident through the forest, and heard no sound but the cawing of crows. Then Valgrif loped back among them. “Something is wrong,” he said. “I can smell the dogs: they are much nearer than before, but the scent is weak, as though some of them had disappeared. Perhaps the pack has divided.”

  “Or dug in?” suggested Pazel. “To ambush us?”

  “Twenty athymars would not wait for an ambush,” said the wolf. “They would simply tear us to pieces. We must bear north, away from their scent.”

  He moved on, out of sight, and the party followed as before. Hercól and the selk archers held their bows at the ready; the others walked with their hands upon their swords. The snow cover was by now quite thin, and they could hear the crackle of leaves and sticks beneath their feet.

  Pazel winced at every sound. He glanced up at the tall pines around them. The lowest branches were twenty feet above their heads.

  Then Valgrif snarled. Pazel turned and saw a dog’s shape flashing toward the wolf between the dark trunks. A second followed. Hercól whirled around, drawing his bow as he did so. The selk too were taking aim.

  “Don’t fire!”

  It was a selk’s voice, shouting from far off in the trees. The archers paused, and for an instant Pazel feared some trick, for the dogs had just closed on Valgrif. But they were not dogs, they were ash-gray wolves, and they greeted the black creature with whimpers of joy.

  “Kallan! Rimkal!” barked Valgrif. “Comrades, these are my sons!”

  The wolves ran in circles, yipping and prancing. They were woken, like the creatures at the temple in Uláramyth, and they greeted the travelers with great courtesy. Then Pazel heard the four selk in their party crying out with joy.

  “Kirishgán!” they shouted. “Fire’s child! Kinsman!”

  For it was he. Pazel almost cried out as well—but a dark thought made him hold his tongue. Everything Thaulinin had told him about the selk way of death rose suddenly in his mind. Kirishgán, meanwhile, rushed forward and embraced his fellow selk, then turned and looked at the other travelers with delight.

  “Hail, Olik, prince and brother! I feared for you, when I heard that you had defied the sorceress.” Kirishgán’s eyes moved to Pazel. “Smythídor,” he said, “how I hoped we would meet again.”

  “Then it’s you?” said Pazel. “The … whole you?”

  “We selk are whole but once,” said Kirishgán, “and for me that time is yet to come. But yes, Pazel, I am flesh and blood. And here are your family! Sister Neda, brothers Neeps and Hercól, Thasha Isiq, who has palmed your heart.”

  Pazel blushed. He had spoken of them all to Kirishgán, over tea in Vasparhaven Temple. And of course the selk remembered. Brothers: that was exactly right, of course, and so was what he said of Thasha. So right that Pazel couldn’t face her, in fact. “Where have you been, Kirishgán?” he asked.

  “Among Nólcindar’s people, whom I met in the West Dells of the Ansyndra. For eight days and nights we have led the Ravens on a merry chase, away from Uláramyth and the Nine Peaks. Hundreds there were, but we have reduced the count.”

  “And the athymars?” asked Valgrif.

  “Slain, Father,” said one of the wolves. “They were scouting this valley from Urakán to the Weeping Glen, and letting no creature pass. But at nightfall they always congregated here, and last night we fell upon them during the storm. Rimkal and I tore six between us, and the selk killed the rest. We buried the pack not far from here, but by the smell I think some scavenger has found the grave and dug them out again.”

  “Where has Nólcindar gone?” asked Thasha.

  “To the Ilidron Coves,” said Kirishgán. “When we saw the extent of the forces arrayed against you, we knew that someone had to run ahead and ready the Promise for the open sea. There will be no time to waste when you arrive with the Nilstone. We three stayed behind, and sought you in the mountains, for we guessed that you would cross the Parsua by the Water Bridge. We were still far south of Urakán, though, and you crossed before we could come to your aid.
There are still many hrathmogs in the southern peaks. And when we finally came to the last mountain before the Nine, we looked down on a terrible sight: an eguar fighting a demonic creature, a maukslar probably. More worrying still, the eguar was our loyal Sitroth, who had sworn never to leave the North Door of the Vale unguarded.”

  The others told him at once of their own battle with the creature. “Sitroth attacks me,” said Prince Olik. “Then a demon attacks us all, and is driven off by Ramachni. And now Sitroth and the demon fight each other. How to make sense of it all?”

  “But saw you nothing of our mage?” said Bolutu. “No owl, no mink, no sign of spellcraft?”

  “We surely missed a great deal,” said Kirishgán. “The battle was scorching trees and melting snow, great clouds of steam were rising. We could see the path of destruction leading back along the Parsua Gorge. The maukslar lashed out with teeth and claws and fire: it was the faster of the two. Many times it struck like a snake, and recoiled out of reach. But Sitroth’s fire burned hotter than the demon’s, and its bite was deadly. Every blow it landed did terrible damage. At last the maukslar rose into the air and fled. Its wings were burned, however. It could not fly far, nor reach the clifftops, and Sitroth pursued it below. I would have hailed the eguar, then, had our own secrecy not been so vital.”

  Suddenly Valgrif and his sons went rigid, their eyes and ears turned westward. After a moment Pazel heard a distant rumbling sound, and the echo of a hunting-horn.

  “That is part of the Ravens’ host,” said Kirishgán. He glanced at Prince Olik. “Common Bali Adro soldiers, for the most part. You could ride out and greet them, Prince, but I do not think they would bow to you.”

  “They would not bow,” said Olik. “Macadra has made a slave of the Emperor, but the generals still march under his flag, and no minor prince’s command may outweigh that of the Resplendent One. We would be seized—with mumblings of regret perhaps—and then delivered to torture and death.”