Floreskand_Wings
Page 9
As they left the forest behind a slight warming breeze passed over them, and their clothes – damp with dew and mist – clung coldly. But soon, under the climbing sun, their garments dried and the breeze lessened.
The cultivated land receding behind them, they were now traversing plainsland, pocked with humps of sand, patterned by the whim of winds and plains-creatures.
Always out of range of Alomar’s arrows or sling-stones, small herds of fawn idly grazed, their solitary sentinels eyeing the travellers till they had passed.
Dotted about were purple plants as tall as two men, which, Ulran said, “provide a milky liquid quite palatable, though if you drink too much a reaction takes place in the stomach and bloating occurs, so severe that within two days the stomach bursts.” Cobrora shuddered. “The Overlord intended man to enjoy all things – in moderation." The innman grinned, eyes flashing in amusement.
The day drew to a rapid close; a silvery sheen of the quarter-moon heralded Sufinma.
They stopped by a shale promontory that would provide shelter against the plains-winds and frost: even through summer, Cobrora knew, the plainsland was thinly blanketed with frost in the dawn.
Lashing blankets together upon poles, they anchored the tent with rocks while Cobrora lit a fire and unpacked pans and food.
Stars glimmered in the firmament and the eyes of plains-dogs shone in the sudden blackness that circled the camp. But Cobrora’s mood had lightened throughout the day’s journey; the headache still persisted and its cause certainly gave some concern, but the psychic efforts in the wood had provided a sense of achievement, though Courdour Alomar refrained from acknowledging this. But, stirring the stew over the smoking fire, Cobrora again pondered upon the awful headache, the like of which had never before been experienced.
***
Because mist’s very nature had from time beginning been regarded as a weapon of arcane power, Por-al Row was pleased as he looked upon his stagnant pool.
The addition of herbs from the peaks of the Sonalumes had helped; he had been loath to use these, for the times of harvesting were short and only occurred every seventeen years. But King Yip-nef Dom’s rising ire had demanded something be done hastily, lest even the royal alchemist and enchanter should feel the anger of the king and go the way of all his poor concubines. Which would be most annoying, drastically upsetting his long-term designs. And the small sacrifice had been worth it, for now he could scry exceedingly well, aided by the reflective qualities of the mist.
Unfortunately, having remained within Arisa’s ancient bounds for so many years, he recognised neither traveller, though he was surprised to observe that a third member had joined the party.
Yip-nef Dom’s face paled at sight of the newcomer, a giant of a man dressed entirely in black, a large floppy hat concealing his face.
“Is – is that Cour – Courdour Alomar?” the king queried, flabby cheeks all of a tremble.
Interest quickening, Por-al Row leaned closer, squinted. “Difficult to say, sire... Could be – though he would indeed be foolish to return to Arisa!”
Yip-nef Dom barely contained his fear and hate. Glass eye glinting blue in the reflection of the astral picture, the king added, “Courdour’s toran is reputed to be somewhere in Marron Marsh, I believe.”
“That could be it, sire – he’s only accompanying the travellers as far as there.” The alchemist scowled. “See, the bird, how it persists in flying with them.” He flinched involuntarily.
“Yes, I would like to know why your mysteries desire these two men to be brought here with that bird.”
So would I, so would I, thought the alchemist, but said, archly, “In time, sire, we shall learn all.” He grinned, baring ill-formed teeth.
CHAPTER FOUR
ORB
"Spiders are nasty!"
– Queen Neran II of Lornwater
(Crowned 1153 – Deposed 1185)
Durin blossomed into light early and the sun soon melted the tracery of frost and warmed their bones, which felt frozen to the very marrow. Cramp spasms assailed Cobrora. Stepping forward, Courdour Alomar roughly massaged Cobrora’s left leg and the pain gradually eased.
Soon afterwards they were packed and moving across plainsland. The terrain, though undulating in deep and shallow waves, sloped up towards the varteron, doubtless aiding the teen-flow from the Sonalumes. Over their right shoulders was the edge of Oquar II Forest, extending as far as the eye could see.
Save for a few flocks of birds, they saw hardly any wildlife. They travelled without a break until topping a prominent rise that commanded a view of land beyond.
The middle distance to horizon was an indistinct haze, but directly ahead Cobrora could see the plains feathering into lush grassland, with flat-topped trees dotted about. Then there was a meandering ribbon of blue crossing from dunsaron to varteron, source and destination of Saloar Teen lost to sight – until Cobrora peered through narrowed eyes, with palm shielding them.
While the scene ahead greatly affected Cobrora with its beautiful contrasts of greens and blues, it paled to insignificance when compared to the towering mountains beyond the haze, myrtle in shade, with white-pointed caps, as though great fortresses floating upon clouds. Surrounding some peaks to lend the fancy more credence were wraithlike clouds, white and solid-looking, made more substantial by the blue sky.
Pointing just above Saloar Teen, Courdour Alomar said, “Marron Marsh is there... no, you won’t see it yet, even through a spyglass. In the haze... it is perpetually surrounded by a dense fog.”
“But first,” interjected Ulran, observing Cobrora’s blanched face at mention of the marsh-fog, “we must descend to the lower plain and cross Saloar Teen.”
The rugged promontory from which they descended was high and steep, and had to be negotiated with care.
Fortunately, by now, Cobrora could well manage Sarolee, though at times like this the thought occurred that perhaps the palfrey was leading and not the other way about.
And, always above and ahead, the darting shadow of Scalrin.
“How far to the teen?” Cobrora asked, nauseated with the repeated jolting of the descent.
“About two and a half days.”
To combat the queasiness, Cobrora counted off the days: Fourth Durin, Sapin. First Sabin of Fornious. “Carnival Day!” the city-dweller exclaimed humourlessly.
“Seems like an omen?” Courdour Alomar said, grinning.
Cobrora shrugged, the warrior’s irony wasted.
***
Crossing the high grasses during Fourth Sapin was almost carefree.
Cobrora’s earlier nausea had returned and Ulran noticed. “Don’t worry, it takes city-men a couple of days to get accustomed to the motion of the grasses. Hearsay has it that The Sea is like this.”
Groaning in reply, Cobrora managed a nod and reddened at the sound of Courdour’s laughter.
Swathing back as the horse’s chest ploughed through them, the grasses hissed and slithered, wavering like some inland sea. The sun beat mercilessly, the grasses already parched; the horses sustained small fine cuts in the flanks and chests from the scything dry blades.
For a brief while Ulran called a halt and together the three unfurled blankets to use as improvised buffers for the horses, after which progress quickened, much to Cobrora’s disgust as the brief stop had been a most welcome respite.
Their diet was supplemented by Courdour’s archery: his arrows skewered a couple of rabbits. Another time, he used his slingshot to good effect. Cobrora felt they fared well and now looked forward to the camp-side meals.
But, to Cobrora’s consternation, the mountains did not seem to get any nearer. And there was almost another day before the teen.
Already, after only seven days the city-dweller sensed a noticeable change within, feeling more physical somehow. The first couple of days were filled with suffering, wrists aching till they virtually dropped off with gripping the reins; buttocks were still bruised and red raw in places and t
highs underwent agonies of cramp. But now, Cobrora thought, I sit in the saddle a great deal more confidently: it was painful at first, but I am hardening to it, sleeping soundly when not on watch, untroubled by the many night-sounds. Must be getting braver. At least I’m not in unremitting agony – more like a dull ache, I suppose. The sun’s bronzed my skin too. Thank the Lords and Gods I don’t possess a fair skin like those Ranmeron folk.
Though still many launmarks away, Saloar Teen exerted its influence. The air seemed clearer in the distance, cleaned by the constant fresh-water spray; and here underfoot the grass was becoming greener as they closed the gap.
On four separate occasions Ulran dismounted to study hardly noticeable patches of broken grass. Once, a scuffed rock, and once he declared that the odd traces of trampled grass signified a herd of wild horses, chased by a horde of Devastators a while ago. Another time, he felt the warmth of some creature’s dung, testing its consistency, and remarked: “This could be Kellan-Mesqa stock. They feed their horses a special additive to their oats. They came this way not more than five orms gone.”
Cobrora’s eyes described a full circle but could only see the contrasting waves of green and yellow grasses all round; and, behind them, the far promontory tapering down to the forest. As in the forest, there was the crawling sensation up the spine, as though being watched with malice.
“I’ve heard the Devastator hordes are gathering, preparing for another war of attrition.”
“Not all the Kellan-Mesqa are as bad as the land-tillers impute, Alomar,” Ulran said, recognising the fashion where the family name was first and the given birth name second.
Courdour shrugged. “I’ve never had cause to like or dislike them. And though I may listen to rumours I never give them any credence.”
“Gossip is mightier than the sword!” quipped Cobrora.
Looking askance, Courdour Alomar rejoined, “Many a truth concealed in a jest, Cobrora Fhord.”
The creasing of Courdour Alomar’s mouth sent unwelcome shivers down Cobrora’s spine; almost preferring the open antagonism to this new aspect of the warrior. “Indeed, Alomar,” came the answer, using the warrior’s chosen name. Not for the first time, Cobrora wondered at Ulran’s lack of a second appellation.
“We’ll just have to keep our eyes open,” Ulran concluded and they rode on.
***
Headless upon a spit, the rabbit sent up tantalising smells as Courdour basted and turned it above the licking flames. Trickles of fat sizzled on the fire. To one side lay the animal’s head and paws, the latter saved as requested by Cobrora for charms.
Camp was a happy place this evening; as Ulran remarked, “Tomorrow, we should see Saloar Teen!”
Being their first significant geographical landmark, it had held an almost hypnotic importance during the days’ travelling. The next day would signal barely a seventh of the journey, but once the teen was crossed it would be a psychological victory, the first barrier overcome. Spirits were therefore high.
Ulran decided to break out the limited beer ration after they had crossed the teen.
“In moderation,” Courdour said and they all laughed, Cobrora most of all.
Later, lying beside the blazing fire, Cobrora dozed fitfully and felt quite contented, fears mostly dispelled. Though the headaches had gone, their nature still caused concern: always they seemed to be accompanied by a rancid, often stagnant stench permeating nostrils.
Yes, I feel almost one of them now, Cobrora thought, eyes closed, strangely replete.
A fighter I will never be, but at least both Ulran and Courdour Alomar now tend to accept me as one of them.
I have no guilt at the deception, no guilt at all.
***
Presentiment probably alerted the city-dweller first. The immediate instinctive reaction was to open eyes and jump up, nerve-endings were so desperate in their message of alarm. But another, quite insidious and insistent stimulus had penetrated, just in time before acceding to instinct.
Ulran’s urgent whispering, “Fhord – do not open your eyes...” repeated softly, rising in volume until it filtered beyond subconscious to conscious self, “Fhord – do not open your eyes. Don’t move even a fraction. Concentrate on nothing. Be calm.”
Naturally, the urgency alone impelled Cobrora’s body to spurt additional adrenaline; a need to see what in all the gods’ names was happening.
Very faintly Cobrora could feel – more sense than feel – the exiguous tracery of threads upon brow, cheeks and nose. Resist all impulse to jump up, to blink eyes open. Relax!
Instead, concentrate on mentally picturing the sensation: it was a web.
“That’s better,” Ulran said. “Whatever you do, do not open your eyes. Don’t even blink.” Then: “There’s an orb-spider’s web covering both your eyes – the spider is suspended over your right eye at the moment.”
“Light – closer!”
“Don’t spea–” Then the innman realised Cobrora had not spoken. He had snatched words from the psychic’s mind. Knowing the orb-spider would not be affected by light, he grabbed a flaming brand and held it closer.
Now, with the light upon flickering eyelids, sliced by the criss-cross web of the creature’s devising, Cobrora Fhord could dimly perceive shapes through the eyelids, against a flesh-redness. As concentration deepened the picture became even clearer.
The webbing was like dew, little gobs of it drooling, shining in the torchlight. The web over the right eye was taut and suspended upon it was an all-white spider, easily measuring the span of a man’s hand. Beautiful in its symmetry and the detail of its hairy legs, the patient poise of its head and cruel-looking pincers, it stared down at the right eye, aware that when Fhord awoke the eye would open.
Cobrora had always thought these grassland denizens were pure fiction, created by children’s storytellers for salutary nightmares. Detecting the glint of the white of the eye, the orb-spider would lunge its sharp pincers down, extracting the entire organ. It would quickly gorge the eye, storing it in its cheek pouch whilst scampering crab-wise to safety.
Apparently, they fed on unwary or ill grassland rodents and newborn calves and foals.
Cobrora’s entire skin felt as though it were cringing at the horrid prospect.
Sweat seemed to saturate clothing. And would the vile thing lunge anyway, slicing through eyelid?
To compound matters, the spider possessed a dangerous, virulent sting-tail, capable of felling a man with one jab.
“It’s worth a try–” Courdour Alomar too had remembered the orb-spider’s eating habits and his earlier kill – the rabbit – had given him an idea: “I know these orb-spiders have the patience of the gods – but Fhord can’t lie there forever.” He cut out one of the rabbit’s eyes.
“It’s his only chance.”
Skirting Cobrora, the warrior slowly reached out to the city-dweller’s left eye with the rabbit’s orb and pressed it through the web, so that it stared skywards on top of Fhord’s lid.
The breaking of the web gained the orb-spider’s attention and the creature’s sudden movement alarmed Fhord who somehow resisted the reflex urge to blink.
Time stretched then the spider noticed the rabbit’s eye.
It was over within the blinking of an eye, though Cobrora’s were now incapable of that automatic act, so frozen with dread after this narrow escape.
The rabbit’s eye vanished within the spider’s pouch and it scurried away, leaving the delicate spoor of web in its wake from grass stalk to grass stalk.
Cobrora Fhord let out a thankful sigh and stiffly sat up. Hands shakily coming away from eyes with tacky threads, the touch sent great shivers down spine and limbs.
“A drink, I think,” said Ulran and broke out the wine skin. “After that ordeal, you deserve it!” He smiled, recalling those brief alarming words from the psychic’s mind, because something else had slipped through too. Your secret is safe with me, Cobrora Fhord, he thought. “You were very brave, Fhord.”
Courdour Alomar crouched in front of the fire without speaking. Then he turned. “Come, let us savour the rabbit, it’s cooked now.”
So Cobrora Fhord learned something of the mysterious Courdour Alomar: some things did not require thanks. Saving a man’s life was one of them.
Stomach feeling a little more settled after the first reaction, Cobrora sat down with Ulran and Courdour and ate heartily, though still occasionally brushing away imaginary webs from both eyes in response to an uncomfortable tingling memory.
***
In the heavy blackness of no-moon, the mountains rumbled and shook. Freak high pressure ridges had caused a sudden imbalance and now anvil-headed clouds mounted each other, swirling blue-grey against the deeper black of night sky.
Denizens of the foothills had mysteriously gleaned the atmospheric changes and sought shelter in ample time; recluses high in the mountains had their ways of knowing also, and calmly battened down their cave entrances.
With abrupt violence the storm broke.
It was as though the gods had filled a gigantic hide-gourd with half an ocean then rent the gourd open, to gush contents in one almighty deluge. The massive weight of water swept almost all before it; conifers which had clung to the lower slopes for years, loose boulders which in turn loosened others, creating a muddy avalanche as well as worsening the incredible welter of water.
And the cause, the storm, had expended itself as quickly as it had come, leaving the great torrents of water, seeking and pounding the rifts and valleys.
The water tumbled into the teens, swelled them to capacity, coursed on and on, piling a wall of water ahead of it, together with logs, weeds, dust and silt.
Tumultuous in its force, unstoppable in its raw natural power, the flash flood seemed determined to rush headlong through the land, on and on, to spend itself in one final stupendous cascade over the Varteron Edge.