In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  His attention was brought back to the gate by the sentry’s challenge. “Who comes hither? None may pass the gates after suns-set.”

  Brohan adopted a pathetic, quivering tone. “Can you not make an exception for three weary travelers out in the cold?”

  “Nay, I cannot,” was the firm reply.

  “Perhaps a token of our appreciation would sway you?” Brohan persisted, winking at Calvraign with a smile.

  “Nay, I tell you,” came the irritated and overly formal response. “Now get thee hence!”

  Brohan hung his head forlornly, but spoke clearly in his full voice. “Well then, good sir, you leave me no choice but to compose a lyric regarding our sorrowful treatment at the city gates. If you’ll but surrender your name, I shall immortalize you for all time. Then, at the very least, your family will have something to remember you by while you’re rotting to your death in the gaol for delaying the King’s Bard to the festival!”

  There was a brief commotion above them as the sentries fumbled for a bulls-eye lantern amidst an exchange of accusation, blame and disbelief. A moment later, a light shone down from their post and illuminated Brohan’s grinning visage, his hood thrown back to reveal his features.

  “The King’s Bard! The King’s Bard!” yelled a voice in almost restrained panic, starting a chain reaction of shouts and footsteps. “Open the gate! Open the gate at once! A hundred-score apologies, Master Madrharigal!”

  The sentry continued to stutter nervous supplications, but Brohan laughed it off in good humor. Calvraign knew the bard could never resist a harmless prank, but evidently the guard didn’t feel as secure about his good nature. He paused as his companions walked through the opening maw of the North Gate, turning to look behind him with a start. He felt a familiar chill spread through his bones. Had one of the Sentinels moved? Or had it been a trick of the torchlight and the shadows of the night? Or something else?

  With a deep breath, Calvraign followed Brohan and Artygalle over the threshold of the city and into whatever destiny lay before him, the afterimage of a deathly, cloaked figure burned into the back of his head.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  UNDER THE SPUR

  OSRITH looked over the edge of the cliff down into the impenetrable pool of darkness below. He dislodged a small rock with his foot and watched as it careened down the mountain’s edge. It was a considerable time before he heard it strike bottom. He didn’t remember how he had come to be at this place, alone, nor for what reason he had done so, yet it seemed familiar to him. No wind stirred, and above him only the stars illuminated the night. He turned when he heard Evynine’s soft voice behind him.

  “Osrith,” she called, her long legs carrying her over the roughened expanse of rock between them gracefully, effortlessly. A thin, translucent coverlet clung to her skin, wrapping around the supple curves of her form without entirely concealing her nakedness.

  Osrith’s heart clenched in his chest. She had never come to him like this before, even in his most fervent dreams.

  “Milady?” he whispered.

  She smiled at his puzzled tone, her eyes shining brighter than the stars above them, and reached out to stroke his cheek. The warmth of her touch was soothing and exhilarating all at once. He felt himself drawing away, attempting to check the feelings that burned inside, as he had done so many times before. But his will was sluggish, distracted by the sight of her flesh, the scent of her hair, the promise of her gaze.

  “Osrith,” she said again, an edge of sorrow in her voice, “it must end here. You know we cannot continue as we have, nor can we be together now. There is too much between us.”

  Osrith knew what she meant, somehow. He turned back to the cliff and peered over once more, the persistent pull of the darkness tugging at his resolve. She pressed against him, the warmth of her breasts against his back, her arms reaching around to hug his chest, her lips brushing against his ear as she spoke.

  “Perhaps then we can be together,” she prodded.

  Osrith took a step closer to the edge. How many times had this very thought crossed his mind? The blackness below invited him again silently, but he did not jump. Something held his limbs in place, planted solidly on the rock beneath his feet.

  “It is your time, Osrith.” The voice was a hollow sound with a coarse edge and, like everything else here, familiar and distant. It had been several years since last he’d heard it, but he knew it still, and it clawed at every nerve in his spine as it spoke again.

  “Hestan,” he said as he spun on his heels, the name catching in his throat as he saw the bloodied, limping form that approached him. Evynine stepped back.

  The man he had once called friend and lord hobbled toward him slowly, his left leg dragging limp and useless beside him, his mail rent from his neck to his loins and his curdled flesh ripped open to expose the yellowed bone beneath. His gaunt, bearded face was contorted in pain left over from the last bitter moments of his life, his eyes dim but penetrating.

  “Come back with me, Osrith. You don’t belong here. You were not meant to suffer like this.” Hestan reached out his hands, offering to take him over the edge and into oblivion. “End your pain.”

  “No,” whispered Osrith. “There are things afoot I must finish.”

  Anger twisted Hestan’s face. “You are destroying everything as you once destroyed me!” The corpse rushed Osrith, grappling at him wildly. “I will take you back!”

  Osrith parried the clumsy blow, pivoting and throwing Hestan forward – and into the black gap of empty air behind him. Evynine screamed, collapsing to her knees. Osrith’s stomach knotted, and his muscles tensed as familiarity slowly dissolved into recognition.

  “A tempting alternative, captal.” Dieavaul’s tone was sympathetic over Evynine’s wailing ululation. “This could be your escape. Ultimately, perhaps even your victory, if you choose.”

  Osrith remained silent and still. His eyes focused on the dark pit calling to him from below. He wondered how much of his desire to jump was Dieavaul’s doing, or if he only wished it were.

  “It would save them all, of course,” continued Dieavaul. “I have no reason to harm any of your friends if you are gone. Evynine, Kassakan…. Both could live out their lives in peace. This could be your gift to them.”

  Osrith turned to face Dieavaul, biting off his words in anger. “Your master’s designs reach far past me.”

  “I have no master, Turlun,” replied Dieavaul shortly, his ashen lips thinning into a tight line. “But if their fate does not concern you, then consider this – by destroying the dreamstone, you rob me of victory. You could go to the greylands tasting my defeat.”

  Osrith frowned. “I’d just as soon not taste any part of you, given the choice,” he responded dryly.

  Dieavaul gazed at the mercenary with no trace of amusement. “This is your last chance, captal. I suggest you take it. My pity moves me only so far.”

  Osrith glanced past the Pale Man at the weeping figure of Evynine behind him. It was a hollow illusion without his own desires to give it depth. He looked back into the merciless orbs from which Dieavaul viewed the world, knowing from bitter experience that there was no way to harm this dark reflection of his enemy here in his own nightmare.

  “Your pity’s not worth the dung on my boot. If it’s the dreamstone’s end you seek even above my own, then that I’ll protect above all else.”

  Dieavaul answered his defiance with more mocking laughter. “I shall have to ask him to be sure, but I believe you once made a similar oath to protect the life of Hestan neVae.” In a blur he drew the bonesword, bringing its razor tip to Osrith’s chin. “And we both remember how well you kept that promise.”

  Osrith doubled over, his fingers clawing at the sudden pain in his gut. Blood ran cold over his fingers, dribbling from the old wound down his tunic and onto the grey rock at his feet. He closed his eyes against the visions that the pain rekindled. But there was no place he could hide from this, no place to run, for this torment was n
ot wholly of Dieavaul’s making; it was partly his own. In all these years, he’d found nowhere to run that his guilt could not follow.

  The wind caressed his brow, and with a tired fascination Osrith realized he was no longer asleep. He sat upright on his sleeping roll, shivering and still holding his side. He did not know how long he’d been awake, or how long Symmlrey had been watching him there. He returned the curious gaze of her sapphire-violet eyes with a hard stare. He had never liked the aulden much, and only marginally cared for wilhorwhyr, who he considered a self-righteous lot. In his eyes, she had very little going for her.

  “If you’re standing watch, little girl, I think you’d be better served looking someplace else.”

  His derision, though purposeful, apparently had little effect. “You are injured,” she replied with a soothing calm. “Your sleep is troubled.”

  “Is it, now?” growled Osrith, rising from his mat and girding himself in his studded leather harness. He grimaced when he cinched the straps about his tender midriff.

  “I mean no offense,” she said, her tone more informative than apologetic.

  Osrith stroked his beard, trying to awaken his numbed face, and broke her gaze. Kassakan sat, presumably sleeping, next to him. It was hard to be certain with the hosskan, because the thin membrane that covered their eyes during repose was transparent, serving to ward off dust and insects rather than light. He saw no sign of Two-Moons in the sheltering cave they had discovered the night before. Though he judged it was still a handspan before daylight, he wished to be on their way immediately.

  “Where’s Two-Moons off to?”

  “He is on watch outside,” replied Symmlrey. “He’s troubled.”

  “And well he should be,” he muttered. “Call him in.”

  Symmlrey nodded and then mimicked the bark of a small mountain cat. Two-Moons appeared in the tiny cave entrance, his silhouette only slightly darker than the night beyond.

  “How close are they?” asked Osrith in a tone that displayed he knew or suspected the answer.

  “They are traveling straight through the night. We have only a few spans before they reach us here.”

  Symmlrey shook her head in consternation. “How can that be? We’ve been so careful.”

  “Yes,” mused the old man. “I have seldom been tracked at all, let alone with such ease.” He paused, examining Osrith’s face. “What know you of this, Osrith?”

  “It’s Dieavaul,” he answered, spitting the word like venom. “He walks in my dreams and follows in my footsteps. There is a piece of me yet in his damnable blade.”

  Two-Moons stepped back and sat heavily on a boulder beside his student. “You were wounded by the hellforged? Ilnymhorrim?”

  “Call it what you will, he stuck me with it.”

  “Not many live to tell that tale,” said Two-Moons. “You should count yourself in the gods’ good graces.”

  “Fortune or fate allowed me to heal him, I don’t know which,” said Kassakan from her reclined position, her protective membrane still eerily in place, “but the wound still troubles him.”

  “The pain grows when he’s near. No doubt it draws him to me.”

  “Yes,” Two-Moons agreed, “you are an unfinished meal. Once that sword has tasted of your flesh, it does not forget. I see now why your nature is taciturn.”

  “Don’t be so easily fooled,” Kassakan added lightly. “He was surly enough long before that sad day.”

  “In any event, we have to swift-leg it out of here. If we can’t elude them, then we’ll have to outrun them.” Osrith began packing away his bedroll and gear as he spoke. “Once we reach the plains, they’ll retreat. Even with Dieavaul at their head, they won’t be anxious to follow us into the open.”

  “Are you fit for such travel?” asked Symmlrey. “You are still weak, and if this other wound now troubles you….”

  Osrith answered with a dry chuckle. “Our options are limited, girl.”

  The young aulden shrugged. “There is always ambush.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” snapped Osrith. “He would sense me before we could spring any trap!”

  Symmlrey’s face betrayed only the glimmer of a smile. “That,” she said, “is why you will be our bait.”

  Osrith was without answer to her folly, so taken aback was he by her suggestion. Strategically it was a bold move, perhaps even an intelligent one, but practically he knew it too dangerous. She did not understand the power that Dieavaul possessed. Even above the magic of his unholy sword, he was a sorcerer and assassin of great measure. When ilnymhorrim chose its wielder to be the Pale Man, one of the Walking Gods, he was sure it made the choice carefully. Perhaps if an army were at their side, or a great wizard, but not these few, tired companions. And not with the dreamstone at stake.

  “I believe Osrith’s choice more prudent, child,” said Two-Moons diplomatically, “but we will certainly make their pursuit a memorable one.”

  Symmlrey shrugged, nonplused but obviously disappointed. Osrith could see her battle lust brimming beneath the surface of her resigned expression. The same feeling had rushed hotly through his blood when he had first taken up the sword, a day now so many years in the past that it seemed like another lifetime. It had not taken many battles, many wounds, or many dead friends to cure him of that youthful affliction. He suspected the same curative would find its way to her heart before long, and soon, if their circumstances did not improve. All too soon.

  Osrith moved past Kassakan as she stood and stretched, extending and retracting her claws with a yawn, her eyes once more bright and alert. He walked to the cave entrance and peered outside. A light breeze blew from the west, stirring the fallen snow but bringing no fresh powder to the mountain slopes. Huge overhangs of ice and snow threatened them from the upper reaches of the mountainside. In the spring, when the great thaws began, the slightest of noises, echoing and reverberating from cliff to cliff, could release these frozen masses in a slope-scouring avalanche. Many a caravan had been buried in a misguided attempt to be the first through the passes. Some believed this was the wrath of disgruntled mountain spirits who saw fit to demonstrate their displeasure on the heads of hapless travelers. Though he gave the supposition little credence, he noted that there had been enough early snowfall to arm the mountain should it be provoked into striking. The kin possessed many ways of encouraging such an avalanche to strike on their behalf. He had heard some stories in the Deeps claiming….

  “Two-Moons,” he said over his shoulder, scanning the peaks around them intently, his eyes searching to validate his scant hope, “is there any other way through the pass save this trail?”

  The old man joined him on the ledge. “Not for many leagues. We use this trail because it is inaccessible and isolated. We cannot turn back now.”

  “But if we blocked this trail, they would have no way to follow us?”

  “Not without sorcery.” Two-Moons eyed the higher slopes, then shook his head. “But if you’re thinking what I suspect, it’s far too dangerous. We’d bring the mountain down upon ourselves as well as our pursuit.”

  “Yes.” Osrith’s lips spread into a broad smile across his face. “Exactly!”

  “I’m not certain how to respond to that,” said Two-Moons, “but I assume you don’t mean to kill us all.”

  “I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction,” Osrith said. He heard the soft footstep of Symmlrey behind him, and Kassakan loomed like a shadow out of the corner of his eye. Two-Moons watched him, awaiting explanation. Osrith knew he would have to make it quick. “This trail – it’s pretty old, right?”

  Two-Moons nodded. “Aye, as old as anyone can remember.”

  “I thought as much. Let’s march. I’ll explain as we go.”

  The four companions were away in short order, without further comment about Osrith’s mysterious plan. He assumed this was because they all knew staying at the cave and arguing would be more dangerous than arguing on the move. Conventional wisdom suggested whatever they decided to d
o would best be done as far from Dieavaul as possible. Though his idea would be seen as reasonable enough in some circles, he doubted his present company would consider it conventional.

  “This trail – and the caves spaced out for shelter – these aren’t wilhorwhyr doing. They’re older. Probably dates back to when Birijohr ruled the Deeps. This small arm of the Ridge was once a part of the Underkingdom of Raetchensgraab called Brecholt’s Spur. From here they traded with the Ceearmyltu and the surface world.”

  “How does this help us?” asked Symmlrey from just behind him.

  “It helps us because there are still some kin stationed here. They maintain several outposts out here for border defense and security. If we can find the right cave, we should be able to gain entrance to their stronghold. They’ll grant us safe passage under the mountain.”

  Symmlrey’s skepticism was unabated. “How can you be certain? Have you had dealings with them before?”

  Kassakan answered before Osrith could open his mouth. “If there are any underkin in this mountain, rest assured he will be welcomed, and us along with him. He is somewhat of a hero to their people.”

  Osrith cringed. It annoyed him that Kassakan brought that up at any available opportunity. He decided to change the subject before Symmlrey’s curiosity really got the lizard talking. “More importantly, they can help us be rid of Dieavaul for the time being.”

  “What number is their force?” called Two-Moons from the rear. “How long do you think they can hold them off?”

  “Their number?” yelled back Osrith. Evidently Two-Moons hadn’t yet guessed what he had in mind. “Probably no more than a dozen, but that will be enough.”