His expression changed to one of embarrassment. “Perhaps a shabraque would be more suitable,” he said. “We have several, though they are not comfortable for a long ride. But you will be able to sit sideways on old Grimtail. Will that suit, lady?”
“You are very kind. I am sorry to put you to this trouble.”
“No trouble, I assure you.” Emrin moved to the back of the stable and returned with a leopardskin shabraque, which he fastened around the pony’s neck and belly. He swung to Keeva, who was already sitting on a tall chestnut gelding. “I have packed supplies for around three days, and two sacks of grain for the mounts.”
“We must be swift,” Ustarte said suddenly. “There are riders heading up from the town.”
Emrin tried to lift Ustarte to the pony. He failed. “Your … robes must be very heavy,” he said. The soldier searched around the barn, returning with a three-legged stool. Ustarte stepped onto it, then carefully sat down on the mare’s back.
“Keep hold of her mane, lady. Keeva will take the reins. And you had better carry the stool with you for when you want to mount again.”
Keeva heeled the chestnut forward. Leaning down, she took up the reins of the pony. It did not move. Emrin slapped the beast lightly on the rump, and the two mounts walked out into the moonlit yard. In the distance Keeva caught sight of a troop of riders cresting a hill half a mile away.
Now, an hour later, the two women had covered very little ground. The pony kept stopping and standing stubbornly in place for several minutes at a time, breathing heavily. Its dark flanks were already wet with sweat.
Ustarte seemed untroubled. “They are not following yet,” she said. “They are searching the palace.”
“If we were being chased by a cripple with a crutch, he would have overtaken us by now,” said Keeva.
“The pony is old and tired. I think I shall walk for a while.” Ustarte slipped from the mare’s back. Keeva dismounted alongside her, and the two women moved off into the darkness of the trees.
They walked in silence for another hour, then Ustarte suddenly stopped. Keeva heard her sigh. She saw tears on the face of the priestess. “What is wrong?” she asked.
“The killing has begun.”
“At the palace?”
“No, at the duke’s feast. The Ipsissimus has summoned demons into the hall. The people there are being slaughtered. It is vile!”
“The Gray Man?” asked Keeva, fear swelling.
“He is not there. But he is close by.” Ustarte placed the stool she was carrying on the ground and sat down. “He is scaling the wall behind the palace and climbing into a room. Now he waits.”
“What of the riders who came looking for you?”
“They are gathering their mounts and preparing to follow. One of the servants said they had seen us at the stables.”
“Then we must ride. On fast horses they could be upon us in less than an hour.”
Using the stool, Ustarte mounted the pony, and they set off once more. The old mare seemed to have gathered strength, and for a little while they made good time. But as they reached the scree slopes above the ruins of Kuan Hador, the beast stumbled.
Ustarte climbed down and placed her ear against the pony’s flanks. “Her heart is laboring. She cannot go any farther carrying me.”
“We cannot escape on foot,” said Keeva. “There is still too far to go.”
“I know,” Ustarte answered softly.
Tossing aside the stool, the priestess removed her gray gloves. Slowly she undressed, the moonlight gleaming on the striped fur of her back and flanks. Passing the robe, gloves, and soft leather shoes to Keeva, she said: “You ride on. I will meet you where the trail forks on the mountain road.”
“I cannot leave you here,” objected Keeva. “I made a promise to the Gray Man.”
“You must,” Ustarte said softly. “I will deal with the men following, and I will be at the road to meet you. Now go swiftly, for I must prepare. Go!”
Keeva leaned over to take the reins of the pony. “Leave her,” said Ustarte. “There is one more service she must provide.” Keeva was about to argue, when Ustarte suddenly leapt toward the chestnut. Panicked by her scent, the big gelding reared, then sprang away down the slope.
Ustarte moved to the old pony. “I am sorry, my dear,” she said. “You deserve better than this.” Her talons slashed through the pony’s throat. Blood spurted. The mare tried to rear, but Ustarte was holding the reins. As the blood pumped out through the severed artery, the pony’s front legs buckled. Ustarte lay down alongside her, pushing her face into the gaping wound. Swiftly she drank.
Her body writhed and twisted, muscles swelling.
Though not an expert horsewoman, Keeva did not panic as the gelding raced down the slope. With one hand on the reins and the other grasping the saddle pommel, she held on grimly. The gelding, only momentarily panicked by the scent of Ustarte’s fur, calmed down swiftly, and by the time they reached the first bend in the trail he was moving at a trot. Keeva gently tugged on the reins, halting the animal. She spent a few moments stroking the long sleek neck and whispering soothing words, then swung in the saddle to stare back up the slope.
She was angry now. The Gray Man had asked her to see Ustarte safely away from danger, and now the priestess was going back alone to face the enemy. Keeva swung the gelding and began the long ride back to where she had last seen Ustarte.
It took some time, for the slope was steep. When finally she came upon the scene, there was no sign of the beast-woman. The little pony lay dead on the trail, her throat torn out, blood pooling on the stones. From some distance away Keeva heard a fearful roar. The gelding tensed. Keeva patted his neck. The distant roar came again, accompanied by the screams of terrified horses.
Keeva sat very still, and fear was strong upon her. A part of her wanted to ride on and aid the priestess, but the larger part desired nothing more than to flee, putting as great a distance as possible between herself and the dreadful sounds. In that moment she knew there was no right answer to the problem. If she rode to what she thought was Ustarte’s rescue and was captured, she would not be able to keep her promise to the Gray Man. If she followed Ustarte’s orders and rode on, leaving the priestess to her fate, she would also be betraying the Gray Man’s trust. Struggling for calm, Keeva recalled the last words Ustarte had used: “I will deal with the men following, and I will be at the road to meet you. Now go swiftly, for I must prepare. Go!”
She did not say she would try to deal with the men but that she would deal with them. Keeva gazed down at the dead pony. Ustarte had said she must prepare, and part of that preparation had been to kill the beast. Keeva dismounted and knelt by the body. Blood had spread out across the trail. Just beyond it Keeva saw a blood print on the stone. It was of a huge padded paw. Moving to it, she recognized it as that of a great cat.
All was silence now. There were no more screams in the distance, no echoes of terror.
Keeva backed away to the gelding and stepped into the saddle. She guided her mount down the slope and onto the plain, skirting the moonlit ruins of Kuan Hador and the shimmering lake beyond.
Two hours later, with the dawn approaching, she halted at a fork on the mountain road and dismounted, leading the gelding into the trees. Tethering the horse, she walked back onto the slope and sat down on a rock. From there she could see the shadow-haunted plain below. A few clouds were drifting across the night sky, casting fast-moving shadows over the land. Keeva saw a movement on the plain and tried to focus on it. Something was moving at speed. A wolf, perhaps.
She had seen it only for an instant, but she knew it was no wolf. Clouds obscured the moonlight, and Keeva sat quietly waiting for them to pass. She heard sounds on the trail below her and for a fraction of a heartbeat saw a huge striped beast leave the path and enter the trees. The gelding whinnied in fear as the wind blew the scent of the creature across its nostrils. Keeva ran back to the horse and lifted the small crossbow from the saddle pommel. S
wiftly she loaded it.
A low growl came from the undergrowth, a rumbling, deep-throated sound that spoke of massive lungs. Keeva leveled the crossbow toward the sound. Then there was silence.
The dawn light filtered through the trees. The undergrowth parted.
And Ustarte stepped out. Blood was smeared across her face and arms. Pointing the crossbow to the ground, Keeva released both bolts, then ran to Ustarte. “Are you hurt?” she asked.
“Only my soul,” Ustarte said sadly. “Do not fear, Keeva. The blood is not mine.”
Staying downwind of the frightened gelding, Ustarte made her way deeper into the trees, following the sound of running water. Keeva stayed with her and saw that there were tears on Ustarte’s face. Reaching the water, the priestess crouched down and eased her crooked body into the stream. When all the blood had been washed away, she climbed once more to the bank. She stared down at her deformed hands and began to weep. Keeva sat beside her, saying nothing.
“I wanted,” Ustarte said at last, “to keep this world free from the evil of Kuan Hador. Now I have added to it. My people are dead, and I have killed.”
“They were hunting us,” said Keeva.
“They were obeying the orders of their lord. How good it would be to believe that those who died under my claws were evil men. But I felt their thoughts as I leapt among them. There were husbands there, thinking of wives and children they would never see again. Such is the nature of evil, Keeva. It corrupts us all. We cannot fight it and stay pure.”
Keeva returned to her horse and fetched Ustarte’s red silk gown. She helped the priestess dress. “We must get to the cave,” said Keeva. Leading the gelding, with Ustarte following some ten paces behind, she made her way through the trees, watching for the carved signs left by the Gray Man.
They climbed for just under an hour, reaching the cliff face and finding the cleft just as the Gray Man had described it. Inside there was a large chamber. A number of boxes had been piled there. Two lanterns had been set atop the boxes. They were not needed yet, for light was streaming in from above, through a crack in the upper wall.
Keeva removed the saddle from the gelding and brushed him down. Then she fed him with the grain Emrin had supplied. At the rear of the cave running water trickled down, forming a small pool at the base before flowing down through a fissure in the floor. When the gelding had finished the grain, she tethered him close to the pool so that he could drink when he chose.
Ustarte had stretched herself out on the floor and was sleeping.
Keeva walked out into the morning sunlight. The trail outside was rocky scree, and she could see no sign of their passing. She sat back against the cliff face and watched the branches of nearby oaks rustling in the breeze. A pair of wood pigeons flew by, their wings making a slapping sound. She looked up and smiled, feeling some of the tension drain from her body.
A red hawk swooped down from the skies, its long talons ripping into one of the pigeons. The wings folded, and it dropped to the rocks. The hawk landed alongside the still-twitching body. Talons gripped it, the curved beak ripping into the living flesh.
Weariness flowed over Keeva, and she leaned back and closed her eyes. She dozed for a while in the sunshine and dreamed of her uncle. She was nine again, and the townspeople had dragged the old witch to a stake in the marketplace. Keeva had been out buying apples that her uncle intended to use for a pie. She had watched the crowd baying at the witch, people spitting at her and striking her with sticks. There was blood on the woman’s face.
They had hauled her to the stake, tied her securely, then placed bundles of dry kindling all around her. After dousing her with oil, they had set fire to the kindling. Her screams had been terrible.
Keeva had dropped the apples and run all the way home. Her uncle had hugged her, stroking her hair. “She was an evil woman,” he had said. “She poisoned her entire family to gain an inheritance.”
“But they were laughing as she burned.”
“Aye, I expect they were. That’s the nature of evil, Keeva. It breeds. It is born in every hateful thought, every spiteful word, every greedy deed. The crowd hated her, and in hating her they drew just a touch of evil into themselves. In some it will fade away. In others it will find a place to seed.”
The child Keeva had not understood. But she had remembered.
Keeva opened her eyes. The sun was almost at noon, and she rose and stretched.
Inside the cave Ustarte was awake, sitting quietly in the shadows.
“Are they still following?” asked Keeva.
“No, some returned to Carlis with their dead and wounded. Others are waiting at the White Palace to arrest the Gray Man. But they will come again.”
“Does the Gray Man know they are at the palace?”
“Yes.”
Keeva sighed. “Good. Then he will avoid them.”
“No, he won’t,” said Ustarte. “He is already there. His anger is very great, but his mind is cool.” Ustarte closed her golden eyes. “The hunters are closing in on the sword bearers,” she said.
“You mean Yu Yu and his friend?”
“Yes. They are being pursued by two squads of Kriaz-nor, one from the south and one from the north.”
“What are Kriaz-nor?” asked Keeva.
“They are meld creatures like myself. Faster, stronger, and more deadly than almost any human.”
“Almost?”
Ustarte gave a wan smile. “Nothing that walks or breathes is more deadly than the Gray Man.”
Keeva saw tears once more on the face of the priestess. “And that saddens you?”
“Of course. Within the darkness of the Gray Man’s soul a small light flickers, all that remains of a good and kindly man. I asked him to fight for us, and fight he will. If that light goes out, it will be my fault.”
“It will not go out,” said Keeva, putting her hand on Ustarte’s shoulder. “He is a hero. My uncle told me that heroes have special souls that are blessed by the Source. He was a wise man, my uncle.”
Ustarte smiled. “I pray that your uncle was right.”
11
NIALLAD SAT QUIETLY on the ledge, his back against the cliff face, the white surf crashing on the rocks several hundred feet below. The Gray Man was sitting motionless beside him, his face calm, no suggestion of tension in the man. They had been sitting there for two hours. The sun had been up for some time, and Niall’s clothes were almost dry.
The events of the night before kept replaying in his mind: the death of his parents, the treachery of Gaspir, the rescue by the Gray Man. It all seemed somehow unreal. How could his father be dead? He was the strongest, most vital man in the duchy. Niall again saw his mother lying sprawled on the floor. A dreadful emptiness assailed him, and he felt tears welling. The Gray Man touched his arm. Blinking, Niall turned his head. The Gray Man lifted a finger to his lips and shook his head. No sound. Niall nodded and glanced up. Some ten feet above them was an overhang of rock. From beyond that they could hear the guards talking outside the Gray Man’s apartments.
“This is stupid,” he heard one of the guards say. “He’s not going to come back here, is he? I mean, the place has been searched. A few weapons, some old clothes. Nothing to risk your life for.”
Niall could not help but agree. He could not understand why they had come here. After killing Aric, the Gray Man had led Niall to the beach. There had been several boats beached there, left by the soldiers who had been searching the bay. Niall had helped the Gray Man push out a small boat until it bobbed on the water. Then they had climbed in and rowed across the bay. When they had reached a spot some two hundred yards from the beach below the White Palace, the Gray Man had slipped into the water and begun to swim. Niall had followed him.
Upon reaching the beach, the Gray Man had gestured Niall to remain silent and had climbed slowly to this spot. Everything about the man until then had spoken of purpose. But once they had reached this place, he had just sat down, and now the hours were drifting past.
Niall had no idea what the Gray Man was waiting for.
Time moved on. Niall’s left leg was beginning to cramp, and he stretched it out.
“About time,” he heard a guard say. “Thought you’d forgotten all about us.”
“Gren got to talking to a blond serving maid. Nice piece. Very tasty.”
“Speaking of tasty, I hope there’s some breakfast left.”
“Any word on the runaways?” someone asked.
“I’ll say there has been. Being stuck down here, you missed all the excitement, lads. One search party was attacked by a wild beast. Three dead, five wounded.”
“Our lads?”
“Only one: old Pikka. Had his head stoved in. The others were from House Rishell. Word from town is that the duke’s dead and most of his people. Sorcery,” he added, dropping his voice.
“What happened to the duke?”
“Demons, they say. Appeared in the hall. Killed everybody. The Gray Man summoned them, apparently. Shad says not to talk about it. Lord Aric’s going to be the new duke once they’ve found the body of the duke’s son.”
“The Gray Man? That’s what you get when you let foreigners come in and start acting like lords.”
“He always was a weird bastard,” said another voice. “And he almost killed Lord Aric last night. Cut him right along the jawline. Missed his throat by no more than a sparrow’s dick. Shad’s questioning the steward now. He’s a tough lad, but I reckon you’ll hear him screaming before long. Best eat your breakfast quick. I tell you, there’s nothing like hearing a man scream to make you lose your appetite.”
Niall heard the first two guards moving away. The others fell silent for a few moments. Then one said: “Reckon that Norda would be great in bed.”
“That’s true, Gren. Until Marja finds out and cuts off your prick.”
“Don’t even joke about it!” the other man said with feeling. “She would, you know.”
Niall turned toward the Gray Man, but he was gone.
The youth was shocked and stared around. He had heard nothing, not a whisper of cloth against the rocks. He sat still for a few moments, wondering what to do. Then he heard a grunt from above, followed by a heavy thud. Looking up, he saw the Gray Man lean over the overhang.
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