As they hurried from the inn, Tashil pointed out the difficulties she might face in helping Dybel. “Extracting a barbed arrow is major surgery,” she said. “It’s not like binding cuts, and it’ll leave him and me weakened.”
“Ifs and buts, Tash — let’s cross the ford when we come to it.”
Now they were following a gravel path along the cliff edge which had a solid wooden fence to keep children and animals from falling to certain death. On the other side of the path was the ragged, bushy fringe of a wood which extended some way in either direction, broken by the Silver Key’s clearing and a gap beyond the Melvio Stairs where the path forked. And as they came to the head of that long rack of stone steps, Tashil narrowed the focus of her undersenses and spoke in farspeech;
Dybel — we are here. Can you meet us?
(…come quick… they follow…)
She and Dardan exchanged a look of alarm and rushed to dash down the stairs, risking two or three at a time. Cut from the dark grey striated stone of the cliff face, the Melvio Stairs bore all the wear and tear of four centuries of traversing feet as well as innumerable repairs, not to mention the carvings and ornamentation added by sculptors and artisans through the years. All of which escaped Tashil’s notice as she and Dardan hurried downwards. There were very few people on the stairs and they paid little heed to the two Watchers as they plunged past.
Tashil heard nothing more from Dybel, but about two-thirds of the way down she could see a figure crawling up the side of the steps. A suspicion grew in her mind and when they got to within a score of steps she became certain, and sure enough the person stirred and Dybel’s pale face looked up at them, smiling weakly.
“There were guards….” he said hoarsely. “Started searching buildings up the street about…an hour ago — had to move…”
“I don’t see any now,” Dardan said, peering over the balustrade.
Tashil was squatting next to Dybel, examining the wound — a broken arrow shaft was protruding from his side, just below the ribcage. She carefully pulled aside a wad of red-soaked cloth and saw dark edges around the puncture and a lot of discoloured flesh. She frowned and spoke to Dardan.
“He needs treatment now, but we can’t take the chance of travelling along the bankside — we’ll have to go by the cliff road.”
“Shall we put him on Calabos’ horse?”
She shook her head. “Not for the half dozen miles or whatever it is to Murstig. It would kill him.” She glanced apologetically at Dybel. “Be very risky, really…”
“The top of the stairs,” Dybel muttered, “would be….a better place for this conversation, yes?”
Tashil and Dardan muttered agreement and together helped him to stand, and after about twenty minutes and several rests they reached the head of the Melvio Stairs. Across the path from the stairs’ flagstone landing was a large speckled granite boulder which had been carved into a travellers’ bench. They eased Dybel onto it and Tashil sat beside him while Dardan hurried off to the Silver Keys to retrieve their horse.
“Calabos told me about this army of Ilgarion’s,” Tashil said. “Does he really intend to attack the pilgrims gathering at Besdarok?”
“It’s true enough,” said Dybel. “I overheard some of the officers from his own household and it almost….sounds as if they’ve been hoping for an excuse to attack the Mogaun for some time, and the burning of the Daykeep was more than adequate.”
Tashil thought anxiously of her father and the rest of the Akri family and tried not to imagine them as victims of Khatrimantine troops.
“Our new Emperor is quick to judge,” she said. “And even swifter to punish. Yet I’m sure I’ve heard that that there is a blood tie between Ilgarion’s line and one of the old Mogaun clans.”
“Which may be why he hates them so much,” Dybel said.
Tashil was about to reply but paused when figures appeared further along the cliff road, a man leading a horse and another man walking beside him. As they drew near she could see that the newcomer wore a drover’s coat and heavy boats as well as a floppy hat with a torn brim. When they stopped at the bench, Dardan made the introductions.
“Tashil, Dybel — this is Egbir. He was in the taproom of the inn and overheard me haggling with the ‘keeper — man has a perfectly good cart but refuses to hire or sell it. But Egbir here’s a waggoner up from Hargas and is willing to help get Dybel to Murstig, for a fee.”
“Yeh, good wagon,” said Egbir in a rasping voice. He was tall and broad-shouldered but walked with a stoop. Tufts of corngold hair protruded from under his hat and his lopsided grin revealed yellow teeth with one or two gaps. “Take you to Murstig, take you anywhere, just say!”
“Murstig is fine,” Tashil said. “So where is your wagon? — back at the inn?”
Egbir directed a look of contempt back along the path. “Huh — his toll too much, I not pay, I keep wagon in trees. We go along a-ways, yes?”
Tashil shrugged, then nodded. Then she and Dardan helped Dybel back onto his feet and with the waggoner Egbir in front and leading Calabos’ horse, they made slow progress along the road. There was no-one else in view, only a greenwing perched on the cliffedge fencing, eyeing their approach for several moments before leaping into the air with a blur of wings and darting up and over the dense wood. Egbir led them past the main turn-off for another dozen yards or so before pausing to point at a viny curtain of fleshy leaves beyond the undergrowth.
“Hid wagon back there,” he said. “Old steading.”
Sure enough, Tashil could see a few fenceposts amid the bushy foliage and wheel ruts of crushed vegetation as they followed him into the wood’s edge. Beyond was green-tinged dimness and an overgrown track that led to a decrepit, doorless stable whose ceiling had long since fallen in. Inside, a grey mare stood patiently in the traces of a low-sided, canvas-covered wagon. Calabos’ horse, however, seemed restless and as they approached Tashil caught a whiff of decay, like rotting meat. When she sniffed and grimaced, Egbir nodded.
“Dead dog in there — food for rats now.” He grinned nastily and paused to tie the horse to a thick, waist-high post. Then he looked at Dardan.
“You help with wagon? Life cover, make place for sick friend, yes?”
Dardan gave him a hard look for a moment. “As you like,” he said, leaving Dybel’s burden for Tashil to shoulder.
As the two men made their way around the wagon, Dybel shook his head.
“Something’s wrong here,” he said. “That smell…”
“I know,” Tashil said. “Reminds me of something I heard recently -”
Then she remembered an instant before she heard a thud and gasp from behind the wagon, followed by a flare of red radiance and a cry of pain and rage.
“Dardan!” she cried.
Then Dybel pushed himself away from her, waving her off.
“It’s one of those spirit-hosts,” he said. “Get you gone while there’s time…”
“I’ll not abandon you,” Tashil said angrily. “Never…”
The sounds of struggle ended with a muffled crack and a grunt, and a moment later the waggoner Egbir leaped into view, holding a heavy club despite the smoke trailing from one charred shoulder. Dybel raised his hand and cast a Firedagger bolt, a knot of flame that flew straight at the waggoner’s head. But instead of ducking, Egbir let it strike him full in the face. Tashil was horrified to see him grinning as the Firedagger burst across his features, wreathing him in flames that seared away eyebrows and hair but left his skin untouched. Seeing this, Dybel staggered back but Egbir lunged forward and struck him to the ground with his club. Then he turned to stare at Tashil.
“I know your spirit,” he said. “Dark master gave me a taste, tells me — ‘kill her, add her to the rest’…..”
The club lashed out but she had seen the turn of the gripping hand and the lifted forearm and was able to sidestep the blow then dive forward, chopping at his exposed neck with a spell-bright hand. But even as the silver web of power
danced and clawed at her foe, she remembered the fight with the hound and felt the onset of desperation as Egbir laughed off her attack and rounded on her again.
She thought frantically as she dodged the waggoner’s blows and darted around the small clearing, striving to recall the details of previous encounters with the spirit-hosts. Ducking round trees and crossing and recrossing the overgrown cart track, she brushed against one of the old fenceposts — and cursed herself for missing the obvious. Quickly she kicked at the post and jerked it from side to side, dislodging it enough to wrench it out of the ground before Egbir could reach her. His brutal club swung and missed, just, and she retaliated with the earth-clogged end of the fencepost, dealing him a buffetting blow to the head that sent him flying.
As he struggled to get back on his feet, Tashil spoke her keyword for the Cast thought-canto with which she seized the fencepost, held it in midair for a second then hurled it straight at Egbir. It caught him high in the chest, on the left, just as he was rising, and smashed him back down, lancing through him to impale him to the ground.
The waggoner let out a bestial bellowing which quickly ratchetted up in loudness and fury with every new uprooted fencepost which she used to stake him down. Ignoring the deafening cacophony, she retrieved Dybel’s short sword, after checking his pulse and breathing, and went over to the pinioned spirit-host. The prevalent stench in the clearing told her exactly what was in the back of the wagon, and her own fury was like a cold armour enclosing her. Disregarding the clutching hands, she quickly stepped in close and with two hard, hammering cuts struck off his head.
Once the blood had ceased gouting, the impaled body’s movements grew weaker and slower, the fingers ceasing to grasp the air, the limbs finally subsiding to a fitful twitching, then….stillness. Trembling from shock and effort, Tashil slumped to sit on the ground nearby and stare and wait.
“That was….done well.”
She glanced round to see Dardan grabbing hold of one of the wagon’s wheels and hauling himself upright. Suddenly worried, she got up and went over.
“You look bad,” she said bluntly. “How do you feel?”
“Head pounding, nausea, sense of balance gone awry,” he said. “The bastard clouted me on the temple and managed to put all his weight behind it.” Dardan tightly closed his eyes for a moment. “Foul headache…ah, now comes the possessing spirit — look!”
As Tashil had seen before, a coiling, smokey web was exuding from the headless body, tenuous tendril undulating gently as it pulled itself free. For long seconds it hung writhing in midair before moving in what Tashil knew was the direction of the centre of Sejeend. Then it slowed and changed course, heading on a more easterly path. Tashil and Dardan exchanged a puzzled look.
“Follow it,” Dardan said. “But keep your distance.”
She nodded and set off after it, wending her way through the trees. She tracked it across the turnoff track and on into the wood again, finally giving up some ten minutes later when it floated over a fast-running stream and away. Quickly she retraced her footsteps to the ruined stable where she found Dardan tending to a barely-conscious Dybel.
“East,” she said. “Wherever its going, its not Sejeend.”
Dardan grimaced. “Another mystery to add to the myriad we already have. We had better repair Murstig with all speed, but I may not be able to help you very much.” He gritted his teeth. “We need the cart but it is full of bodies.”
“I understand,” said Tashil stoically. “I’m sure I can find a way to clear it out.”
Like using the thought-canto Cast.
Chapter Twelve
When Night looks out of his eyes,
Skies will darken,
Rivers will run dry,
Crops will fail,
Children will sicken,
Towers will fall,
And kings will go mad,
When Night looks out of his eyes.
—Gilly Cordale, The Pageant of the Destructions, ch5
From the Mocker’s aft quarterdeck came the sound of the ship’s bell tolling eight strikes and Cursed Rikken, on lookout in the prow, sighed with relief. His watch was done and he could go below to find a bunk in the darkness warm enough to thaw the raw chill which had settled into his limbs, despite the heavy cloak he wore. Just as soon as someone arrived to take his place.
Glancing over his shoulder he saw no-one approaching so he went back to staring off into the grey shrouds of mist ahead. For all that it was noon, the veil of mist remained as heavy and icy as it had during the night, neither thinning nor breaking apart but keeping constant pace with the great silent fleet as it sailed unswervingly westwards. Rikken turned his gaze to starboard, peering through the swirling haze at the shadowy lines of the one of the ships of the undead, the flagship of Hanavok, admiral of the Ogucharn pirate princes. An hour ago the courses of both ships had by chance converged close enough for Rikken to see that the crew of that deathly vessel appeared to have gained the semblance of flesh on what had earlier been no more than weed-draped, clacking bones. Now, though, he could make out only a few dim figures yet still he shivered from cold remembrance….
A hand came down on his shoulder and he jerked with startlement. It was the relief lookout, Girzi, a scrawny Calegman who wore a sneering grin as Rikken doffed the cloak and handed it over. Suddenly feeling how cold it truly was, he hurried down from the prow and aft to the main hatch which he yanked open, descended a few steps before closing it over his head.
Below, the corridor was narrow and dimly lit by small bulkhead lamps smothered by protective cressets made of cow horn gone a dirty amber with years of heat and fumes. That smell of burning tallow laced the air, mingling with the odours of sweat and recent cooking. Suddenly hungry, Rikken hurried along for’ard, imagining in detail a bowl of hot stew and maybe a wedge of black bread to go with it. But just as he got to the galley’s curtained entrance, the bald, sweat-beaded head of Erdzic the cook popped, saw him and laughed.
“’Bout time! — Cap’n’s been asking for yer.” Erdzic glanced over his shoulder a second then his hand came into view, holding a swinging tray, its lid firmly in place. “There — Cap’n’s cabin right away!”
Then he ducked back inside, leaving Rikken facing the grubby curtain for a moment before he turned and trudged back along the way he had come. The captain’s cabin lay aft, on the port side, and the easiest way there was down into the hold, across to the port ladder, then up to the stern deck, a pace or two and you were there. But when Rikken reached the captain’s door he found it slightly ajar.
“Captain?” he said. “You there?”
Above the creaks and knocks of the ship he heard nothing so hesitantly he pushed the door open enough to look inside. The cabin was lit by a single, hanging lamp and was a clutter of chests and wax-sealed crates, with a boxcrib full of crumpled bedding, and a solid table covered in maps held down by conical plumb weights. Cold, dank air flowed in through the open shutters that led to the stern balcony where Rikken could see the shadow of someone standing just out of sight.
He stepped into the cabin and sidled round the table, thinking to get Captain Bureng’s attention from closer. As he reached the other end of the cabin he could see that the captain was leaning on the balcony rail, staring off to one side. Rikken was about so speak but then froze as that which the Captain was regarding drifted into view. It looked like a knotted cluster of ash-grey, feather tendrils, all squirming slowly as it floated at head-height towards Bureng.
Rikken’s first thought was that it had come from one of Hanavok’s ships but before he could utter the merest sound of warning, the tendril-thing suddenly surged forward onto the captain’s face. As Bureng gasped and reeled backwards, Rikken cried out — and Bureng whirled round, half his face covered with that writhing monstrosity, the other half twisted with murderous rage and a single burning, pitiless eye.
In a single swift movement he lunged through the open shutters and snatched fistfuls of Rikken’s thin
jerkin. Transfixed by terror, Rikken went limp in that furious grip.
“You spy on me!”
“No, cap’n, no — I just brought your…”
“An enemy, then? Are you an enemy?”
But before Rikken could reply, Bureng’s grip slackened as he moaned and slumped to his knees. The writhing tendril-thing was sinking into his face, passing through the skin like the ghost of one of those deep-sea abominations Rikken saw discarded on fishermen’s wharfs. After a long moment the last of it was gone, absorbed into the Captain’s features, leaving it looking normal and unmarked. Rikken heard him let out a long shuddering sigh and watched him lift one hand to wipe his brow and gingerly probe the invaded side of his face. Then he raised his head to look at Rikken, and his eyes widened as if seeing him for the first time.
“Rikken, my Rikken,” he murmured. “Did you witness…the joining?”
Rikken could only nod, and Bureng made a wry grimace.
“Hmm, pity that you had to behold it thus.” Then he grinned. “But better you than any of the others, for I know that I can trust you.”
“That you can, captain,” Rikken said unflinchingly.
Bureng nodded and got to his feet, urging Rikken to follow suit. But even just the effort of that caused him to lean heavily on the map table then sit down on a stool nearby.
“Weakened me, it has,” he said. “Still, it will pass and the body of my essence shall increase.” He glanced at Rikken. “I have a long and strange heritage, Rikken — would you hear of it?”
Rikken felt a sense of exhilarated anticipation, as well as humility at being entrusted with such personal confidings.
“Aye, captain.”
“Then listen well — once this spirit of mine, this niggardly sliver, was part of something immeasurably greater and more powerful than all the mages combined.” He shrugged. “Was it a god, this vast immanence? — I cannot say, but I do know that it suffered some catastrophe that shattered it into a cloud of fragments that spread across this continent, lodging in the streams of families, resting there from generation to generation, a scattered legacy of majesty, and now all those wisps and splinters are awakening and seeking each other out, and gathering…I only knew this by stages, from that night on the strand at the cove to this post, sailing at the head of a grim and cadaverous fleet…”
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