They had not been seen this time. Breathlessly they felt their way around the hidden presence of the foe. But as the terrain steepened, Kimiel put up natural ramparts to stop them, stony barriers the horses could not manage, certainly not with riders on their backs. Then a shout sounded from above.
“Retreat,” said Kyrillos morosely as arrows rattled down through the blackthorn branches and clattered against the rocks.
They retreated. “Yon archers’ shafts give them some small advantage as well,” Auron said dryly.
Kyrillos did not answer. He looked furious.
“Try again,” Auron sighed.
And again and again over the course of the next week and more they tried to make their way up Kimiel, to no avail. After ten days or so of edging up the baffling slopes, scouting every step of the way and sleeping by turns at night, everyone in the party was worn down with striving. The autumn weather had turned damp and chill, and the coppery leaves were coming down, thinning the cover, sending up a loud crackling noise at their every move, so that they felt sure their enemies would at any time be upon them. Time and time again they had sighted brigands and eluded them, until it seemed to them that the whole mountaintop must be swarming with hundreds of foes. But still they did not know the name of their true enemy. And they had not found a sign of either Seda or Kyrem, nor did Auron sense any presence of the missing ones. In fact, Auron was sensing less and less.
“I wish I had been not so proud and had brought a few more men,” Kyrillos grumbled. “I wish I had brought a hundred. We would sweep right up this inhospitable hump and—”
He slid into curses. Kyrillos was feeling the effects of strain.
“This is holy land,” said Auron reproachfully.
“So much the worse, then, that these ruffians are at large upon it. What makes them so bold, I wonder.”
“I think the intelligence that governs them senses our presence and places them in our way. So there are not as many as there seem to be.” Auron shook his head, his weariness manifest in the down-tugged lines of his face. “Do not count on me for much aid any longer, Kyrillos.”
“What do you mean?” the Devan king demanded.
“Quiet,” snapped Auron. “What’s that sound?” He was the most nervous one of the group—the effect, Kyrillos conjectured, of soft flesh and the contemplative life.
“Only wind in the trees,” Kyrillos said. But it was not wind, and after a while they traced it.
“By Suth,” Kyrillos exclaimed, “it is a force.”
The waterfall appeared over a high reach of rock and wavered down to the depths of a gorge two hundred feet below. At its lower extremity winked a pool like an emerald eye, frothy white at first but then quiet, shadowed, intensely green and deep. Almond shaped, it trickled away into stream. Towering ilex cast a chill purple shade, and laurel bushes crowded the edge of drop, pool and gorge, drinking in the spray.
“By Suth,” Kyrillos added, “there’s even a trail.”
It zigzagged down over rock and earth, ferns and fallen logs, to the water. Deer could have made it, or the roaming horses. Auron looked at it dubiously, but the steeds snorted at the scent of water, the men fingered their nearly empty flasks.
“Dismount,” Kyrillos ordered. He did so himself and started to lead his horse down the trail. The others followed, edging down the steep bank that soon rose far above their heads.
“No!” a voice shouted from somewhere on the opposite bank. “No, it’s a trap! Go back!”
“Kyrem!” Auron exclaimed, straightening and looking eagerly toward the sound.
“Get behind your horses!” Kyrillos roared at the same moment, and he shoved Auron behind his white-headed steed. More shouts sounded along with his, and groups of armed men sprang up along the bottom of the gorge as though sown by dragons’ teeth. They appeared from behind rocks and bushes and yellowish laurel clumps, from grottoes, even from behind the waterfall itself. A shower of arrows flew up.
“Get your head down, Auron, would you?” Kyrillos snapped peevishly. “Was that really Kyrem?” he added in a different tone.
“I think so. Who else would it be? Oh, no.…”
The arrows lost most of their force in their steep upward flight. Stalling in midair as they did, they could almost be swept aside with a sword or an outreaching arm. No one had yet suffered more than a minor wound, though the horses were whinnying wildly and only Devan magic kept them in place. But Auron did not possess such magic. A sharp-honed arrowhead grazed his horse’s shoulder, and the sacred stallion plunged in panic, screamed and plummeted into the gorge. The fall broke its neck. Dying, it lay half in the water, staring horribly, and the brigands stood frozen, gaping at the white-headed, Suth-like thing as if it were an omen of illest portent. Kyrillos pulled Auron to his side, behind his own steed.
“Now that is enough of this,” he declared, suddenly straightening. “One of us is worth three of them. Take them, men!”
All drew swords.
“Auron, stay here with the steeds,” Kyrillos ordered.
“Do you want to shame me?” Auron flared in uncharacteristic anger.
“Of course not. But you have no talent for this sort of thing, and you know it. Stay.”
“I can at least be another body in the line. And I have no reason to hold back. I am coming.”
“He can take position by me,” said a quiet voice, and Kyrem came over the top of the gorge and swung himself down to stand beside them.
Chapter Sixteen
“Kyrem. By the most holy one, lad, they told me you were dead,” Kyrillos breathed, and tears started suddenly down his face. The prince stared openmouthed at his father. Tears trickling into the big man’s beard.… Kyrillos reached over to touch his son, and Kyrem moved a hesitant hand in answer. But no sooner had hands met and gripped than a shout jerked them back to the pressing reality.
The brigands had closed ranks. They had mostly spent their arrows, but they still had cudgels, spears, long knives. No longer scattered at the bottom of the gorge, they advanced on the steep slope with weapons raised, ready for the charge.
“Get back,” Kyrem said, tugging at Auron but speaking to his father. Kyrillos mounted his horse instead.
“The steed and I can hold them here a while,” he said. “Auron, move the men back up to the top there.”
“No room to turn the horses.” Auron stepped forward to stand at Kyrillos’s fore. He looked very pale, but determined.
“Confound it,” Kyrillos roared, and then his attention was taken up by attackers at his feet. He beheaded one with a swish of his curved blade and kicked another back down into the gorge. Auron lunged, a clumsy attack, but the slope gave him advantage over the man he faced and the fellow toppled backward. Kyrem struck down the sword of a second attacker before it could touch him.
“Will you both,” the prince pleaded, “just get back?”
“What, and let you be killed after all? I’ve come too far for that, lad.” Kyrillos swished off another head, almost absently. “Get back yourself.”
“They’re outflanking us,” Auron said.
“Line of battle!” Kyrillos thundered, and his retainers fought their way forward and took their places to either side.
It truly is very difficult for horses to go backward up a steep slope. Hard beset, the Devans tried to make their steeds accomplish this feat several times during the next hour, but they found retreat impossible. Their whole focus after the first few moments was to keep the enemy to the fore. If once the swarming brigands managed to surround them, they would be finished. The riders on horseback took great advantage from their height and their uphill position, but the attackers on foot were numerous and fanatically persistent. They had to be killed. As often as they were knocked tumbling down the steep bank into the gorge they righted themselves and came up again with weapons raised.
Kyrem and Auron kept to the center of the line, the prince nearly frantic lest the gentle Vashtin king should be hurt. But Auron had ca
ptured a lance, hanging onto the shaft of it with grim tenacity while Kyrem killed the proper owner, and he quickly learned to use it to keep enemies at a distance. He would prod them back down the slope. Those few who came closer, Kyrem dispatched. Between the two of them, they managed almost better than the mounted men.
“It’s a good thing we’re fighting Vashtins,” Kyrillos panted, for the outlaws were making no attempt to kill or injure the horses, only the riders. Auron glanced up dazedly from his bloody work and stared at the Devan king.
“By Suth, so we are!” he murmured, shaking his head as though to clear the haze of battle fever from it. “These scum are Vashtins, after all. King and people—”
Kyrem caught the drift of his mumblings. “Auron,” he warned, but he had scarcely spoken when Auron moved.
The Vashtin king strode forward into the midst of the brigands. “Halt!” he cried in a ringing voice. “I, your king, command you to throw down your weapons!”
“Auron, you ass—” Kyrillos muttered frantically. Then he ceased his martial labors in amazement. The remaining enemies seemed caught in uncertainty, standing where they were and staring at the one who confronted them, their long knives wavering in the air. Kyrem also stood with sword at the ready but, his father saw, in some sort of expectation. Kyrem knew Auron’s power, and he did not know how much the past few weeks had weakened it.
“Drop your weapons, I say!” Auron shouted sharply. “To whom do you owe more allegiance than to your king? Tell me the name of your leader!”
The brigands whispered anxiously to each other. One man laughed harshly. “He’s not your king!” he barked out, scoffing at the others.
“He rode the white-headed horse,” an outlaw tremulously replied.
“He’s a blasphemer then, to ride a holy horse, and no king. Death to him! Death to the Devan dogs!”
“By the old man!” It was a Vashtin oath that Kyrem had adopted, and he strode forward suddenly to stand beside Auron. “By my beard, I know you! Weasel-face, from the inn! Come meet me here if you are a man.” He handed Auron his sword and drew instead his long knife of single edge. “The rest of you, do as your king commands.”
They did not drop their weapons, but they shuffled back so as to open a sort of arena, still whispering among themselves. Kyrem’s old enemy came forward, carrying his knife and laughing wolfishly. “Where are the dozen who rode with you over the Kansban, dog?” he taunted. “And where is your precious shuntali?” Kyrem went white with fury, and as he raised his knife and drew a panting breath, his foeman crouched and attacked. The fight was on.
Upward stabs, aiming for the gut.… Knife fighting was not a poised and princely sport, and weasel-face seemed to be an experienced brawler. Kyrem essayed a thrust and the man caught his wrist, nearly pulling him onto his own wickedly waiting blade; Kyrem turned in time and the blow raked across his ribs, leaving a long track of red. Only in desperation was the prince able to tear himself loose from the other’s grasp, and he lost his footing in the struggle, going down to one knee on the steep slope, nearly rolling into the gorge or the ranks of his enemies, and then the other was on him with knife and fist and even teeth; he held off only the knife. Dust flew up as the two scrambled and grappled on the treacherous slope.
Kyrillos watched from his mount, sweating but silent. He would not interfere with the contest, no matter how badly it should go, for he knew that every man, every son, must someday prove himself in fight, even fight to the death. He had already lost two sons that way, over nothing more substantial than women. But this son, so long lost, so recently found.… He bit his lip to keep from groaning as Kyrem took a shrewd blow. Blood stained the prince’s cloak at the shoulder. Kyrem was all heart, the other all cleverness. Heart had to win.… Kyrillos stole a look at Auron. The Vashtin stood as pale as the pale horse of moonlight.
Then a roar went up from the men at his side. Kyrem was on his feet at last, rising like flame, all blood and fury. His weasel-faced foe lunged and kicked, but the prince met his thrust with an arm like rock, his foot with a booted foot; the man howled, and for a moment his knife hand hung slack, and Kyrem grasped it, gripped. The man shrieked again, feeling small bones crack, and the knife fell flashing into the gorge. Kyrem forced the other down and held him pinned, blade at his throat. The roar fell off to a taut silence as men of both sides waited to see if Kyrem would deliver the deathblow. If he did, Kyrillos thought tensely, the brigands were likely to mob him before he could rise. Barely moving, he tightened the grip of his knees and his will on his horse. He would charge to save his son, even if it meant his own destruction in that chasm.
“Where is Seda?” Kyrem demanded of the man on the ground. He got no answer, and pressed the knife harder.
“Who, the shuntali?” The words came out in drawling derision from under that blade. “What makes you think we dirty our hands with such filth? We are not Devans.”
“You slime, I saw her!” Rage possessed Kyrem; his knuckles went white, and a thin line of blood ran down from under the knife he held. “I saw her in your horror of a cave—but what have you done with her since? Where is she now?”
“Nowhere!” The man laughed, a defiant laugh that was ghastly to see, for it forced the knife even deeper, and yet he laughed insanely. “The Nameless One sent her off to wail in the wind weeks ago. Nowhere, I tell you! We dropped her bones off the farthest cliff we could find. Nihil est—she does not exist.” He hooted with laughter.
Kyrem gave the stroke, lifted the body at arms’ length above his head and hurled it down into the stream. It lay there with the others, sullying the water. Kyrem turned and faced the ring of many watchers, and they did not move. Only a shadow moved, sweeping along the deeps of the gorge, and the black, winged demon above it, whinnying.
“Filth!” it cried, making for the outlaw forces. “Bloody, craven filth!” The men scattered and ran, scrambling along the steep bank. The flying monster came speeding straight at Kyrem, who glanced at it and wearily raised his knife, standing as though all the heart had gone out of him—but Auron threw his lance, and to his surprise, it found its mark. The horse-headed thing fell fluttering and spiraling into the gorge, where it lay black in the water beside the white-headed sacred steed.
Kyrem lowered his weapon and came slowly back to stand beside his father.
“Lad, let me wrap those cuts for you,” Kyrillos offered, but he shook his head.
“So she is dead,” he said to Auron in a flat voice. “I thought as much when I stopped sensing her presence. I could not win through to her.”
Neither of them knew what to say to comfort him.
“The enemy awaits us,” he told them grimly. “The true enemy. Up on top. Up at the cave.”
The old man moved unhurriedly from cage to cage, opening each one, shooing out the denizens. The birds flapped off with insulted squawks and occasional mimetic curses. “Go lay eggs,” the old man told them indifferently. Presently, as if in afterthought, or as if she were an odd bird of a different sort, he turned to Seda. With palsied slowness he brought out a key and unlocked the shackle from her leg. Staring at him, she did not move.
“Your bastard prince is coming,” he told her with only a hint of malice in his voice. “Killed my captain for your sake, he did. Filth.” The word might have applied to the captain, or to Kyrem, or to her.
Kyrem. Kyrem was dead, nihil est. Kyrem did not exist. Her mind would not move properly, to tell her whether he had really died or the old man lied, but it did not matter. Either way, he had abandoned her, like her mother. Coming—he came far too late. Years before would have been too late.
“Go on,” said her captor impassively. “Crawl off somewhere. Surely you don’t want him to see you the way you are, dead thing.” He turned back to puttering among his birds.
She opened her festering mouth as if to say “thank you,” but did not; human speech was not in her any more, nor were human emotions. Even her gratitude was scarcely human, for she hated it, hated herse
lf as she dragged her crippled body across the dung at his feet. She crawled out of the cave and off among the thorny brush. She could not walk, for the curses had taken their effect, and her bones were bent, warped and useless, her teeth rotting, her skin covered with sores, her eyes burning and half blind. Remnants of her maidenly finery hung about her in filthy rags. For once the god had spoken truth: Indeed she did not want Kyrem to see her. Nor did she very much want to see him. She was full of pain and bitterness and wanted only to hide.
Omber awaited atop the bank by the waterfall. Kyrem vaulted onto the horse, helped Auron up behind him and led off at once, the others trailing after. He took them splashing through a ford above the force—the way, Auron surmised, that Kyrem had come to them some few hours before, though Auron did not care to ask; the set of Kyrem’s jaw and the stiff feel of his back did not invite conversation.
“You know the terrain, lad,” Kyrillos remarked almost diffidently.
“I have been trying to get through their lines for weeks,” said Kyrem harshly.
Silence, except for the hollow sound of hooves on reddish rock and the whine of wind through black trees.
“The power up there,” Kyrem said at last, “whatever it is, seemed always to know where I was, directed those ruffians somehow to stop me. I can sense that enemy now, Auron, and the curse. You were right all along.”
“Of course,” said Kyrillos, his tones bland and innocent. The others ignored him.
“When you came, you two, it focused on you mostly. I hoped I could win through after all.”
“You knew we were here and did not join us?” Auron was shocked. Kyrillos, though, had lived his life by the warrior code, and he admired the courage of his son.
“It was a forthcoming thing to do,” he said to Auron.
“But we were worried,” Auron told Kyrem reproachfully. “We came here to look for you.”
“I thought you came to look for your enemy.” Kyrem tried to turn on the horse to see Auron’s face, but he could not without stopping the steed. “Could you not sense my well-being?” he asked over his shoulder.
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