Across the Face of the World (21 page)

What have you done to her? Leith asked. Are you going to let her freeze to death?

The men seemed to hear him. They drew their swords and rushed towards him. Blue light pulsed like a spreading bruise around and between the warriors. Mother! Father! Run! Run!

he shouted as the Bhrudwans came at him. Then with a cry the men were upon him, everything went black, and Leith jerked himself awake.

He had still not shaken off the dread of his dream as the trav¬ellers, now seven strong, assembled in front of the Waybridge Inn. The Haufuth of Mjolkbridge stood in the half-light of the pre¬dawn morning to see them off. Kurr stamped his fur-lined boots on the frosted street and grumbled about the cold. His stamping and the sound of the horses nickering and blowing were the only sounds in the world.

Above them the tiny stars were beginning to fade, their light swallowed by the hazy pink of a mountain valley dawn. The cloud had cleared away, but Farr warned them about this kind of weather. 'Never stays calm for long,' he commented in his trenchant fashion. 'We'll ride into a wind for most of the day. Be hard pressed to make Windrise by nightfall tomorrow. We should've left earlier!'

As they made final preparations, Leith recalled the comical scene a half-hour ago at the inn.

The Haufuth of Mjolkbridge had offered them weapons from the village cache. Each of the Louleans had selected a sword from a pile of rusted and broken relics. The Haufuth was first.

He chose a long, curving blade but could not get the belt of the scabbard to fit around his ample waist. 'Oh well, no sword for me,' he'd said, a good deal more cheerfully than he ought.

'Oh no, we can't have that,' his Mjolkbridge counterpart had replied, and found for him a length of rope with which to fasten the scab¬bard. When the sword was tied around his waist, it would not sit flush against his side. 'A smaller sword!' the big man cried, and finally he settled on a squat little blade not much bigger than a knife. As he wielded it in clumsy fashion it almost disappeared in his huge hands. Kurr could not help it; he started to laugh.

'All very well for you,' huffed his Haufuth. 'I'll have my revenge up on the moors, nice and warm while you freeze to death.'

Kurr chose a sturdy sword, one that looked recently made. It had two notches near the hilt.

Stella pulled a long blade from the table but could hardly lift it. 'Don't worry,' Wira said to her amid the laughter that ensued. 'None of them could wield it either. It's an ornament, not a proper sword.'

Stella looked at the young valley man with grateful eyes.

Hal dug deeper into the pile, finding some old, rusted blades. 'These will do,' he cried, forcing one into its scabbard. He took another and passed it to Leith. Even with all the rust, it felt very light.

'You don't want to bother with rusty old blades like those!' the Haufuth of Loulea told the boys.

'On the contrary,' corrected the Mjolkbridge Haufuth. 'Those blades were fashioned for use in the war against Bhrudwo, and they saw service in old border disputes between Mjolkbridge and Windrise.'

'You mean .. .' began Leith.

'Yes, they're over a thousand years old.'

Leith looked at the pitted surface of his sword: he could well believe it.

'Surely it would be better to have new blades?'

'No,' the young headman countered. 'We can't make them like these now. They are true blades, and have a history.'

Then the farce began, as one by one the five coastlanders engaged in mock swordplay. The Haufuth of Mjolkbridge had a smile on his face as he watched, and Farr laughed outright.

'The horsemen are in danger all right,' he said. 'One look at you fools and they'll die laughing!'

'Then I'll give my sword a name,' said Hal lightly, holding his blade aloft, deflecting the thoughtless words of the elder Storrsen. 'I name this weapon Ribtickler!'

This remark had occasioned still more laughter, which Leith did not join in. He wished he had thought of a clever name for his blade.

Now, out in the cold morning air, Leith fingered the hilt of his unnamed sword as it hung uncomfortably against his leg. Up until now this adventure had been like a dream, an unreal series of events, but now the cold weapon at his side spoke of danger and death. He hardened inside as he thought: Perhaps that is the best way of all.

Everything was set. The coastlanders mounted their horses in the accustomed arrangement, while Farr and Wira each had a steed. Farr shouted; the Haufuth of Mjolkbridge waved them off; and with a clash of hoof on icy stone the Company rode through the village and off up the Westway.

WINDRISE

THE MORNING PASSED QUICKLY. Mile after steady mile was eaten up by the greedy hoofs of their horses as the Company made their way through the scattered farmlands north of Mjolkbridge. The land sloped steeply on either side of an increasingly narrow valley shared by road and river. To their left rose the squat hills of the Vinkullen, flat-topped highlands between the Mjolkelva and the ever-frozen Iskelsee far to the north. On their right Starfjell, the northernmost of the Fells, heaved its balding snowpate crown into the pale blue sky.

Here in the upper Mjolkelva valley, near the borders of civil¬isation, the land seemed somehow older. It wasn't just the moss-draped fences enclosing dilapidated farms and stony pastures, or the increasingly unkempt nature of the Westway itself, now little more than a grassy path; it was as though human influence here had only a tenuous hold - or perhaps the wilds were fighting domestication, attempting to reclaim land long tamed. Certainly the effect was unnerving, combined as it was with a landscape of rearing hills and snow-capped mountain peaks.

Ahead, appearing first as a black smudge on the horizon, then as a dark green band, lay the Great North Woods, drawing ever nearer. Leith could not escape the sensation that his horse stood still in the centre of a moving landscape - grassland, hills, moun¬tains, clouds and sky rolling past him like a series of breakers at Varec Beach. Then, suddenly, the dark green border flashed up in front of them and they reached the woods, the true wilderness. The boundary of the forest was as clear as the mark of high tide, as though the woods had flowed down the valley to this point and were now lapping against the open country.

The Great North Woods stretched unbroken across the North March of Firanes. Like a great green wave, the trees washed across the landscape, over the roots and up the sides of the Jawbone Mountains far to the east, the eastern margin of Firanes. In the sterile heights of those far-off peaks the woods ended, but began anew on their far side, the same forest with a new name flowing unbroken - save for the thousands of still blue lakes and a few village clearings - right across northern Faltha. The Great North Wood of Firanes was but the western division of a vast army of trees, millions upon millions of them, standing to attention, always alert, as though they were guarding some hidden northern secret. The wood that extended green fingers into the Vale of Loulea, and which overshadowed the Westway, also marched to the margins of Bhrudwo thousands of leagues to the east. To Leith it felt like a direct link to the Destroyer himself.

The trees were giants, much larger than those Leith knew from the woods at home. Spruce and larch, fir and giant pine all towered above the travellers as they followed the Westway under the wood. Overhead the canopy admitted very little light, leaving them straining their eyes in the semi-darkness. What they could see caused them to take care, as the forest floor was littered with fallen tree trunks, covered, like everything else, in a thick blanket of moss and pine needles that swallowed sound, leaving an eerie silence. Moreover, the ground itself was strangely uneven, a tangle of man-high ridges, shallow, waterlogged depressions and occa¬sional erratic boulders that made travel difficult, reducing the Westway to a forest path that could be taken only in single file. There was little undergrowth in the forest; the same semi-darkness that encouraged the enveloping moss prevented the growth of flowering plants.

Strangely to those used to the woods of Loulea Vale, there was no sign of animal life, save the intermittent sound of birdsong high above and the middens of squirrels, made up of discarded cones, lying at the bases of the largest spruce trees. Occasionally the travellers came across a clearing, where one or two forest giants had fallen. Here they saw signs of new growth: lush meadows of wild grasses, blueberry bushes (not yet in fruit, of course) and a number of saplings seeking to usurp their elders. In one such glade the travellers stopped to camp for the night.

'What must this be like in spring,' Hal wondered aloud, 'if in winter there is so much beauty?'

All Leith could see were the surrounding trees, dark and sinister in the light of a winter's afternoon. Beauty?

Wira answered Hal. 'It is beautiful, and I am pleased you can see it. We have had a mild winter thus far in the Mjolkelva Valley. I've seen gorse start to flower, and some of our fields are covered with snowdrops. It is beautiful, but I feel sorry for the flowers. They have been tricked; winter is not yet finished. In the north, winter can hit late and hard. Is it not so in your land?'

'Yes,' Hal replied. 'But our coastlands get more of the seasnow than do the uplands. Perhaps this year will be mild. Come, Wira,' he beckoned the younger brother, 'show me some of your trees!' The two young men walked off together, one tall and broad-shouldered, the other crippled, animated by a common interest.

Mahnum fingered the cut to his face. That'll teach me for remaining silent when they ask me a question. The man he identified as the Bhrudwan leader - he who issued the commands and to whom the others deferred, the tallest of the tall warriors, raw-featured and with recessed eyes

- had asked him that question again. 'Where is the Right Hand? Take us to the Right Hand!'

The Trader couldn't stand it any longer, had taken enough, so simply turned away as though he hadn't heard. A quick move¬ment, a deft flick of his curved sword - such skill was frightening - and Mahnum's face bled for some time. Indrett hadn't seen it; she was still asleep, trussed up on the back of a horse. Just as well. Much more of this.. .

The Trader turned his attention to his task. Gathering sticks for a fire was difficult when the deadfall was covered with snow, but he knew that no excuse would be accepted. The pain in his ribs reminded him that these men were ruthless, not hesitating to beat him as he lay helpless. Still, he had slowed them for a while. Perhaps someone would come to rescue the captives, perhaps the Haufuth had been able to organise a pursuit, perhaps deliverance was at hand - if a pursuit had indeed been raised, if there were enough in the party, if they had fast horses and had ridden them hard, if they had picked the right road, if, if, if.. . Mahnum sighed.

Forget it. No one is coming. He would have to find a way out of this before the Bhrudwans decided their captives were too much trouble, or that they were telling the truth and really didn't know anything about this Right Hand.

But why were they asking? Hadn't he told the Voice of Andratan all he knew?

In his search for firewood he drew close to a small blue-green pool, gamely reflecting the pale sunlight in a world of shadows. Behind him the trees of the Great North Wood stood placidly, uninterested in humans and their quarrels. No escape that way, thought Mahnum. The wood would swallow me, or the warriors would find me, or they would do things to Indrett until I begged them to stop. He watched the Bhrudwans prepare the camp. Two were younger, learning the ropes. The leader and his lieutenant were older, more experienced warriors, bearing the scars of battle. The Trader had learned of their skill this last year, as he had been pursued across Faltha. The two young Bhrudwans would be adding tracking and survival skills to their already formidable fighting prowess. These warriors could fight effectively armed and unarmed, with sticks or club, axe or sword; superbly fit, they showed few effects of their arduous journey through the Falthan winter. And now they were learning to torture and kill, to extract information from their enemies. Mere efficiency would not be enough for their leader; he would expect them to enjoy the terror of their captives, to develop a taste for blood, to savour the hunt and the kill. And by the time they reached the age of their leader, they would be ruthlessly effi¬cient fighting machines. True Lords of Fear.

Mahnum shuddered. Had these men ever been children?

Vulnerable, needing their mother and father, crying, admitting weak¬ness? He tried to imagine it, but failed. How could something so innocent be made over into something so evil?

Concentrate on your task, he told himself. Gather the wood, keep them happy, make them complacent, then . . . Just keep yourself alive until they present you with an opportunity.

He was about to hurry back to the camp, arms filled with wood, when he heard the sound of a horse, muffled by the intervening trees. Someone coming along the road! Before he had time to react the Bhrudwans had drawn swords and spread out around the clearing, finding hiding places under the trees, waiting for the appearance of the rider. The very air began to pulse with an ominous blue cast, laden with violence and power. The approaching noise became louder and louder, then suddenly the rider was upon them, bursting into the clearing. A stab of disap¬pointment shot through the Trader: one rider only, and not of Loulea. Hardly a rescue party.

Would they let him pass? Keep riding, keep riding, willed Mahnum. Don't stop! But the rider reined his horse in, looking more closely at the campsite, and that was his undoing. Before Mahnum could muster a warning shout, the Bhrudwans had rushed from their concealment and surrounded the hapless rider. No ques¬tions were asked, no mercy was given. A sword flashed, a swathe of blue light, and the horse was down and thrashing about on the cold ground, making a pitiful noise in its agony. The rider, pale with fright, stumbled away from the death throes of his mount and fumbled with his sword, making ready to defend himself.

Leave him alone! Mahnum wanted to shout. He's little more than a boy! But the bloodlust was on them now; they would not have heard him, let alone taken any notice. The warriors stood motionless and watched the intruder clumsily heft his broadsword, then look from one grey-robed figure to the next, seeking a way of escape. Panic turned to terror in his eyes as he looked on the faces of his implacable executioners. His face settled into the look of one who knows he is about to die.