Across the Face of the World (62 page)

'Now, command the warriors to encircle the Fodhram, then disengage. We will have the ceremony of sacrifice performed correctly, and then we will make an end of them.'

Mahnum had been forced to stand and watch his son and another man scurry up the path and into the fortress. Between him and Leith lay a hundred or more warriors of the Widuz, and above him still more ran along ridgetop paths. With a heavy heart, he watched the entrapment of the Fodhram, his friends from the Cloventop trail. He would not stay to see their end. But how would he gain access to the citadel?

The disciple hustled importantly out of his private rooms, determined to enjoy the first of what would be many pleasing tasks. It had been with unmasked pleasure that he had received news of the priest's untimely demise; the old fool had been a tyrant, making him do most of the work and sharing none of the rewards. But now it would be different. Now life would be sweet.

He propelled his corpulent body through the outer doorway of the second level and on to the pathway above Helig Holth. Although normally walking this path scared him witless, he was prepared to put up with the fear in exchange for the power that was now his. Puffy fingers nervously adjusted the red mask. Everything must be perfect for such an auspicious night.

As Mahnum watched from his vantage point above the battle¬field, the Widuz marched ahead, forcing the Fodhram back into the clutches of their waiting fellows, leaving the area around Helig Holth clear. The end was very near. But the Trader had eyes only for his chance.

He plunged forward, down the hillside.

Halfway down the path the disciple began to feel his bravado drain away. The black nothingness to his left pulled at him with an audible sucking sound, whispering to him with a thick, wet voice. I'm too superstitious for this calling, he thought.

Now someone came up the path. Worse yet, the big man thought. How will he pass me on this narrow way? But the man did not want to pass. In an instant, a sword was drawn, with the razor-sharp point poised under the disciple's wobbling chins.

'Back up the path! Make no noise!' Mahnum hissed. Though the disciple did not know the common speech, he knew the intent of what had been said. Whimpering with fear, he turned and heaved himself back up the way he had come, with the sword at his back.

'This way!' Phemanderac whispered, motioning Leith to follow. There had been a choice of ways, one a corridor straight ahead and the other a stairway down and to the right. The philosopher chose the stairway, and Leith, still a little dizzy from the effects of the drug, forced himself down after him.

The fortress appeared to be completely deserted. They were apparently on the level where the Widuz lived, with small rooms - even smaller than the cells above - with four bunks to a room, either side of a central corridor. Down this corridor they raced, with Phemanderac casting swift glances in each of the rooms.

'What are you looking for?' Leith hissed in his ear.

'My harp,' came the reply.

'Your what? We're in mortal danger! Leave your harp! We must escape before the men return!'

'I'll not leave without my harp,' Phemanderac said flatly. 'There is none other like it in all of Faltha.'

Leith cried aloud with frustration, but his companion would not be dissuaded from his search.

The end of the corridor reached, he turned on his heel and retraced his steps. It took at least five long minutes to search the rest of the level, without success.

'Down the stairs again! There must be a third level!'

'How do you know they didn't throw it into Helig Holth, along with your clothes?'

Phemanderac pulled up short.

'1 hadn't thought of that,' he said sadly. 'And that reminds me: we've a better chance of getting past anyone remaining here if we find some Widuz raiment.'

'You mean you've only just realised?' Leith had been uncom¬fortably aware of his nakedness, as much for the cold as for the embarrassment. His thin companion, however, did not seem to notice such things. They rummaged among a few rooms until they found clothes of approximate fit, then dressed and scampered down the corridor to the stairway.

'Back outside?' Leith inquired.

Phemanderac strode to the nearest window. 'We cannot go back the way we came,' he reported. 'Many warriors block that path. No, we must find another way out of this place.' He sighed. His harp had been very dear to him.

Down the stairs they raced, to the third and lowest inhabited level. Here they discovered an armoury, containing nothing but a few swords and clubs. Leith grabbed a cruel-looking blade, but Phemanderac declined. 'If it comes to a fight, I'd be no use to you,' he said cheerfully. 'No use at all. The philosophers offered no swordsmanship courses.'

The door of the last room but one was locked and bolted. 'Smash it open,' Phemanderac said.

'This could be our way out.'

Leith hacked at the lock with the sword. A loud clanging rang out, echoing along the corridor, but all he succeeded in doing was notching the blade.

'Quietly!' said Phemanderac. 'You'll bring them all here with that noise!'

'I can't do this quietly!' Leith snapped, his fear threatening to overwhelm him. 'You have a try!'

Phemanderac took the sword, stared at it a moment, wedged the hilt between the bolt and the door and pulled at the blade. The lock groaned, then gave way with a loud report.

'I've cut myself!' the thin man complained.

'In here!' Leith called.

'My harp!' cried Phemanderac.

'Look at this!' gasped Leith.

In the corner of the room lay a veritable treasure trove: coins, jewels and precious stones, all items of value no doubt taken from captives over the years before their owners were given to Mother Earth. Leith was drawn to the scene like a blackbird to bread, but Phemanderac had eyes only for his harp.

'Undamaged!' he declared after a swift examination. 'The Most High be praised!'

Leith fingered a few of the largest jewels, seemingly oblivious to all else.

'Leith! We must escape!'

'What? Oh! Yes, I'm coming,' he stammered, and reluctantly turned his back on the riches that were his for the choosing. 'Where to now?'

To the end of the corridor. Then, if there is no other way out, we take our chances out there.'

'To me! To me! Form a tight circle! Swords outwards!' The Warden knew they were overmatched, but was determined to make a worthy end of it. Though the song would not be sung, its lyrics began to form in his mind as he fought.

In the valley long, in the valley grey, Did the Fodhram fight till the end of day. In the valley grey, in the valley long, They swung their swords till hope was gone. To the last man fought, to the last man fell, Now all are gone, with none to tell Of deeds of greatness, deeds of yore, Their hearty laughter heard no more.

The Fodhram Warden considered these words, then decided that the making of songs would best be left to a bard. But there are none with us, he lamented as he hacked at a thick-necked Widuz. I've never known a bard who has made even a passable swordsman, certainly not one with the skill needed to free us from this trap. Why did 1 not bring my two-bladed axe?

This man is more of a liability than an asset, Mahnum decided. He could not communicate his wishes to his captive. It had been many years since he had traded goods in Widuz, in the more civilised south near Tolmen, and little but snippets of their hard-edged language remained in his mind. Moreover it appeared that the fortress was empty of Widuz, so he would not need this bulky man to help him. He flicked the red mask off with the tip of his sword. Behind the mask, the flabby face was pasty and sweating with fear.

I cannot let him go now, the Trader reasoned. He would report my presence to the soldiers below. He'd been of some help in shifting the huge stone, but since then had offered nothing more. Down the stone stairway Mahnum forced his prisoner. No sign of Leith in the upper levels. Where had he gone?

His captive beckoned him forward down the corridor. Is this a trap, or does he have something he wants to show me? In a moment he made up his mind: I will not stay undiscovered in this keep forever. He took a deep breath, then motioned the red-robed man onwards, prodding him with the tip of his sword.

A dead end! Leith and Phemanderac had reached the end of the last corridor, and like all the other corridors they had searched there was no passage, no way out of this fastness.

Think, Leith, think! 'There must be a way out!' he ground out in frustration. To be caught like rabbits in a mesh trap; to be impaled on the end of swords or thrown into that fearsome pit: that was no way for one with a high and lofty destiny to die.

Then for a moment his head cleared, and he thought more about the Hermit and what he had said. What was his first prophetic word? It sounded like a bell through his mind: I saw you standing naked at the edge of a vast abyss, a captive of cruel men. Other captives stood to your left and right. Your captors threw them into the chasm, one by one. The only way out is to cling to the fire.

His eyes widened. Why had he not remembered the words earlier? Were they any use now?

He had escaped the abyss without 'clinging to the fire', whatever that meant.

But had he escaped? The only way out is to cling to the fire.

'Leith! Look here!' Phemanderac cried. At the very end of the corridor, etched in the limestone wall, was the outline of a door. At least ten feet high, it was perfectly circular, with the merest of cracks to tell where it lay. It flickered in the dancing light of a single torch.

'Open it!' Leith called frantically and unnecessarily, rushing over to where Phemanderac was already pushing against the outline with all his might.

'It is definitely an opening,' he reported. 'Put your face to the crack; you can feel the cold air on the other side.'

Together they thumped at the door, but it remained closed. They spread out, looking along the bare, smooth wall for a lock or handle or something with which to open it. Finding nothing, Leith beat at the door with his sword hilt in desperation. So close!

Then from behind them they heard the slapping sound of feet on stone, as someone came down the stairs towards the corridor. Leith and Phemanderac looked at each other in horror.

'Perhaps if we hide in one of the rooms!' Leith whispered.

'And then what? Wait for the fortress to fill up again with soldiers? We must be patient and search for the key to this door. This is our only way out.'

Our only way out, Leith thought as the feet drew closer. There was a slight curve in the passage that hid from view the stairway behind them. They pressed themselves against the inner wall, over¬come with fear, hoping somehow to remain undetected. Perhaps the feet would turn the other way. Perhaps they would stop short of the end of the corridor. Leith held his sword at the ready, and cast a last look at the door outlined in the wall. Our only way out!

The footfalls reached the base of the stairs, then turned and came slowly towards them around the curve of the fortress. More than one person. A moment more and they would be discovered. Our only way out!

'Fool!' breathed Leith, his breath coming out with a rush. 'Our only way out is to cling to the fire!' And with that he rushed past the transfixed Phemanderac and reached up for the torch. It was just out of his grasp.

'Help me!' he hissed. Instantly, Phemanderac was at his side, realisation dawning on him. His thin, bony hands took hold of the torch and pulled it downwards. Immediately, and without a sound, the door swung open, revolving on a central axis. The two fugitives flashed through the opening and into a dimly lit cave. Leith turned and pushed the door shut; it gave way effortlessly before him, falling into place with a soft, reassuring click.

The Fodhram, numbering now no more than twenty, were completely surrounded. Men slumped forward on their swords, some searching for courage with which to face inevitable death, others too exhausted to care. Around them the many corpses of their enemies were mute testimony to the ferocity of the battle.

'What's happened?' Jackpine asked his Warden. 'Why have they withdrawn?'

The Widuz waited for something, that much was obvious. For reinforcements? Surely not!

There were more than enough Widuz to finish them off. For leadership? But there were the leaders, standing in plain sight, and that man must be their chief. The order could be given at any time. Why the delay?

The Widuz Chief was furious. 'Did you deliver him my summons?'

'Yes, my lord. I told him personally.'

'And his response?'

'He said he would be down immediately he donned the sacred garments.'

'Well, where is he?'

'He should be here by now, my Chief.' The servant struggled to hide his nervousness.

'Go and find him, then! Do not return without him!'

Once again the unfortunate man made off.

The Warden watched the exchange, taking place as it did not fifty yards distant.

'Should we not attack, and make an end?' whispered Fernroot, his most able lieutenant. 'The captives will be beyond our help if we delay any longer.'

Axehaft laughed loud and long, a sound that eased his aching heart and sent the Widuz warriors reaching for their swords. 'Look around you!' he said in a steady voice. 'The captives are beyond our help already!'

'I'd love to see my beautiful Marigold one more time,' came a sorrowful voice from behind.

'Such a slender waist, such deep blue eyes. And little Brownfinch, he'll miss his father. Just one more look, that's all I ask!'

'Then close your eyes and look upon your loved ones,' the Warden answered. This waiting made their deaths all the more cruel. He could sense the courage draining from his men. Curse you! Attack and have done with it!

The mind of the disciple worked feverishly. How can I save myself? For it is obvious that this man intends to do away with me.

His best chance lay in keeping the man occupied long enough for others to come searching for their new priest. After all, my pres¬ence is necessary in order for the consecration ceremony to proceed. There is no one else who knows the ritual. 1 will not be abandoned.