Across the Face of the World (64 page)

Out flashed the sword of the Widuz, far too quickly for Mahnum, whose parry merely deflected the blade on to the fleshy part of his upper arm. His grunt of pain was matched by the snort of satis¬faction, of mockery, from the Widuz. I am overmatched, Mahnum realised.

Unless I flee, I will die here.

Phemanderac and Leith made it to the far side of Wambakalven, shrouded in darkness, some distance from the torchlight. Here the walls were honeycombed by the black mouths of caves leading to unguessable depths of the earth. Phemanderac considered for a moment. Sure death, not refuge, waited within. Backed into some miserable corner, falling into some unmarked pit, or the lingering death of the lost, would likely be their fate. The caves were not an option.

Ahead lay a pool. Beyond that, the end of the cavern. Their options had all but run out.

Suddenly the two pursuers were upon them with a flailing of swords and grunting of breath.

Phemanderac pushed off a guard, while beside him Leith swung his blade wildly.

The harp, came a clear thought to the philosopher's mind.

In instant response, Phemanderac dropped to his knees; above him a blade flashed and bit air.

He took the instrument from his shoulder and struck a chord with trembling fingers.

By the path, Mahnum ducked another blow. How do 1 make an attack? This man has no weakness. He was able to counter a straight thrust, but he was tiring. How much longer?

Bright steel flicked past an inch from his eyes. Not much longer. His opponent readied himself for the kill.

The music! In the great cavern it swelled, a joy cutting like a sword through the besmirching cruelty that had ruled here for centuries. Strength and hope flowed out from the music, infusing tired limbs with renewed vigour, lifting crestfallen spirits, girding Mahnum as he faced the Widuz warrior.

The noise! It shrieked through the air like a fiend, a dybbuk of the earth disturbed by the fighting in the sacred womb. Sheer terror ripped at the Widuz warrior like a wild wind; his sword dropped from frightened fingers, and he raised his arms as if to fend off a blow. One short thrust from Mahnum and it was over. From somewhere behind him, the Trader heard a cry. Another warrior, perhaps, shouting in dismay at the fall of the guard.

Phemanderac made his fingers fly across the strings. The melody he played was a favourite of the philosophers, but they would not have recognised it in Wambakalven, magnified a thousand-fold by the confines of the cave. Here the notes melded into a ringing that shook the ground. In Geotakalven it had been an ecstasy, in Wambakalven it was raw power.

The Widuz fought against the noise, trying to strike at their quarry. Their movements were slow and cumbersome, as though the sound was a semi-solid mass through which they had to force a path. Leith and Phemanderac backed away from the guards.

Into this chaotic scene blundered a huge figure, issuing from one of the caves in the far wall.

White-faced, clothes shredded, hands over his ears, the disciple found his way into Wambakalven and the sound was waiting there for him. He shrieked with fear; the Widuz turned blindly and without thought struck at the ghostly figure, cutting him down with cruel blows.

'Now!' cried Phemanderac, hoisting the harp to its place on his shoulder. He ran to the pool and dived in. Leith followed the stranger as though in a dream. The ripples closed over them both.

A wailing arose from the guards, who had identified the one they had killed. They had taken the life of the new priest, and their own deaths were now required by law. They turned in search of the intruders, who had simply vanished. This was too much for the warriors, who threw down their weapons and fled in terror of the wrath of their gods.

Below the dark fortress of Adunlok, the two armies waited. It had been many long minutes since the Fodhram had been surrounded, yet still the Widuz had shown no sign of finishing the job. Axehaft could see the growing agitation of the captains of Adunlok. He turned to his men.

'We will not die at the leisure of these killers,' he whispered hoarsely. 'They deny us the decency of death by battle, so we will take death from them! We wait no longer! Take arms!'

His men acknowledged their leader with nods of approval, and made themselves ready without alerting their enemy.

'We will strike directly at their captains,' the Warden continued, 'craven men who refuse to fight, but who send soldiers to do the work in their place. We will teach them how to fight!

Attack and make no defence!' His men were gathering behind his will, forming it into a solid fist, readying for the strike.

'Forward!' Axehaft cried, sword upraised, in a last, desperate rallying cry. 'To the victory or to the death!' And the Fodhram took up the cry - 'To the victory or to the death!' - and shouted it to the darkling heavens. They plunged forward into the surprised Widuz, whose hands lay but lightly upon their hilts, and whose minds had taken victory for granted.

'Make this a song to be sung at the Fodhram firesides!' Axehaft roared, as they clove a path through the captains of their enemy. 'For the glory of Withwestwa Wood!' His warriors picked up this chant and filled the air with it, driving the Widuz back towards Helig Holth with the power of their voices as much as the power of their arms. 'For the glory of Withwestwa Wood!' Behind them the Widuz warriors realised too late what had happened and rushed after their foe, but could not catch them.

The last captain of the Widuz melted away before them, slain by a blow from Axehaft's bitter-edged blade. The Fodhram had fought their way to the very edge of Helig Holth, and marvelled at the great chasm before them, darker and more deadly than the blackest night.

Now the Widuz seized their chance and rushed at the Fodhram, who were pinned against Helig Holth. The Warden turned his men and drove them into the wave of attackers. The Fodhram vanguard burst into the fury of the Widuz, and over¬topped them, sending them back on to the plain in temporary defeat.

The Widuz mounted another charge. This time Axehaft waited for them, then at the last possible moment pulled his warriors aside. The Widuz plunged ahead in the darkness, unable to arrest their charge, and many were taken by Helig Holth, screaming as they fell into the embrace of their god.

'Now it is our turn!' Axehaft cried, and led his warriors forward in a glorious charge that simply swept their enemy away. A number of the Widuz laid down their weapons and cried out for mercy; others fell beneath sword or staff; while the rest melted into the forest, lamenting the loss of their priest and fearing the wrath of the northern woodsmen.

Phemanderac's idea had been to swim underwater to the far end of the pool, surface, and find somewhere to hide until they were free to make their way out of the caves. But the pool would not allow them to follow this plan. With irresistible power it sucked them down, further and further down into its cold heart. Leith struggled to get free of the current, flailing with arms and legs, and failed. Beside him Phemanderac relaxed and rode the surge.

At feast we're going somewhere, he reasoned. As long as there are no waterfalls.

Rock walls closed around them. Ahead, Leith could make out a narrow gap, surely far too narrow for a person to pass through. The powerful current insisted they head towards it, and Leith had no strength with which to argue, by now being wholly concerned with the lack of air. Through the opening he flashed, banging his shoulder painfully as he went; behind him Phemanderac's harp wedged fast.

There was nothing Leith could do to help his new-found friend. He turned and battled into the current but could make no headway. Roiling water took him away from Phemanderac and, after long moments of twisting and turning through water-filled tunnels, deposited him on a sandy beach. He gasped for air a few times, then passed out.

The search of the ground near Helig Holth had been going on for many precious minutes when the Fodhram of Withwestwa Wood finally found what they were searching for. 'Over here!' came the cry, and Axehaft rushed back to the brink of the abyss. A narrow path wound to the right, cut into the very rock of the cliff, and on it the remaining Fodhram captives had been discovered. In haste, they were led away from the scene, still dazed by the mind-numbing drugs they had been given.

Axehaft took stock of the situation. Nine captives had been rescued - nine out of twenty or more. Mahnum's son was not one of them, meaning that he, like the other captives, had undoubt¬edly been thrown down the great hole. At least fifteen of his warriors had been slain, or were so cruelly wounded they were unlikely to survive the night. Was this good sense? he wondered. We have exchanged fifteen for nine. Would we have done better to remain at home? His heart cried 'No!' in answer. My slain warriors died in a noble cause. At least the living can live without the guilt of having abandoned the captives.

'Shall we attack the fortress?' one beside him asked, eyes still burning with the lust of battle.

'No, lad, we have done what we came to do,' was his answer. 'Now, let us remain here no longer, leaving ourselves exposed to counterattack. Withdraw!'

At his word, the Fodhram turned as one and, taking the surviving captives of the Widuz with them, moved silently away from the blood-drenched field, some already composing lines that would be sung around campfires whenever discussion turned to the Battle of Helig Holth.

STORM IN THE AFTERNOON

IT TOOK LEITH A long time to decide that he had awoken; then, when he realised that his eyes were open, he imagined he was lying under the countless points of light that make up the night sky. Nearby a small freshet splashed merrily, otherwise all was silent: no wind, no murmuring trees, none of the outdoor sounds that he had become familiar with on his journey from Loulea; instead an unusual hollow quietness that made him a little uneasy. He sat up and listened intently. He heard nothing but the stream for a long while, but gradually he was able to distinguish the sound of breathing from nearby.

He had grown accustomed to the sounds of his travelling compan¬ions sleeping, but could not recall this slow, rhythmical breathing. Recent memory returned: The last I remember is the water dragging me under - through underwater caves — Phemanderac trapped - Phemanderac, you made it! he rejoiced. It must be you I can hear. But it is a shame about your harp. I've never heard anything like that in all my life.

He stood up and brushed the gritty sand off the Widuz attire he wore, then groped through the darkness to the stream. I've had nothing to drink since that jug of water in Adunlok, he reflected as he made to drink from the gurgling waters. The jug must have had some potion in it.

Leith was about to plunge his face into the stream when he drew back in horror, remembering the foetid hill of the slain at the bottom of Helig Holth. Though his mind told him the water was probably safe to drink, the fear of the mound of dead and decayed bodies was still on him, and he could not drink it.

'Where are we?' he muttered out loud. -

From the darkness around him came the question repeated as if from a thousand querulous bystanders. Where are we? Where are we? Where are we? The sound chilled Leith to the bone: Is this the Hall of the Dead? For a wild moment he was convinced he had died and now awaited judgement beyond the walls of time.

'In the lower caverns,' the answer came from close beside him. 'We're out of reach of the Widuz.'

'Phemanderac!' Leith exclaimed. 'Have you died too?'

'Not to my knowledge,' came the amused reply, 'though it seemed I might back there in the river.'

'So is this another cave?'

'It must be. For a while I thought we were out in the open, but those lights above us are some kind of insect or animal, not stars.'

Of course! Leith felt so foolish for not recognising the scene above him. 'They're glow-worms. They hang their lights on long threads. I've seen them in the hills above Loulea, under banks and in caves, but never in such numbers.'

Though they could not see each other, both turned their faces upwards. The sight was peaceful somehow, these insects patiently shining their lights, prepared to wait for unseen prey, undisturbed by the evil of men. The Widuz could not reach this far under the ground. They were safe. .

'The underground river has taken us deep into the earth.' Phemanderac began to review their options. 'There's no way back upstream, not against that current. We could look for tunnels -

the whole hill seems to be riddled with passages - but we might end up anywhere. It seems to me that we must trust our fate to the course of this river.'

'What if there's no way out?'

'Then we'll spend our last days exploring,' came the reply.

A fierce thirst consumed Leith. Phemanderac had twice taken water from the stream, but the youth could not shift the image of Helig Holth and the bodies of the slain from the forefront of his mind. Alongside the leaping stream they walked, arms outstretched to alert them to any obstacles in the total darkness. We must have come half a mile from the pool and the mound; the stream will be free of the foulness by now. It was no good: his stomach turned at the thought of the water.

The glow-worm cavern left behind, they navigated a narrow tunnel, no wider than the stream, through which they had to wade waist-deep. Ahead Phemanderac kept up a constant flow of chatter; after some time Leith realised that his companion was using his voice to determine the size of the cavern they were in. He talked about his homeland, which he described as a small island under a tall cliff at the head of a long, narrow inlet. Dhauria, he called it; Leith had never heard of such a country. At least it was not one of the Falthan countries, that much he remembered of the Haufuth's teaching.

Phemanderac talked about his occupation as a philosopher, how he had served as a student of languages at the feet of the great minds of his race, and of the Fuirfad, the Way of Fire. He spoke of his dominie, his beloved teacher Pyrinius, who had taught him a deep love of the written word, and had passed on to his pupil his ability with the harp. He described to Leith the delights of his home city, where many thousands joined together daily to offer praise to the Most High, making music far into the night.