Across the Face of the World (66 page)

Where hope died, anger began, followed by a gamut of other emotions. Anger over the senseless way the captives of the Widuz had been slain, bitterness at the presumed defeat of the Fodhram raiders, rage over the abomination in the cavern far below, fury at the disappearance of his son. He had been held captive by the most brutal of Bhrudwans, but they had been hardly more evil than these Widuz. All excuses for their behaviour had been forgotten, all rational thought abandoned. All Mahnum wanted to do now was make them pay.

As he sat deep in thought, he heard movement in the cell nearest him. So there were prisoners still! Acting even as he thought, Mahnum launched himself along the corridor, then down the stairs to the lowest level. The figure near the hidden door remained motionless, gazing sightlessly on the battlefield below, and did not stir at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Coldly furious, Mahnum gave no thought to his actions beyond remem¬bering the correct word: 'Keys!' he growled in the Widuz tongue.

The man turned towards him, and Mahnum noticed with amaze¬ment that he had tears in his eyes.

'Keys?'

'Feed the prisoners,' Mahnum said awkwardly, hoping he would not notice.

'Where's the guard?' the man said wearily, but Mahnum noticed that he was removing the keyring from his belt even as he spoke.

He pointed mutely through the window, down to the battle¬field. The man nodded, threw the keys to Mahnum, then turned and leaned through the window, head in his hands, paying no more attention to the man beside him.

You could push him through the window, said a voice, and the thought appealed to him. His hands tingled as he imagined the man's back against his palms, stiffening too late, then falling away from the window and tumbling helplessly down into the deadly blackness. It would only be justice; it would help wrest power away from this foul brood. Besides, he had been so helpless throughout this long night; here fate was offering him a chance to hit back.

Do it now! the voice urged, and Mahnum actually took a step forward - then froze as he remembered the hideous mound almost directly below. Wasn't the hill high enough? If I was to send this man to his death, undoubtedly guilty though he is, how would I be any better than him? Leave revenge alone.

He drew a settling breath, surely making enough noise to warn the Widuz, but the man didn't stir. Mahnum wiped nervous hands on his drab brown uniform, turned on his heel, and made his way through the impregnable fortress of Adunlok, keys gripped firmly in his hand.

It was the work of a few minutes to release the captives in the cells of the topmost level; there were fifteen men and three women in ten small cells, each with a window over Helig Holth thought¬fully provided by the Widuz for their education. But no Leith.

This is the best way to get back at them. They'll want to make sacri¬fices to thank their gods for their great victory. Well, they'll find no prisoners to hurl down their foul hole. His fury mounted further. How can we be so concerned about the threat from Bhrudwo when we allow things like this to happen on the borders of our own lands? For that matter, what vile things disfigure our own cities, our own villages, our own homes - our own hearts? Are the Bhrudwans more important than our own evil?

The newly released captives milled about in the corridor, while in Mahnum's mind a bleak picture unfolded. So we struggle on to lnstruere, and maybe even arrive there, with the loss of many innocent lives. Then perhaps we manage to sweet-talk or more likely bribe our way into the Council of Faltha, and someone among us speaks so eloquently that the Falthan kings believe us. How likely is that? And the kings are able to overcome their border squabbles and petty preju¬dices; and join forces in an army mighty enough to defeat - how did the Voice of Andratan put it? — 'an iron rod forged from the steel of our people, fashioned to flail the Falthan flab without a shred of mercy'. He could not imagine it. But most ironic of all, should this series of unlikely events culminate in the defeat of the Bhrudwan army, we Falthans may be the big losers: we'll be so busy congratulating ourselves, we'll have less incentive than ever to tackle the evil in our midst. We won't even see it.

There was some sort of noise behind him, and he turned as, without warning, the prisoners jumped him. 'No, no!' Mahnum cried frantically, trying to fight them off, his vision filled with bodies and arms, fighting ineffectually but overpowering him by sheer weight of numbers.

For a moment he was angry rather than fearful; after having faced and fooled the Widuz, the notion of being overcome by those he had just freed simply didn't make sense. But then his head slammed into the marble floor, dazing him, and then again, harder this time, causing blood to flow from his nose. He twisted and turned, ripping his stolen garments, tearing his skin in the grip of clasping hands, not able to evade them, not able to strike; then, inevitably, down came a heavy blow - an elbow, a knee, a foot, it didn't matter - crushing his head against the rock of Adunlok and knocking him senseless.

The problem, the Haufuth discovered, was not in crossing the unbridged, steep-sided stream themselves, even though it appeared the nearest crossing point was nearly half a mile upstream. What gave the Hermit and the Haufuth most concern was working out how to get Wisent the aurochs to the other side. There seemed no alternative to searching more widely for a passage, but as the Haufuth leaned over the edge and looked into the southern distance, he could see no break in the lava cliffs stretching away into the midday haze. Upstream was no more promising, for although the cliffs reduced in height, they had discovered dangerous lava fields through which it would likely prove impos¬sible for Wisent to navigate.

'We're going south,' the Haufuth announced to his friend. 'We must find a way across this river.' He began hauling up the remains of the rope-and-slat bridge that hung uselessly from the top of the cliff.

'How much of a delay will it cause?' The blue-robed Hermit came up behind him, chagrin on his face and in his voice. They had made such good time since leaving Bandits' Cave, having enjoyed mainly fine weather, and having accepted hospitality (and fresh meat) from friendly travellers on the path. Wisent had attracted favourable attention and their fame had gone before them, so that families living deep in the woods came to see them pass, pointing and remarking at the huge beast they brought with them. The Hermit had harboured hopes of catching up with the Company well before Instruere, but that now seemed unlikely. And there had been no sign of the Bhrudwans' passage.

'Possibly a day, probably more. There is no path south from here, as far as I can tell. We'll need to break a path through the forest. What could possibly have happened to the bridge?'

The last of the rope appeared, and the Hermit grabbed at it, frowning.

'Many bridges in the north are destroyed by spring floods, but that was not, I think, the fate of this one. Come over here and take a close look at this rope. See here? This was cut with a sword or a knife.'

'The Bhrudwans?'

'That's my guess also. They are trying to slow down any pursuit.'

'Hopefully they rushed into the waiting ambush of the Company, though we must be nearing Vindstrop House by now. I'm worried; I thought we would have seen signs of their fate—'

'But wait!' cried the Hermit. 'Come and look at this!' He stood over dark-stained stones on the left of the path, a stain four weeks of weather had not wholly obliterated.

'Blood. Enough shed for a man to die.' Now he saw evidence of conflict, the Haufuth was less than sure he wanted to see more. 'But perhaps it was an animal,' he said doubtfully.

'And over here,' the blue-robed man called. 'Here a burning has been conducted - a funeral pyre, perhaps; look, here lie bones.' He stepped back a few feet. 'Best not to look too closely.'

'I don't have to look closely. See this?' He pointed to a sword, planted in the softer ground at the edge of the forest near the place of the burning. 'Vinkullen men use such blades. Here lies one of the Storrsen boys.'

Both men knelt there on the path, alone with their thoughts for a private moment.

'Then the Company is no more.' Sorrow filled the Hermit's voice.

'You're mistaken,' replied the Haufuth, a tear in his eye but a smile on his face. 'If indeed the Company fought the Bhrudwans in this place, there must have been survivors enough to honour the slain with a funeral. The Bhrudwans would not have done such a thing. It stands to reason, therefore, that the Company must have been victorious - or, at least, not wholly defeated.'

'And, since we did not meet up with the remnants of the Company on their way home along the Westway, it follows that they continue on their journey to Instruere.' The Hermit became excited: 'Possibly with the Bhrudwan captive they sought.'

'Yes - if we're reading the signs with our heads, and not our hearts.'

'No. It has the ring of truth about it.' The Hermit spoke with certainty.

'You sound exactly like Hal!' The big headman laughed. 'In our village he's known as...' He snapped his mouth shut too late, having forgotten Hal's behaviour in Bandits' Cave. 'I'm sorry.'

'That's all right,' the Hermit replied graciously. 'I've thought about what he had to say. I can definitely sense an anointing on him, and one day he will make a prophet. But it is important to remember that he is only a youth, immature and with much to learn. Perhaps I might be able to spend some time with him in Instruere. His younger brother, now; he's a different matter alto¬gether - don't you sense it? A great Hand is upon him, steering his life, using this journey to make him into something sharp and accurate, a mighty arrowhead in the quiver of the Most High.'

His voice rose in volume, as though through some inner sight he spoke not to a simple village headman but to the assembled emissaries of the Council of Faltha. 'Though I grew up in the favoured houses of Instruere, I have never seen one with such authority, such a cloak of leadership on his shoulders. If it is my life's destiny to prepare such a one for his time of greatness, and even if I do not see him come into his glory, I shall be content.' He paused for a moment, then laughed merrily at himself. 'Forgive me, my friend; whenever I think about that boy I can't help myself. The anointing of the Most High comes upon me and I cannot remain silent.'

The Haufuth shrugged his vast shoulders. 'Can't say that I see what you see,' he said. 'He's an ordinary village lad. A bit more sense than most, perhaps, a thinker; keeps to himself mostly.

A bit sensitive, a bit delicate. Not a patch on his father. Now there's one who might have achieved greatness if he hadn't chosen the quiet life of the North March. Mahnum was a Trader, respected by all at the Firanes Court; but for some reason, one he has never shared with anyone, he retired at the height of his powers and came to Loulea. Leith has potential, perhaps, but at his age Mahnum had already travelled along the Twilight Road to Ciennan.'

'And at his age Leith is on his way to Instruere,' the Hermit reminded him gently.

'True! I had forgotten that. And at my age, so am I. It only goes to show how ridiculous life can be.'

'You're an irascible rogue,' the blue-robed Hermit pronounced, with a hint of levity to leaven his words. 'Your cynicism is a cover for disillusionment and lack of faith. What has the Most High done to offend you?'

The Haufuth squatted down on the stone path. 'Nothing,' he stated flatly. 'That's the problem: he does nothing. More than anything, I'd like to believe in a god who looked after everyone, but I can't. I look at my villagers and, in spite of all my efforts and those of many good men and women, some of them live lives of suffering and pain. As I wander around the village I find myself thinking: if there is a god, how is it that he has favourites? Why does he not do anything for those who need it most? Failing an answer, I conclude that he does not act because he does not exist. I prefer that conclusion to the alternative: that he blesses some and curses others. Were such a god to exist, I would be his enemy.'

The two men and the enormous aurochs spent the afternoon fighting through the bush along the cliff-line, until near dusk they came across a path. Though little more than an animal track, it afforded far quicker passage through the younger, thicker foliage near the riverbank. The Hermit attempted to turn their conver¬sation to the metaphysical, having apparently taken the Haufuth's rejection of faith as a challenge, but the big headman would not discuss it any further. Instead he tried to encourage the Hermit to talk about his past life in Mercium, with an equal lack of success. For the latter part of the afternoon their journey was conducted in an uncomfortable silence, straining the tenuous bonds of friend-ship that had begun to develop between them.

Dusk found them looking for a place to spend the night. The path led them away from the riverbank into older, more widely spaced trees, a mature forest not so recently affected by lava and mud flows from the menacing volcano some miles behind them. As the sun sank and the shadows merged into greyness the trav¬ellers came out of the forest into a pale clearing.

'You look a lot better than when I saw you last,' came a voice from some way off to the right.

Two heads jerked in the direction of the voice, where a silhouette stood outlined against the last of the light.

'And you look a lot worse,' the Hermit replied evenly. 'Where have you been, and what have you seen? Your soul is scarred.'

Leader laughed long and deeply, a rich laugh that seemed to take over his body. 'You're right, as usual,' he said. 'Come, both of you; come and share a hearth with the Fodhram, and perhaps you will hear songs and stories to ease your hearts - or perhaps to sadden them. There is much news to tell.'

'What grows in this meadow?' the Haufuth asked, as they skirted around the edge of the clearing towards a flickering fire on its far side. 'A forest of spears?'

'No, friend. What grow here are the sorrows of the Fodhram and their desire for revenge - and the difficulties of their leader, who now desires only peace and not fire or the sword. But tonight you will hear the tale of the Meadow of Spears, as it bears on the fate of certain of your Company.'