Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (44 page)

 
          
Calandryll
watched as he spilled water into a pot, added vegetables. Soon a simple stew
bubbled, and cakes of journey bread baked over the fire.

 
          
"Why
do they ride for Kesham-vaj?" he wondered. "Surely brigands would not
dare attack a town."

 
          
Bracht
stirred the pot, his face underlit by the flames, hard-planed, his blue eyes
thoughtful.

 
          
"If
that was Cenophus back there, perhaps Kesham-vaj stands undefended. In
Mherut'yi, Philomen commanded no more than twenty men—perhaps all Kesham-vaj's
soldiery died there on the road and Sathoman looks to invest the town."

 
          
"Then
Kesham-vaj is an obstacle," Calandryll murmured. "If Sathoman lays
siege—or holds the town—he's not likely to grant us passage through."

 
          
"No,"
Bracht agreed, "but the road's our swiftest way to Nhur-jabal, and a
detour will cost us time. You have that map Varent provided?"

 
          
Calandryll
nodded and brought the chart from his satchel, spreading it close to the
flames.

 
          
"The
caravanserai is here." He tapped the mark, tracing the dark line of the
Tyrant's road, "And the highway here. Kesham-vaj, here, then the road runs
on to Nhur- jabal."

 
          
"And
these?" Bracht asked, indicating the thinner inscriptions that ringed the
area. "What do they tell you?"

 
          
Calandryll
studied the markings. "The land rises steadily," he said. "The
caravanserai lies at the foot of a plateau. Kesham-vaj a little distance from the
rim. The plateau spreads to here," he traced a line, "and then
descends into hilly country before rising again to Nhur-jabal."

 
          
"This
is the road?" Bracht drew a finger along the darker line; Calandryll
murmured an affirmative. "Then if Sathoman posts men on the crest, they'll
see us coming. Horsemen must be in clear sight; in arrow range. What's
this?"

 
          
He
tapped a shaded section that circled half the plateau's southwestern perimeter.

 
          
"Woodland,"
Calandryll said. "With no trails marked."

 
          
"And
time needed to cross it," grunted Bracht. "Nhur- jabal is here?"

 
          
He
set a fingertip on the point where the Kharm-rhanna Range thrust a spur into
the heart of Kandahar.

 
          
"Yes,"
Calandryll confirmed. "See here? The road from Kesham-vaj runs
arrow-straight to Nhur-jabal. The country between is broken—hills and woodland.
There might well be trails, but they're not shown."

 
          
Bracht
grunted again, resting back on his heels, staring into the fire.

 
          
"We'll
chance the road," he decided after a while, "but by night. With any
luck, Sathoman will be occupied with the town and we'll gain the highland
unnoticed. Then ride around."

 
          
"And
if they sight us?" Calandryll wondered.

 
          
Bracht
grinned.

 
          
"Then
we turn tail and run. Back down the slope and then south to circle through the
woods. With a town to take, they'll likely not bother chasing two men."

 
          
He
seemed satisfied with his plan, and with no better strategy to offer,
Calandryll nodded agreement. The Kem tasted his stew and pronounced it ready:
they ate and Bracht suggested Calandryll take the first watch.

 
          
The
night was warm enough, and the fire, small though it was, cheerful. Calandryll
settled with his sword across his knees, watching the stars spread out above.
From time to time he glanced at the red stone, but it gave no sign of nearby
magic and he decided that the bird Bracht had seen was only that: a bird. The
revulsion he had felt at sight of the massacre faded, and in time he grew
bored, rising to climb the ridge and study the night-black land spread before him.
There was no sign of life, no fires burning to mark the men ahead, nor sounds
to warn of danger, and he returned to the fire and his vigil, waking Bracht at
the agreed hour.

 
          
The
Kem roused him while grey dawn still filled the declivity, passing him a mug of
tea and a bowl of warmed-over stew. They ate and saddled their animals,
returning to the road as the sun eased its way above the horizon.

 
          
"It's
still there."

 
          
Bracht
pointed upward, to where the solitary speck hung, seemingly motionless, against
the brightening sky. Calandryll narrowed his eyes, seeking to define the shape,
but it was too high, no more than a hint of wings, a fanshaped tail. He checked
the talisman, but still it gave no indication of sorcery, and he could only
shrug, wondering if his companion was overly cautious.

 
          
By
noon
he began to share Bracht's doubts, for the
bird still paced them and it seemed that any normal avian must surely have lost
interest by now.

 
          
That
night they camped by a stream, sheltered by willows, again taking turns on
watch, and as dawn broke the bird was there again, an irritation now, setting
the hairs on Calandryll's neck to prickling with the feeling of eyes upon him.

 
          
It
remained as they sighted the ruins of the caravanserai, fire-blackened by the
roadside. The white stone of the walls was scorched where flame had scoured the
interior, the roof fallen in, the windows dark pits, their sills smeared with
melted glass like frozen tears. Weeds overtook the yard, and grass, trod down
by horses, their dung not yet so old the flies failed to gather, the well
poisoned by a long-rotted carcass. Bracht entered the desolate place on foot,
emerging to announce that Sathoman's men—if it was them they followed—had
camped within the tumbled stones a night past. Calandryll studied the wreckage,
wondering what manner of man this rebel lord was, that he would destroy a
travelers' resting place, even to the extent of fouling the well. It was a
mournful relic in a lonely land, and he was glad when they had left it behind.

 
          
By
late afternoon they saw the plateau bulking ahead. The road approached the foot
and then turned, winding in a zigzag up the scarp, wide enough to permit wagons
to pass, paved for most of its way, and all of it under easy bow shot from any
archers posted at the summit. The cloud they had seen billowing over the
Kharm-rhanna had drawn closer, offering some chance of obfuscation of the
waning moon. Bracht reined in among a stand of slender birches, their pale
leaves rustled by the wind that drove the cloud, studying the road.

 
          
"I'd
sooner tne moon was gone," he remarked, "but if all goes well, that
cloud should aid us. We'll wait here 'til full dark and then go on. Best get
what sleep you can."

 
          
Calandryll
unsaddled his horse and tethered it, stretching on the grass, listening to the
buzz of insects, staring up through the trees. The bird was still there, a
silent, omnipresent observer, but when he tinned to inform Bracht, the Kern as
asleep. He shrugged and sighed, too nervous himself to find such easy respite.

 
          
As
dusk fell they ate cold meat and journey bread, secured their packs, and
sacrificed a blanket to the wrapping of bits and buckles, the muffling of the
hooves. The promised cloud drifted across the rim of the plateau, silvered by
the moon, but laying a filigree pattern of shadows and shifting light over the
way ahead.

 
          
"Slow
and quiet," Bracht warned as they mounted, "and when we close on the
crest, we go on foot. Be ready to silence your horse."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded, dry-mouthed, and followed the freesword out from the trees, toward the
ascent ahead. By night it looked far longer, a killing ground for bowmen, and
he wondered hopelessly if they had not done better—wiser, at least—to chance
the delays of a detour. No, he told himself, pushing pessimism and fear aside,
they must reach Kharasul and take ship for Gessyth swift as they might. If
Azumandias had sent the mysterious woman to take them—and she had survived the
magical storm—her war- boat was likely already closing on Cape Vishat'yi, and if
she should reach Kharasul before them... He pushed that fear aside, too: danger
lay ahead, likely waiting for them, and he must concentrate on the task in
hand, without digression.

 
          
He
rode after Bracht, matching the Kern's easy pace.

 
          
The
road angled upward, winding to left and right, the stones of its paving grooved
where wagon wheels had cut the blocks, the blanket-swathed hooves thudding
dully. Small trees and bushps thrust out from the scarp, affording some small
measure of cover, the wind stronger, scudding cloud in welcome streamers across
the moon so that they moved spectral, lit and then shadowed, like phantom
riders toiling toward some waiting destiny. It seemed a breath-held eternity,
each moment lived in anticipation of warning shout, a bowstring's twang, the
whistle of an arrow, the flash of pain that would tell of shaft finding target.
And yet, in a way he did not properly understand, it was easier than facing
magic. Sorcery, for all he used Lord Varent's stone, remained a mystery, a
dark, unknown thing. He had faced the demons, back in Lysse, a lifetime ago it
seemed, and his stomach had emptied after; and that thing in Octofan's bam,
though it had offered no harm, had left him unnerved. There was that element of
the unknowable in sorcery, the notion that dark powers might rise to do far
worse than harm his flesh. Now, as he climbed behind Bracht, he thought only of
physical hurt, of attack against which he might, no matter in how small a way,
take some measure of defense. He rode on, halting when the Kem halted,
dismounting to take the reins of both horses as Bracht continued on foot.

 
          
Time
passed, the wind chill at this elevation, and Bracht returned, a solidity
emerging from the darkness,
hair
and
face and clothes all better suited to such work than Calandryll's, his boots
silent as he came up, setting his mouth close to Calandryll's ear.

 
          
"There
were two guards."
Were
two? "The rest are camped beyond,
outside the town. We crest the rim and ride south, around."

 
          
He
passed the Kem the reins and they led the horses up the final slope, the road
angling at the last past a great stone pillar to devolve upon the flatland of
the plateau. Beside the pillar, resting against the stone as if at ease, sat a
man, a bow across his outthrust legs, his chin on his chest. Moonlight lit him
briefly and Calandryll saw the dark stain that covered his chest. Across the
way, between a clump of bushes and a windblown tree was another, lounging, it
seemed, with his back against the tree, an arm flung careless over a bough. A
closer inspection revealed loose, lifeless legs, the string of his bow wound
supportive about the trunk, the same dark stain beneath the dropped chin.

 
          
"You
killed them both," he whispered.

 
          
"Yes.
They'd have seen us else." Bracht favored him with a curious stare, as
though he had stated the obvious. "Now come; this way."

 
          
He
turned from the two dead brigands as the Kem moved along the rim of the
plateau, not yet daring to mount, Sathoman's men too close to risk a gallop.
Kesham-vaj stood some little distance off, a huddle of low, stone houses,
similar to Mherut'yi, but larger, and lit far brighter by the fires that burned
inside and those beyond the buildings. In a ring around the town the brigands
had erected tents, and bonfires, invisible from below, but atop the plateau
providing sufficient light he could see the horses tethered on picket lines and
the groups of men who watched, waiting like hungry wolves for their prey to
weaken. Sparks cascaded upward, incongruously cheerful, and he heard voices
raised, shouting across the distance between the fires and the town.

 
          
"We
must walk around." Bracht's whisper tore him from his study. "Likely
most of the night. But by dawn we should be clear. If they see us, mount and
ran westward."