Dragon's Winter (28 page)

Karadur said, “We will be pleased to have you travel with us. You know our direction: it is the same as your own. You are welcome to share our food, and our fire. We may even be able to find a stick to your liking.”

“Join your army?” Bear lifted his brows. The small hairs stirred along the back of Hawk’s neck. “Our direction may be the same, my lord. But I am not certain that we share a common goal. Wolf Dahranni was dearer to me than my own brother.”

Be careful, my friend,
Hawk thought at Bear,
Oh, be careful.
She could not tell if he heard her.

Karadur said, “I do not doubt it.” For a moment, the dragon-lord met Bear’s eyes directly, without restraint. Hawk, watching, saw Bear’s face tighten at the touch of flame. “You knew him many years. He lived in my domain under four years. We met three times.”

He rose. A hot breeze swirled for a moment along the cold ground, and ground fog rose suddenly from the snow-covered earth. The fire winked out. Karadur strode swiftly away, Lorimir beside him. Macallan and Azil Aumson followed, more slowly.

All that day, the war band rode across seemingly endless ice toward the castle. It loomed before them, clothed in illusion, immense, hostile. The indifferent sun moved lazily across a sapphire sky. Behind the lines of soldiers, behind the rearguard, came Bear. Just before sunset, they halted. The odor of meat bubbling in the cook-pots spread among the tents. Hawk ate a hasty meal, and then prowled to the edge of the camp, where Irok and Olav stood sentry.

“Have you seen any sign of my friend?” she asked.

“I smell woodsmoke in the west,” the northern hunter said.

Hawk gazed westward, calling on her changeling sight. She saw a flickering light that might be a fire, and a hunched shadow that might be a seated man.

Irok said softly, “He should not be out there. Is not safe.”

“Why? What have you seen?”

“Seen nothing. Heard nothing. But he should not be alone.”

She metamorphosed: human form to hawk. The air shimmered, like moonlight seen through smoke. The west wind danced under her wing-feathers. She flung herself across the distance. Bear sat on a rock, a skewer of meat, rabbit, perhaps, in one huge hand.

“I thought you might like company,” she said. And then she stepped forward. His face was drawn, made old with an expression of hopelessness and despair that she had never thought to see it wear... “Bear, what is it? What has happened?”

His voice was almost indifferent as he answered. “I cannot change.”

Hawk laid a hand on his arm. She could feel his dread through his skin; it shocked her. She had never known him to panic. “You are tired. That’s all it is. You need rest, and a sleep with no dreams to crowd you.”

He gazed at her blankly. She was not sure he saw her. “No.” He dug one hand into a pocket, pulled out a figure carved in red-gold amber. He held it out to her. The little bear was chill as a corpse, and mottled with an eerie serpentine darkness. “It is enspelled,” he said quietly. “Or I am. I cannot tell.”

They did not speak after that. She sat with him while the fire burned. At last he lay down. She rolled into her cloak, her knife, as always in enemy country, under her hand. They lay back to back, sharing warmth. After a while his breathing deepened. When she was sure that he slept, Hawk rose, and changed, and made her solitary flight back to the war band.

17

In
the morning, the black castle seemed to fill the eastern horizon.

The war band spread out across the snow in two great wings. With outriders on the flanks, they rode steadily toward the castle. The day was warm; the tall towers seemed to float in a mist. After a little while, a rumor traveled along the lines: the castle had changed. It looked farther away, and since that was patently impossible, that meant that it was smaller.

“It’s shrinking,” Huw said in wonder. He pushed his furred hood back. “Maybe it’ll shrink to nothing. Maybe it’s not there at all.”

“Baby,” Orm said. “It’s there. It’s showing us its true size, that’s all.”

But the sense of malice and threat emanating from the castle did not shrink. Men fingered weapons and looked warily left and right, and even over their shoulders, as if expecting to see fell, magical beasts tracking them across the tundra.

Suddenly, on the right ride of the line, a scout yipped, then shouted. Three of them converged. In a moment, Sandor came racing toward the head of the line. He looked extremely happy.

“My lord, we found a man! Jon spotted him crouched beside a rock.”

“Bring him to me “ Karadur said.

The scouts herded their find in front of Karadur’s horse. His leather armor was shabby and patched. His tattered black surcoat was torn along one shoulder, where a badge might once have been sewn. The scouts had taken his sword. The short blade was notched and rust-spotted.

At the sight of Karadur on his tall black horse, he fell to his knees.

Karadur glanced at Azil, riding as usual at his left hand. “Do you know him?” Azil shook his head. “Get up, man,” Karadur said. A scout prodded the sprawling fugitive to his feet. He wore a small stained pack on his back. “Tell me, have you seen this banner before?” The man cringed. He had a thin face, fringed by a straggly blond beard. “I see that you have. If you lie, I will know, and my men will cut your hands off, and we will leave you to the wolves. Tell me your name.”

“S-Sori.”

“Where do you come from? Who is your lord?”

“I—I have no lord. I come from Coil’s Ridge.”

Karadur nodded. “I know it. It lies northeast of Chingura. The tor’s shaped like an arrowhead, and there’s a river near it, the Windle.” The fugitive’s jaw dropped. “It is mine. I know my land, even the piece that Reo Unamira holds for me. You were not born there, though.”

“No. I was born in Kameni.”

“I thought so. Were you outlawed?” The thin man did not answer. Rogys leaned the point of his spear against the soldier’s scrawny throat. “Answer.”

“Yes! Yes.”

“For what were you outlawed?”

“I hit a man, and took his purse.”

“Did he die?” Sori nodded. “So you are a murderer and a thief. Just the sort of man that Reo Unamira finds useful. You are Reo Unamira’s man now, are you not? What brought you so far from Coil’s Ridge?”

“Gold,” the man said sullenly. “I was promised payment in gold.”

“Payment for what?”

“Service, to the lord of the black castle.”

“And did you get your gold?”

“Yes. But I gave it to Gog at the little gate, that he might let me through, and not betray me.” The aggrieved whine in his voice might almost have been funny. But no one smiled.

“How did you learn of the black castle?”

Sori looked blank. “Nittri Parducci, Nittri the Ear. He told me.”

“And what did Reo Unamira think of your desire to change masters? Did he give you leave to go? Or did you neglect to ask him?” The outlaw shrugged. “I see. Who is lord of the black castle?”

“Koriuji.”

“Who is Koriuji? What does he look like?”

Sori said, “Koriuji is not a
he.
Koriuji is an
it.
Koriuji is a monster.” The horror in his voice was unfeigned. “A white worm, with a human face.”

Karadur looked at Azil. The maimed man shook his head slightly. The dragon-lord said, “You have seen this monster with your own eyes? Does it speak?”

“Assuredly I have seen it. It speaks to Gorthas, may he rot in hell.”

“So you know Gorthas,” said Karadur. “What is he to Koriuji?”

“Gorthas is Koriuji’s captain.” The man shuddered. “They are both monsters.”

“When did you come to the castle? How long ago?”

“Seven months. Since September last.”

“How many soldiers defend that castle?”

“When I came, there were fifty. But now there are under twenty in the garrison. Some have died, and of the rest—most chose to run.”

“Like you. How many horses?”

“None. They break their legs against their tethers rather than serve the monster.”

“Wise beasts. How many wargs?”

“Three, now, and Gorthas. There were more before.”

Lorimir leaned forward. “Why did the soldiers leave? Why did
you
leave? You said you were paid.”

Sori licked his lips. “I was paid. But, that place—from here it looks strong, but from within it is all dust and darkness. It is always cold. The air smells like mud. The walls reek of misery, and of hatreds, old, old hatreds...” He hugged himself with both skinny arms. “I wish to gods I had never seen it.”

There was a small silence. Karadur said, “Has the worm other creatures that serve it?”

“Just the white bear. Gorthas released it four nights ago. It gallops in circles around the castle and howls at the sun like a mad thing.”

Karadur looked at Azil Aumson. The singer shook his head. “I know of no white bear.”

The dragon-lord said, “Listen to me, Sori. I am looking for a man. He would be about my height, fair as I am, yellow-haired, with a white scar along one cheekbone. He would wear fine clothes, silks, furs, jeweled rings. Have you seen such a man within the black castle?”

“No.”

“You are certain?” The man nodded.

Olav kneed his horse to Karadur’s side. “My lord, my ax is thirsty. This man is a thief and murderer. Let me kill him.” He glared at the hapless captive.

Sori fell to his knees. “Please, my lord, let me go. I mean you no harm. I want only to be gone from this hideous place. If you release me I will go south, where no man knows me, and you will never hear word of me again. I swear it.” His whining voice firmed with a sudden, desperate courage.

Karadur said thoughtfully, “I agree, he is a knave. But he cannot hurt us.” He turned back to the deserter. “Take off your boots.”

“My boots?” The scrawny man looked horrified. “Merciful lord, if you take my boots, my feet will freeze! I’ll die!”

“Then die.” Four men bore the scrawny soldier to the ground. With distaste, Rogys yanked his boots off. “Give him his sword, and let him run.” Finle flung Sori’s sword spinning. The thin man scrambled for it, arms and legs milling like a spider’s.

They rode onwards. “What do you think?” Karadur asked Lorimir.

Lorimir raked a hand through his beard. “It is good to know he has so few men, and that the castle is weaker than it looks. If it is truly undefended, it will be easy to take.” He hesitated, then said, in a lowered tone, “Of course, it may be a trick. I know you would recognize a lie, if a man were to tell it—but what if he truly did not know he was lying? The castle might be stronger than he knows. He might have been permitted to escape, in hopes that he would cross our path.”

Karadur said, “It is possible.”

At noon, they stopped to eat and care for the horses. The scouts had found a wonder, a rare sight: a copse of green spruce trees. Bent and twisted though they were, their color and scent in the bleak, barren landscape were achingly dear and familiar.

Hawk, sitting with the archers, was unsurprised to see Derry coming for her. She followed him. Karadur stood at the perimeter of the camp.

“I need your eyes again, hunter,” he said. “I need you to see what waits for us between here and the black castle. Can you do that?”

With steady, powerful strokes, she drove upward, and then hung, wings spread, letting the high warm wind hold her in its palm. Below her the company, small as insects, moved over the snow.

She circled higher, and soared east, toward the black castle. From this height she could see its true size. It was large, but no larger than Kalni Leminin’s big red palace. It seemed oddly empty. Such an edifice required servants and soldiers, but she saw no living thing about the fortress, except two sentries, one on the battlement, the other at the gate, and four stubby-legged dogs, who ran in a tireless, ground-eating trot toward the war band.

Dropping lower, she saw that they were not dogs, but wargs. A malevolent whisper rasped against her mind. Cousin,
I come. It will be pleasant to make your acquaintance. Tell your master
... She hissed with a hawk’s fierce rage.

When she landed, Karadur was waiting for her. “Well?” he said.

“Wargs, my lord. Four of them, coming this way.”

Karadur ranged his army to meet them in a half-circle, with himself and his officers on foot in the center, and the archers on the wings. The wargs were fanged, snouted, and small-eyed like pigs, and they stank. They halted, just outside the range of a thrown spear. Three of them crouched into the snow. The fourth jogged a few feet more toward the war band, and stopped.

Then there were not four wargs, but three wargs and a hairless, grinning man, with a face like a skull, and red glowing eyes. He bore a long pole, on which flew a white flag, the flag of truce, the herald’s flag. He wore a black cloak over black armor, and the device on it was a white spiral on a black field. The wargs settled onto their scaly bellies, like dogs waiting for a master.