Swordmistress of Chaos (22 page)

They thundered on, down stone-walled alleys, through tall-arched guard-way; over drawbridge and moat to the freedom of the plain beyond.

They held the horses to a fast pace until they reached the rim of the hills surrounding the Altan’s city. There they halted to look back.

Over Karhsaam rose a great cloud of smoke, wreathed round with sparkling flame. The army encamped on the plain was moving towards the city, while from gates and entrance-holes spread columns of frightened citizens, unsure what ill had befallen the grandiose plans of Quez M’yrstal.

‘So it goes,’ murmured Spellbinder, smiling. ‘My thanks for your rescue.’

‘I could scarce leave you,’ answered Raven. ‘For I’m no more certain where we are than I am of what we’ve done.’

‘Not
we,’
said Spellbinder slowly.
‘You.
And that was to fulfill the prophesy of the Stone. I think the rule of Karhsaam would, sit heavy on the world we know. Now the Altan’s plans of conquest are set back a while.’

‘And those of Belthis?’ Raven asked. ‘What of those?’

‘Who can say?’ shrugged the dark warrior. ‘The world must ever spawn men with dreams of conquest. Belthis was one such, though equipped with better means of achieving his dreams than most. Lucky it was that we thwarted them, for now a measure of order may remain.’

‘You deem this order?’ Raven asked. ‘How so?’

‘There exists order,’ said Spellbinder softly, ‘that lies beyond the knowing or ordinary men. Just as herbs mixed in a pot may bring forth a sublime taste, so may chaos meld to fashion a world.’

‘You voice riddles as usual,’ murmured Raven. ‘But for all that, I’m glad to have you with me again.’

Spellbinder smiled, hefting the shattered skull in his left hand. ‘Then let’s forsake our companion.’ He drew a dagger from the kit strapped across his saddle and began to prise the jewels loose from the Skull of Quez. They came out one by one, so that a trail of sparkling gems was left behind their passage, though as the stones touched earth they began to dull, losing their brilliance until only dimmed glass that was scarcely discernible from the earth itself was left.

‘So now,’ said Raven gently, ‘where do we go? I am outlawed in Lyand, we two in Karhsaam, and Ishkar is not likely to welcome us again.’

‘Why,’ grinned Spellbinder, ‘where else but the Outlands? Outlaws, we; so we go to find our own.’

He tossed the emptied skull aside, watching it bounce over the verdant grass, a yellowed relic of forgotten, useless dreams that, now, was of no more import than any other lonely vault of ambition.

‘There’s Kragg would welcome us, should we seek a sea-wolf’s life. And Argor must still be roaming the southern lands. If M’yrstal follows his dreams, then Sara or Vartha’an will welcome experienced swords. Or wider still to Xand, or even Quwhon. Why not? The world is large and we are free to ride where we will.’

Raven laughed, a sudden freeing of her spirit, a welcoming back of her friend, companion, lover. Suddenly the world seemed clear and free, a great open place set wide for her exploring. She reined in her horse, waiting for Spellbinder to dismount and join her. When he did she threw her arms about him, dragging him to her, close, kissing him with an urgency borne of loss and kinship and pleasure, until they laughed together and made love there on the clean green grass.

And high above them, circling on wings of starkest black, hung a great black bird that watched and croaked a hoarse call that might have been shared joy.

Or a warning of things to come.

The fire burned down, its cone of twigs crumbling into glowing ash that shone a dim red at the centre of the ragged hut. The tallow lantern flickered in the draught, casting dancing shadow over the faces of the occupants, bulky in their wrappings of fur. The stone jug was empty now, and the young men sprawled scarcely bothering to listen to the old one.

The wind grew louder, keening through the folds of hide as though it sought to drown out old memories. Somewhere a wolf howled, its mournful cry cutting through the whistle of the wind, the clamour of the waves.

Eyes blue as a summer sky, timeless as the ocean itself, stared blindly into a past beyond the understanding of the youthful warriors. The rag-bound hand brushed gently upon the hilt of the silver sword, upon the goldwork and the green stone set into the pommel.

‘Aye,’
the voice was soft now, weary,
‘that was how it came about. Long and long ago, and few remember now. Fewer still care. Not you pups who think yourselves swordsmen.’

The youngsters shifted drowsily, settling their lean frames more comfortably on the grubby furs. The old one’s tales made good listening of a winter’s night, though few believed them, for surely the world had always been as it was: a bleak and lonely place in which the tribes struggled to survive. These stories of kings and bright palaces, of heroes and demon-ridden sorcerers, belonged to those realms favoured of the bards, not the real world.

The real world was this jut of wind-washed rock that protected the fishing boats from the ravages of an angry sea. The barren fields beyond, and the forest. A man might stumble on ruins now and again, great blocks of stone cracking beneath the embrace of ivy, and if he was lucky find a piece of bright metal, even a rusting blade. But those things were the relics of the tribes that held this land before the People came down from the north to escape the ever-spreading ice. Whoever had built those fallen dwellings was long gone into the dust. And who cared to remember the dead when living was a struggle great enough in itself?

‘The world was a greater place then!’
The voice droned on, the old man speaking now for his own satisfaction.
‘For good, or ill, men dreamed greater dreams than you, and strove to make them real.’

He paused, lifting the sword in his good hand, staring at the shining blade, the rich-worked hilt, then shrugged, gathering his robes closer about him.

‘And you are what we fashioned, we shapers of worlds. Not what I dreamed of, but then, perhaps a greater dream is yet to come. So it goes.’

One by one, the young men had succumbed to sleep. The youngest of them, a beardless boy scarce old enough to bear a sword was the last to close his eyes, and that reluctantly, for of all the members of the tribe he listened closest to the old man’s tales. Sometimes even, he believed them.

‘So it goes,’
repeated the ancient cripple, a faint smile upon his wrinkled lips.

The lantern burned down, sputtering a last, brief illumination. And then there was only the keening of the wind and the all-embracing darkness.

When the sun forced through the sea-mist the young men awoke. Stretching sleep-stiffened limbs they brushed dawn damp from their furs, moving to kindle the fire to fresh life. When they looked around for the old man they could not find him. There were no tracks in the dew-fresh grass, nor any sign that he had ever sat with them.

The old man was gone and after a while the tribe forgot him. All except the one youth, who kept the tales alive in his mind.