The Deed of Paksenarrion (113 page)

That night they camped on the sandy plain just southwest of the black cone. A cold wind brushed the camp; stars blazed brighter than Paks had ever seen them. She woke several times to hear Ardhiel singing. Dawn came early on that high place. Paks saw the white stone below begin to glow even before she was aware of light in the sky. Then the high wall to the east stood clear against a green dawn. First light turned the red peaks north of them to fiery orange; then the light crept down to meet them, throwing blue shadows below.

They had some trouble to find the trail from there. Just to the left of the black cone, layers of stone like those that peel from a boiled egg curved downward, but the horses skidded and slipped. High Marshal Connaught sent Thelon ahead; he reported that the stony way ended in a drop four or five men high. Then they searched for a way around. Paks decided that walking in deep dry sand was harder than any marching she had ever done. The wind rose, blowing sand into their eyes. The horses flattened ears against it. The first three trails they tried led to sheer cliffs, and it was early afternoon before the scout found a safe route.

It began in a narrow grove of pines, where broad low boles rose from drifted sand, old trees bent by strong winds into a tangled thatch of branches. Below the trees, the trail followed a twisting ravine, its bed choked with boulders of garish red and black on a bed of sand; they radiated heat like coals. Across the ravine, as they went down, they could see outcrops of red rock. Suddenly the cleft they traveled angled back to the left, then crooked right again. They stood on a narrow platform above a small valley that led straight away toward a tangle of cliffs and canyons. On either side, sheer cliffs rose hundreds of feet, rose-red and orange, striped with black. To the right, an arm of the valley angled back away from them. Down the valley a stream reflected the sky; it looked wider than Paks had expected.

As they rode down into the valley, Paks heard conflicting opinions.

“What a farm that’d make,” she heard from one of the yeomen with the mules. “Wind-shelter from those cliffs—water—must be good soil with all that grass.”

“A long way to market,” said another. “Unless you founded a grange out here, Tamar.”

“Marry me, and we might,” said the woman, laughing.

“Marry—I’d have married you in Fin Panir, but you wouldn’t have it.”

“And miss this? Come on, Dort, you weren’t any more ready to settle down than I was. But couldn’t we make a farm here?”

“I’ll tell you that when I find the nearest market.” Paks heard them laughing for some moments after.

“It is not good,” muttered Balkon, who had turned his pony aside from the others to look closely at the rock wall nearest them. “See—” He poked at it with his axe-haft and a chunk came away; sand sifted after it. “It is soft here. Good rock there—” he pointed at the east wall of the valley, and at great cliffs beyond it. “But something is wrong here. With those cliffs, it must be deeper.”

“Strange,” murmured Ardhiel as Paks rode by. “It has an odd feel—very strange.”

But most of the company liked its looks—green grass and water, walls far enough apart to allow maneuvering, yet close enough for protection. Then they rode out of the last rock-strewn mouth of the ravine, and found themselves once more in deep sand—this time damp.

“Ah,” said the dwarf, eyes gleaming. “It is that this valley is choked with sand—something blocks it there—” he pointed at the far end. “The side rock goes down, very far below this; I feel it meet under our feet.”

“Find us firm ground,” said High Marshal Connaught to the scout. “These horses can’t handle boggy—” He threw himself off as his horse sank hock-deep by one leg. They all dismounted. Close up the valley was smaller than they had thought; its hills were low dunes rising above the level, its stream only a trickle across the sand surface. “But plenty if we dig,” the High Marshal assured the others. “It’s like those waterholes in the low desert.”

While the scout and several men-at-arms searched for a firm path to the north end of the valley, the Marshals and knights looked at the angled canyon that wound away to the right. That way the ground seemed firmer, and the little stream, though narrower, gurgled ankle deep over fine gravel.

“It’s too bad we aren’t going this way,” said High Marshal Fallis. “I suppose it’s blocked at the far end by another cliff.”

“Let’s look at it,” said Marek, one of the knights, and the only member of the Order of Gird. “We ought to learn the shape of the land, in case of trouble.”

“In case of trouble,” said Joris dryly, “nothing in this land offers comfort. We should have been born with wings.”

“I agree with Marek, though,” said Connaught. “We should know, and mark the map.”

They set off on foot, the High Marshals, Amberion and Paks, the knights, and Ardfiel and Balkon. In a few minutes an angle of rock cut them off from sight of the others. On either hand the cliffs rose straight out of the sand, as if carved by a knife. Paks noticed a great arch set into the northeast wall. Under it a dark shadowed space looked large enough for a building. She looked from cliff to cliff, uneasy. In several places the stone seemed to have broken away leaving an overhanging arch, some much smaller than others. She nudged Balkon.

“Why does the rock do that? Is it natural? Did something shape it?”

“What—oh, it is the arch you mean? That is stone itself. I have not seen before, but I have heard. It is good stone that can take an arch; the arch is the drossen shape—” He saw her puzzled look, sighed, and tried in Common. “The shape that stone holds when it is sound—strong—healthy. Not nedross, like that stone that we came by, where the wall broke to let us in. Look in the High Lord’s Hall—you see that even human masons know the right shape, the good shape, for stone holding stone. The longer the arch, the better the stone.”

“Oh.” Paks shivered. She did not like this valley; it was hard to judge how high the cliffs were, how far they had come from their friends. She looked back, to see someone leading a horse across the stream, heading down the valley. She could not see the other men-at-arms or horses at all; cliffs cut off her view of the main valley. She craned her neck to look at the large arch again. Surely the whole party could shelter there—if you could get horses up the cliff. She started to laugh at that idea, and suddenly stopped. Something had moved in its shadow. For an instant she could not speak, but then she called to Amberion.

“What is it?” he asked, turning. Before Paks could answer, Ardhiel cried out in elven, swinging his bow from his shoulder and snatching arrows. Paks pointed upward, then staggered as an arrow slammed into her helmet.

“Keep your faces down!” bellowed High Marshal Fallis. “Eyes—” But Paks knew that, and had already dashed for a leaning rock. Pir and Adan huddled there too. More arrows clattered on the rocks around them. She heard a high-pitched cry from above, and then the terrible smack of a body on rocks. Another scream from across the canyon. Then silence.

“That won’t be all,” said High Marshal Fallis. Paks looked around. Ardhiel was close to the cliff on the far side; she saw Fallis near him. Connaught, Amberion, and Joris had taken shelter behind another rock near her, and Marek and Balkon behind yet another. She risked a quick glance upward, but could see nothing for the overhang.

“Beware!” Ardhiel’s voice rose again, and he yelled something in elven. Paks saw a swarm of black-clad figures leap from cracks in the rock, turned just in time to meet more of them attacking on her side. She and the two knights leaped to their feet.

At first it seemed they might be cut down in their separate groups. The attackers were skilled with their narrow blades, and had numbers and height on their side. Adan staggered; a blade had gone deep in his leg. Paks covered his side; together she and Pir managed to fight their way back to High Marshal Connaught, half-carrying Adan between them. Fallis and Ardhiel dashed across to join them, and the group locked into a unit, back to back with Adan in the center. From her position, Paks could not see if any of the others, far back down the valley, had noticed any disturbance. She was fighting too hard to have breath to yell. She did not even recognize what she was fighting until the tip of Pir’s sword flicked back one of the hoods.

“Elves!” she cried; the fine-boned face, the long graceful body now seeming the same as Ardhiel’s. But the elf called to them.

“No—not elves. Iynisin—unsingers—once of our blood—”

“And we are still the true heirs,” called one of the enemy, in elven. Paks could just follow the words. The voice held the same music as Ardhiel’s, but was colder. “We have not changed; you have fallen, cousin, making alliance with mortals and rockfolk, to the insult of your blood.”

“Daskdusky scum,” muttered Balkon, swinging his axe wide from his corner position.

Though outnumbered, the little group was able to shift slowly back toward the main valley. High Marshal Fallis, facing that way, told them he saw the men-at-arms coming. Paks, Pir, and Amberion, holding the rear, stepped back cautiously, keeping the enemy blades at bay. Then Marek called a warning. Paks glanced up at the nearest cliff. There, moving swiftly on the sheer wall as if it were level, a great many-legged thing dropped down on them. At the overhanging ledge it stepped into the air and fell, swinging on a shining line behind it, leaping from its first touch on the ground to arc high above their heads. Pir swung and missed; Paks twisted, trying to strike behind her; her sword clashed on Fallis’s, and the thing leaped out to whirl and attack again.

While they were still shaken by this creature, from high overhead a loud voice cried a single word. Paks stopped short, hardly able to breathe. She felt as if she’d been dipped in ice. Her eyes roved, following the great monster. Now she could see it had almost the form of a spider, many legs around a bulbous body. She felt her hand loosening on her sword.

But with a ringing tone like that of a great bell, white light glowed around them. Paks could move again; she felt her heart beating wildly, but her hand clenched on the sword. As the monster leaped, she hacked at its head. Her sword skidded off the hard surface, but Pir’s severed a leg. Paks thrust again, for the eyes. It reared back, aiming small tubes along its belly at her. Amberion shoved her aside. A gout of grayish fluid missed her; she heard Adan cry out behind. But by then Amberion’s sword had severed the head, and the thing lay twitching on the ground.

“Stay close,” said Amberion. “It is a spell of fear laid on us.” Paks felt no fear, now, and fought on.

In the space of the monster’s attack, more enemy fighters had come from the cliffs to cut them off from the rest of the party. These were bowmen, close enough that their arrows could wound even through armor. Between them and the bowmen were two ranks of swords. Paks took a deep breath. She had not expected to have such a short career as paladin—not even paladin yet, she reminded herself—but she thought she would as soon die in this company as any other. She saw Balkon bend to kiss his axe. High Marshal Fallis had done something for Adan; he was standing more steadily. Connaught frowned at the enemy, lips folded. Amberion touched Paks on the arm.

“It’s only five to one,” he said, smiling. “Your Duke has faced worse than that.”

Paks grinned. “Oh well—we’ll win through easily, then.”

“You stay close, though. You have no protection of your own against that fear.” Paks thought she had, but wasn’t going to argue the point. She saw Connaught draw breath to send them forward; she wondered why the archers hadn’t shot yet. Then Ardhiel moved, taking from his side the old battered hunting horn he had carried from Fin Panir. He set it to his lips.

Paks had expected nothing like the sound of that horn. It began sweet and tender, swelling louder and louder to a triumphant blast that nearly shattered her bones. Wind swirled into the canyon, a great column of whirling air funneling into and from the horn’s throat. A roiling mass of pink and gold-lit cloud blotted out the hard clear blue of a desert sky. Paks could not see the cliffs—the enemy—or Ardhiel himself. The cloud shimmered, steadied, became a piled and rumpled staircase of gold. Down it came a brilliant shining creature, winged with rainbow colors, so bright she could hardly stand to see it, and so beautiful she could not look away. On its back was Someone in mail brighter than polished silver, wearing a blinding white cloak. He spoke: the language was elven, the voice rang with authority and troubled the heart like elven harps. And Paks saw Ardhiel bow, and move to his side, and saw him mount that fabulous beast, and saw them rise once more into the clouds.

When the clouds blew away, in the last throbbing notes of that horn-call, the enemy was gone, though the rattle of their flight through the rocks echoed from wall to wall. Ardhiel lay unconscious on the ground, smiling, and the horn in his hand showed its true nature: the finest horn Paks had ever seen, jeweled with rubies and emeralds, shining gold.

With no delay, Connaught had them carry Ardhiel back to the others.

“It’s an elfhorn, it must be,” he said over his shoulder. “I’d heard of them, but Gird knows I never expected to see one. Let alone hear one. By the gods, this is a bad place. You were right, Balkon. Bad for an ambush, and I walked right into it. I hope it doesn’t kill Lord Ardhiel. That’ll take some explaining. ‘Old hunting horn,’ indeed. No wonder he wouldn’t play on it for our dancing that night. It makes my skin itch to think of it.”

“It’s Gird’s grace he brought it,” said Amberion. “I wonder why they didn’t shoot at once? They could have gotten us—”

“Or thought they could.” Fallis grunted as his foot turned on a rock. “Damned treacherous ground. Probably a damned kuaknom behind every stone.”

“Kuaknom?” asked Paks.

“That’s what we call them—kuaknom, tree-haters—as elves are tree-lovers. The elves call them iynisin, the unsingers. Remember, it’s the kuaknom that used to be confused with Kuakkgani.”

Paks wondered how anyone could confuse those horrible parodies of elves with a Kuakgan. Confuse with elves themselves, yes—for her mind held the memory of the same beauty, the same grace. “Were they the same as other elves once?”