The Gathering Storm (118 page)

They had reached the pass’ summit yesterday after struggling through a complex warren of stones cast across the road in stages that had seemed to be the remains of three different rockfalls. Now the road wound almost level at the base of a barren valley, which they had mostly climbed out of before this latest barrier had brought the vanguard to a halt. They had crossed through a land of rugged mountains capped with bare rock which dropped down on this side in north-facing slopes where green alder bushes grew along the furrows and alpine rose on the higher slopes where water did not collect. There were no patches of snow on the slopes at all, not even in the shade. According to Ucco, they had come three quarters of the way across and tomorrow would start their final descent through the foothills of Zuola and, beyond that, down through steep valleys onto the northern coastal plain of Aosta.

“Is it possible they know we are coming?” he asked, eager to discuss war rather than lust.

“They might know,” Hathui admitted reluctantly, “if it’s true Wolfhere betrayed us.”

“We must suppose that he did. To believe otherwise is folly.”

Her frown was answer enough to a question she didn’t like the sound of, no matter how many times it bowed before her. “Wolfhere is a good man,” she insisted.

He shrugged. Behind, the male griffin huffed, and Sanglant dismounted.

“We’d best stop for the night,” he said, wiping his forehead. There hadn’t been rain for weeks. Even Ucco had difficulty finding enough drinking water for their entire army and all their stock.

“I’ll let Captain Fulk know, my lord.” Hathui reined her horse away.

The male griffin was limping, and even the female—bigger and stronger—suffered from the altitude.

“I didn’t think they’d hurt like this just from climbing,” said Sibold, standing clear of the huffing griffin as he watched the prince approach. “They never seem to catch their breath.”

“Domina hasn’t flown once since we reached the mountains,” said Sanglant. Lewenhardt had shot a bear yesterday and Sanglant fished a hank of meat out of a barrel and walked right up to the griffin so that it fed out of his hands. He respected the sharp curve of its beak, but more and more he had come to think of Argent as a cross between his horse and a jessed eagle. Though it loomed larger than a warhorse, and could send him flying with a swipe of its foreclaws, it never did, and he felt easy around it now, although Domina still held herself aloof. After Argent fed, he stroked its downy head-feathers until it rumbled with pleasure deep in its chest, rather like a cat. Still, its breathing was labored, and it huffed twice more, too much like the dry cough of a man who has caught a fever in his lungs and can’t squeeze it out.

“We’ll stop here for the night and let them rest. It’s not more than two days’ march to Aosta.”

“Thank God,” said Sibold. A few other soldiers had gathered, those brave enough to stand watch on the griffins, and they echoed Sibold’s words. They wanted out of the mountains. They wanted action, not this endless long journey.

Yet Aosta wouldn’t bring peace.

They set up a rough traveling camp. The Quman had a way of pitching canvas lean-tos to hold off the prevailing wind that the rest of the army had adopted, and after feeding the griffins Sanglant made a tour of the camp: the Villam auxiliaries under the command of Lord Druthmar; the Saony contingent who chafed under the difficult rule of Lord Wichman; a ragtag
collection of fighting men out of Eastfall and Westfall whom he had placed under the able command of Captain Istvan; Lady Wendilgard and her Avarians; the centaurs and their Kerayit allies; the Quman clans, stolid and silent, and their strings of horses; his own personal guard, now numbering more than two hundred.

His soldiers had grown used to the routine of the long march. The horses were cared for first while sentries took up places along the road. A line formed at the infirmary, mostly men complaining of loose bowels and sore feet. There was plenty of light for men to collect mountain pine for firewood, although little enough meat or porridge to cook over those fires. They would live off the land in Aosta and make enemies by doing so, yet he could not regret that they would march down onto the Aostan plain at harvest time, when they might be assured plenty to eat and bread every night.

“You’re quiet, my lord prince,” said Hathui when they returned to the van where the griffins had settled down to rest like big cats curled up for the night.

“So I am.” He shaded his eyes to sight west along the mountain ridges, then turned to examine the wandering line of camp stretching north along the roadway. The rear guard lay out of sight because of the curve and dip of the valley. “We’re vulnerable, strung out along the road like this. Ah! Look there!”

A rich harvest of herbs grew beyond the alder, and until it grew too dark to see he plucked saxifrage, chervil, and wolfsbane.

“What virtue do these herbs have, my lord?” Hathui asked, working alongside him to his direction.

“Different virtues for different plants, but all of them can aid men who take wounds in battle. Wolfsbane can do more.” He glanced up at the sky, which was darkening as night swept up the valley. Only the peaks were still lit. “It can poison a man, should it come to that.”

“Poison is a traitor’s weapon.”

“Some name us traitors. Would you poison a man, Hathui, if it meant that a thousand men would be spared death in battle?”

She sat back on her heels. “You’ve taken me off my guard,
my lord prince. How can we measure one man’s life against a thousand?”

“We do so all the time. Every day.”

She chuckled as she tied up the herbs into tight bundles. “Perhaps we do. Shall I hike back down the trail and light a fire for Eagle’s Sight, my lord? Liath may have reappeared. It’s been three nights since I’ve looked.”

He shook his head. “I don’t feel easy. We’re too close to Aosta now. Liath knows what her task is. We must stay hidden.” He grinned as an unexpected mood of reckless jollity swept him. “It is an irony, is it not? Isn’t that what the poets would call it? The regnants of Wendar kept secret the knowledge of the Eagle’s Sight so that they could make use of the advantage it gave them. Now, protection against that sight has become so commonplace among those of us who know of its existence that the sight no longer serves any function. Yet I find I prefer knowing that I will make my way unencumbered by sorcerous aids or obstacles.”

“Not even those wielded by your wife?”

He laughed, because it was both painful and sweet to think of Liath. “I don’t know. I only know that without magic Anne and Adelheid and Hugh could not have ensorcelled my father.” He gathered up the herbs. “Come,” he said, rising. “Only protect me from our guide’s lovely granddaughter, by whatever means necessary, and you’ll have my thanks.”

Thoughts of Liath stirred his dreams, and he woke more than once, restless, discontented, until those disturbing visions melted into broken dreams of war. A hammer beat out a sword, cruel and jagged in shape. Sparks flew from the glowing iron with every stroke, and each spark drifted heavenward on that holy fire, spiraling and dancing, to become a star.

All at once he started awake, hearing that ringing beat, but he realized he was listening to the chuffing of the griffins. From the half-open tent he saw the stars twinkling above, yet a haze began to obscure them as he watched, growing murkier, covering the sky. The canvas rustled as if a rain were rolling in, but the air was dry and no thunder sounded in the distance.

Something is coming.

As he slipped on his boots and buckled his belt, an odor that reminded him of the forge crept into the air, blown in on that wind. Memories like bright sparks snapped in his mind. The dark spirits, the galla, that he and his mother had battled at Verna three or more years ago had brought with them the stench of the forge.

He faced into the rising wind. Up and down the camp came awake. Horses stamped and neighed. Dogs barked. Men called out each to the others or pounded extra stakes and rope to fix down flapping canvas. The wind whipped his hair around his neck as he turned to face south toward the height of the road ahead where a dozen soldiers stood sentry duty. The chuffing of the griffins grew in pitch until it became a cross between a yelp and howl. Others woke, grasping their weapons. From the hill they heard the somber tolling as of a bell.

“What manner of storm is this?” asked Captain Fulk, coming up beside him.

“Nothing good. Let an alert be passed all the way down the line. We must be ready.”

He pushed past the men to the hooded griffin; Domina had scattered men by stalking through the tents to stand with its eagle’s head upraised as it called out a piercing challenge.

A horrible screech answered that call, carried on the wind from the sentries at the forward edge of camp where the road disappeared over a rock rise.

The sound of a man dying told much about how he was being killed. A quick blow on the field of battle might produce a subtle sigh. A gut wound often elicited screams, a mixture of pain and the realization that one’s life was ending. This scream was that of a man dying in increments as his flesh was flayed off still living bone. Through the darkness, for now the stars were all but gone, Sanglant saw the shadows of men fleeing their posts. One figure, caught in mid-stride, was lifted from the ground where he flailed as if drowning, while he screamed and screamed until his silhouette against the deep blue of night was extinguished. A scatter of bones fell to earth.

“Torches!” cried Sanglant, coming fully awake at last.

While few men had senses keen enough to see or smell the galla or taste on their tongue the scent of the blood of dying
men which carried on the wind, all could hear. All realized that they were set upon not by a mortal foe but by wicked demons.

“Your Highness!” Fulk ran up beside him, and even he, who rarely sounded shaken, could barely speak from fear. “I don’t think steel or fire can banish such creatures!”

Panic bled backward from the vanguard as men cut loose their horses and fled north along the road, or up the slopes, anywhere; a rout unfolded around him in the space of two breaths. Like a rolling mist, the galla came over the hills that sheltered the camp; few of the sentries stationed at the perimeter of camp were swift enough to escape, and as he finally got an arm to move, a leg to move, those slowest in their flight were flayed to the bone and their remains scattered on the gale.

The griffins howled in unison, and Domina turned her head back to chuff at her mate. Her iron feathers glimmered where the wind ran through them.

“Fulk! Take the men and horses and retreat north at full speed. At dawn if you’ve had no signal from me, gather our forces. If I am dead, let Lady Wendilgard take command. Save my father.”

“My lord prince.” Fulk did not hesitate; he was too good a soldier. He called out. Anshelm raised the horn to his lips and blew. The call rang above the screams and chaos and soon the tide of men flowed north along the road in a steadier stream, pushing the rear of the panicking army before it. Even the centaurs and the Quman fled.

Sanglant ran to Argent. “This is your fight!”

He cut the trusses that held the hood and as the cloth fell away and Argent shook its head to cast off the remaining tangle of ropes, he sawed through the restraining ropes. The toll of bells rang through the air. The hot iron scent of aetherical bodies descended upon them. He heard his name in their heavy voices. Turning, he raised his sword as the ranks of galla swept down.

“Sanglant! Sanglant!”

“This earthly realm of pain is no gift, let us free your soul!”

Their forms were clear, towers of darkness and vaguely
humanlike, although their features were blurred and faceless. They had grasping claws and could rend flesh. The smell of iron overwhelmed him as he staggered backward, unable to stand against such an onslaught. A wave of heat washing down before them completed the feeling of being cast into a blacksmith’s white-hot hearth. He struck with his sword, but it passed through a wispy form and a quick hop backward was all that saved him from its touch. The rocky ground twisted under his feet, and he stumbled and fell flat.

The griffin sprang. It leaped not like a warrior plunging into battle or a wolf in a last burst of speed as it brings down an elk, but rather like a kitten chasing a moth around a candle, surprised at the ease with which the moth is swatted down but greatly pleased when another comes along to play. Its mate yelped and danced along the slope, wings outstretched as she sliced through the crowded galla.

The galla felt no fear, and so they came on, much to the griffins’ delight. They shrilled no death screams, only whushing sighs of relief as their earthly forms splintered where griffin feathers cut through them; one by one, they were banished from Earth and fled back to the abyss from which they sprang.

Some few of the galla pursued the army, but with great bounds and gliding leaps the griffins cleared the camp and took off in pursuit of the pursuers. As they overtook each of the galla, they made a great spectacle of pouncing on the shimmering spear of darkness, and with each snap of release, each galla vanquished and banished, the griffins released a rumbling noise that could be mistaken as nothing but the sound of elation.

Sanglant climbed to his feet. He stood alone amid the ruin of camp and laughed to watch the griffins at play while his heart wept for those of his men who had been murdered in such a foul, cowardly manner.

And yet, and amazingly, when the galla were all gone and every trace of that iron sting had been blown into oblivion, the griffins circled around and padded back to him. They loomed over him, and Argent bent its head and shoved him playfully as if to say: will there be more?

“There will be more,” he promised. “So I fear.”