The Horse Lord (8 page)

On the horizon a thread of black crawled into the sky. “I thought there was somebody behind us,” the Alban said quietly. Drawing a long-glass from its case at his belt, Gemmel opened it and peered towards the smoke. Aldric did not understand what he said then, but it sounded nasty. “If they were told about the cottage,” he pointed out, “they will know about you as well.”

Gemmel ignored him.

It took almost a week for the Blue Mountains to change from a saw-edged shadow to the tumbled mass of crags which now reared vast and vaguely menacing almost overhead. Snowflakes whirled from a dirty yellow sky and settled thickly on anything they touched, including the two men carefully walking their horses along the treacherously iced mountain path.

“Almost there, lad,” called the taller of the pair, shaking a small avalanche from his hood as he moved. The other looked up without much enthusiasm.

“You said that yesterday, and the day before.” Aldric found the weather, his itchy beard—mixed now with real stubble—and Gemmel’s unfailing optimism depressing, so that he no longer even tried to produce the right responses to his cheerful conversation. Bored, wet, sore and miserable, he neither expected nor was able to see anything other than rocks, even though Gemmel seemed to think otherwise.

“Up there, by the standing stone,” he insisted, and Aldric dutifully strained his eyes through the blurring snow before giving up. Handing over his horse’s reins, Gemmel scrambled up to the monolith and laid both hands against its side. Following to give what help he could, Aldric realised that the old man’s pressure was barely enough to mark the crust of snow under his fingers. He stopped, threw back his hood for a better view and watched. As if finding the right spot Gemmel pushed once, very hard, and the stone shifted with a grinding clearly audible in the snow-silence.

There was an instant’s pause—then twenty feet of the rock-face slid open without a sound. Aldric’s eyes dilated, for he had never read or heard of anything like this. The cavern thus revealed was no dank cave, but a smooth, polished tunnel whose walls and ceiling were lined with globes of some crystalline stuff. Dropping lightly to the ground, Gemmel touched his hand to a metal plate set into the stone. Immediately the first few crystals glowed, and as Aldric watched the illumination spread from globe to globe down the tunnel until it was filled with a warm golden light.

When he looked back the horses had vanished and Gemmel was shouldering the few items he carried on his saddle. The
kailin
blinked, but realised that if one lived with an enchanter one must learn to live with enchantments. Well then, now was a good time to start.

At the end of the tunnel of lights there was a spiral stair, made of metal but otherwise identical to those in donjon towers. Its upper end was sealed by a smooth metal slab which hissed aside as Gemmel approached, releasing a harsh glare which made Aldric flinch and shield his eyes. He followed the old man when he judged himself used to the brilliance, and discovered it was virtually the only thing he was used to.

The cave—now that was ordinary: sensible. He could grasp the principles of it, even though it was triangular in section and flooded with light of unreal whiteness which struck sparkling reflections from the burnished machinery recessed into both walls. There was a humming in the air and a slight vibration underfoot as of incalculable power hidden somewhere in the rock below. But it .was the yawning vault at one end of the cave which totally defied all comprehension.

The vault was vast: more than big enough to swallow an entire fortress and sufficiently high for the loftiest citadel turret to fit in comfort. More of the glowing crystals shone from its walls, but they cast just enough light for the colossal size of the place to be marked out in tiny rows of jewels, being nowhere near bright enough to actually be of use. All around the entrance, pipes and conduits emerged from the floor and went snaking off into the shadows; some were bunches of metallic filament finer than a cobweb, but one slashed with black and yellow stripes was as thick as Aldric’s waist. A slight, cold drift of air moved out of the cavern, swirling slightly as breezes will in such monstrous empty spaces. Except that this space was far from empty.

There was… something… crouched squarely in the middle of the cavern floor, an ill-defined mountainous bulk of dark smooth shapes and glinting edges. It dwarfed all else both in mass and in the eerie suggestion of dormant power. On trembling legs Aldric stepped towards it, all his senses tingling—and then Gemmel laid one hand on his uninjured shoulder and steered him away without a word of explanation.

Warrior stared at wizard for several minutes before Aldric spoke. “Meneth Taran,” he said very softly. “So this is the Mother of Storms.” Gemmel met the boy’s unwinking agate eyes and nodded. Meneth Taran, Thunderpeak, was the heaven-scoring crag where the great tempest was born in the story. People gave the name half in fun to Sil’ive, tallest of all the Blue Mountains and one perpetually wreathed in cloud. Half in fun, but never completely so, and with the very air thrumming in his ears Aldric could guess why. Even if he gained no other knowledge from the old enchanter, he had at least learned the meaning of awe.

By contrast, the living apartments were reassuring in their air of comfort. Most of the rooms were panelled in wood like a fortress and for the same reason—to conceal the fact that the walls behind were stone: in this case half a mile of living mountain rock. Live flames danced in elegant fireplaces and even Aldric wasted no time wondering where the smoke went to. With warmth around him for the first time in six days, his shoulder was taking precedence over frozen feet and hands. It throbbed wickedly.

Gemmel noticed the slight wince with which Aldric took a seat by the fire in his study and nodded to himself. “Enough of this,” he said with a touch of impatience. “Your arm will heal in time, but it will be time wasted. Shirt off, please.” He set down a box of instruments on a handy table and opened the lid. Aldric blinked apprehensively at a row of tiny knives and probes, but made no move to obey.

“I’d much rather have a bath and a shave first,” he ventured nervously. Gemmel tutted disapprovingly and shook something from its clear case.

“And I would much rather have that wound dealt with. Now!” He set out two metal bottles, three small pads and a pair of gloves which he removed from their sealed pouch and worked onto his hands. With an uneasy swallow born of memories of having his arm set last spring, Aldric did as he was told. Gemmel peeled away the bandages and selected a knife. “This won’t hurt…” he said. The
kailin
jumped and yelped, then twisted round to fix him with a baleful glare. “Much,” the wizard amended.

He told the truth and within five minutes was packing away his medical kit while Aldric felt with increasing delight for a scar that was no longer there. Gemmel grinned broadly; he had forgotten the great satisfaction that surgeon’s work always gave him and was pleased to discover that it had not diminished with the years. Then he returned to more basic matters. “Aldric, do you want something to eat now—or would you rather take that bath you mentioned?”

Aldric was definitely in favour of eating first and said so. Emphatically.

Even so, being high-clan Alban and as. fastidious as a cat, he went to wash directly after the meal, leaving Gemmel to stare at the fire, drink Hertan grain-spirit and try to shape what he wanted to say to this young man with the unsettlingly familiar face. So alike, and yet so totally different. Though Aldric had begun to smile a little in the past week, there was a freezing menace about him that Ernol had never possessed. The
kailin
was—Gemmel at first rejected the word but found it returning to his mind—frightening. “Frightening,” he said aloud, as if hearing the word would change its meaning.

“Who is?” asked Aldric from the door.

He had found a clean white shirt and breeches somewhere and there was a towel in one hand. With his short, wet hair and a face freshly shaven smooth, he looked so young that Gemmel’s chosen word seemed more out of place than ever.

“I was thinking,” the wizard said. Aldric relaxed in a chair by the fire and picked at a loose thread in the towel.

“So was I.” He hesitated, watching unobtrusively through the lashes of half-closed, seemingly sleepy eyes. The fireglow carved deep trenches in Gemmel’s face, giving him an eldritch appearance. That strange expression had returned; echoes of recognition and regret, all mingled with a bitter memory of loss. It was enough to make Aldric sure his half-formed guess approached the truth. “You knew someone—a long time ago—who looked like me. Or I like him. And he died. A friend? Maybe a relative…” What flickered on the old enchanter’s features then had nothing to do with firelight, and with an inward wince of sick embarrassment Aldric bit his tongue before it did more hurt. “I—I’m sorry,” he finished lamely.

The sorcerer stared at him, wishing he was more stupid or at least less forthright. More like Ernol. At least the Alban was in his own country; he could never—and Gemmel hoped would never—know what it was like to live down the long years, to walk through a crowded city, to exchange friendly words and yet be alone—always, eternally alone. And now this boy with his dead son’s face; surely it was some cruel joke perpetrated by an ironic fate. Gemmel regained his composure with an effort and twisted thin lips into a thin smile. “No matter,” he said. “I was miles—years—away.” Aldric inclined his head in polite acknowledgment that the subject was now closed.

“You started to say something when we were at table, then decided it was best left till later,” he said, “this is ‘later.’”

“Very well.” Gemmel leaned back and steepled his fingers, staring intently at their nails for a few seconds. “Recall your last boar-hunt—in as much detail as you can, but without speaking.” Aldric gazed into the shifting embers of the fire and let his memory work. He sat like that for some minutes, hardly seeming to breathe, then straightened and blinked several times.

“Now what?”

“There was a spell on that valley to keep animals out, as you know. It wasn’t to preserve the honoured dead from scavengers but to prevent anything being killed there. Blood is the catalyst for many powerful forms of magic. The wizard who cast that spell must have suspected that the spilling of blood would have some terrible consequence. As you must guess now, he was right. You can blame Duergar for that.”

“Duergar… ? But what had he—”

“You have shown yourself to have intelligence, boy. Use it!” That flash of irritation was a warning which Aldric judged it wise to heed. He sat up straighter and prepared to make sensible remarks. Remarks for which he wasn’t asked. “You shot a wolf. Did you really fail to notice which leg you hit—or which leg Duergar Va-thach was limping on… ? He’s wily, that one; he should really have taken the shape of a fox, it would have suited him better.”

“You
know
that bastard?” The young
kailin’s
voice was incredulous.

“We… met once. In a professional capacity. I didn’t like him then either. Agents of the Empire always make my skin crawl.”

“What is an Imperial agent doing in Alba, or is that obvious too?” Aldric bit off the words, hoping Gemmel would snap at him again and give him a really good excuse to lose his temper. The boy was seething inside, as much with a feeling of helplessness as anything else. At mention of the Drusalan Empire his own hopes and aspirations began to look very small. Seek to be revenged on that mighty realm—as well make war on the sea for drowning your friend. Gemmel saw his face change.

“It is obvious, Aldric,” the old man said quietly.

“Your family may be only the first to
die
. When Grand Warlord Etzel turns his mind to conquest, he is as inexorable as the incoming tide.” Aldric wondered at the wizard’s choice of words, and wondered too whether his own mind was still being read. “But even a spring tide can be stopped, if a hole in the sea-wall is plugged before any water passes through.”

“Sifting through your metaphors, then,” said Aldric with an acid little smile, “if I succeed in my intention to kill Duergar, and do it soon enough, I’ll save Alba from an Imperial invasion?”

“Basically, yes.”

“I see.” From Aldric’s face and tone of voice Gemmel could tell he was not very impressed. “And why would the Imperial Grand Warlord want to invade in the first place? Alba has nothing to do with Imperial policies.” Gemmel smiled sardonically at that.

“How little you know of power politics,
kailin-eir
Aldric,” he said.

“That was Baiart’s field, not…” The young man’s voice trailed off and his eyes went very distant. “Baiart…”

“Forget him for now,” Gemmel said impatiently. “What do
you
know of the Empire?”

Aldric shrugged. “It’s big… The Emperor holds most of the countries across Bian-mor in the palm of his hand. Their borders have expanded almost constantly for almost a century—” Seeing Gemmel shaking his head, he stopped. “What did I get wrong?”

“One thing only. The
Empire
rules across the Narrow Sea—the Emperor is lucky if he can command the running of his Palace. Etzel, like all his predecessors as Grand Warlord, is true master of the Empire. But that may change. Emperor Droek is an old man—old before his time, and that time is running out. I predict—no, not by sorcery—that he’ll die in a year or so; even though, for a change, the Warlord does not want this to happen. You see, Droek’s eldest son had been trained by Etzel’s people to be a good Emperor; weak, fond of pleasure, a puppet whose strings would be pulled by the Warlord. But he fell off his horse six months ago and broke his neck.”

“Joren said that somebody helped him on his way. I thought the Warlord might—but from what you say, I doubt it.”

“He probably helped himself, with a bellyful of wine and a headful of smoke. Or his brother could have done it.”

“His brother?” Aldric sounded disgusted and Gemmel remembered the closeness of Alban family ties. “Baiart didn’t like me, but he wouldn’t have— Or I don’t think he… might well, given the chance,” he finished lamely.