The Pleasure of Memory (16 page)

There were savages in the vicinity! A whole stinking squad of them! Worse, they weren’t even trying to cover their trail, meaning they didn't care if anyone spotted them. He tapped his thigh with the broadside of his knife. How could he have missed them? How could he have been so bloody complacent?

He grabbed his head and fought back the urge to scream. “Damn my greed,” he muttered into his palm, “And damn me! I’m a miracle of stupidity.”

He’d been walking with his head in the sky. Even the laziest of trackers could’ve taken him out. He was getting sloppy and it was going to get him killed, likely sooner than later.

The road drove straight ahead for a hundred yards before slinking into another curve. It was time to take cover. He turned to the north side of the road and scaled his way up along a riot of exposed roots while leaving the ground behind him as uncompromised as possible. His body screamed at him for the effort, but the call for survival again trumped comfort.

Once above the road, he focused more on stealth than evidence of retreat. The Vaemyn, with their hypersensitive oteuryns, could ‘hear’ his vibrations from a long way out, even as far as a half mile if they had elites with them. He had to move lightly and with an awkward rhythm that didn’t speak of two legged travelers. It was an arduous and physically taxing technique. In his current state, he wouldn’t be able to walk this way long. Hiking through the wilds was strenuous enough under the best of circumstances, but now he’d be scrambling sideways along a steep slope while trying to move outside his natural rhythm.

By late afternoon, he spotted a blaze of sunlight pouring through the trees ahead of him. He stopped at a safe distance and watched for a bit. The forest was silent. Sensing no obvious danger, he crept up to the edge of the clearing and took shelter behind the mossy bark of a gigantic fir.

After the deep shade of the forest, the sunlight pouring into this open area was nearly unbearable to look at. It took him back to the waterfall, to flying out of the forest into total blindness. He peered under his hand into the brilliance. This peculiar clearing was a wide, treeless swath that ran up the mountain for a thousand feet or more. Dressed along the road at the base of the clearing was a long copse of saplings. Anyone could be hiding in there.

At the end of his analysis, he understood that it just didn’t matter. Dashing across the clearing would expose him to murderous eyes, but climbing all the way up the mountain to pass around it would probably kill him. His only viable option was to follow in the concealment of the young trees down near the road. If anyone were hiding there among them, he might at least have a shot at surprising them rather than the other way around.

Minutes later, he slipped into that thicket of saplings. To his surprise and delight, the woods were unoccupied. An oddly placed wall ran along the road for the length of the clearing like a kind of berm against the mountain. The irregularly shaped stones were stacked in the Baeldonian tradition without benefit of mortar, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. A narrow stairway cleaved the wall at its middle, dropping to the road fifteen or twenty feet below. There were no signs of the savages.

He passed quickly along the wall’s wide ledge, crossed the odd stairway, and then climbed back up into the forest on the other side of the clearing. He’d barely made a hundred yards into the woods before he heard them. He dropped behind the shelter of a rotting log.

Here he had a good view of the road below, which ran straight away into the forest for several hundred yards before curving out of sight again. Unfortunately, that was the end of the good news. Marching toward him along that selfsame arrow-straight section of road was a squad of Vaemysh warriors. Their pale faces and white hair glowed collectively in the shadows like a squad of marching ghosts. A quick count numbered twenty-seven. There were three lines of nine warriors, each line in perfect formation, each warrior marching like the mirror image of the warrior before them. He wondered as he watched, just as he did every time he watched his pursuers, how disciplined these animals could be when determination drove them. Unfortunately, this discipline was their only impressive attribute as a race.

In honor of that discipline, he decided this would likely be a good time to retreat.

He sauntered back along the wall through the line of saplings and across the wide clearing. He’d just dropped into the cover of the other side when he heard the muffled bark of a Vaemysh officer. It came from the west, from the direction he’d originally entered this nest, from the direction he’d also intended to flee back into. They were coming at him from both directions. The bloody savages had him surrounded.

He dropped back behind a big oak, to regroup. As he waited for his breath to slow, he threw his head back into the coarse bark and whispered, “Damn me to hell, what is this? Spontaneous generation? Is the bloody dirt spawning the bastards?”

Pinned in between two squads of the savages with nowhere to flee, he considered the cleared swath running up the side of the mountain directly to his right. It was a steep, miserable climb, and in his current state of exhaustion, there was no way he’d be able to—

Another voice ricocheted through the forest. It was closer this time.

Decision made.

He pushed himself into the forest proper and straight on up the mountainside. The climb was grueling at best, forcing frequent stops so he could beg for air and wait for his heart to catch up with him. The dense white ferns that seemed to cover the entire forest were nearly chest deep here. It was like wading across a snow-covered pond, and they occluded his view of the ground beneath just as effectively. Every step was a risk. His failed ribs were clawing at his chest, and the humus was so sweet it made the air as thick as mud. Still, he persevered, working his way higher in fits and starts, and in time, the crest of the mountain delivered itself.

A line of towering redwoods rose up like giant sentries standing watch over the ridge of this small mountain. He was just yards from level ground. It seemed hope might not be a delusion after all.

And then a breathtaking explosion rocked the forest.

He dove beneath the surface of the white ferns and buried himself under his arms as the ground shuddered angrily around him. Within a few moments, the report of the explosion echoed into silence. It couldn’t have been a thunderclap; he hadn’t seen more than a couple isolated clouds all day. Whatever the source of that deafening noise, it came from mortal hands, not the gods or elements.

He carefully pushed himself to his knees peered up over the top of the ferns like a swimmer breaking the surface of a calm lake. It appeared he was alone, at least for the moment. He glanced back down the mountain. That explosion was going to incite the savages just as surely as a stone thrown at a hornet’s nest. In fact, they were probably making a beeline toward him even now. He had no choice but to keep moving forward. With the land leveling now, he might even be able to lean into a free run, or something akin to what a man with broken ribs, seriously bruised shins, and multiple lacerations could call a run.

He didn’t make more than a dozen paces before he heard the voices.

He again dove beneath the ferns and cursed the dirt. Where the hell were all these people coming from? He might just as well be walking through the chaotic marketplace of Farksborough; it couldn’t be any more crowded than these stinking woods. Had his skin not been on the line, he would’ve laughed at the absurdity of it.

Staying beneath the cover of the ferns, he worked his way stealthily the remaining few yards up the hill and toward the voices. He had to know what his options were.

The nature of the words grew clearer as he moved closer. They sounded Parhronii, which was at least hopeful. There were two voices, maybe three.

He swam forward through the white ferns until he came to the rotting remains of another fallen tree that perfectly intersected the path between him and his future. It’d been a colossus in its day, and even laying on its side was as tall as his shoulder. The voices came from an open area just beyond it.

He fell back into the cool comfort of the tree’s green-carpeted bark. When his breathing slowed enough to take the risk, he worked his way up its side. What he saw beyond it did nothing to improve his mood.

IX

THE WYRLAERD

HANCE’S FIRST THOUGHT WAS TO WONDER HOW LONG HE’D BEEN LAYING THERE.

He was sprawled on his stomach with the world spinning giddily beneath him. He pushed his way up onto a shoulder and then rolled roughly onto his back. His mouth tasted of dirt and blood.

A fat lump of cloud floated worriedly across the bruise-colored sky above him. He used it as a point of focus, watching it as it fled beyond the wall of the forest. The world continued circling beneath him, though less enthusiastically now. It was time to try getting up.

He groped for support in the grass. His hand found something cold and pliable. He held it up over his face. It was the severed hand of the dead Vaemyn.

He pitched it away and scrambled to his knees. The movement sent his head reeling. He doubled forward and dug his fingers into the dirt as he fought back the mutiny in his stomach. Blood dripped from a cut somewhere on his face. He focused on those crimson spots dotting the green grass like they were his lifeline.

In time, he found the strength to pull his head up from the trenches. The severed hand squatted in the grass a few yards ahead of him, resting on its back with its fingers sticking up in the air like the legs of a dead spider. The sight sent his stomach twisting again.

“Welcome back, sire.”

Chance startled at the voice. He tried to stand up, but his legs weren’t ready to support him. He stumbled back into the grass, landing hard on his shoulder.

“Do you need assistance, sire?”

The voice again! It was behind him!

He scrambled around on his knees until he discovered the source. A tall, armored figure stood several yards back amid the rubble of the sentry. He wore a golden cloak that was too long by inches. A deep cowl shrouded his face. He stood with his arms clasped casually behind his back. A half-circle of armed Vaemysh warriors stood at attention around him. The scene was surreal, like waking from an uncomfortable dream only to find it wasn’t a dream at all.

Chance attempted to stand, but the warriors rushed him with swords drawn, efficiently persuading him back to his knees. As he watched the Vaemyn forming a circle around him, he said to the stranger, “Who are you?” The weakness in his voice disappointed him.

The armored figure made an odd growling noise. “I shouldn’t think you of all people would need to ask that, Magi Chance Gnoman,” he said. His voice was coarse and grating, and quite irritating to the ears.

The man was extremely tall, easily over seven feet. He appeared to be a soldier, or possibly a knight. As the man stepped closer, Chance spied the black bloodstone broach clasping the cloak at his neck. It was identical to that worn by the dead warrior, except larger and with the yellow gems still embedded in the black eye sockets.

Chance glanced around for his staff, but found nothing. He closed his eyes and willed his essence out into the caeylsphere in pursuit of it.

“Are you looking for this, sire?”

When Chance opened his eyes again, the soldier was holding his staff.

The soldier walked toward him as casually as a neighbor coming to the fence for an evening’s chat. His armor made a strange hissing sound as he moved. He stopped just a pace beyond Chance’s reach, and then leaned casually into the staff. The only warrior not surrounding Chance stood at his side.

“That’s my caeylstaff,” Chance said carefully.

“Do I look like someone inclined to walk with a staff?” the man said, “Of course it’s yours.” The voice was as abrasive as grinding rocks.

“Give it to me,” Chance demanded.

“I doubt that would be in my best interest.”

“Who the hell are you? Where’s Luren?”

“You mean the youthful meat bag we found in your house?” the man replied, “In good time. But first, I must say…you, sire, are a thief.”

“What did you say?”

“You’re a thief! You’ve filched the joy I’d hoped to find in defeating you.”

Chance attempted to stand, but the flat of a sword blade landing on his shoulder persuaded him otherwise. He settled back to his knees. “Who the hell are you?”

“Truth be told, I expected more of a challenge from a mage of such notoriety. Why, I’m tempted to set you free just for the joy of beginning the chase anew.”

Chance examined at the warrior standing at the man’s side, and then looked up at the warriors surrounding him. Much like the dead man in the sentry’s grip, these warriors were all dressed in full battle regalia.

He turned back to the cloaked figure, and said, “I’m growing tired of asking. Who are you?”

“I swear I find the question equally tedious to hear,” the man replied, “Again, I’m profoundly disappointed you’d have to ask.”

“Do I look in the mood for games?” Chance said.