The Wanderer's Tale (19 page)

The only ray of sunshine amongst the whole group was Bolldhe’s mount, a sturdy, spirited little horse that answered to the name of Zhang. To use the Aescals’ own term, it was a slough-horse, that small, tough breed that was native to the Tabernacle Plains. Their habitat being one of open steppe and rocky, ravine-scored hillsides where grass was lean and winters extremely harsh. This ungiving country bred a horse with an abundance of tightly packed body-fat and a donkey-tuft coat in order to survive, giving it a rather comical and inelegant appearance. However, the slough-horse was also extremely tough, with an easy-going and almost philosophical attitude towards hardship. The nomads of the Plains called them Adt-T’man, which meant ‘Friend-horse’, and to the company now it did indeed seem as if Zhang possessed a fine sense of humour. Quite at home in these mountains, he remained untroubled by the constant rain and the general dark mood, and playfully butted the rump of whichever horse was ahead of him, or tried to overtake it on the outside curve of the narrow cliff path, unconcerned with the two-hundred-foot drop that lay mere inches to one side.

The only beast that did seem to bother him was the Peladane’s horse, Hammerhoof, which was (typically) arrayed almost as sumptuously as his master. Fully barded in leather and Tengriite armour that was exquisitely wrought and engraved, here was a true knight’s charger. Bolldhe himself scorned such ostentation, preferring instead to accoutre his own mount with the bare minimum of equipment, for he believed this preserved Zhang’s essential nobility, by honouring the ‘wild and free’ barbarian tradition. If he had bothered to consult Zhang on the matter, however, he would have discovered that the slough-horse actually was very jealous of Hammerhoof and would love to be similarly caparisoned. Occasionally, to make up, he would sidle up to Hammerhoof and ‘accidentally’ kick him or give him a ‘friendly’ bite.

Of the humans, Wodeman had retained his good humour the longest. They did not see him often – but on these occasions Gapp had never seen him become angry, no matter what the adverse situation. The man seemed equally at home in a dry cave or standing outside in the rain. Even when so bedraggled that his wolfskin stank worse than it had ever done when its owner was still alive, Wodeman would just carry on, fetching them edible plants or freshly killed animals, sitting with them for a while before disappearing again.

But since leaving the lowlands far below them, the climate had undergone something of a change. Down there they were still enjoying late spring, but up here it seemed early winter. It was so much colder, with chilling fog, even the occasional patch of snow. Even the shaman, who had never ventured far from his woods, was finding all this extremely difficult to comprehend. He did not care for it at all, since his whole natural world no longer made sense to him.

Yes, the initial zest Gapp had felt on those first few days of riding and laughing in the sun really did seem like a sad joke now.

The rest of the afternoon dragged by miserably, the rain never really letting up. Appa had resumed that most annoying habit of incessantly chanting mantras whilst rapping his prayer-ring against the Torch amulet in a way that looked as if he was continually patting his heart. He would do this for hours upon end, and at times of heightened stress would accelerate the chanting until one or more of the company would scream at him to shut up. It was, to say the least, annoying, and it was only the occasional intervention of the other mage-priest in the party – who seemed unbothered by the older one’s eccentricities – that prevented Appa from being hurled off the side of the cliff.

‘Poor old Marla,’ he would mumble, ‘I wonder what she’s doing right now? Probably about time for her to return home from the pasture. I’d always let her out of her stall at dawn and she’d take herself up to the hills, then return before dusk, same time every day; never had to be led . . .’

The company filed along a path which had by now deteriorated into little more than a rocky sheep-trod. Any doubts lingering as to whether this track was ever used these days, were now confirmed. It was difficult to say which was the biggest cause of irritation, Appa’s ceaseless chanting or Nibulus’s rock-solid but apparently ill-founded faith in that damn book of his. At the moment it was taking them north-west, threading gradually upwards and ever deeper into the mountains, and it was only on the assurance of their redoubtable leader that they could believe they would, in about a week’s time, be descending the final foothills of this upland and into the moors beyond.

Today though, their destination was only as far as Estrielle’s Stair, a waterfall fed by a small stream that cut a narrow, high-sided cleft through the grey granite, though a fair way above the pass through which they now rode. Over this stream, at the very point where it cascaded over the cliff, ran a small stone bridge, and beyond that, if the book was to be trusted, they might find a series of caves to provide shelter for the night.

It was late evening by the time they came in sight of the Stair, and the fading light was darkened further by the thickening clouds of fog that filled every valley and ravine. All that could be heard now was the clatter of their horses as they tramped along the rock-strewn path and the crunching of slate breaking under their hooves.

Have to get us all into some kind of shelter soon
, Nibulus fretted, scanning the ridge looming high above them.
Before it gets too dark to go on.
The path, he could see, snaked a very meandering way up to the ridge. It was only after many laborious twists and turns that they would reach the top, where the caves marked on the sketch-map in Gwyllch’s book were supposed to be. Sometimes the path would turn back on itself just to gain a few extra feet upwards, so it was clearly going to take a very long time. Nibulus raised his hand to halt his company, then stopped to think.

In the sudden quiet of their welcome pause, they were all struck by the eerie silence of the place. Whether it was the dampening effect of the fog, or just the sheer absence of any life in this grey, stony world, they could not tell. But as they tarried, listening hard, all of them experienced a disturbing feeling of complete loneliness, nakedness even, stuck way up here in the mountains. Gapp shivered, and not just with the cold. No wind blew, no crows cawed, not even the clouds moved. All was still, save for the occasional slithering rattle of a slate as it slid down the slope. Or the single bleat of a distant goat.

‘What are we waiting for, Nibulus?’ asked Finwald softly.

‘I don’t know,’ replied their leader. ‘Just listening for . . .’

A second bleat sounded from somewhere high above them, its lonely echo trailing off into silence.

‘Peladane,’ Wodeman said, suddenly appearing at his side, ‘if we are to make camp tonight, we’d better do it soon, and make sure we are secure. There’s something in this valley other than goats. They’re scared of it, can’t you hear?’

Gapp was chilled by the darkness of the sorcerer’s words. He felt close to panic, and longed to turn and gallop as fast as possible back the way they had come. But he would not dare to be alone up here in the darkling mountains, so he kept still, though fretting at the thought they were riding into some terrible, unknown peril.

Their leader, Nibulus, did not miss Wodeman’s tone either, but he himself was well accustomed to danger, little likely to be intimidated by words of a ‘wizardly type’ from the woodlands back home. He paused a moment to run his eye over the crags rising about them. Immediately to their right, the mountainside plunged down steeply into unknown depths, into an impenetrable fog that filled the whole valley like soup in a bowl. To their left rose the steep slope of a mountain spur.

He considered for a moment. That spur looked likely to lead them up to the little stone bridge spanning the waterfall. It would be a difficult ascent, so steep and through loose scree, but if they could goad their steeds up that way he was sure they could reach the bridge in less than half an hour. And have just enough time to find one of Gwyllch’s promised caves before the dark really settled in.

‘Follow me!’ he called out, ‘We’re going up.’

The ascent proved to be even more difficult than he had anticipated and Nibulus rode a Knostus, the most highly esteemed warhorse that a Peladane’s money could buy. These steeds were heavy and strong, fierce in battle and unswervingly obedient to their masters’ whim – but completely hopeless at mountain trekking, being too heavy for high altitudes and far too cumbersome for climbing difficult slopes.

The most notable thing about the Knostus – a Pendonian word that meant ‘Faithful’ – was its devotion to its master, or herd-leader. This was extremely useful on long missions for, unlike most horses, it could be left alone, untethered and unhobbled, to look after itself without wandering off. Its master could ride it up as far as he could go, then dismount to climb the steeper slopes on foot. When he returned, days or even weeks later, the Knostus would still be there, exactly where he had left it. Furthermore, it was in the nature of this breed to bunch together and fight off predators (whether bears or snow-hyenas) even in the absence of the humans.

But Hammerhoof was the only Knostus in this group, and Nibulus was loath to abandon him here alone during the night. Secretly, he also recoiled at the indignity of scrambling his way up that slope on hand and foot, especially in his armour.

Hammerhoof was already having a very bad time of it, and so were the other horses. For every three steps forward he slid two back, and even when Nibulus made him side-wind, the animal’s bulk made the sharp turns next to impossible. Meanwhile, Appa and Gapp had to dismount and lead their ponies up the spur, whereas Finwald was forced to physically drag the whinnying Quintessa upwards, digging his heels into the scree and hauling on the reins with one hand whilst using the other to maintain his balance.

Of all of them, only Bolldhe’s mount had no difficulty. The agile little Adt-T’man’s hooves were delicate and trowel-shaped (useful for scraping away snow and ice from the grass needed as fodder), so he picked his way up the slope with contemptuous ease. Given a free rein he could have set off ahead by himself, but Bolldhe was reluctant to leave the security of the group.

Sweating despite the cold, and mentally exhausted with the unrelenting concentration of the climb, the worn-out group gradually ascended higher and higher. It was growing darker by the minute, and soon they feared they would not have any light to see by.

Gapp peered down into the gloom of the fog to either side of him, and shuddered. Down there through the foggy depths, he could not even guess how far one would fall before reaching the bottom. To his consternation, Bogey kept slipping on the treacherous slate, sending loose stones rattling down the mountainside. Clearly the animal was losing its concentration, and Gapp did not have to be a nature-priest to know that this was due to fear, not of the dangerous climb but of something that only the horses, Wodeman and the now-vanished mountain-goats could sense.

There was something up there on the path ahead waiting for them.

The same fear was felt by all of them now, and it tightened its grip the further they ascended. One would spin around quickly, only to see nothing behind him; and they began to fancy stony faces grimacing from the rocks about them. With the sound of their hearts beating loudly in their ears, they looked up and saw now the beckoning outline of the small stone bridge like an open, hungry mouth that called to them.

At last they reached the top. They had rejoined the main path at its highest level, and stood panting, wheezing and dripping, about thirty yards from the bridge. Apart from the stream and the bridge itself, there was nothing to be seen but rock. No evil presence awaited them after all.

Gapp peered down at Estrielle’s Stair, and noted with surprise how strangely quiet it was for a waterfall; the water slithered, rather than cascaded, down the first few yards of steep slope, before disappearing totally into the all-enveloping blanket of fog below. He looked away from the fall and glanced at the bridge.

It was then that he saw the face.

The shock hit him as if he had been struck full in the chest by a battering-ram, stiffening his whole body and rooting him to the spot. Then came the surge of fear, a deep-rooted, primal horror that seem to drain every drop of blood from his veins and replace it with ice.

Bolldhe noticed it too. He had seen that face several times before: a huge, brutish, granite-hued visage that glared at them fixedly from the bridge. Two angry orange eyes smote him with a sickening terror that arose from deep within his ancestral memory. An iron fist seemed to clamp itself around his windpipe, silencing the scream that threatened to burst forth. But when it did emerge, releasing him from his momentary paralysis, his fear turned into anger as the scream became a roar.

‘Ogre!’ he yelled in warning, and snatched up his broadaxe.

Gapp was still gaping with terror when Paulus brushed him aside, knocking him onto the ground as the mercenary leapt towards the Ogre. Within almost the same second another figure sprang over Gapp while he lay sprawled upon the path, his head spinning in confusion amid the battle cries of his comrades and the roaring of the Ogre.

Axe at the ready, Bolldhe stood his ground, but did not advance.

‘My lance!’ someone bellowed. ‘Get off the ground and hand me my bloody lance!’

‘Get back from there!’ another was shouting. ‘It won’t attack if we leave it alone!’

But if there had been any chance of avoiding a fight, it was gone now. Paulus had charged headlong into battle and was now upon the chasm-spanning bridge, confronting the Ogre. Armed with a massive stone club, this hill giant stood fully two feet taller than the Nahovian. Ducking with surprising dexterity for one so tall himself, Paulus avoided the terrible sweep of the club as it whistled through an unstoppable arc scant inches above his head. In almost the same instant he brought his razor-sharp sword up in a vicious swipe across the Ogre’s stomach. The giant roared in pain as the blade scored a bloody gash across its rock-hued hide. It twisted its yellow fangs in a spittle-flecked snarl.