Wintertide (19 page)

“Perhaps he is, then. Give me his name.”

“Aric. Aric of Tynder’s Hill.” She borrowed her late brother-in-law’s name and combined it with an inlander town from Ciro’s chart.

Egan looked at Druke then back to Khamsin. “I know of no man who calls himself such.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps he’s changed it, then. Hilma and her family were none too pleased when he left. Though she did name the child after him.”

Egan only raised one eyebrow but Druke chuckled knowingly. “Wanted the milk but not willing to buy the cow, eh?”

“So you seek him now in the Darklings? Well, lad, many a man has hidden out here for the very same reason. Your uncle has lots of company.”

As Khamsin adjusted her satchel on Cinnabar’s back, Egan lay a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Where are you headed now?”

“West, as the main road goes.”

“We go that way as well. Ride with us for awhile, if you like.”

“Thank you, Sirrah.” Khamsin was surprised at his offer. Hill Raiders weren’t known for their generosity towards travelers, though in truth, she’d never heard of any North Landers attacking a young farm lad traveling alone. Only old, fat wealthy merchants and land barons were considered prey. No doubt they surmised from the cut of her cloth she owned nothing worth stealing.

She snapped her fingers. Nixa sauntered out of the bushes. She placed the cat on Cinnabar’s back before she grabbed the horse’s strong neck and with a practiced jump, flung herself onto his back.

“You travel with a cat?” Druke voiced the question that was also evident in Egan’s mind, from the look on his face.

“A gift,” she explained, having only moments before concocted the story. “From our village Healer. For luck, I was told.”

“Guard him well, then.” Egan stroked the short fur on Nixa’s nose. Khamsin wasn’t sure if he had spoken to her or her cat.

Khamsin told enough of herself and her make-believe family so as to appease Egan’s well-meaning inquiries. But not so much that she might get caught later in some minor detail in her lies. She also turned the conversation, with very little difficulty, to the subject of the man’s daughter.

“Ah, little Elf,” he smiled warmly.

Druke groaned. “Ach, Camron, lad, now you’ve done it. Got ol’ Egan started on the subject of the little lass of his. They’ll be no peace now for many a mile!” He spurred his roan horse ahead of them, the younger men at his side.

Khamsin and Egan kept up their steady pace behind.

“She’s the star of my sky, she is,” Egan told her. “Lost her mother when she was still a babe. Dena, my sister—that’s who has the house in the village—she and her husband take care of her for me. Not proper to raise a girlchild in the wilds, like this.”

“You’re fortunate to have your sister there.”

“I get back to Pinetrail as much as I can. And in the winter, we have good times, she and I. Dena taught her to read. Now Elsy swears she’ll teach her old pa before Wintertide!”

Khamsin chuckled. Egan’s description of himself as ‘old’ was far from accurate. She judged him younger than Tavis. Clearly, he felt fatherhood, not the passage of years, granted him his elder status. And yet he looked forward to letting his daughter play teacher.

For a moment, listening to Egan’s words, Khamsin forgot it was a Hill Raider riding next to her. She saw only a young father who loved his daughter and delighted in talking about the child. Just like Aric had. Or Mikhail the Chartmaker back at Cirrus with his three daughters. They were men who could love. That was something she’d never before thought a Hill Raider could do.

Maybe there were more differences amongst Hill Raiders than just the names of their Kemmmons, the color of their bandings. All cove peoples weren’t alike. Craft that sailed from Cirrus Cove were longer and sleeker than the squat, shallow draft boats that came from Wallow’s Cove, far to the south. Their captain and crew were different in temperament as well.

She’d never known Hill Raiders with black bandings like Egan’s to have appeared in any of the cove towns. And Elsy had bragged of her father as a skilled horseman, not a marauder. Khamsin hadn’t sensed the fear, or distrust, she’d expected in the small village. Nor from the red-haired child.

“Elsy seemed very bright, the little time I spoke to her.”

Egan’s face glowed at her compliment. “She’s a smart one, all right. Knows her figures and her letters now. And she’s good with the animals. Cats or cows, it doesn’t matter. ’Course, all the people like her, too. Got a nice way about her, she does.”

And it went on from there until they came to a small clearing in the thickness of the pines. Druke slowed and motioned for Egan to come to his side. They exchanged a few words and with a nod to one of the younger men to accompany him, Egan rode on ahead.

Druke turned his horse to face Khamsin. “Tried to warn you, didn’t I?” he teased. “Bit of a one-sided conversation when you get him talking.”

“Where’s he going?” She watched the riders fade into the shadows.

“Been trouble here before. Fav’lhir.”

Ciro said they never came this far north! “Why would the Fav’lhir cause trouble here?”

“’Tis a good question.” Druke didn’t sound as if he meant to be sarcastic, but there was a note of frustration in his voice. “There was a time, well past, when all Hill people shared a bond, a respect. But a blood lust, an unholy taste for death and destruction is part of the way of life for the Fav’lhir these days. You can thank Lady Melande for that.” There was a derisive note in his voice. “They ride in that Witch’s service, you know.”

That she did. “And Kemmon-Ro?”

Druke eyed her with surprise. “’Tis plain as the name itself, if you think on it. Why, we’re the only ones who carry his name in ours at all! Kemmon-Ro, lad. We ride for the Master of Traakhal.”

Khamsin sat in stunned silence. She should have known. Kemmon-Ro. It was the first part of his other name as Kiasidira was hers. She knew it, though it was a name she’d only read. She forced it from her mind, fearful of even mentally voicing it. But the thought that filled that vacant space was just as disturbing.

She rode in the company of the enemy.

Egan returned at that moment.

“Best not to chance it, Druke.” His expression was grim. He reined his horse around to face Khamsin. “Camron, the main road ahead could hold trouble, more for us than for you, as you bear no Kemmon. Still, there’s always a chance.”

He nodded over his shoulder to the break in the pines. “We’re going to take the south trail towards the Khal to get around. You’re welcome to come, if you like. Unless you think your uncle’s Fav’lhir.”

Khamsin’s mind worked furiously while he spoke. What better place to hide from the Sorcerer than in the midst of his own riders? They were not only protection but a source of information as well. The Land here, as Ciro foretold her, fairly bubbled with intrigue.

“Unlikely,” she replied to his comment. “Unless the Khalar, too, work with the Witch.”

A disparaging snort was all she received from Egan as he waved the younger men on ahead. “Skeely, Wade, we’ll take the lake road. You know the way.”

And in a flurry of pine needles and dust, they were off.

Having already admitted her ignorance about Egan’s tribe, she questioned him further on Kemmon-Ro as they rode, jostling along the narrower trail to the south. The forest thinned out. She saw the first signs of marshland in the patches of mossy grass interspersed with thin, stick-like reeds.

Kemmon-Ro, Egan told her with a strong note of pride in his voice, were a faction of the Magrisi, though the split took place over two hundred years before. But they were forest and plains people. The mountain-bred Khalar accepted them with reservation, suspicious at first of these newcomers who perhaps thought to usurp their position in Traakhal. But the Kemmon-Ro were content with their forests. The Khalar soon realized no threat existed and an alliance was formed.

The Kemmon-Ro dealt with the Khalar on equal terms now. Both wore the black band of the Sorcerer on their tunics and vests. Khamsin saw the striping on Egan’s clothing when he played with Elsy in the yard. Now, she understood what it meant.

Their saddle blankets, too, were bordered in black. Even horses had their affiliations.

“Are there any other Kemmons the Khalar deal with?”

Egan nodded. “A small tribe north of Darkling called Kemmon-Drin and another called Kemmon-Nijar. But you don’t see much of them here.”

“None from the south?”

“No. The south wears the red and the yellow of Lucial and Melande.”

That, at least, was as Ciro told her.

The road widened as they came upon the marsh. The riders fanned out. It was dusk and there was an icy chill to the damp air that blew across the wide, flat expanse. It came, Khamsin knew, from over the Khal. Though they were still a ways from the shore, she could smell the musky scent of the lake around her.

The ground underneath the horse’s hooves was hard, frost-frozen. The shallow pools of water on either side would no doubt have a thin layer of ice on them by morning. Khamsin rode with Nixa tucked into her cloak, for the cold was bitter and biting.

She saw Skeely spur his horse and ride on ahead in search of a place to spend the night. It was several minutes before they came upon him again at a fork in the road.

He waved them on to the right. They followed, the trail narrowing so they rode in single-file. Marsh weeds and swamp brush of a grayish-green filled the ravines on either side of their pathway. The glistening of small pools of water shone through the thin stalks. Some clusters of the weeds were so large as to appear solid. That was deceptive, Druke pointed out, for they grew on top of each other’s roots. Finally, they came upon a small island of true land in the middle of the marsh, not much larger than the great room at the inn at Courten’s Square. A few sparse trees clung to its west bank.

Their horses cleared the short distance between the trail and the island with a jump. They dismounted, crowding the horses into a circle. Druke and Skeely started a fire while Egan opened a pack and withdrew some provisions. Khamsin sought out her own small satchel, then released Nixa who returned shortly with a marsh-rat in her mouth.

“Your cat found dinner.” Egan offered Khamsin a slice of bread and a small meat pie. She waved away the pie but took the bread and brought a short twine full of dried figs from her satchel. The sweet fruits were a treat, saved for last and Druke enjoyed his with such relish that Khamsin wished she could ‘create’ more, but knew to do so would attract questions. And attention. Those fruits she made while still in Noviiya.

Wade pulled a deck of cards from his pack. He cleared a small patch of ground, then dealt a hand for Egan and himself. Khamsin watched the progress of the unfamiliar game in the firelight. The shouts and laughter of the Kemmon-Ro Hill Raiders resounded across the vastness of the frozen swamp in the dark.

She was the first to see the odd movement. She tensed and caught the sickening smell just as Nixa did. The cat’s whiskers twitched. Her ears lay back flat against her head, her small muscles tensing under her thick fur. Neither she nor her mistress knew what was out there; only that it was demon-spawn. And it was coming towards them.

Khamsin rose swiftly to her feet.

“Egan!” Her voice was strained. The bearded man quickly looked up from his cards.

She snatched her blade from her boots and pointed. “There!”

Two red orbs glowed in the darkness, swaying with a peculiar rhythm as they moved closer.

“By the jaws of hell!” Wade rose, thin daggers in both hands.

Druke eyed the hulking form in the darkness. “One of Melande’s toys.” His words held a mixture of caution and disgust. The creature approached, swaying. A wheezing noise came from its direction. The sound was strained and guttural; unnatural.

“Aye, one of the Witch-Lady’s playthings,” Egan said roughly.

The creature stopped just short of the island of dry land. It stared through the firelight, directly at Khamsin. They could all see it now with the lipless cavern of its mouth dripping slime; its huge, claw-like hands flexing spasmodically. Its body was covered with dull yellowed scales. Wade shifted nervously in his stance. The creature’s red eyes darted in his direction, only to return to the firelight. And to Khamsin.

“Must be drawn to the fire,” Druke said.

“If we put it out, will it go away?” Skeely asked nervously.

“Don’t know.”

There was such a calmness in Druke’s voice that Khamsin had to question. “You’ve seen these things before?”

“Aye, but not loose like this. In Traakhal. Master Ro has a few in the dungeons.”

“Well, damn it, Druke, we’ve got to do something!” Wade rasped.

“Easy, boy,” Egan said but he, too, glanced towards the balding man. “You seem to be the one with the knowledge, Druke. What do you say?”

The demon swayed hypnotically before them.

“Why doesn’t it attack?” Skeely took a step in Egan’s direction. But this time the demon’s eyes remained fixed straight ahead.

“Do you want it to?” Egan answered.

“Hell, no, but, damn it! It’s, it’s…!”

The demon moved slowly sideways around the perimeter of the island, not touching the dry land but keeping right to its edge. The horses whinnied nervously. Khamsin heard a low rumbling from where Nixa crouched.

The men turned in the firelight as the demon stepped into a murky pool of water. A foul stench rose up in the tendrils of steam at its feet. Khamsin heard Skeely gag.

She passed the hunting knife into her left hand and lay her right on the hilt of her sword. Ciro had said to use her magic only in the direst of circumstances. If the demon charged, she felt the situation would qualify.

But it kept its distance and seemed to study the group from all angles. As if it were looking for something it couldn’t quite find.

Khamsin increased the thickness of her mental shield. If it were seeking her, as she was sure it was, perhaps it was only a matter of time before it lost interest and departed.