A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1) (21 page)

‘If there’s a complete antithesis to Gorethrian methods, it must be Forluinish ones. Go on, let’s see if it works. I want to know who this boy is.’

The young knight positioned himself so that he was kneeling, facing the vacant-eyed Skord, whose boyish face was twisted as if with terror. Estarinel drew a deep breath to calm and ready himself, and fixed his own eyes, unblinking, with a clear and steady gaze, on the boy’s.

About ten minutes passed and both figures were motionless, silent. Medrian and Ashurek watched, conscious of a current between the two, like a radiation passing across a vacuum. Skord’s breathing grew slower and slower. Colour came back to his cheeks but his eyes did not change. A terrible sadness came over the face of Estarinel and his lips parted.

‘Skord,’ he said. ‘Skord.’ Again, ‘Skord.’ Then he began to speak in a low monotone, chanting a ritual that gave Ashurek a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach. There was power in the words, and more to the Forluinish than met the eye.

‘That which sealed thy lips is departed. That which stayed thy tongue is departed. That which stilled thy voice is departed. From mine eyes to thine, the key. From thine eyes to thy mouth, the unlocking…’ on and on. Skord’s face hung with an expression of despair; the look that had been on the face of his mother, and Skarred, and the murdered girl, and her mother. ‘…now speak. Speak. Speak.’ Estarinel finished the chant. ‘Who are you?’

A few seconds passed. Then Skord spoke with a strange accent. ‘Schorde,’ he said. ‘I am Schorde.’ It sounded like a different name, rather than a slurring of his own.

‘Where do you live?’ No response. ‘Describe it to me – is it a farm?’

‘No, a city… spires shining in the sun, white and gold, glittering. The sea on one side… forests on the other. The sun shines, I play with my friends… down through the forests, past the eleven spires, down to the sea we race… I am the fastest! Even my friend with his long legs is not swifter than me!’ A smile came to his lips but his eyes remained vacant.

‘Drish! He’s a damned Drishian,’ Ashurek muttered under his breath.

‘Do you come from Drish, Skord – Schorde?’ Estarinel asked.

At once the boy’s face changed, clouding with annoyance. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirteen! Almost.’

‘And have you always lived in Drish?’

‘Of course! Where else would I live?’

‘You don’t live there now.’

Skord frowned and began to turn his head from side to side. ‘You’re lying. I do, I do… I live near the city. Mother and Father are with me, yes they are – and my little sister – no! No!’

‘What’s happening?’ Estarinel asked. ‘What can you see?’

‘They are coming – dark ships on the sea, tall men walking up through the tide… black and silver, like demons, dripping with blood. No! We have never done them harm – why do they come? We must fight them, fight, fight… Father goes. I am holding onto Mother and my sister, they are crying – so afraid… the dark ones are not human. We wait and wait – but Father does not come back.

‘Mother is mad with grief, I cannot calm her. Then our leaders come for us… we are herded from our houses to a camp, like prisoners… the invaders have taken the city. But our leaders haven’t surrendered! There’s to be another battle… but all those who are unfit to fight are to be sent away to safety. I don’t want to go – I want to fight, like Father – I argue with Mother, she weeps and weeps – I cannot comfort her – then – then something is coming towards us!’ Skord was breathing very fast, his face ghastly with horror.

‘What is it? What is it?’ Estarinel asked.

‘Don’t know. Can’t remember. Very dark – then so bright I can’t see. My leg hurts. Mother is screaming, so is my sister – screams all around us. Something slashing at us… blood, my little sister covered in blood. No! No! They betrayed us!’

‘Who betrayed you, Schorde?’

‘The invaders… or our leaders. I don’t know, I don’t understand. They came among us at night and wounded us all. I think they only meant to wound–’ his tone became bitter, chilling. ‘But in the morning, my little sister is dead.’

‘Go on,’ Estarinel prompted gently, trying to mask the horror in his own voice. Skord gagged with the effort of finding words.

‘Forgotten… days go by… just a nightmare. We think it is over… waiting in fear, all of us crowded together, sick, injured rabbits. But no – the warriors are not satisfied–’ The flat tone of his voice escalated towards hysteria as he went on. ‘They come again, killing this time – slaughtering, mad – people falling, dying around us – but a few of us escape. I take Mother’s arm and run, dragging her along – we are beyond the forests, beyond the borders, safe – oh, would that we had died with the others!’ He began to rant in the native tongue of Drish, weeping and moaning in distress.

‘Skord!’ Estarinel said sharply. ‘Schorde! Speak the common language!’

Skord fell abruptly silent. Then he went on in a stilted, flat tone. ‘It’s my mother. She cannot forget my father and sister – she is mad with grief, insane. I can’t bear it! Nothing, no one can reach her. In despair I go off alone, self-pitying… as if my grief is worse than hers. When I return she has killed herself. If only I had stayed! Surely my soul is damned – grief and guilt and memories plague me. Surely I am mad myself… I want revenge! Yes! The dark invaders used demons – I will unleash one against them in return! I explore the old sorceries, find the knowledge…’ He uttered a moan. ‘I call for help – one comes. But oh – it is a creature of hell. It is silver and its mouth is red – I am terrified, my soul is damned. It won’t obey me – I am feeble with grief, I long to die. But it sends me to Her. She is kind to me. She tells me that if I help Her, She will help me in turn. She takes away my memory… I am happy for a time, I am Skord of Belhadra, son of a farmer… that is all I know… such peace. But then She makes me peform Her work: cast plague, take tribute. That which I called for aid win not leave me. She will not make it go, She torments me with the threat of giving back my memory. I loathe Her, I love Her, I fear Her – I revel in Her power and I despise it…’ Skord went on in this vein, growing hysterical again.

‘Quiet!’ Estarinel ordered. ‘Quiet, quiet… be still. Now Schorde, I will wake you.’ He held him in trance for five minutes more until Skord’s face became calm and his eyes dropped shut. Then, ‘Wake,’ he said.

He was unprepared for what happened next. Skord’s eyes flew open; he leapt forward, swung his hand in a blow across Estarinel’s face that sent him reeling backwards into the rock wall behind him. The boy staggered to his feet, teeth bared like a trapped wild dog.

‘Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!’ he hissed in fury and anguish. ‘You’ll pay! You’ll pay for this; all of you! Demon's bastards! Damn you!’ He turned and ran through the narrow pass between rocks and rock wall. They made no move to stop him.

Ashurek looked at Medrian and drew a breath through clenched teeth.

Estarinel had been knocked out cold. There was blood oozing from his mouth, and Medrian, lifting his head, felt beneath his black hair a lump where his head had struck the rock.

‘Poor Estarinel. I’m sure he did not have this in mind,’ she said quietly. Ashurek thought she was showing uncharacteristic tenderness as she made her cloak into a pillow, and then wiped the blood from his cheek.

‘I might have known there were demons behind it. I should have seen the signs,’ he remarked.

‘I won’t ask what the Gorethrians did in Drish, Ashurek,’ Medrian said tightly.

‘It was worse than Alaak,’ he said, his voice so rough with self-loathing that she looked up at him. ‘The non-combatants were promised safety and refuge, but they were lied to. Instead, the Gorethrians surrounded their camp and let demons run wild among them. Karadrek betrayed – no, I betrayed them because I let it happen. That’s when I turned my back upon Gorethria. Five years ago – yes, Skord would have been about thirteen then.’

‘Now we know his past, but we’re still no nearer to discovering who “She” is.’

‘Other than a powerful and malevolent summoner of some kind.’ Ashurek calmed the restless horses. ‘Ye gods, I feel sorry for the miserable wretch. As if he hadn’t suffered enough, without falling into the Shana’s hands.’

‘Now, I presume, he will send the nemen to massacre us,’ said Medrian without emotion.

‘Yes, we seem to have upset him enough… but we will give them a fight for their money.’ Ashurek’s eyes glinted like burning ice. ‘Although I thought we were to be delivered to Her intact.’

Medrian shuddered. ‘Perhaps we are in Her domain already, and this is what She has decided to do with us. If so, my fears were unfounded.’

‘You mean you would rather be slain by some mercenary than go to meet Her?’ Ashurek asked, bemused. Medrian was an enigma. Did she really know something, or was she half-mad?

‘Yes, that would be preferable,’ she said with a self-mocking smile that, for some reason, made him feel less hostile towards her. ‘But impossible. The path must be pursued by the proper route to the very end, or – well, look at poor Skord. Ah, but he is right; death and forgetfulness would be the best of all.’

They planned to stay hidden until Estarinel regained consciousness, and then perhaps ride to escape, taking the nemen by surprise. When dawn came, damp and fresh, Estarinel was still unconscious. Medrian climbed up and looked over the top of the rocks.

Ashurek, kneeling beside Estarinel to see how he was, looked up at the slim, dark figure of the woman.

‘Ouch!’ he heard her say. ‘Some insect. We’re still surrounded, but they’ve not closed in yet. I can’t see Skord.’ Then she wordlessly fell backwards to the ground. Ashurek expected to see an arrow or spear sticking from her body, but there was no mark on her. She lay still, eyes closed, pale as death. Ashurek looked cautiously over the top of the rocks. The nemen were standing in a semi-circle below their knoll, tall, bronze-limbed, golden-haired. They were so like Silvren in colouring, he realised that they could easily be of Silvren’s race. He saw one of them holding a reed to its mouth and he felt something like an insect sting on his forehead.

It was then that he remembered something else about warrior nemen. They use drugged darts… The thought came into his mind as it fell away into a cavern of blackness.

#

Confusion – dizziness – movement. A great mushroom of crystal towering towards the sun that glinted silver and white on its millions of tiny facets. The roar of many waters. Spray. Mist. Damp, cold air. The ice-white walls of a chasm rising to jagged heights, sparkling with great curtains of molten glass and foam. Whispering. Laughter – malicious, joking laughter. And a mass of golden faces, sometimes one standing out clearly – laughing – then retreating into the mass. Estarinel’s voice saying, ‘I saw them as he saw them – staring, sick faces crowded together.’ Day – night – day – night. Blackness and whiteness and disorientation…

The next thing Estarinel remembered was crawling on hands and knees down a deserted street. Completely deserted – a vast and choking sense of emptiness, of many fair things that had ceased to exist. He was only half-conscious, with a searing pain through his head, his back and his limbs; blood half-blinding him in a warm stream from somewhere on his head; clothes torn; dirt crusted on his hands and face. How long he had crawled for, he did not know. The blood stung his eyes like acid and he gasped and sobbed with the pain as he went.

Presently he blundered headlong into a wall. Groping blindly, Estarinel found a handhold and agonizingly dragged himself to his feet. He rubbed his eyes with his palms. The pain in his head spun away with a sinking sense of dizziness, leaving him swaying and heavy-headed but able to see and – eventually – to think.

It was hot, but he shivered convulsively. He saw, as through a red mist, the nature of the city he was in. It was a city of metal. Gold, platinum, steel, silver, copper. There were tall, round towers of all kinds of metal, all imaginable shapes. Shining tubes of gold and silver stretching towards the sky, twisted, filigreed, inlaid, or with smooth perfect surfaces, all polished like looking-glasses, pure and lovely. In each tower one great jewel was set: stones of deep, soft blue, of viridian, purple and crimson, bright as mirrors. Broad, airy streets ran between the towers. The streets were paved with diamond-shaped slabs of marble, in many pastel shades, rich with fine branching veins of purple and gold.

Beautiful as it was, the sun’s glare reflecting from the towers, as if from many metal mirrors, pained Estarinel’s eyes.

Think. Think.

‘Shaell?’ he mouthed. Where was his stallion? Memories began to seep back into his mind; there should be two others with him. A battle… Skord… a vision of Drish, bloodied faces eaten with fear... a great mushroom of crystal. He remembered, but his head would not clear and he could not order his thoughts.

‘How did I get here?’ A piece of logic forced itself into his brain. ‘I was unconscious – the nemen must have brought me here and left me.’

Estarinel had no idea where to go, but he staggered on down the broad, shining street in search of water. He clung to buildings, his legs too weak to support him. Perhaps the nemen had been brutal with their prisoners, for he was in worse condition now than he had been after the battle. He passed out two or three times as he stumbled slowly on, whiteness clouding over his eyes, whiteness like that of Hrannekh Ol, or like snow…