Chasers of the Wind (2 page)

“The Gates! Close the Gates, screw a damn toad!” cried out Luk, who had finally come to his senses.

From the direction of the village he could see a few hundred cavalry galloping at full tilt toward the Gates. Alongside the Nabatorians, keeping pace with the horses, ran bony creatures that resembled skeletons.

Morts!

Rek ran to an enormous horn, breathed deeply, gathering the air in his lungs, and then blew it. A low booming sound spread over the Towers, sounding the alarm and raising the entire garrison to its feet. Men ran in from every quarter with no idea of what was happening. Many of them were without weapons.

The Wings of the Gates finally shivered and slowly began to close.

Too slowly.

Beneath the walls the battle raged on. The six Nabatorian warriors, under the auspices of the remaining necromancer, were holding out until the arrival of the main force. A lowering portcullis rumbled, and then another. Then there was a roar, and a warning cry rang through the fortress courtyard: “The sorcerer blew up the portcullis!”

Things were looking bleak if the Walker didn’t do something soon.

As if in response to Luk’s entreaty, the air shimmered and thickened over the Lady and the Ember, transforming into a massive many-faceted spear of ice. It deployed, aimed for the Sdisian.… Then the woman who was sitting on the caravan seat thrust up one of her hands as if annoyed at the distraction from her contemplation of the combat.

Crash!

For a moment it seemed to Luk that he had died and found himself in the drum of the northerners’ god, Ug. There was a ringing in his ears, and all around him hung a thick cloud of dust. Bewildered at first, the guard realized that he had fallen.

He shook his head dazedly and then got up onto his hands and knees. There was a roaring in his ears, and blood was pouring down his face. Spitting out grit, he staggered to his feet and rushed toward where the Walker had been standing.

Enormous stones, which had been set into the walls by the Sculptor, had been plucked out and scattered for hundreds of yards. One of the boulders had fallen on the barracks of the second company, reducing it to rubble. Another, launched as if from a catapult, had crashed through the facade of the Tower of Rain. A third had smashed down onto the road, crushing three heedless Morts and five Nabatorians along with their horses.

The section of the wall on which the magic blow had fallen was severely damaged. It was as if a giant hammer had struck it. But the Walker was alive. Forgetting about his usual shyness around those who possessed the Gift, Luk rushed over to the woman. And then he shuddered. He had never seen such wounds during his time as a guard, and he strived to look only at the woman’s face. Only now did he appreciate the fact that she was no more than nineteen years old, and that she had sky blue eyes.

She smiled and, very quietly but astonishingly clearly, said, “Tell my sisters that Rubeola has returned.”

A Damned!

“Are you sure, my lady?” babbled Luk, who was suffocating from terror.

The Walker did not answer. Her eyes faded, and for some reason the guard had the strongest urge to cry.

A succession of magical blows battered against the Gates. They remained intact but stopped closing. The forward detachment of Nabatorians had held out long enough to ensure that the cavalry and Morts swept into the courtyard.

A massacre ensued. Over and over the Sdisian’s staff flared dully.

The Damned just sat on the caravan seat and watched in a bored manner as an endless blue-black ribbon of soldiers flowed into the fallen citadel.

1

The day had started out warm, and now the cows, lazily chewing their cud, were sheltering from the midday heat in the shadow of a large oak. A yearling calf, tormented by gadflies, dragged himself to the river and slipped in, thereby ridding himself of the feisty insects. His dappled mother was trying to warn her son away from the water with a plaintive moo, but he was far too occupied with the water and ignored her summons.

Pork sighed disappointedly and set aside his homemade reed pipe. What kind of music could he make when there was such a racket? The damned cow just wouldn’t quiet down. He should drag the calf out of the river, but he was feeling lazy. There was no point. He’d just wander back in again.

The day seemed infinitely long. His jug of milk was half empty, but his bread remained untouched. He had no desire to eat. Or work, for that matter. While the village boys fished for trout and played at being knights, why did he have to keep an eye on the cattle? But the children had no desire to include the overgrown village idiot in their games. Pork didn’t know why, and as a result he was horribly offended, not understanding the reason everyone always laughed at him and twirled their fingers around their foreheads.

Yawning, he was about to nap for another hour, since the shade of the bushes he was stretched out under wouldn’t go away for a while yet, when he noticed four riders appear on the road in the distance. They crossed the river unhurriedly, making their way along the sturdy wooden bridge constructed by the villagers, and, passing by the standing stone
(standing stones are set at all crossroads. According to legend, they keep evil from finding its way into people’s homes)
, headed off toward the village.

Pushing out his lower lip so that saliva dripped down onto his shirt, Pork watched the strangers avidly.

People wishing to visit Dog Green were always few and far between. The village was located in the foothills of the Boxwood Mountains in the middle of the densely thicketed Forest Region. People rarely came here.

The riders did not resemble the Viceroy’s tax collectors in the slightest. The tax collectors wore gorgeous black-and-white uniforms, which Pork really wished he could try on, but these men were wearing simple leather jackets and linen shirts.

“And there’s no herald with a trumpet,” muttered the half-wit under his breath. “Nope, nope, nope—the Viceroy’s soldiers dress far better.” True, these men had swords as well. Sharp ones. Much sharper than his father’s knife, which Pork had cut himself on. Oh, that had hurt so much! And one of them even had a crossbow. Probably a real one, too. That would leave quite a hole. If Pork had such a crossbow, no one would laugh at him. Nope. The girls would love him. Yes, they would. And the horses these fellows had were much better than the villagers’. Horses like that could trample you right down, and not even a smudge would be left behind. They were knights’ horses. When Pork left the village, he too would become a knight. He’d rescue virgins. But these fellows weren’t knights. Where were the multicolored coats of arms, the plumes and the chain mail? Every knight should have them, but they didn’t. If they were knights, they were doing it wrong. Yes, they were. But maybe they were bandits? No, they didn’t look like that either. Even the dimmest five-year-old whose parents wouldn’t let him go off into the forest hunting for mushrooms knew that bandits didn’t travel the road so boldly—otherwise the soldiers of the Viceroy would hang them from the nearest aspen tree. And of course, bandits wouldn’t have such splendid horses. Plus, all bandits were wicked, cowardly, filthy men with rusty knives in their teeth. These fellows were not like that. Anyway, what would bandits have to do with the village? The locals around here grew nothing valuable. Except perhaps old Roza’s turnips, which the daring little people, as his father called them, try to steal.

Pork imagined how a horde of unwashed little men with overgrown beards, hatchets gripped in their teeth, grunting, would scale the wicker fence and, looking around fearfully, dig up the turnips from the vegetable patch of that wicked old grandmother. And she would stand on the porch, shaking her walking stick and giving them the tongue-lashing of their lives, calling down curses on their ugly heads. And then she would throw her stick at them, the old viper. She threw it at Pork once, when he broke her fence. What a bump on the head that was. His father simply told him that it was time for him to wise up. But that didn’t happen. Just as before, everyone laughed at him, called him a half-wit, and didn’t let him play with them. Well, what of it—he didn’t really want to, truthfully.

One of the riders noticed the cowherd and said something to his companions. They left the road and made their way toward him over the field.

At first Pork was terrified. He wanted to take to his heels, but running away—that meant leaving the cows unattended. And of course, they’d scatter. He’d have to search for them again. And Choir would wander into the ravine again, and he’d get stuck there unable to get her out. He’d catch hell from his father. There was nothing for it; he’d get either the nettles or the whip. He wouldn’t be able to sit on his fanny for a week. So there was no sense in running. And anyway, it’s a long way to the forest. And those armed bulls were on horseback. They could catch him and give him a good drubbing. And besides, he still didn’t know why they were coming. But his father wouldn’t pat him on the head if he lost the cows. And so, making the choice between the clear threat and shadowy danger, Pork decided to stay put and see what would happen.

The riders came up to him, drawing in their reins.

“Are you from the village, friend?” asked the oldest of the four. Lean and tall with a pointed face and deep-set, clever eyes, the man regarded Pork without malice. Cordially and just a bit mockingly.

No one had ever called Pork “friend” before. The cowherd liked the way it sounded.

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re from Dog Green?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it far?”

“No. Not very, sir. It’s just beyond that hill. As soon as you get to the top, you’ll see it.”

“We’ve finally made it,” said another of the men, sighing with obvious relief. His face was pitted by smallpox. “It’s well hidden, eh, Whip?”

“Did you doubt the words of Mols, Bamut?” chuckled the one who had called Pork a friend.

A third rider, the youngest one, answered that question with a grunt. Pork disliked him right away. He was sullen and wicked. A man like that would have no problem boxing you on the ears. And then he’d laugh.

“Is there an inn in the village?”

“In the middle of nowhere? What kind of inn would they have not ten leagues from the mountains?” snapped the youth, who had blue eyes.

“We have an inn,” replied the cowherd, offended. “It’s right by the road after you go through the village. It’s quite large. With a red chimney. They have tasty meat pies. And shaf. My father gave me some to try once. But why have you come here? And are your swords real? Will you let me hold one? And your horses, they are Rudessian stock, right? Are they yours? They are like knights’ horses. I’ll soon be a knight, too. They’re fast, aren’t they? You aren’t knights, by any chance, are you?”

“Hold on, hold on!” laughed the lean rider cheerfully. “Not all at once. You’re in quite a hurry there, friend. Let’s start at the beginning, I beg you. Are those cows yours?”

“No. I look after them. Yeah.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

The cowherd pouted and looked at the man, offended.

He was mocking him. But he had called him his friend. He thought they were friends.

The man laughed once more. The other three riders remained silent and didn’t even smile. They seemed completely uninterested in the conversation.

“And how many households are there in the village?”

“A lot.” Pork showed all the fingers on his hands. “Six times as many.”

“And you’re literate. You can count,” the man said respectfully.

“No,” sniveled the half-wit. “My father showed me. I can’t count on my own.”

“Tell me, friend, do you have any new people in the village?”

“Are you talking about the Viceroy’s people?”

“Well, maybe. Tell me about them.”

“They came here at the beginning of spring. They were handsome. Important. And they had horses. Now we’re just waiting until the end of fall. There haven’t been any others. It’s just us. Only the loggers come.”

“The loggers?” asked the man with the pockmarked face.

“Yeah,” sad Pork, nodding hastily, pleased that he could carry on such an important conversation. “They chop down our trees and then float them down the river to Al’sgara. They say they make really great boats from our trees. Oh, yeah! The best of all boats. They float. Yes.”

“And what about these loggers?”

“I don’t really know, sir. They come here in the summer. They live in mud huts beyond Strawberry Stream. They’re mean. Once they beat me up and ruined my new shirt. Then I caught it again from my father, because of the shirt. Yeah. But they leave in the fall. They don’t want to stay here for the winter. They say that the roads get blocked with snow. You can’t get out until the end of spring.”

“I told you, it’s a swamp,” spat the young one.

“No. The mountains aren’t far from here. And they say that there are the Gates of Six Towers, though I’ve never seen them. And to get to the swamp, you have to go through the forest for several days. There’s a bog there, you know. You go there, you’ll fall right in.”

“It’s unlikely our friend would be found in the company of loggers,” said the short man who looked like a ferret and had kept silent so far.

“I’d have to agree with you. But tell me, friend, do you know everyone in the village?”

Pork screwed up his eyes in suspicion. These men were strange. They’d asked him about the mean loggers, and then again about the village. And about the Viceroy’s soldiers.

“Don’t be afraid.” The lean man tried to appease him with a smile. “We’re just looking for our friend. He’s about this old.” He pointed to the man afflicted with pox. “He has light hair, gray eyes; he rarely smiles and can shoot better than anyone from the saddle. Do you know such a man?”

“Gnut shoots better than anyone from the saddle, but he has black hair and one of his eyes isn’t even there at all.”

“He has a woman with him, too. She’s tall and beautiful. She has long blond hair and dark blue eyes. So, what do you think? Are there any people like that in your village?”

“There might be,” said the cowherd reluctantly. “I don’t really have the time to remember. I’ve got to herd the cows. Or Father will cuss me.”