Crusader (56 page)

“I know I do not have to concern myself with
your
success,” he said.

She grinned, and when she spoke the stench of the grave issued from her mouth.

“Faraday condemns herself,” she said. “She does not even want to succeed.”

“I cannot understand her preoccupation with self-sacrifice,” Qeteb said, “but I am mightily grateful for it.”

Then, without further ado, he, too, vanished.

T
hey again sat their mounts—Qeteb his beast of blackness, DragonStar his stallion of drifting stars—but now atop Cauldron Keep itself. They were uncomfortably close, and both Qeteb’s beast and the Star Stallion constantly shifted slightly to keep the maximum possible distance between them.

“Well,” said Qeteb from behind his visor, “at least we have a good view.”

And he pointed. “Look.”

Goldman and DareWing stood by an outcrop of rocks. Behind the rocks stretched the remains of the Silent Woman Woods: tall spikes of blackened timber with occasional spars of charred branches jutting out like the battered rigging of a storm-damaged ship. A path wound through the trees, leading back into the unknown depths of the dead Woods.

DareWing stood straight and tall, his black wings folded tightly against his back. He wore only a white linen tunic and sandals.

He carried no weapon, and his face was expressionless.

Goldman, on the other hand, was clearly excited, impatient for the fun to begin. He shifted from leg to leg, as he also shifted a heavy staff from hand to hand.

Incongruously for a Master of the Guilds, he was dressed as a woodsman.

The lizard was nowhere to be seen.

DareWing and Goldman waited.

Qeteb and DragonStar waited.

Hours passed, and Goldman grew ever more restless.

“Where are they?” he asked DareWing.

“Soon,” DareWing said.

“How do you know?”

“I can smell them,” DareWing said.

Goldman opened his mouth to say something further, but closed it as he saw two mangy hunting hounds emerge from behind one of the blackened trees.

They looked like deformed Alaunt. Pale ivory in colour, and with the lean but muscular long-legged shape of the Alaunt, both hounds had running sores covering their pelts, and foulness oozing from eyes and mouths.

The hounds grinned, and one, Barzula, said:

“What temptation do you have for us, then? What choice?”

“We have a hunt,” DareWing said softly.

“A hunt!” Mot bayed, and half laughed, half growled. “How appropriate that we took
this
form, then!”

DareWing did not reply to that. The Demons had known of the nature of the challenge, and had picked their forms to suit.

Goldman indicated the dead forest behind him with his staff. “A bear and her cub haunt these woods, making it unsafe for—”

“For
who
?” Barzula asked, his canine mouth grinning slyly.

“For any who would walk beneath the trees,” Goldman said. “Will you track her down for us?”

“We like to hunt,” Mot said, and both hounds giggled. “We will do as you ask.”

And without further ado, the two corrupted hounds pushed their way past Goldman and DareWing, and loped into the skeletal trees.

They tracked for hours. Many times the hounds bayed in excitement as they picked up the great bear’s scent, and as many times their tails and ears drooped after a few minutes of following the trail, only to have it fade into non-existence. Goldman and DareWing followed behind, silent, watchful, patient.

In the late afternoon the hounds became frustrated, snapping and snarling at every shadow, every trick of the wind. They savaged tree trunks, tearing great gouges into the dead wood, and dug furious, futile holes in the drifting dirt, defecating quickly into them before moving on to find something else to destroy and corrupt.

They had almost forgotten the bear.

“There!” DareWing cried as the shadows lengthened and crept one into each other. “There!”

Barzula and Mot picked up their heads and pricked their ears.

There!

A darker and more ominous shadow moving behind some trees only twenty paces away.

The hounds bayed in excitement, and the shadow roared.

The hunt was on.

The hounds dashed forth, DareWing and Goldman running behind them as fast as they could.

The bear—all could see her clearly now—rose on her hind legs, swiping furiously at the attacking hounds in order to protect the six-month-old cub cowering behind her. Then, deciding it were better for the safety of her cub to run than fight, the bear swivelled in a graceful, yet powerful, motion, set her cub to run, and followed behind him, keeping the hounds at bay with growls and the odd slash of her powerful and deadly talons.

The hounds chased her, and the huntsmen chased both bear and hounds.

Night closed in.

The hunt grew ever more desperate. The bear was wounded now, as were both of the hounds, although neither the hunted nor the hunters were hurt seriously.

But blood scattered the trail, and sent the hounds into an ecstasy of savagery.

As the moon rose, the bear blundered into a blind gully. Sheer rock walls rose on either side, hounds and huntsmen trapped her from behind.

Desperate, for her cub was exhausted and would surely need rest soon, the bear pushed him towards a steep wall of rock and loose stones at the end of the gully.

They would have to climb it to escape the hounds.

The bear nosed her cub forward, encouraged him with hot breath and deep love, and his small paws rattled and slipped on the loose rock.

Mot and Barzula attacked from behind, tearing pieces of pelt and flesh from the bear’s hindquarters.

She turned on them, growling and roaring with all the savagery she could muster.

Behind her, the young cub clawed desperately up the scree.

A stone slipped.

He scrambled further, hearing the desperation in his mother’s voice, and knowing he would be torn to pieces if the hounds managed to get past her and reach—

Another stone slipped, and suddenly, frightfully, the bear cub was fighting for purchase on the slipping, sliding scree.

The entire wall of rock began to move. Slowly, but inexorably.

Both hounds backed off, watching the sliding rock wall carefully…and speculatively.

The mother bear turned about, crying frantically to her child.

He had been almost halfway up the slope, but now he was sliding down amid the avalanche of rocks and stones.

His cries were piteous to hear.

The bear was desperate, making reckless leaps upwards to try to reach her son, only to tumble downwards again.

The rocks slid ever further ever faster.

Suddenly there was a massive roar, and the entire rock slope collapsed.

DareWing and Goldman dashed out of the way, the two demonic hounds behind them, as a huge cloud of dust and small stone fragments rose up about them. Goldman and DareWing dove under the cover of a rock overhang, flinging their arms about their heads and curling their bodies into tight balls in order to protect themselves from the shrapnel flying through the air. They felt the hounds’ paws scrabbling furiously over their bodies, as the hounds used the two men to protect themselves from the onslaught.

And then, silence.

Slowly, both men and hounds unwound themselves and stood up, brushing and shaking themselves free of rock dust.

Shafts of moonlight fell over a massive pile of rubble at the foot of the pile of loose rock.

The mother bear was dead, almost completely buried under the fallen scree. Only part of one of her forelegs and its paw protruded. That, and a spreading pool of blood that seeped its way free from under the rock.

Goldman and DareWing stared as Mot and Barzula came to stand by their side.

“Well,” Mot remarked, “there’s not much choice going on here, is—”

A pitiful cry from about a third of the way up the rock jumble stopped the Demon, and all four jerked their eyes up to look.

It was the bear cub, lying horribly injured under several rocks. A pace above it was an immense boulder, precariously balanced on the landslip.

Even as they watched, the boulder wobbled, threatening to roll its ponderous way down over the bear cub.

The cub mewed again, crying for its mother.

Tears came to Goldman’s eyes. Even though he and DareWing had created this scene with their magic, the distress of the bear cub moved Goldman more than he thought possible.

“The choice is this,” DareWing said quietly. “There lies the bear cub, only minutes from death—for that boulder will fall shortly. What should you do, Mot? Barzula? Sit here and wait for its fall, knowing that in the meantime the bear cub will suffer mightily and that when the boulder rolls slowly over it, as the boulder inevitably will, the cub will suffer even worse in death? Or will you try to save the cub, knowing the boulder might yet tumble prematurely and crush you? You have the time—you hope. What do you want to do? Risk your own life to try to save the cub, or ensure your own safety by standing by and witnessing the cub’s misery and eventual death?”

The two hounds looked at DareWing, glanced at the bear cub, now sobbing almost like a human child, and then looked back at DareWing.

Then, very, very quickly, they glanced at Goldman.

Their eyes returned to DareWing, and they both slobbered and grinned.

And sat down.

“We wait,” Mot said, “for we feed off misery and pain.”

“Not what you expected?” Qeteb said to DragonStar. “Did you really think that bear cub’s suffering would move them?”

“Wait,” DragonStar said.

“Yes,” Qeteb said, and grinned malevolently beneath his visor. “Why don’t we do just that?”

Goldman looked at the cub. It was wriggling, trying so desperately to free itself, that Goldman’s heart went out to its bravery and suffering.

How could it understand that it was merely part of a spell, a test?

In its own mind, the bear cub existed.

And suffered and sorrowed.

It wanted its mother. It wanted to be free, and free of the agony coursing through its mangled body.

“Gods,” Goldman whispered.

Qeteb’s grin stretched even further, and he felt the power of success flood his veins.

Now Mot and Barzula lowered themselves to their bellies, and Mot yawned.

“I wish that boulder would hurry up and fall,” he said. “The wait bores me.”

But teeter and shudder as it might, the boulder did not fall, and the bear cub continued to mew and sob in its pain and sorrow.

Goldman looked desperately at DareWing. “I can’t just stand here…” he said.

“Goldman!” DareWing cried, appalled. “We can’t—”

“I can’t listen to it any more,” Goldman whispered. “I
won’t
!”

He turned, and dashed for the rock scree.

“Goldman!” DareWing screamed, and lifted into the air.

Goldman scrabbled up the rock scree, not hearing the laughter of the hounds beneath him. All he could see, all he could hear, was the bear cub writhing just above him. If only he could reach it, comfort it somehow, then all would be well…all would be well…

DareWing, hovering just above Goldman, reached down and tried to grab Goldman’s tunic. “Goldman! Leave it alone! Leave it—”

DareWing could have flown to safety. But he didn’t. He chose to stay with his friend, who had chosen, from pity, to save the cub.

The choice was made, and now others would live and die by it.

Goldman had scrabbled within an arm’s length of the bear cub, despite DareWing’s hand now buried in the back of his tunic. He reached forward, touching the cub’s flailing paw.

The cub screamed…

…and the boulder toppled.

Not slowly, not reluctantly, but with a haste and purpose that was demonically assisted.

It struck the cub, sending a spray of blood and flesh outwards, and then in the next heartbeat it struck Goldman, and, as it rolled inexorably downward, it caught DareWing’s hand, and dragged him under its surging weight.

There was a brief crack, as if of splintering bones, and then the boulder was tumbling madly down the scree, leaving behind it a wet slick of blood and flesh in the shaft of soft moonlight.

Both hounds nonchalantly moved out of the way as the boulder rolled past them, and then sat down and shook with laughter.

“And in that instant,” Qeteb said, turning his head to stare at DragonStar’s shocked face, “and for the love of a bear cub, we’re even!
Even!
Faraday…Faraday shall prove the decider.”

And he tipped back his head and roared with laughter.

The Butler opened the gate and prepared to welcome the visitors through.

But the three shook their heads, one saying: “Thank you, good sir, but we would wait awhile. One of our number has yet a task unfinished, and must return.”

“Then perhaps we can talk,” said the Butler, “to pass the time. I have,” he bent down and lifted something from the flowers about his legs, “a jug of creamy ale I rescued from the cook.”

“Oh, well done!” cried Goldman.

T
hey drifted through unknown waterways, closer and closer to the Maze. The buildings and structures to either side of the waterways grew ever more strange, and ever more depressing: great, grey statues of fiercechinned men, staring into the distance, shields and spears in hand. Other statues as tall as buildings, crouched in contemplation, or with their faces buried in hands, as if all thought inevitably led to suicide. Still more lay stretched out along the ground, cracked and crumbled, their stony faces reflecting some long distant horror, and with twisted crosses tattooed deep into their biceps and chests.

In one cavern Azhure’s gaze was caught by the remnants of a great statue of a woman—only her head, neck, and one shoulder and arm, were in one piece, while other bits of her toppled across what had once been a huge parade ground. The statue’s head was majestic, crowned by a stone diadem, her eyes wide and staring. Her outflung stone arm held a great torch, long extinguished.