Kingdoms of the Night (The Far Kingdoms) (52 page)

Modin started to answer, then decided not to. His image blurred, danced and then, standing behind him, normally-sized, was my son, Cligus.

Perhaps he’d been permitted to listen or even watch, invisibly, when Modin cast out for Janela. I doubted this. It was more likely his appearance had not been planned.

I knew I was right when I saw my son’s eyes widen as two shocks struck him. First at being in this place, even in spirit form; then seeing me and how much I’d changed. But he still recognized me, blood calling to blood. He flinched for an instant like he expected his father to step forward and punish him for his crimes as if he were still a mischievous boy trembling in my study.

Then his features firmed as he recovered.

But, I attacked first:

“Cligus, I am surprised to see you. But it gives me an opportunity to put some questions to you as well. What sort of face are you putting on your actions? What do you plan to tell Orissa when you return with my head? Do you think the citizens of our city will announce a triumph for you for patricide? Do you think Palmeras will nod and accept your version of events without inquiring, sorcerously, into what really happened?”

He answered, defiant: “I plan to return with full proof of your treason.”

“Very good, boy,” I said, putting as much sarcasm into my voice as possible. “You’ve managed to convince yourself I’m a real villain. That’s always the best step.

“But you’ve had much practice, haven’t you? I recollect that poor serving girl you got with child when you were what, fourteen, and she was a year younger. You tried to tell me it was her fault for not cleansing herself with vinegar. Do you remember how you raged when I forced you to sell your stallion so you could have a sum to set aside for the child’s upbringing?”

“I do not have to listen to this!”

“Yes, you do,” I said. “Listen... or vanish… Modin, is
this
the best you can do for an ally? Or do you think you can stand against an Antero and a Greycloak alone? You had better be careful, wizard, for you’re committing the crime of great pride and are most likely to be brought down for it.”

“Oh,” Modin said, and I noted he’d recovered control. “I am supposed to listen to the words of a merchant, a cloth-peddler and shake in my boots? Listen to me, Antero..”

And he rose again, almost doubling his size, and I barely noted Cligus’ form had vanished as he went on, “Listen well. Janela Greycloak and her powers are fated to be mine. I said that her doom will be especially sweet the more she twists and wriggles trying to escape it.

“But there shall be a fillip. I’ll let her watch your death and it shall be slow and as painful as I can arrange. You do not know what it is like to have a great mage such as myself punish you but there are pains beyond the pains of this world, and your soul can be tormented through many worlds before it’s finally destroyed to the last bit of its existence.

“That death beyond death I promise you, Amalric Antero of Orissa. And I have never broken such an oath.”

Then there was nothing but the wind and the blowing grass and the endless plains.

Janela and I looked at each other for a long time before either of us said a word. I was the first.

“So we’re licking our wounds, eh? Did you cast some sort of spell when we left the road that you sort of forgot to mention? That would maybe give out all sorts of hints that somewhere around or about there a bunch of broken-down Orissans got stuck, doing nothing more than licking their wounds and waiting for the butcher to call?”

“I might have.”

“You
are
good. First that demon, then this.” A serious question occurred to me. “When I met Modin I saw him as a powerful wizard, the equivalent of Lord Raveline. Was I mistaken?”

“I doubt if he was ever as deadly as Raveline. He came not from the royal bloodline and I don’t think he had all those decades of bloodbaths Raveline had brought about to feed his dark powers on. Perhaps that’s why he wished to... ally himself with me.

“Or possibly he
was
that great. Maybe being in these lands, where there is truly awful magic being worked,” and she indicated with a motion of her hand the mountains where Tyrenia lay, “perhaps he’s lost some of his own strength. Maybe that presence I’ve been feeling is helping us.”

“Or maybe we’re just getting used to having eminent enchanters standing in line to pummel us,” I said.

“That is the only true explanation, I warrant.” Janela’s smile died. “But we can’t ever treat Modin with contempt. He is what he is and he’ll pursue us to the gates of Tyrenia before he’ll give up. And the temporal power of his army cannot be denied.”

I nodded but said nothing, because just then Quatervals stirred from his sleep, eyes opening, and then he sat up.

“Lord Antero,” he said in surprise. “You’re wakin’ early. Got the trots, sorry, Lady, I didn’t realize you were up as well?”

We said nothing about the magical visit but as I helped the others break camp I felt strangely cheery. Perhaps it was having won a few meaningless exchanges with Modin or as likely seeing that Cligus, even in his murderous intent, was as weak a man as I’d finally realized him to be.

But somehow I knew we would have the best of Modin and Cligus, no matter how many soldiers they had, and was quite cheerful.

Of course I was being a fool.

* * * *

We saw the direwolf in the late afternoon of that same day. It trotted directly toward us from the south as if we’d called it, then swerved about two hundred yards from the nearest flanker and slowed his pace to a walk, moving with us at the same speed we did. As before I ordered Quatervals to bring the scouts in closer to the main formation and double up their strength.

Direwolves are interesting creatures. If someone were to ask me for a career entailing the greatest amount of hazard for the smallest returns, I’d set them to studying these beasts, even above demons. For if a man studies demons hard enough, perhaps he might find a clue to their control and thereby gain great wealth or power.

But with a direwolf there’s no such possibility of worldly advancement beyond becoming dinner. There is also no possibility of actual knowledge, since, as I’ve said, direwolves think in a manner unlike any other beast I’m familiar with.

They are wickedly intelligent, normally hunting either in packs or, when they have young and the mother hunts alone with her cubs tucked comfortably and safely in her furry pouch.

Like all hunters they prefer to take down the weak, hungry or old and will go well out of their way to avoid a battle with an animal in the fullness of strength.

Even so, they have few enemies who can stand against them and even those, but with one exception, will leave them to hunt in peace if left undisturbed.

The exception is man and the direwolves sense that, taking almost any opportunity to kill their two-legged foe.

In my country, farmers in the cold south have gone to work their fields and have never been seen again, searchers finding only the plow’s iron and wood; the man, his draft animal and even the leather lines gone without a trace. They’ve attacked outlying houses, waiting until the man is gone and then smashing through the door or a window to savage his babes and wife.

But even in this unrelenting hatred for man they are clever. Like the crow they can recognize a man with weapons and will sheer away from him. They’ll never attack an armed group, although they’ll harry its flanks just as they do a herd of elk, hoping for a straggler.

I said they’ll never attack armed men but should remind you of what I said before — no one knows what normal is to a direwolf.

The sight of that single animal sent a chill through me.

Perhaps it was the deliberate way it paced us. We normally sought camp an hour or so before dusk so we could build cook fires without giving ourselves away.

This day I told Quatervals to push on until we found a safer place than usual.

By the grace of Te-Date we were lucky, finding one of the few rivers, actually little more than a shallow stream, that wound its way through the steppe. A wide, flat-topped knoll rose next to the river, an eminently defensible position that seemed perfect.

After we’d set our packs down I asked Quatervals, since he was the soldier, what criticisms he had of the place. He looked about and admitted to few. If this were war he’d prefer the scrub brush around the river be cut down so the view was unobstructed. He also said if he were a god he’d move that small islet across from us further downstream — an enemy might be able to use that to ford the river, which was only than knee-deep, more readily if he chose to attack from that sector.

This proves what my sister Rali had preached, that soldiers are good for many things but their fortune-telling ability is, as she put it, somewhere between slim and rotten, since that island saved our lives.

We’d barely set down our packs when one of the pickets reported two more direwolves, these to our rear. They’d appeared as if from nowhere, he reported. I wondered if these beasts might be unaware of some of man’s talents, so sent for one of the Cyralian brothers and ordered him to try a shot with our heaviest bow.

But before he could bend it I noted these creatures were, indeed, familiar with man’s works because they turned and trotted just beyond bowshot, then continued staring at us.

Quatervals sent working parties, closely guarded, along the banks of the river to cut the straightest saplings from the scrub brush. These saplings were pointed at each end and then driven into the ground at a close angle to the earth. They should have been heavier but that was the best we could find.

As it grew dark we heard howls from the distance. The scouts were summoning the rest of the pack. Other yowls answered, sounding across the steppes, coming from all directions. We were surrounded.

I decided to the hells with worrying about being sighted by Cligus and Modin — we had enemies even closer, and ordered fires built and brush tied together for torches and laid close to them.

Then we waited.

The night dragged on.

Just before dawn, when man’s hopes and dreams are drowned in blackness, the direwolves attacked. I’d never heard of such bravado but perhaps these monsters were far more savage than any I’d experienced.

They came at us from two directions, tearing in from the night. We were most fortunate in two ways — I’d half-expected something to happen just around dawn and had everyone awake, in battle gear and my best men standing sentry. Also, one of the directions they came from was guarded by another of the Cyralian brothers.

An experienced poacher, he kept lookout flat on the ground, looking out and up, his eyes able to distinguish silhouettes even against the blackness of the sky.

Possibly the first wolf didn’t see him as he charged forward at full bound.

Taking down a dog or wolf is relatively simple — you feed it your arm and cut its throat or gut it with your knife before it can do any real harm; or else, if unarmed, toss it to the ground and crush its ribcage with your knees.

But not when the wolf is nearly the size of a horse.

As the direwolf leapt, the Cyralian rolled to his back, flat on the ground, and drove straight up with his blade, letting the beast gut itself with its momentum.

The wolf screamed and the night was alive with echoes as the others in the pack ran in on us. There was a flurry of shouts, blades flashing in the dimness, then the torches flared and our camp was a flailing battlefield of steel and fangs.

Men shouted death agony and fell and wolves yapped and howled, some impaled on our stakes and then they fell back. They should have stayed close among us, continuing their savaging, because as they retreated my people seized bows and sent arrows whipping after them.

Otavi rumbled forward and cleft one retreating beast’s spine with his ax, then, on the backswing, struck its head from its body. Mad with blood he would’ve gone on, into the darkness and his death if Pip hadn’t grabbed him by the belt and pulled him back.

Otavi glared madly, blood drenching him, and for an instant I thought he might cut Pip down. But then he came back to himself, grunted something like thanks and was ready for the next onslaught.

Once more they came but this time we were ready and spears flew and broke their charge. Baying as madly as we were shouting they whirled just beyond the low flare from our fires. Quatervals ripped up a dead bush from the ground, passed it over the fire, then, as it caught, pitched it out toward them.

The direwolves howled defiance but held their ground — they were no more afraid of fire than a man would be. I sensed they were going to charge in a moment and shouted, “Back, back! To the island!”

My company heard and obeyed but none of them turned and ran. Instead, like experienced fighters, they moved slowly and orderly — backing down the knoll toward the stream — weapons ready as the wolves, growling, closed on us.

Archers stepped between swords- and spearmen and thudded their goosequills home. A wounded wolf snapped at the arrow sticking out of his ribs, rolled into a mate and the two snarled and began tearing at each other.

We splashed backward through the shallows onto the sandy island. It was thick with brush, which in normal circumstances would have been a threat. But here it served as a screen.