Kingdoms of the Night (The Far Kingdoms) (54 page)

I suppose I should have been frightened at that but instead felt heartened that there was
something
even the Old Ones dreaded.

* * * *

Three days further and the mountains were rearing above us, the road beginning its long climb toward their crests. We looked often for some sign of our goal but the clouds hung so close about the fog-shrouded peaks that we saw nothing.

Ahead of us on the road was a small dark blot. As we grew closer we saw it was three horsemen, sitting their mounts and waiting. The land was very open here and we saw no place an ambush could have been laid, so we continued on.

I knew one of them. It was Sa’ib, beautiful in fur robes and silk, but her face as hard and cold as the peaks behind her. She sat to the rear.

In front of her was a small, old man. His hair wisped out from under his helmet, which was the top halfskull of a direwolf, neck cape still attached so it hung down across his back. He wore a fur loincloth, sandals and had a many-colored coat of feathers that must have been made from many birdskins from faraway jungles, no doubt his most prized possession. He did not seem to notice the cold. I guessed him to be shaman or perhaps war councilor.

The man in front was tall — nearly six and a half feet. He was in his fifties and at one time would have been a perfectly-muscled warrior. Now he’d begun to grow heavy but still would have been the foremost fighter in any army. He wore breeches of the finest red leather with gold thread embroidering them, black knee boots, a tunic of the same color but with brass armoring. On his head was a half-helm set with gold and gems, almost a throne. His beard was long and carefully combed. Over his shoulder was slung a long, wide bladed sword. Its grip was darkened with long use. There were two stained leather bags tied to the front of his saddle.

I halted my party and walked forward to the three. I stopped before him and waited. The windsound was heavy in my ears.

“You are Amalric Antero. Lord Amalric Antero, from a far place called Orissa.” His voice rumbled like the sound of the steppe oxen as they charged. It was not a question.

“And you are Suiyan, lord of the Res Weynh,” I said.

“I am.”

“You rescued my daughter from Ismid’s dogs.”

“I did.”

“Yet you refused to take her and the others as slaves. Or to use them as is the right of the victor.”

“That is true.”

“Had you heard the terror of my name? Were you afraid of my vengeance?”

I stared at him, not answering.

“I thought not,” he said.

“I do not believe in slavery,” I said. “And I don’t believe the sword gives anyone any right, no matter what it may seize.”

“That is what a weak man believes,” Suiyan snorted. “But you are not weak.” He stared at me for a very long time.

“Perhaps, one of these years,” he concluded, “I should journey to your land or to a city at any rate and attempt to understand such thinking.”

“If you decide you would be welcome in Orissa as the guest of my family.” I half-smiled, thinking what conniptions he and the outriders he’d no doubt think necessary for such a journey would rouse in the streets of Orissa. He saw my expression and nodded, as if I’d spoken aloud and he too had seen the humor.

“Without serving me directly, you served me well,” he said. “Here is the fate of those who serve me poorly.”

He opened his saddlebags, reached inside and lifted out a human head. He cast it down and it rolled nearly to my feet. It was the head of Diu, the old man in charge of taking Sa’ib safely home. A second head thudded beside it. Ziv, his son.

“As you served me, one chief to another, so I have served you.”

He stopped and I realized he would say no more. I began to ask but the look on his face discouraged my question. He spoke once more then:

“I have but one regret and that is you are in thrall to that sorceress my daughter told me about. Perhaps the boon I should have granted you is to slay her but my chief shaman advised me to interfere not in the magic of foreign lands, for perhaps it is linked to those in the mountains beyond, those who not even I can stand against. But it is a pity.

“You would have made a good husband for Sa’ib or at least a man worthy to father children from her loins.

“Travel on, Lord Antero.”

He wheeled his horse and galloped off the road. In his wake rode the other two, neither of them looking back.

Janela trotted up beside me, followed by the others. She looked down at the heads, then at the vanishing dots of the three Res Weynh.

“Fine friends
you
have,” was all she said.

* * * *

On the next day’s journey an immovable force, the road, finally hit its irresistible object, the mountains. Now the road was forced to wind in and around foothill peaks as we went on.

Now we were especially alert for ambush.

Just where the road entered a narrow cleft we came on the first two Wardens. Or rather their heads.

They were on either side of the road, stuck on spears. From their expressions it looked as if neither one of them had died easily.

Quatervals went to one of them and touched the ragged cut in the neck. He came back rubbing his fingers together. “The blood’s clotted but not dried. They were killed no later than yesterday.”

We continued on, waiting for battle. But all we found were more heads. They were stuck on spears set on either side of the road at regular intervals, ghastly mileposts. We counted as we went past and I ordered a halt to the numbering when we reached one hundred fifty. Finally there was an end to the red-helmeted ghastliness but only to be replaced after another hundred yards by another display of heads. These wore more motley headgear I recognized as Orissan.

They lined the road as far as we could see ahead. Some of our men had been jesting a bit, seeing hated enemies who’d gotten what they deserved. But now the jests stopped as some of the men recognized fellow Orissans.

Quatervals pointed. “That was Captain Jamot. Right shit he was. They broke him out of the Scouts for cutting down a truce party under a white flag.” I thought I recognized him, having seen him as part of Cligus’ contingent.

Now I knew what service Suiyan had performed for me. Janela, her face grim, was a few paces behind me. I began to ask her if she sensed sorcery, not knowing how Cligus’ entire army could have been trapped and destroyed, but now was not the time to speak.

Without being aware of it I found my pace quickening, looking at each head as we passed but not wanting to see what I knew I would.

We came to a meadow that at one time would have been a delightful waystop on this long road. But now it was a horror of blood. Its delicate highland grasses and flowers were drenched in gore and bodies, hundreds of bodies lay high-piled. It was a slaughterhouse’s killing floor and it was as if Cligus’ army had been caught in a sorcerous web that made them march up to the headsman’s ax and kneel quietly, awaiting their fate more meekly than any sheep.

The wind had stopped and there was complete silence.

Then we heard a moan. It came from the road ahead of us where bodies had been laid in a ghastly star-pattern, each torso meeting.

In the center writhed two yet-living men. They were both naked.

The first man was unconscious. Janela gasped when she saw what had been done to him. There was a red sear across his forehead where a red hot blade had been laid, burning out his eyes.

Blood pooled between his thighs where he’d been castrated.

That was Modin.

The second man was just conscious. He had been slightly wounded in the side but the wound had been treated and bandaged.

After that someone had sliced through his leg-tendons, as a cruel farmer cripples a fence-leaping goat.

It was Cligus.

Suiyan had repaid his debt a hundred times over, leaving full proof of his honor. But as my guts roiled within me I half-wished it had not been done and even that we had left Sa’ib to be taken by Ismid’s riders.

I knelt over Cligus, wondering how, naked, he and Modin had survived the night and why no scavengers had come to the feast. The shaman of the Res Weynh, I decided, was truly mighty.

Cligus opened his eyes and they unglazed from horror and saw me.

“Father?”

He looked about, reassuring himself that he was not in delirium. His face twisted in pain.

“So you have won.”

His head lolled and he blacked out.

* * * *

Perhaps I should have gone on but I could not leave my son to die, no matter what he would have done to me. I asked Janela if she wished me to kill Modin. She shook her head.

“I’ve never yet murdered. He’s blind and unmanned with no powers, no danger. I’ll not be the one to say yes to his death.”

I ordered the men to improvise litters — we would carry them with us. Quatervals seemed about to object but saw the look in my eyes and said nothing.

I walked out of the meadow beyond the spear-row of heads and sat, looking out at nothing. I found myself crying, crying for my son, crying for what he might have been, crying for what was, crying for myself as well.

Footsteps came up and Janela sat beside me.

She waited until I was through, then handed me a handkerchief. I wiped my eyes.

“I could be a fool,” she said gently, “and say some such ending was inevitable for either you or him.”

I nodded. Of course she was right.

But at the moment I dreaded any sympathy. She stood up.

After a long moment, she said, “shit!” and then walked away.

I sat there for a long time feeling very old, very used up. Then I brought myself back.

Some time later we marched on.

* * * *

The road wound on and up. We could feel the thin air strain in our lungs as we climbed.

“I vow,” Pip said, “if we top this hill an’ there’s another bastardly valley an’ another mounting I’m desertin’ an’ joinin’ up wi’ th’ headloppers.”

Then the clouds lifted and the fog blew away and we saw the golden castle of Tyrenia.

The castle was dazzling white, with domed turrets of jade and mighty gates of glittering gold. I rubbed my eyes and the colors shimmered and shifted until the white was a glowing pink, the jade a pale blue and the gold became the silver of crystal held near pure flowing water.

A dark cloud blew across its face and the castle became as gray and bleak as cold granite and I could see its walls were impenetrable by any force and I could feel sorcerous weapons bristling on and above those walls and I could hear the ghostly screams and clashing weapons of ancient armies who fought and died to breach them. The cloud passed and I had to lift a hand to shield my eyes from the brightness of the walls.

“Tyrenia!” I heard Janela gasp in wonder.

I knew she was right because there could be no other place like it in all existence.

As we gaped the gates swung open and a fleet of immense chariots thundered out. They flew down the mountain road at an amazing speed. The chariots were red and trimmed in gold with sharp whirling scythes set in their hubs. They were drawn by fierce white stallions — made fiercer still by studded-black armor — and they seemed half-again larger than a normal steed. The lead chariot bore a banner that undulated furiously in the rushing air but I could make out a golden crown set in a field of blue.

We were too bedazzled to move as they roared up to us — the lead chariot skittering in a wide arc, hurling up a shower of sparks and settling a few paces away. There were six or so armored men aboard it but only one leaped down and approached me, sweeping off a gilded helmet with a graceful white plume and letting golden curls tumble to his wide, mailed shoulders. He was a tall and handsome prince with fair, sharply defined features and a beard as gold as the curls on his head. For a jolting moment I thought the impossible: that he was the king in the ancient court scene revealed by the dancing maiden. But although the similarity was strong he was much younger — barely into early manhood.

He smiled at me with fine white teeth and spoke in a most melodious voice: “I am Prince Solaros, son of King Ignati, who has given me the honor of greeting you, Lord Antero,” he said. “Many of our subjects have waited long years for your arrival.”

Solaros made a gracious bow to Janela, saying: “All Tyrenia is at your feet, my Lady Greycloak. For if you had not picked up your great ancestor’s fallen banner this blessed day would have never occurred.”

Then he flung his arms wide as if to embrace our whole company and said in a loud, rich voice: “Welcome! Welcome all! Welcome to the realm you know as... The Kingdoms of the Night.”

* * * *

There are few men and women, either living or dead, who have rolled the gods’ dice and come up with sacred sevens twice in a row. I first rattled that cup in my youth and entered a land few believed existed and those who did said was impossible to find. At the far end of that life — with the Dark Seeker’s shadow hovering near — I’d tossed the bones once more and captured a still greater prize. That prize wasn’t only the discovery of a mythical land. It was knowing those childhood myths were true, the songs we piped in the nursery of fabled realms and golden folk and flowered paths were more than a charming rhyme.