Nightlord: Shadows (114 page)

“What does that entail?” I asked, just as Hargus came up to us. “Oh, good. You’re just in time.”

“I am?”

“I’m an outsider, so I don’t know many of the customs of your people. Rakhill was casting spells on my sword, which offends me. I’m trying to find out what I can do about it.”

“I’ll speak to him.”

“I’m told I can challenge him to a shaman’s duel.”

“You can challenge him,” Hargus agreed, “but you’d have to be a shaman. He won’t fight you with a sword.”

“I’m a wizard. I work magic.”

“Oh.” Hargus looked confused. “Your spirits let you carry steel?”

“You could say they insist on it,” I said, thinking of both the warrior-spirits I’ve eaten and the spirit in the metal of Firebrand.

“I think I like your spirits better. Go ahead.”

“What’s involved in this? I’d like to know what I’m getting into. Unless you’d rather just tell him not to do it again.”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Shamans just sit and stare at each other until one of them looks away.”

“Huh. Okay. Well, if you’d tell him not to do it again, I’ll let it go. Next time…”

“You’re a guest, and a stranger. I will do it, this time.”

A couple of hours later I sat down in an outbuilding, threw a leather sack over me, and waited for the sunset to pass. I cleaned up and went back inside.

Rakhill pointed at me as I walked in through the doors. He screamed something I didn’t quite catch, but sounded like
arthurgong
. I turned to look behind me, but I didn’t see anything. Other people looked outside with me, apparently assuming Rakhill saw something they didn’t.

Rakhill got himself under control enough to stop screaming and start shouting.

“Him! Him! The outlander! He’s the
ahrtrugaung!
”

I looked at him inquiringly, doing my best impression of a non-threatening guest. The men nearest me looked at me, then at Rakhill, then at me again, obviously puzzled. One of them leaned close to me and sniffed. Then he looked disgusted and spat in Rakhill’s direction, adding an epithet that, loosely translated, meant “stupid.” Other people took it as a fact and ignored Rakhill’s further insistence.

While he started buttonholing people and pointing at me—they kept shrugging his hand off and telling him to go away—I addressed the guy who sniffed at me.

“I’m sorry, but what’s an ‘are-true-gong’?”

“
Ahrtrugaung
,” he corrected. “It’s a dead man, a rotting corpse. A great warrior who does not die in battle sometimes comes back as one so he can be properly killed.”

“Oh. So, when you sniffed at me?”

“You’re not rotting,” he said, simply. I nodded thoughtfully.

“That makes sense. Thank you.”

He grunted and I moved through the crowd toward Rakhill. He saw me coming, turned pale, and started casting a spell.

Normally, I’d just shift to my magical mode of seeing, determine what the spell was, and decide whether to attempt to disrupt it, counter the effect, or just endure it. Rakhill’s magical work, however, wasn’t quite what I was used to.

Small spirits of various sorts clung to him, or to some of the objects he had on his person. It looked, to me, as though they were bound to the objects—a bone, a feather, some braided leather, whatever—and therefore subject to Rakhill’s will. As a result, he could draw on their power. For a wizard, that would mean that each little spirit would gather and hold magical power for use in spells. For me, it would mean that each little spirit was a potential source of life essence for direct conversion into magical power.

Rikhall, on the other hand, accessed the various powers the spirits normally possessed. I’m sure he could start fires with the flame-spirit in the reddish-orange rock. The pouch of flower petals and other herbs probably contained a spirit that could perform some sort of healing. And so on.

He gestured at me with a small, tightly-woven bundle of reeds or willow branches, I’m not sure. The spirit bound in it launched a surge of power at me.

It wasn’t a spell, as such, but it was a magical attack. My defenses must have blunted it; all I felt was a slight thump, as though a small child had punched me in the stomach.

I raised an eyebrow at Rakhill and closed the remaining distance while he stared at me.

“You’re being rude again,” I told him. “I’m going to take offense if you don’t stop.”

He made another gesture, this time some sort of warding sign. I stood there and looked at his hand, wondering what significance it held.

“Is that a religious sign,” I asked, conversationally, “or is it a gesture of agreement? In my own culture, for example, a closed fist with a thumb extended upward means agreement. I’d demonstrate, but in other cultures, it’s considered a rude gesture and I’m trying not to give offense. What does your gesture signify?”

“Why aren’t you hurt?” he moaned, backing away.

“Because I’m not a… whatever it is. Arthur-gong thing.”

“But I can
see
you dead!”

“Was I dead earlier?”

“No.”

“So, I died in the outhouse, rose again, and came back in? Does that make sense?”

He paused to think about that. Put that way, it did seem unlikely. On the other hand, he was right; I was definitely dead. I wondered what other weird abilities he might have. Probably as many as there were spirits attached to him, and there were a
lot
.

That could be a problem. How do I broach the subject of being a blood-drinking undead with my host? Is there a polite way to tell someone that they’ve invited a vampiric monster into their home?

This could be a deal-breaker. And things were going so well up until now.

Still, if I could get away without that discussion, that might be best. I resolved to avoid the topic and succeeded. We had a lot of other things to talk about, after all. There were a number of other manors, some friendly, some not, who might be interested in something more than just a small raid.

Gradually, the party calmed down, mainly due to the decrease in participants. Sleeping arrangements were wherever you felt like passing out. The best spots were on the third level, it seemed. My guess was that it was warmer up there. It was also the place to be if you were worried about someone being sick above you.

The ones left were the executive decision makers: Hargus, Jorm, Garrick, and Rakhill. Cymbell either wasn’t part of that group or had decided to call it a night, which was a pity; the rest of them weren’t much fun to look at. Rakhill was especially annoying; he wouldn’t speak to me, wouldn’t even look at me, even if I asked him a question. Earlier, everyone else managed to hear about the proposal and give an opinion before or during the serious drinking. With public opinion adequately measured, Hargus could now make an informed decision.

The actual discussion only lasted a little while, not counting the party. They don’t waste a lot of words around here. In short, they agreed that they would, in principle, be in favor of my arrangement. In practice, they couldn’t promise anything for anyone else. There would have to be a great meeting of manors before anybody could make a real agreement. And a bridge.

“Show me a bridge,” Hargus said, “one without a break in the middle or a castle guarding it. Then you’ll see us in the south, at least for a while.”

“I can do that. I plan to put it in front of the waterfall. Or,” I added, “I might tunnel back behind the waterfall. I should look at that.”

“All right. I’ll send word to other manors, and they’ll send word on from there. We’ll have this thing before the moon’s shape comes back again.”

I jiggled my translation spell a little. I think he meant that it would take half a month. The moon was in half-phase, so by the time it reached half-phase again… Or, he might mean a whole month, until the moon went full cycle.

“That suits me,” I agreed. “I’ll see about putting the bridge in.” I stood up from the table and everyone looked surprised.

“It’s dark out,” Jorm observed. “Spend the night. We’ll see you off in the morning.”

“Love to,” I answered, “but I can’t. Lots to do if I plan to put in a bridge before your meeting.” Jorm nodded. He could understand that I might be a bit rushed to get that done. I thanked Hargus for his hospitality and invited him to come visit, someday. That was a mistake; I had to explain how to get to the mountain. Then I had to draw them a map.

“How did you get past the Wall of the World?” he asked.

“That mountain range to the east?”

“Yes.”

Chalk up another name for the Eastrange.

“There are two ways. One is a pass, about here,” I drew a line on the map, “but I don’t recommend it. There’s a city blocking it on this side, like so, and it’s full of
orku
,
galgar,
and other nastiness. The other way is a road, all the way down here,” I drew another line. “It’s farther to go, but less trouble.”

Hargus peered at the map. Maybe I should call it a “drawing.” I’m not sure he knew what a map was. People in Rethven don’t. Judging by the awful examples of the cartographer’s art in Karvalen, maybe no one does.

“You’ve come a long way,” he observed.

“I have. And I’ll be going this way,” I showed him on the map, tracing the route of the Averill back to the mountains. “I’ll look for a place to put the bridge and see if it’s practical to tunnel around behind the waterfall. When I’m done looking it over, I’ll probably come back here,” I ran my finger downstream to Crag Keep, “and cross over the broken bridge. Then, of course, just head south to the coast and follow it east until I can take the road, here.”

Hargus nodded, obviously trying to wrap his head around it. It looked as though he was getting it.

“Where are we?”

“About here,” I said, and drew a small circle on the map. “More or less.”

I left them with the map and took my leave. Miles to go before I sleep and all that.

While Bronze pounded eastward, Firebrand spoke up.

I don’t like that Rakhill guy, Boss.

“I don’t much care for him, either.”

No, I mean… aside from the fact that he’s nosy, I’ve been thinking. He might have been trying to get me out of the sword.

“What do you mean?”

You know those spirits he’s got?

“Yes. I saw quite a few.”

They’re not bound too tightly. I’m not sure he can. They’re just kind of leashed.

“And?”

I’m in here like it’s my body. Feels like it, anyway. I’m not some free-roaming spirit that’s loosely connected to a bone.

“What’s your point?”

He didn’t know that. The more I think about it, the more I think he was trying to pull me out—I think he was trying to
steal
me right out from under your nose, Boss.

I almost pulled up and turned around. Almost. I fired off a couple of nasty words that might cause Rakhill’s ears to catch fire. Probably not; distance is a factor.

If I was sure he slept in a bed, I’d have sent someone under it.

“If he does anything like that again, let me know,” I told Firebrand. “I’ll backhand the ugly right off his face.”

That’s a lot of ugly, Boss.

“If his face comes with it, I won’t be sad. Hold it. Bronze? Did he do anything to you?”

Bronze
chuff
ed flames and flicked an ear:
If he tried, I didn’t even notice.

Either Rakhill was a very lucky man or smarter than he looked. My money is on lucky.

We stopped by the waterfall and I watched it in the last of the moonlight, roaring its way down into the canyon of the Averill. The river was wider where the waterfall foamed, almost forming a pool. I wouldn’t want to take a boat across it, though. I didn’t think going behind the waterfall was a viable option, either; too much tunneling or carving involved.

A bridge was the only good way across. Just a little farther downstream, where the wide water at the foot of the falls narrowed into a river, was a good spot. Rocky canyon walls, a fairly narrow span… it could probably be done in a single arch.

On the other hand, who says it needs to be an arch. How about a suspension bridge? We make steel cable. With some pylons, a lot of boards, and a crew on each side, we could probably put something up in a week. It would need more maintenance than a stone arch, of course, but it wouldn’t even require magical assistance.

I looked up at the top of the falls. It might be even easier to put a bridge across the top, but that would involve a lot of stairs or ramps cut into the mountainside, and I’ve been told that the ability to move livestock is important.

Right. A bridge. Well, now I know for certain what I need.

The more I think about it, the more I like a suspension bridge. It appeals to me, somehow. Maybe it’s the delicate look to them, or the clever way the forces are distributed. A suspension bridge would also give me a chance to see how fast we can produce steel cable and saw lumber. It can also vanish suddenly, if the need arises.

Then again, what would happen if we put a dozen permanent bridges over the Averill? Could we make the northern region just another province, rather than an isolated backwater full of barbarians? The people of the plains aren’t so bad; Karvalen gets along with them pretty well. I’ve seen maybe three different tribes in the vicinity of Mochara or Karvalen on trading visits. I haven’t seen anything that precludes the
viksagi
from getting along with other humans.

True, their customs and manner take a bit of getting used to—maybe it’s easier for professional diplomats; I have to remember to be nicer to them, because their job is tougher than I thought—but they’re not bad people. I can think of a dozen or more people I know, or knew, who wouldn’t mind living with them.

Anyway, it was time to head back to Karvalen. Without a bridge, that meant going the long way around. I considered trying to jump the Averill and asked Bronze what she thought. She shook her head—regretfully, it seemed to me. If we could have built a ramp, perhaps.