The Harp of Imach Thyssel: A Lyra Novel (6 page)

Ryl saw his look and frowned. “You’d rather I left him to burn to death? He’ll not wake until we’re gone.”

Emereck’s lips tightened, but he did not feel like explaining that his expression had been caused by surprise at Ryl’s display of strength, rather than by disapproval of her actions. Dragging an armored Syask for even a short distance would be a heavy task for a large man, much less a small woman, but the innkeeper wasn’t even breathing hard. Then the last half of her statement registered, and he said, “No, he should be coming around any minute now. I didn’t hit him
that
hard.”

Ryl looked at him. “I did. Now, shall we get the horses?”

As Emereck turned toward the stable, he heard Flindaran ask, “Where’s Sira?”

“Heading for the woods with the rest of Tinbri,” Ryl said. “They fled while we were holding the Syaski. You need not worry about her; she’s safer now than we are.”

The four headed for the stable. Their luck held; none of the Syaski appeared before they were safely out of sight. Inside, they saddled their horses as quickly as they could. Even so, Emereck took time to make sure his harp case was securely fastened to his saddle. As they led the horses to the door, the Cilhar said, “I have not thanked you for your assistance. Will you give me your names?”

“Emereck Sterren of the Minstrel’s Guild,” Emereck replied, and glanced at Flindaran.

“Flindaran Sterren,” Flindaran lied, bowing. “Also of the Guildhall in Ciaron.”

The Cilhar raised an eyebrow. “I am impressed by your training. It is unusual to find a minstrel who is also such an excellent swordsman. Your skill does you credit.”

Flindaran flushed with pleasure. “I am honored by such praise, especially from a Cilhar.”

“I owe you a life,” the Cilhar replied. “If chance ever takes you to the Mountains of Morravik, claim hospitality there in the name of Kensal Narryn.”

“First we have to get away,” Ryl said. “And if there are more Syaski coming…”

Flindaran leaned forward and peered out a crack in the stable door. “Looks quiet; they must still be around front.”

Kensal Narryn shot a sharp look at Ryl. “When we’re clear of the yard, turn left and head southeast around the lake toward the woods,” he said as they left the stable. “If there are more of them, they’ll be coming down the road on the west side of town, and we’ll gain a little time.”

Flindaran nodded and swung himself onto his horse. “Anything that keeps us out of the way is fine by— Uh oh.”

Four Syaski stood at the corner of the inn, silhouetted against the flames. Emereck mounted hastily, hoping that they still had a chance of escaping if they moved quickly enough. When he looked again, the Syaski had not moved, but a row of mounted men had joined them, completely blocking the only exit from the courtyard.

“So there was a sentry,” Kensal said calmly. He and Ryl had not yet mounted, and he had to look up to study the horsemen.

“Of course,” said the man on the end of the line. “Now, throw down your weapons, grandpa, and we’ll let you live.”

“Will you indeed?” Kensal’s voice expressed mild curiosity and slight skepticism. His lips curved in a faint smile. Emereck thought he had never seen anyone look so dangerous.

“Even a Cilhar can’t beat ten men at once. And there are your friends to—”

A shout from the other side of the inn interrupted the Syask’s speech. As he turned in his saddle, another man appeared, running toward his mounted companions. He called a warning as he came, and Emereck stiffened as he recognized the language. “Lithmern!” he blurted in shock. “That’s why the accent was wrong. These aren’t Syaski, they’re Lithmern!”

Flindaran turned and stared at Emereck as if he had gone mad. Kensal looked at Ryl, his face an expressionless mask. The innkeeper herself stood motionless beside him, staring with tense concentration at the riders.

The leader of the false Syaski glared at Emereck, then transferred his attention to the runner. “Well?” He spoke in Lithran; apparently he had decided there was no further need for pretense.

“The sentry’s back,” the runner panted. He took a deep breath and poured out a stream of Lithran. Emereck caught the words “Syaski” and “road,” but most of the speech was too rapid for his meager knowledge of the language.

The leader gestured impatiently and the runner fell silent. The leader sheathed his sword and reached under his cloak. He drew out a small pouch, opened it, and sprinkled a pinch of black powder into his hand. Carefully, he closed the pouch and replaced it, then hesitated and glanced at Kensal. “I’m afraid we’re out of time. My apologies; I was looking forward to the fight.”

With his last words, he stretched his hand out to one side and began to chant. The words were harsh and repetitive, and they bore no resemblance to any language Emereck knew. He could tell from the way the soldier spoke that the words had no meaning for him, either; he was speaking from memory alone. Emereck glanced uncertainly at his companions. He saw Kensal half draw his sword, but Ryl put her hand on his arm and stopped him. She said something in a low voice, and then Emereck’s attention jerked back to the chanting Lithmern.

A thread of blackness moved in the man’s upturned palm, like a wisp of smoke or a thin black snake. It curled and coiled around the Lithmern’s hand, moving almost too rapidly for the eye to follow. Emereck’s horse danced nervously, and the riders nearest the spell-caster shifted in their saddles as if they shared the horse’s unease. The smoke began to grow, and the leader flinched, though his chanting did not falter. The blackness thickened, and the man’s arm sagged with the weight of it. Suddenly the blackness dropped to the ground and flowed toward Emereck and his companions like a carpet of clouds unrolling rapidly.

Emereck’s horse reared, and he almost lost his seat. The blackness rippled and came on. The horse came down fetlock-deep in darkness, and stuck fast. Emereck could feel the animal’s muscles straining, but not a foot stirred. Flindaran’s horse was caught, too, and the smoky carpet had almost reached Kensal and Ryl. Kensal was eyeing it measuringly, as if trying to decide whether his chances were better on foot or astride his skittish horse. Ryl’s eyes were closed; she seemed to have withdrawn completely.

The blackness touched the hooves of Kensal’s mare, and the animal rolled its eyes in fear. Suddenly, Ryl’s voice cut across the chanting, crying out in a language that pulled at Emereck, though he knew he had never heard it before. “
Miramar! Niterbarat cebarrel ja rykar rinarnth!
”

The chant faltered, and the advance of the blackness slowed. Nothing more seemed to happen. Kensal and Ryl stepped back a pace, then another, until their backs almost touched the stable wall. Then Emereck saw something else move out beyond the fence that enclosed the courtyard: a fog on the surface of the lake. It thickened impossibly fast, into a dense wall of gray wool that swept toward them.

The Lithmern leader faltered again as the fence surrounding the courtyard was swallowed by the unnatural wall of mist. Then he redoubled his efforts, chanting more loudly than ever. The mist rolled on over the courtyard, unaffected. Emereck saw Ryl smile as she vanished into it; then Kensal and Flindaran were swallowed up as well. Emereck had time to hope that he would be as pleased as Ryl by this unexpected development, and then the fog engulfed him.

The mist was warm and damp and smelled, impossibly, of halaiba flowers. Emereck could make out a few dim shapes where the Lithmern stood; then the mist thickened and they were gone, leaving only an orange glow on his right where the inn burned. Ahead, the leader’s voice called instructions to his men, and the soldiers answered in Lithran.

Wondering what good a concealing mist would do when no one could move, Emereck looked down. The black smoke was slowly dissolving where the mist touched it. As the last of it disappeared, Emereck’s horse reared again, screaming, and bolted.

All he could do was hang on and hope that the horse was still heading toward the courtyard gates. He passed Flindaran in a rush and was among the Lithmern. One of the soldiers drew a weapon; another grabbed at the horse’s reins. Then Emereck was through them and out of the courtyard.

Behind him he heard shouting and the clang of steel on steel. He hauled on the reins, but the horse ignored him. Gradually, the sounds faded into the distance. He hoped fleetingly that the horse would not stumble; at this speed they’d probably both break their necks if it went down.

Suddenly the horse shied violently, nearly unseating him. As he struggled for balance, Emereck glimpsed the startled face of an armored rider. He saw the man’s sword coming down, and twisted away, but he was not quick enough. The shock of the blow grated along his ribs. Pain lanced through his side. His horse gave a shrill, frightened whinny and bolted into the mist once more.

Grimly, Emereck clung to the saddle. He had never been more than an adequate horseman; staying with his terrified mount taxed his ability, and the pain of his wound only made matters worse. He had no idea what direction they were going, for the mist hid everything. The ride quickly became a nightmare of figures looming unexpectedly out of the gray darkness and then vanishing again. Some were men; some were trees; some, Emereck was sure, were only his imagination.

He did not know how long it was before his horse slowed at last. He was vaguely aware that the animal had settled into an exhausted plodding, but by then it took most of his concentration just to stay in the saddle. He had lost a good deal of blood, and he was having difficulty thinking clearly. He knew he should stop and rest, but he was afraid that if he did, he would be found by the Syaski or the Lithmern or whoever they really were. Besides, he doubted that he would have the energy to start again once he stopped.

As he went on, the mist changed, so slowly that at first he did not even notice it. The air grew cold, and the smell of flowers faded. The mist thinned fractionally, barely enough for Emereck to tell that he was moving through trees. It seemed to be darker as well, though that was probably only his imagination.

A long time later, he realized that the horse was no longer moving.
If I’m not riding, I should dismount
, he thought fuzzily. He tried to swing his leg up, but his muscles did not seem to be working properly, and he overbalanced. He felt himself falling, and then the ground hit him and he lost consciousness.

Shalarn sat in the darkened room, staring at the dying embers in the brazier. Her black hair hung loose around her face, and her hands were clenched in tense concentration. The room was silent except for the sound of her breathing and the occasional faint crackle of the fire.

Slowly a picture formed in the air before her, framed in swirling smoke. Men in armor stood in front of a large building, shouting words she could not hear. The scene shifted. Firelight flashed on steel, and a man fell. Her eyes narrowed angrily; she had ordered them to avoid fighting! With effort she controlled herself before she lost the vision, and the scene changed again. A line of mounted men blocked a courtyard gate, and dark smoke flowed out from them.

Shalarn leaned forward eagerly. They had found him, then! She tried to shift the viewpoint, and caught a glimpse of two young men on horseback just in front of the line of soldiers. Behind them was a shadowy blur. She struggled to focus the spell, and suddenly a curtain of mist hid the scene. Shalarn gasped. Even through the seeing-spell, she could feel the echo of sorcery.

The mist swirled, then parted to show one of the young men from the courtyard. His side was wet with blood, and he was alone. As she watched, he swayed and fell from his horse.

On impulse, she murmured another spell. The picture shivered, and the other man appeared. The room faded from her awareness as she concentrated on him, drawing him in the direction she had chosen. It was much easier than she had expected. She brought him to a point almost on top of the wounded man, then let go of her spells. As the picture vanished, she wondered absently whether the two men even knew each other. Well, she had done what she could, and those blundering soldiers would have much to explain when they returned.

With a sigh, she released the last threads of the seeing-spell. She would learn no more tonight. She stretched her cramped muscles and sat back, wondering whether she should try again the following night. The seeing-spell was unreliable at best, and it required considerable power. Then, too, there was always the chance that Lanyk would discover what she was doing. Her men would return in seven or eight days; perhaps she should wait until then for an explanation.

She frowned. The raid had failed; that, at least, was clear. And there was sorcery involved, strong sorcery. The Cilhar had wizard friends, then. Perhaps that was the key to his importance. Or was he himself the wizard?

Her frown deepened. There was still too much she did not know. The thought of a foretelling crossed her mind, but she dismissed it at once. She knew from bitter experience how misleading oracles and auguries could be. Again she considered making a second attempt at the seeing-spell. But if the sorcerer detected it, it might bring everything to ruin once more.

Straightening in sudden decision, she rose. She would wait the seven days for her explanation. In the meantime, she would build her strength for whatever confrontation might come. Her face relaxed into a smile as she left the room. Behind her, a wisp of smoke curled up from the brazier and vanished as the last of the fire winked out.

E
MERECK AWOKE TO THE
smell of smoke and the hissing sound of fat dripping into a fire. For a moment, he was sure that this was their previous camp and the entire episode of the inn had been a dream; then he moved, and the pain in his side told him otherwise.

He opened his eyes and looked down. His chest had been crudely wrapped in the torn remnants of his tunic. He blinked, then rolled cautiously onto his good side and raised himself up on one elbow to look around.

Judging from the sunlight, it was late morning. He lay under a tree in the middle of a forest. He saw no sign of the mist, the lake, or the village. His horse was tethered nearby, along with another mount he recognized as Flindaran’s. Flindaran himself was sitting on the opposite side of a small fire, scowling at the rabbit he had suspended over the flames. Emereck stared at him in disbelief.