Zandru's Forge (9 page)

“I will risk myself as I please!”
Dom
Felix cried, “How can I sit by my own fireplace like a useless old woman? My son is lost in those hills, perhaps dying!”

You have another son, Varzil thought, who stands before you now.
But he could not bring himself to say it.

They glared at one another, barely able to see each other’s features in the gloom. “A Ridenow of his own blood should go after him,”
Dom
Felix said in a thick voice.

Varzil leaped into the opening. “Then let me go!” When his father hesitated, he pushed on. “You are always urging me to take my place here, to be responsible—so let me! Give me the command of these men and let me lead the rescue. I swear that whether Harald still lives or not, I will bring him back to you!”

He felt the slight sagging of the old man’s body in his grasp, the burst of quickly-suppressed relief.

There was only one way to find out. Varzil released his father, calling to Eiric. “Take my father back to the house and see him properly cared for, then return. You others, bring the horses and torches. We will ride for the hills!”

“You men,” Felix said, his voice roughened by emotion and fatigue, “you heard the words of my son. Obey him as you would me.”

Varzil mounted up and in short order selected the men who were to come with him. One of the shepherds had been summoned to lead them into the hills. His hardy little
chervine
was almost as shaggy as its master. The beast trotted along the thread of a path, as surefooted as if it had been a wide road at midday.

After they were well beyond the outer buildings, Eiric spoke to Varzil as they rode side by side. Eiric held his torch high, to cast a flickering light over the next few feet of trail and the bobbing form of the shepherd’s white fleece jacket.

“Master Varzil,” Eiric said, “this is madness, and cruel besides to get the old man’s hopes up. Yon shepherd can take us to the place, right enough. It’s said that they can see in the dark as well as their beasts. But what then? We cannot summon a track out of nothing. For all we know, this quest is for naught and the young master is already perished.”

“He is still alive,” Varzil said with a sureness that surprised him. He could not see in the dark any better now than before, yet other, newer senses awoke in him, ignited by the intense contact with the folks at Arilinn. He had no words for his knowledge, only the absolute certainty of its truth.

“We must find him soon,” Varzil said, half to himself. “He is hurt, and the catmen are still on his trail. For the moment, though, he is safe.”

“Now, how could you be knowing that?” Eiric’s voice raised in pitch. Then he fell silent and Varzil touched his thoughts.
From the time he were a laddie, he had the Gift. The old lord tried to hush it up, but you cannot ignore such a thing forever. ‘ And he’s been to Arilinn, that nest of sorcery. Something happened to him there, it’s plain to see. Don’t know if it were good or bad. Time alone will tell. But if he can find our young lord and spare the old man’s heart, it’s worth the chance.

They rode on, more slowly now as the land rose and turned rocky. The last rust-tinged light left the sky. With the luck of Aldones, three of the four moons were shining in the cloudless night sky.

The land sloped sharply away. Granite boulders shimmered in the multihued light. Iridescent flecks gleamed in the rock. Some were as large as cart horses, others fist-sized. Between them the shadows lay dark and darker.

Years ago, Varzil had explored the area when he was supposed to be rounding up lost sheep or riding the borders. The hills were riddled with caves, wonderful places to seek blessed coolness during the few hot days of summer.

“This is the place?” one of the men behind Varzil asked.

The shepherd mumbled something. His
chervine
tossed its antlers to the jangling of bells.

“Go home,” Varzil told him. “You have done a great service this night.”

With another muttered comment and a tug at his forelock, the man wheeled his mount and disappeared.

Varzil nudged his horse forward, letting the animal pick its way through the jumbled rocks. Eiric rode a pace behind with the torch held overhead. Its light flickered over muted grasses. The clotted shadows below resolved into shapes, the bodies of two men, one fallen across the other. Nearby, sprawled three or four dead catmen.

Varzil swung down from his horse and approached the two fallen men. Kneeling beside them, he shivered in the sensation of emptiness, the utter absence of life spark. It was not the mo tionlessness of their limbs or the silence of their heartbeats that touched him. All around, he felt energy—the slow patient grass, the bright motes of insects, the twitter of rabbit-horns in their burrows, the far-off glide of an owl. He had seen death before, in both beasts and men. He had been present when his grandfather took his final shuddering breath. The awe and terror of that mysterious moment still haunted his dreams.

But this, this was something different. He sensed an imcom pleteness, like a still-bleeding wound. There was none of the peace of his grandfather’s passing. As he reached out with his newly-enhanced
laran,
he could almost taste the final moments of these men’s lives. Something of them still lingered, the door between life and death held ajar by the shock of their parting.

Yes, now that he focused on it, he saw that emptiness was an unhealed rift. Gray lapped his vision. With an effort, he turned from the seductive urge to follow where these men had gone.

He spotted no weapons, neither the men’s straight swords nor the curved blades of their feline attackers. Metal was too precious to be casually abandoned. He only hoped that he would not find one of his father’s own swords turned against him.

Eiric dismounted and traced a widening circle, scanning the ground. “Ah, it’s all either too hardscrabble for aught to show or else amuck with tracks every which way. Catmen don’t leave much trace with those soft paws. It would take Aldones’ own miracle to find a chance sign of their passing.”

“Or Zandru’s accursed luck,” one of the other men muttered.

“Aye, that,” Eiric nodded. He pointed north, where the hillside met another in a narrow defile. “It’s my guess the catmen are laired up yonder. There are caves all through here.”

Varzil gestured to the north. “Harald is there.”

Eiric nodded. The movement threw spectral shadows across his cragged features. “Aye, if he had the chance to get to safety, that’s where he’d go. He’d come up here of a Midsummer. Once young master Ann‘dra followed them, d’you remember?”

Varzil remembered hearing the story told, though at the time he was too young to join the escapades of his older brothers. He stood still and tried to focus his thoughts. If he could somehow let Harald know he was here and help was on the way...

Moments passed, but there was no response, not even another fleeting contact. Eiric spoke to him again, breaking his reverie, and they headed downslope. From time to time, Varzil halted to search with his mind. No impressions came to him. Having once touched his brother’s mind, he felt sure he would know if Harald were no longer living. There could be other explanations for the absence of contact. Perhaps Harald was unconscious or so lost in the delirium of infection to be beyond coherent thought. Either way, time was running out.

The horses stumbled on the increasingly rocky ground. Eiric’s mount tripped on loose stone and fell to its knees. When it scrambled up, the beast was bloodied but not lame. One of the other men gave Eiric his own mount.

After that, they went on foot, leading their horses. They moved more slowly, keeping together. This far into the cave-pocked hills, with catmen lurking anywhere, their greatest protection was their numbers.

Time wore on as the moons swung through the sky. Idriel set. The night became darker and then lighter, a milky tinge along the eastern horizon. Torches burned lower. When they guttered out, Eiric did not order new ones lit.

Varzil shivered as if ice pierced the very marrow of his bones. He rubbed his arms with his hands, chafing the skin. Exhaling, he expected to see his breath as frosty mist.

The ice lay not inside him, then, but in his brother’s fevered body.

Varzil had to reach him—but how? He had never been taught to use his starstone to enhance a telepathic contact, but he knew it could be done. He drew out the blue gem from where it hung, wrapped in triple-layered silk, from a cord around his neck, and focused on it. The blue fire, which had flared to brilliance at Arilinn Tower, filled his sight. He drew it in through his eyes, through his breath.

A stirring.
No, it cannot be! It is the fever putting words in my mind. I am hearing the voices of those I love, nothing more.

“Master Varzil?” Eiric asked.

Varzil waved him to silence. Dimly, he knew the men were staring at him. They could see his face blank and set, his posture of intense listening.

What does he hear, that none of us can?
Their thoughts, like stinging insects, buzzed in his ears.

Impatiently, he handed the reins of his horse to Eiric and, gesturing for the others to follow him, went on in front. They had been traveling on a thread of a trail, barely wide enough for a horse to find footing. He strode along it like a hound on the scent.

Varzil tried several more times, but could not penetrate his brother’s ravings. He feared the infection from Harald’s wound had spread to his brain.

“I can sense his thoughts,” Varzil said to Eiric, “but he thinks I am—He cannot tell me where he is.”

“What are we to do then? You say he is still alive, but beset by a fever dream. If that is so, he cannot help himself.”

Lord of Light, what do I do now?
He must go on and pray that something more would come to him. Perhaps his senses would sharpen once he was inside the caves themselves, where the darkness would be akin to that which surrounded Harald.

He did not know if any one cave in particular was Harald’s favorite, but there was one where he himself had always felt safe. Facing westward, it had a broad outer ledge, perfect for sunset picnics. A narrow tunnel led into the cliff face, forcing pursuers to enter one at a time. Harald would choose such a defensible place, if he had any choice.

In the muted dawn light, the cave entrance eluded him. After several tries, however, he managed to locate it. They had to leave the horses at the bottom and climb to the ledge on foot. As a boy, he’d scrambled up with ease. A man burdened with a sword, or wounded perhaps, would have more difficulty.

Eiric stopped to light one of the torches, despite the risk of making them visible to any catmen lurking within. He insisted on going first, for if there was any trouble, he told Varzil, it was his sword that would defend the young master. Slowly, they made their way single file through the narrow tunnel. The walls smelled dank and the wan light glittered on runnels of condensation. In the close space, the breathing of the men turned whispery. They trudged on, their footfalls muffled. Once or twice, Varzil thought he saw the scuff marks of a boot.

After a short distance, the tunnel opened out into the heart of the mountainside. Darkness pressed in on Varzil, swallowing the sound of his heart.

They had gone only a short way into the mountainside when Black Eiric spotted signs of struggle—spatters of dried blood, boot marks in the dust, rocks recently overturned. The tunnel branched into one path which continued in roughly the same direction, and two side passages. One was little more than a crevice, barely able to admit a slender youth moving sideways. Pebbles covered the floor of the main artery, showing no footprints or other signs of disturbance.

The hairs along the back of Varzil’s neck prickled. When Eiric gestured that they should proceed along the broadest way, his feet froze to the spot. He shook his head as his inner reluctance mounted.

Varzil could not understand his own reaction. It made sense to take the wider passageway with this many men, where they might have a hope of using their weapons. He could think of no reason why Harald, wounded and perhaps sorely pressed, would have chosen the slower, more tortuous route.