The roar of falling water soon overcame all other sounds and they came abreast of a stream of water splashing down a sheer black cliff. Vines hung like groping limbs sent down by the great rearing prominence itself. Bright dashes of white, pink and orange dotted the wall where flowers clung: parasitic orchids whose flesh, curves and coloration he found … disturbing.
I hear they bear more than a slight similarity to the sex of women – though fortunately, or unfortunately, I would not know
.
His guards showed him the way around slick rocks and over rushing narrow channels, all the while scanning the surrounding jungle, hands on sword grips.
Jak stood ahead, awaiting him, his torch extinguished. Behind him rose a natural stone arch, an uneven vault eroded from the rock of the prominence itself. Beneath, steps hacked from the rock led upwards. In places streams of run-off writhed across the wide black ledges. ‘The Gates of Chanar,’ Jak announced with the smallest of bows.
Pon-lor gave no response to the impudent sketch of a bow. He studied the lad while his eyes were downcast. Black hair plastered flat, a widow’s peak, sharp nose and sharp chin. A mouth always tight as if it must hold back so much.
The lad hates us. Why? Some past injustice? Or simply that we represent the fist of rulership? Probably that. The Circle rules through fear, and that does not cultivate devotion among those ruled
.
Then he noted the discoloration of the arch to the left and right. Chalk markings ran dissolving in the rain. A dense overlay of new glyphs over old. He recognized the old magic in their appeals: calls for blessings, calls to turn away, curses and damning. And laid out on the stones before the arch, a litter of offerings: clay cups that
probably
once held rice or plum wine for propitiations; shallow dishes that no doubt would have held blood for curses; prayer flags faded to grey; twists of rotting fibre paper that once held appeals; clay lamps, candle stubs; chips of broken pottery inscribed with names – death wishes, those.
He turned a raised brow on Jak.
The young man waved his contempt. ‘Peasants. You know them. Ignorant and superstitious.’
Superstitious of what?
But he did not challenge him. He gestured to his guards. ‘We’ll camp here.’
Overseer Tun bowed. ‘As you order.’
‘Oh, and Overseer,’ Pon-lor added. ‘Tie up our friend here.’
The man’s fat lips pulled back over greying rotten teeth. ‘Yes, Magister.’
Their guide said nothing; if anything, his mouth hardened to flint against all that he could have said.
He is enraged yet he voices no complaint? Interesting
…
Wrapping his soaked robes more tightly about himself, Pon-lor moved to where a rock overhang offered shelter. Here bone-dry leaves crackled beneath his sandals and swirled about him. He crossed his legs, rested his hands palms upward on his knees, and turned inward.
Up until now his pitiful lack of results had caused him to neglect his obligations. But he could put it off no longer. It was long past time to contact Master Golan.
It took longer than usual to achieve the necessary centring and no-mind inner calm before he found himself looking down upon himself seated cross-legged, his long black hair draped like an unruly mane down the back of his robes. Having separated his
self
from that which was the mere flesh, this accidental temporary
vessel
, he turned away and sought the strong glowing vitality that would be Master Golan.
So strong in fact was his master’s essence that he found himself drawn as inexorably as a stone down a steep slope. He followed the man’s trail with ease until he reached a point where it suddenly thinned. Here the normally crystal-clear plane of the élan vital, that which inhabits and thus animates the corporal and profane flesh, clouded. Entities swirled ahead. Creatures of energy and essence that could feed upon him. All moved within a larger influence, a permeating misty radiance that appeared to pulse outwards from some central hidden presence.
Ardata herself. The Queen of the Ancient Kind.
He was too late. Master Golan had already entered her demesnes.
He turned about and willed his return to his vessel.
Under the rock shelf Pon-lor’s chest rose in a shuddering intake of breath and his eyelids fluttered. As always came the agony of ghost-knife jabbings and pricklings tormenting him as he returned to his body. The flesh was chilled in the damp as well, dangerously so. He began the meditative course that would raise his body temperature. Soon tendrils of steam began wafting into the chill night air.
Overseer Tun knelt awkwardly before him. ‘Orders, Magister?’
‘We continue on, Overseer.’
‘Very good, lord.’
Pon-lor eased his effort of focusing his energy and began on a course of muscle relaxation. Dimly, he became aware of the heat of a steady hard stare. Without shifting his gaze he identified the narrowed glittering eyes of their guide out amid the darkness. The usual expected hostility filled them. Yet he was also surprised – and amused – to detect a ferocious pride coupled with an equally ferocious contempt held for him.
It seems our village raider all-in-patches harbours a very high opinion of himself. Well, who doesn’t? Yet it is obvious that it has brought him nothing but torment
. Pon-lor closed his eyes.
No matter. Tomorrow we will be rid of him
.
In the morning he broke his fast on a pinch of rice, some smoked fish, and tea. Even as he squatted to take care of the needs of his body, his robes hiked up, two guardsmen kept watch, as it was the philosophy of the Thaumaturgs that such values as modesty and squeamishness no longer pertain once all ties to the profane flesh have been cast aside.
Overseer Tun determined the order of march. Their guide led, followed immediately by the overseer and two guards. A second unit of four guards followed this group, then Pon-lor and the rest of the detachment. The cliffs of the prominence steamed in the early morning sun. As they climbed, more and more of the jungle expanse to the west came into view. Great streamers of mist clung to the canopy and it seemed to Pon-lor as if suspended rivers were meandering through the treetops.
The stone ledges also steamed, and were slick with the last of the run-off that came crashing down out of the unseen heights. His guards hacked at the fat hanging leaves and the tangles of roots and vines, or held the worst aside for his passage. Birds startled everyone as they burst screeching and shrieking from the foliage in explosions of brilliant colour. Each time, Pon-lor’s hands clenched. It was the suddenness of it that always shocked him.
Monkeys scampering through the hanging forest scolded them with their chatter. And once, from far above, came the roar of a jungle cat. That, Pon-lor noted, gave his men pause. While all were armed with swords, shields and knives, they carried very few spears or bows.
A regrettable oversight, that. Have to let Principal Scribe Thorn know of it when I return
.
What would he do, should such a beast attack the column? Not that any living Thaumaturg had any personal experience in the matter: all such wild animals, the great fanged cat, the lesser fire cat, the man-hunting leopard, the tusk-boar, the titanic cave bear, the two-horned rhinoceros, and all the great river beasts, had all been eradicated from their lands generations ago. Still, a hunting cat shouldn’t attack any large body of men, armed or not. At least that was his learning on the subject. Unless of course the old folk tales were true and all the many fanged and toothed denizens of the jungle obeyed the commands of the Ancient Queen herself; to say nothing of every spirit, demon, shape-changer, ghost, elemental, and all such supernatural entities.
He wiped his sleeve across his sweaty face.
Not a thought to dwell upon as we approach her demesnes
…
The path continued up the side of the rock outcropping, or mount. At times it was no wider than a goat trail. In many places rockslides had ploughed across the trail and only the most rudimentary track had been cleared. He scrambled with his hands over the sharp broken rock.
This path has not seen much commerce! There must be other ways up
.
On his right, empty sky gaped as the route wound round the vertical cliff. The sun was near its highest – and these days the arching glow of the Banner, or Fallen God’s Chariot, as some cults would have it, still marred the sky – when a scream froze them all where they edged along.
It had come from the rear. Pon-lor began shuffling backwards to investigate. Voices called from the van but the wind rendered them unintelligible. His guards gathered behind him, hands on sword grips. A lone guard came round the nearest curve of the overhanging cliff. He set his hands to his mouth to yell: ‘The last man fell!’
‘What happened?’ Pon-lor called.
‘I did not see it!’
Damn
. ‘Was there blood? Sign?’
‘No, m’lord!’
He tightened his robes about himself against the rising wind. ‘Very well!’ To his men, ‘Close up. No one walks alone.’
‘Aye, m’lord.’
Past a rockfall Tun waited with the van guards, together with their guide. ‘What happened, Magister?’ the overseer asked, his slit gaze on Jak.
‘A man fell. The last.’
Tun’s eyes almost disappeared in their pockets of fat. His hands tightened in their studded leather wraps. ‘Odd that it should be the very last.’
‘No one saw what happened. I do not want to lose anyone else so we will tighten up the order of march.’
Tun bowed. ‘Very good, Magister.’
Progress slowed to a hesitant crawl. Now the greatest danger came from each other as rocks turned underfoot and tumbled down the path, threatening those behind.
Who are these people?
Pon-lor found himself wondering.
Mountain goats?
Late in the day the ground levelled. They had reached the top, or at least a level portion of the heights. He was exhausted. His shirting beneath his robes stuck to him and his calves felt as if they had seized. Here, they re-entered dense jungle of tall fat kapok trees draped in vines. Pink and gold orchids hung in the vines as if snared in the act of climbing. A layer of rotting leaves and other fallen litter carpeted the rocky ground. It was as if they had climbed nothing at all. Except, that was, for the wind; strong gusts now brushed the branches overhead and stirred the hanging parasitical creepers, sending them rustling and whispering.
Still their guide led them on, though no trail or path was visible through the underbrush.
No one has come this way in some time. Yet we are heading east, and the Pass of Seven Peaks is supposed to be an easy descent. Perhaps we are coming up behind the fortress
.
Yet something troubled him and he pushed ahead, his guards keeping pace, to reach their guide. The young man bowed his head – slightly. ‘It must be difficult bringing up supplies …’ Pon-lor offered as they walked along.
Jak glanced back the way they had come. ‘There are other paths,’ he answered off-handedly. ‘M’lord.’
‘And are we close?’
The lad frowned, thinking. ‘We won’t make it before nightfall.’
‘No?’ Pon-lor felt a touch of irritation. ‘Then we should camp for the night. We’ve just come off a hard climb.’ It seemed to him that
the
raider youth actually sneered before quickly turning away.
‘That?’ He waved aside the suggestion. ‘That was nothing – I used to run up and down that path all day as a child.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Pon-lor answered, icily. ‘Find us a suitable site.’
Jak stopped and bowed. ‘Pardon … m’lord. But the rains are gathering. Wouldn’t you rather sleep in warm quarters tonight?’
The suggestion did have its attractions. Yet what of this fellow’s insolence? He seemed to suggest that Pon-lor was not up to such exertion. Obviously he knew nothing of Thaumaturg training and arts and what they could extract from the human body … He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. Whatever should he care regarding the opinions of such a wretched specimen? He waved the ever-hovering overseer closer. ‘A break in the march, Tun. For a rest and a short meal.’
‘Very good, Magister.’
The guide merely bowed as well.
Pon-lor sat at the base of a huge bo tree. Its limbs arched all around, creating something of a natural temple. He allowed himself a pinch of rice, water and fresh fruit gathered during the day. The men took turns resting, eating and standing guard. Tun called an end to the break, and the men were forming up when a second scream – this one of agony – froze them all.
The men’s wide eyes scanned the bobbing leaves and shadowed aisles between the trees. Then Tun grunted an order and they jumped to encircle Pon-lor while two went with the overseer to investigate. As an afterthought, Tun waved Jak to accompany them.
Waiting, Pon-lor also eyed the impenetrable tangle of vines and draping leaves. Another fall? Surely not. What, then? Had a servant of the Demon-Queen found them already? He wished it would show itself. Thaumaturg training did not lend itself to such real-time scrying, sensing or detection. The leaves shook and Overseer Tun emerged. He walked straight up to Pon-lor and bowed to one knee.
‘We have lost another, m’lord.’
‘What was it?’