Authors: Angus Wells
As I ate, I surveyed the gentle panorama spread before me. Brynisvar, I calculated, lay beyond the third ridgeline. At the foot of the slope facing me stood a farmhouse. Perhaps I would halt there and tell a tale before moving on. Likely the farmer and his folk would be too busy. I sipped wine and gazed idly at the sky. It was a blue not seen in the east or over Durbrecht, a lapis lazuli blue of incredible clarity. To the northeast I saw a shape that neither soared nor hovered but came straight on. At first it was but a speck, and I assumed it some bird intent on whatever business propels avians to hurry. As it drew closer, I saw that it was no bird. I stoppered my wineskin and sprang to my feet.
Soon I could see clearly the cylinder of blood red, the occult sigils of the Sky Lords’ magic painted on the flanks. They pulsed and throbbed. Beneath hung a black basket. Around the craft, the air shimmered, roiling like steam from a kettle. Within that disturbance I saw elementals darting, whirling too swift for precise definition. The skyboat came closer still, and I saw that it was small, that the basket could hold no more than ten men. It was at the same time familiar and strange. It bore the configuration of an airboat, but that cloud of miasmic dread, dark, that was the customary signature
of the Sky Lords was absent. I felt no chill, save that of shock, nor that mind-numbing horror that usually accompanied such craft. I pressed close against the trunk of the sheltering pine. And felt my breath catch in my throat as the vessel halted.
Trethyn had told me; Kaern had told me. Still I could scarcely credit the evidence of my own eyes: the tiny airboat halted and hovered. The wind was from the west but held no dominion over this craft. It hung steady as any falcon over the farmhouse in the valley.
The aftertaste of wine turned sour in my mouth: I spat. I reached cautiously for my canteen, afraid I should be seen. I drank and hung the canteen with my pack, on my back, ready to flee. I had my staff and my knife—I should stand no chance against Kho’rabi were I spotted.
The airboat turned slowly around, sinking toward the ground. It landed, light as any feather, the red cylinder still airborne, only the black basket touching the sward before the farmhouse. It had been seen by the folk there. Of course it had been seen! I had been too preoccupied, too amazed, to think of them until now, when they came from their home to face this unprecedented apparition.
There were four men, armed with nothing more than farm implements. Two clutched pitchforks, one a scythe, the last a mattock. Three dogs clamored about their feet. From the rear of the building I saw three women emerge, their skirts gathered up as they scurried for the oak thicket behind the house.
From the basket came nine black-armored Kho’rabi. A tenth Sky Lord remained behind. He, I supposed, must be the wizard, retaining control of the spirits that even now danced and darted about the shape of the airboat.
I suffered a terrible dilemma then. These farmers stood no chance against such warriors. Less even than I, who had fought Kho’rabi. Should I go to their aid? Should I align myself with them in hopeless defense? Or should I watch, hidden? Safe. A coward?
I calculated the distance between my safe position and the farm and knew that I could not reach it in time. Knew, also, that my presence should make no difference to the outcome. That was inevitable: I watched, and wondered the while if I was craven.
The dogs attacked first. They were large—such hounds as can protect flocks from wolves or bring down a man—and they were brave. The Kho’rabi dispatched them with a casual efficiency. I watched as swords swung and the dogs died. Watched as the Kho’rabi advanced on the men, who were no less courageous. They flailed their poor weapons and fell to Ahn steel without a blow struck. I saw the greensward painted red.
Then the wizard gestured, and I suppose he shouted, for the Kho’rabi ran past the bodies of their victims, around the farmhouse, to the timber beyond. I do not know whether he guessed the women hid there or knew it by his magic; nor did I see the women slain. I remained hidden, waiting, as the black figures disappeared amongst the oaks and in a while came back, their blades sheathed. I hoped the women had escaped; I did not think they had.
I watched as the Kho’rabi entered the building, emerged with sacks and slabs of meat that they stowed on board their vessel. Some brought containers to the farm’s well; those they filled and put on board. Then they regained the basket, and the airboat rose vertically, turned its nose a little north of east, and moved away.
I wiped sweat from my brow and unlocked my fingers from my staff. They ached from the strength of my grip. I stared after the receding shape and saw that it moved toward Brynisvar. It came to me there was no keep there, no sorcerer or warband to confront the Sky Lords. I did not know whether they intended to attack, but I felt compelled to act. I had stood a hidden witness to massacre, and I could not go on so neutral: I quit the cover of my pine and began to run.
For a moment I considered searching for the women, but dismissed the thought. Were they slain, I could do nothing for them; did they survive, they would go back to the farm. I had small appetite to face them, whichever was their fate. Perhaps I might acquit myself better in Brynisvar. Perhaps I might bring warning, or at least lend my own martial skills to the defense. It was no aeldor’s hold, but there were enough able-bodied men there that the Kho’rabi—did they intend attack—should find it a harder task than the wanton slaughter of innocent farmers: I ran.
I had never run so hard. The God knew, Keran had
worked us mercilessly in Durbrecht, but now my feet flew. Sweat ran hot and then chilled; I felt my lungs burn, my muscles protest. I became an automaton as I sped across the valley, climbed the farther slope. I saw the airboat high above, ahead. The Sky Lords seemed in no great hurry. Sometimes, even, their vessel hovered, or soared off to left or right. I thought perhaps they mapped the land. Perhaps they assessed its defenses, its population. Perhaps they would disappear altogether, and I come heart-strained and useless into Brynisvar, my haste all wasted. I did not care: it was as though I must atone for my helplessness, scourge myself with the effort of this headlong pace. I flung myself over the crest of one hill and ran toward the next.
Then, where the hills flattened to form a small plateau, I saw Brynisvar. I calculated the distance as I raced toward its walls.
I could see the airboat off to the north, not very high, moving away down the intervening valley. I thought I might have run uselessly, but still I did not stop, and as I went down the slope I saw the bloodred cylinder begin to describe a wide curve, eastward. I no longer wondered whether they planned an attack. I wanted only to reach the plateau, to warn the inhabitants. I did not think any there had seen the craft.
I crossed a wooden bridge, onto the road beyond. The trail began to climb, and for a while Brynisvar was lost to sight; the airboat, too. I hurled myself up the slope. I felt I could run until my heart burst.
Then walls of clay-chinked wood stood before me, barely higher than my head, gates standing open, through them a wide thoroughfare flanked by rustic houses that devolved on a broad central square. I began to shout as I entered the place.
“The Sky Lords! Ware the Sky Lords!”
My voice came out a whispery croak, but still folk turned to watch my progress. No doubt they wondered what brought a stranger in such haste; perhaps they thought me mad. I collected a retinue of barking dogs and laughing children that ran with me to the square. I halted there and with that cessation of movement regained feeling. It seemed a furnace roared within my chest. My vision blurred as blood pounded inside my skull. I struggled to draw air into lungs I
thought collapsed. My old forgotten wound throbbed. I knew I had never run so hard or so swift. Through tears I saw a timber cella, a polished bell in its little tower atop the structure. My legs were unsteady as I stumbled to the temple, worse as I mounted the rough ladder to the bell. My hands shook as I rang the alarm and from my vantage point turned my eyes to the sky, seeking the airboat. It was south of Brynisvar now. I pointed.
Below me, a lean young man in the robe of a mantis shouted, demanding to know what I did. I waved him be silent, but he paid me no heed. A crowd was gathering, summoned by the bell. I let go the striker and retreated down the ladder.
The mantis seized my arm and said, “Who are you? Are you insane? Why do you ring the bell?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but found my mouth so dry I managed only a croak. I pointed to the south. Mantis and crowd looked to where I pointed, and on the priest’s face I saw blank incomprehension, the suspicion he held the arm of a madman. He let me go and took a pace back. I groaned as I saw that the rooftops of Brynisvar hid the airboat. From the crowd several brawny men came to flank the mantis, protective. I heard one say, “He’s crazed,” another: “That’s a Storyman’s staff, no?”
I nodded and retrieved my staff, barely evading the teeth of a snapping dog. I gestured they be patient and raised my canteen to my lips. I almost laughed as I realized I had dropped my wineskin. The water was tepid, and a good deal dribbled down my chin, doubtless adding to the impression of insanity. Still, it loosed my tongue.
I said, “The Sky Lords are here,” and pointed once more to the south.
There was a murmur of apprehension at that, and for a moment I faced only backs as all turned to study the sky. The airboat was still hidden, and when the crowd swung around again, I perceived I was judged crazy. I said, “I am Daviot, late of Durbrecht. I am a Storyman, and a little while ago I saw Kho’rabi land and slaughter a farmer’s people.”
The mantis was quick-witted, for which I blessed him. He said to one of the men standing beside him, “Find Krystin. Bring her here.”
I poured water over my face and head. I said, “Krystin?”
The mantis said, “Commur-mage of Tryrsbry Keep.”
I came close then to conviction that the God does exist and sometimes favors us. I said, “There’s a warband here?”
The mantis said, “A squadron only.”
He was not yet, I saw, convinced of my sanity. I nodded and rested on my staff. The square was abuzz, more folk arriving momentarily.
Then a man I recognized as a jennym pushed a way through the crowd. He was short and very muscular, dressed in new leather, a long sword sheathed across his back. He carried a kettle helm, and he was frowning. On his heels came a slender woman in the black and silver gear of her calling; her hair was blond, bound in a loose tail. She faced me as the jennym, having cleared her path, stood aside.
“I am Krystin, commur-mage of Tryrsbry Keep,” she said, and stabbed a thumb at the short man. “This is Barus.”
The mantis said, “He warns of the Sky Lords.”
Krystin glanced at him, and he fell silent. Her eyes were the same blue as the sky, and her features were those of a classical statue. She gestured for me to speak.
I told her who I was and what I’d seen, and she motioned for Barus to mount the cella’s tower. He went up the ladder with an agility that belied his shape and from the top peered around. The square fell silent, waiting. I watched his swarthy face turn around the circuit of the compass, and as it faced the west, I saw it blacken. He came down the ladder faster than he had climbed, nodded once to Krystin, and pushed back through the onlookers without a word.
Krystin fixed me with her blue gaze. “Can you ride?” she asked.
I nodded, and she said, “Then come.”
The mantis said, “What is it? Krystin, do you explain?”
She answered him: “There’s not the time, Anacletus.”
She was already moving away, me with her. The mantis reached for her arm, then hesitated and drew back his hand. He said, “There’s danger? His tale’s true?”
“Do Storymen lie?” she returned enigmatically. Then added, “I think there’s no danger to Brynisvar. Nor reason to spread panic, eh?”
The mantis recognized the warning and ducked his head. Krystin said softer, “This is a thing of no great account,
Anacletus. But still—perhaps best you mount a watch till you’ve word from me.”
We were past the edge of the crowd now, striding toward a stable where soldiers stood mounted, Barus at their head. I asked the commur-mage, “What of the farm? Perhaps the women survived.”
She glanced at me and shook her head. “Think you it’s likely?” she asked.
I said, “No,” and she nodded.
“Here.” Barus thrust the reins of a tall gray mare at me. “She’s something of a temper, but she can run.”
I took the reins and swung astride.
The mare was equipped with a cavalry saddle, set with a lance bucket and fixing loop: I stowed my staff there. She snorted and began to fret, curvetting so that she bumped her haunches against the animals to either side. I hauled the reins tight, forcing her plunging head down, and stroked her neck, murmuring softly the while. She gentled, and Barus granted me a grudgingly approving nod.
Krystin raised a hand, pointing to the gate through which I had entered Brynisvar, and lifted her black gelding to a trot. As we went down the avenue, I brought my mare alongside and asked, “Where do we go? What if they attack this place?”
She answered me, “Ten, you said? Nine Kho’rabi and a wizard?” And when I confirmed it: “There’s near two hundred men in Brynisvar, and most of them archers. I think not even the Sky Lords would take those odds.”
“Then where do we ride?” I asked.
We were at the gates now, and just past them she reined in a moment, not answering me as she studied the sky. I saw the airboat again. It quartered the blue like a hawk, hovering to the west, then moving slowly southward. Krystin’s eyes were closed and her lips moved, though she made no sound. I recognized the practice of magic and held my tongue until she was done.
“After them,” she said, and turned her horse’s head to the south, driving heels against the black flanks.
We rode along Brynisvar’s wall to the edge of the plateau at a canter. A trail led down there, running into the woods. In moments the sky was hidden beneath a canopy of branches, but Krystin was like a questing hound, not slowing
our pace even as she closed her eyes and raised her face up. I knew she had established some kind of linkage to the Sky Lords through her sortilege. Rwyan had spoken somewhat of the ability—it was as though the magic that propelled the airboat gave off a scent, occult, that was discernible on that mysterious plane to those gifted with the occult talent. Certainly, Krystin had no hesitation in pursuing the vessel.