TWOLAS - 06 - Peril''s Gate by Janny Wurts

  'Forgive.' Braggen grated. The needful word chafed at his tortured throat. With no chance to recover the dropped dagger at his feet, he hauled the lead weight of his sword up to guard point. Through eyes glittering with trapped rage and regret, he beheld his own death as his first, rested nemesis came back at him.

  This man was not tempted to stall, or waste time. He dispatched his kills by expedience.

  Braggen parried the first lightning stroke, a blind miracle.

  The next could not fail to rip through his chest. His arm was too sluggish to manage the block. Nor had he the dregs of strength left to deflect the sheer, driving force of an expert swordsman's stop thrust.

  Worse, his vision was patchy from prolonged exertion. Half-unconscious, he fumbled to maintain his shambling defense. From outside, very faint, he thought someone shouted. Then a wasp-fine hum creased across his stressed hearing. No doubt his body served up final warning that his overtaxed senses were failing.

  He planted numbed feet; and the lunge that he braced for delayed, and then never came.

  Rocked forward into a stupefied stumble, Braggen yanked himself short of a fall. Balance gone, utterly, he averted collapse in a jarring drop to his knees.

  Before him, torn with agony, the lethal town headhunter lay thrashing. Braggen watched the man's puzzling demise, too numbed to feel curiosity. Stupid with shock, he finally noticed the arrow punched down through the jointure of neck and collarbone. The shaft was clan made, and still quivering.

  Braggen blinked. He hurt too much to be dreaming. Still, the sure evidence of his salvation took a moment to reach his shinned brain. For a mercy that stupor did not burden the archer.

  The next, seamless second, the dumbfounded torchbearer buckled and slammed on his face. His brand bounced free of his slackened fingers. Sparks spattered and flurried over the snow. Through the sheared hiss of steam as the coals sizzled out, Braggen wrestled the urgent awareness that he should snatch up his lost knife. But sight showed him the officer, already fallen, his cheek in a spilled pool of blood.

  The remaining torchbearer dropped his brand, spun, and ran. The flared flag of fire cast a glinted needle of reflection, scribing a descending line through the darkness: a third released arrow whined downward. The steel-tipped shaft of vengeance, it struck the Etarran's sunwheel surcoat directly between pumping shoulders. He tumbled, legs drumming in useless spasm. A last arrow dispatched him, clean through the nape, where his wisped blond hair curled from the rim of his helm.

  'Forgive,' Braggen gasped in the killer's behalf.

  Undone by fatigue, senses reeling with dizziness, he tipped his chin up in salute. Limned against the faint ribbon of starlight, he made out the form of the archer, a spare silhouette where sky met the scarp of the ridgetop.

  'Six,' he rasped hoarsely. 'There was another . . . just at the mouth of . . . the notch.'

  'I took him down first,' said his Grace of Rathain. His apology rang terse as his marksmanship with the bow. 'Can you forgive me? The precaution almost delayed me too long.'

  Braggen dropped on his buttocks. Stupefied with anger, he slammed his limp fist against the spent flesh of his thigh. 'Damn you!' He squeezed shut dripping eyes. Wrung through by a wave of convulsive reaction, he sucked in a harsh, rasping breath. Then, dogged, he gathered himself once again. Though a useless fury that all but choked him, he cursed with bitterest venom. 'Damn you, my liege, to the black gates of Sithaer! You were to go on without me!'

  'Don't be a fool. One dog, or one tracker, and the next wave of pursuit would have run me to earth before morning.' Nettled beyond sentiment, Arithon threw a snowball. His sharp, sniper's aim doused the smoldering torch. 'Hang on. Are you wounded?'

  Braggen shook his head, speechless.

  'Then I'm coming down to round up the strayed horses.' Concern cracked through the pared mask of practicality as Arithon peered intently downward. 'Are you sure you're all right?' Somehow he guessed the stunned clansman was unable to rise to his feet. 'I might be an hour. Can you manage?'

  'Find the horses and go!' Braggen snarled back, annoyed to be seen puling weak as an infant. Nor could he stem the frank tears of gratitude that soaked his embarrassed, flushed cheeks.

  For answer, Jieret's bearskin cloak floated down, leaving him the autonomous means to keep warm, and gifting him back precious privacy.

  Spring Equinox Eve 5670

  Visitations

  At Whitehaven, in the mountain hostel of Ath's initiates, Elaira breaks weeping from the depths of a dream, while the echoes of her beloved's agonized cry resound without voice through her mind; to the startled adept who asks after her tears, she gives her wracked answer: 'Rathain's caithdein just died in Daon Ramon Barrens. The Teir's'Ffalenn was blood-bonded to him, and I hear the raw imprint of his Grace's grief . . .

  Another seer in Halwythwood dreams of Earl Jieret's body run through by the sword, in the hand of Lysaer s'Ilessid; Jeynsa shoots upright, her dark hair in snarled disarray, to behold her father before her in spirit form, his face grave with love, and the sorrow of a forced parting: 'Daughter, forgive me, I can't keep my promise and come home. You now stand as Rathain's caithdein, charged to uphold the royal charter at the right hand of the sanctioned crown prince . . .'

  Fled deep into hiding, Princess Ellaine dreams of her joyous young son, arising unmarred by disfiguring burns from the trilling waters of a spring; then she wakens, torn to fresh, sobbing grief, for her Kevor is dead, and the vision that reached her had held too unearthly a beauty for any place found this side of Daelion's Wheel. . .

  Equinox Eve 5670

  XII. Rockfell Peak

  When the Mad Prophet had last visited the frigid heights of the Skyshiels, he had journeyed through the milder winds and clear sky of early summer. Since ice runged the uppermost tier of the ranges year-round, the voice raised in complaint had been his own, venting his pique to a brace of unsympathetic Sorcerers.

  Now, in reverse, as he maintained tense vigil on the ledge near the storm-lashed summit of Rockfell Peak, he was the one being reviled for the heartless behavior of mages. Worry had wrung him beyond grace for tolerance. Burdened by the grave perils lie had been sent by the Fellowship to help defray, grown into a broader frame of awareness by the trials of sore experience, Dakar was amazed in hindsight. A stark miracle of forbearance, that Asandir had not pitched him over the cliffside to silence his incessant whining.

  In irritating, changed circumstance, he winced for the sharp ring to Fionn Areth's curses, and tried to muffle his ears. Shrewd wisdom would not let him ignore unseen truth: that the knife-ridged pinnacle they had scaled with such hardship picked up and pondered the vibrational essence of the ignorant goatherd's rank phrases. Stone was patient; it would unwind the essence of each and every explosively frustrated epithet.

  That dissidence, added into the building charge that warned of the approaching equinox, made the very ledge where they sat sing of oncoming danger. Overwhelmed by the sense of mounting stress, Dakar poked his head from the garments that sheltered him, shook unkempt hair from his eyes, and cast a sour glance at his companion. 'You wouldn't malign an innkeeper who gave you free hospitality.'

  'This?' Fionn Areth's arm encompassed the bleak vista sealed under the indigo dome of the sky. Rockfell Vale was not visible. The lesser summits framing the view showed only their barren tips. Spurs of jagged, stacked rock thrust through the threshing floor of the cloud line, drifting like combed cotton three hundred feet lower than the comfortless eyrie that seated them. 'You call this hospitality?'

  When Dakar refused answer, the herder scowled harder. The grimed hood of his mantle slapped at his face, flagged by the fierce wind that battered the black scarp without letup. The monotony rankled, after three days and nights parked in wait for a Sorcerer who had signally failed to show up. 'That's a maniac's fancy. Just look at yourself!'

  Hunched like a toad under rucked layers of cloaks and mismatched assemblage of blankets, the Mad Prophet blotted his dripping, r
ed nose. His streaked beard bristled like a mange ridden fox brush as he gave his disgruntled contradiction. 'For Rockfell, the weather's been generous, trust me.'

  'I can't.' Fionn Areth kicked a fragment of ice from the brink. The shard tumbled, snatched up by the gale, which flung it with redoubled force back toward the flank of the mountain. 'This place would give a stiff corpse the creeps.'

  The ice sliver struck. Its glassine explosion showered pulverized bits over an incongruous, carved staircase, replete with brass newel posts and an array of leering, unpleasant statue. A stone gargoyle with mantling wings oversaw the intrusive impact, granite eyes flared briefly red.

  'The wise man wouldn't trouble those,' Dakar warned. 'Raise one to anger, you won't like what happens.'

  'The wise man wouldn't be here at all!' Fionn Areth snapped. The scream of the incessant wind chafed him raw, with the acidic boredom of Dakar's imposed vigil showing no sign of reprieve. 'What are those things, anyway? They make me feel stared at.'

  'And so they should.' Dakar said, his strained note of unease; beyond masking. Had he realized that Kharadmon would be unimaginably late, he would have chosen to roost elsewhere 'Those figures are sentinels.' He huddled farther under his blankets, not just to escape the blasting gusts. Even when the pit's binding wardspells were stable, Rockfell Peak was no place for a man to bide easy. It had stood guardian for too many harmful entities, over the course of two Ages. The experience had stamped an irascible undertone into the forgiving, staid nature of stone. The heart of the Vale sang in sympathy with Athera, with the mountain's preferred loyalty not readily given to creatures whose busy minds carried the ripe urge to cause mayhem.

  Dakar suggested, 'If you dislike being watched, you might want to stop pacing. The aimless activity sets the watchers on edge.'

  Fionn Areth sat down with resigned bad grace, his elbow braced on the supply pack. Provender had run low. The scuffed canvas held little beyond cookpot and pannikins. Two meager wrapped packets of smoked fish and venison had reduced them to half rations since yesterday. The goatherd turned his glower downslope, all but daring the sentinels to shoulder the blame for his sleepless nights and his hunger pangs. 'Daelion's black bollocks! Only a Sorcerer would go to such lengths to carve follies that drive a grown man to the grullies.'

  The term in grasslands dialect referred to spooked fear. Dakar's response fell somewhere between a derisive laugh and a snort. Davien's works never look kindly on anybody.' Eyes shut, knees tucked up, he nestled his napped head onto his folded arms. 'If such ever changed, I'd find that a likely reason to start worrying. Now bear up and let me sleep.'

  Left to his own company, and miserable for it, Fionn Areth jammed restless fingers through his dark hair. He regarded the view he had already memorized, and found nothing redeeming to savor.

  Above, a naked fang thrust against sky, Rockfell's bleak summit split the wind. The ledge the Mad Prophet had chosen for his perch held no natural cave or even a cranny for shelter. The opposite, in fact; the site reeked of sorcery. Some working of spellcraft had altered the cornice, razed its split rock to a polish as clean as a slab of black glass. The rare intervals when Fionn Areth had dozed, he suffered unsettling nightmares. Grown peevish and tired, he brooded upon the combed river of cloud that masked the miniaturized scenery below.

  For the fiftieth time, he tried to console himself. Storm probably dumped snow in raging billows against the lower slopes. In blizzard conditions, the game stayed denned up. A camp in the lowlands would see their bellies just as pinched, if beleaguered flesh would be warmer. Fionn Areth regarded the clear sky overhead with equally jaundiced gratitude. These desolate heights were continuously pummeled by vicious, razor-edged winds. Nothing garnered a foothold in the cleft rock beyond a few scabrous lichens.

  Fresh protest erupted, before he could think. 'If we died here, no one would find our stripped bones.'

  Dakar refused answer. The long days of waiting had exhausted his plausible words of encouragement. Nor did he have an innocuous explanation to salve the raw torment of waiting. Nightfall approached, threatening an array of inescapable consequence, while the Fellowship Sorcerer they had traveled to meet was irremediably delayed.

  If Kharadmon's absence extended past midnight, Athera's magnetic flux would raise the tides of spring equinox. The wardfields holding the Mistwraith confined would be sundered as the lane forces crested.

  The predicament posed a potential for disaster beyond Fionn Areth's imagining. His questions left Dakar stubbornly uncommunicative. Left no other outlet for his uninformed apprehension, the young herder struck out with insults or stalked through his fits of taut nerves.

  'Rain goat turds on the doings of mages.' he grumbled at length. Rather than sit still and strangle with worry, Fionn Areth rejected advice and began to rise to his feet.

  A pink rose fluttered downward out of thin air and struck the crown of his head.

  'Be glad,' cracked a voice of silken, barbed clarity, 'that I didn't take your wish seriously.'

  Fionn Areth yelped, startled recklessly erect. Only Dakar's timely grab at his collar saved his upset balance. Yanked back on his haunches, he narrowly escaped a headlong tumble over the cliffside.

  Once assured the shaken young man was secure, Dakar shed his mantling blankets and stood up. Head tipped awkwardly back, he vented his pique into what seemed vacant sky. 'You took your sweet time! It's equinox eve, and we're sitting on a keg of fermenting trouble. And could you for once try a little consideration? The Araethurian's scared witless of mages.'

  'Well he can dive off the ledge, if that's his free choice. I won't stir to prevent him. You promised his safety to Arithon, not me.' A riffling vortex of icy wind marked Kharadmon's free-ranging laughter. 'Don't expect me to turn foolish with sentiment just because a young idiot got himself used by Koriathain, and happens to wear s'Ffalenn features.'

  'Meet Kharadmon.' Dakar introduced to the disgruntled herder beside him. 'If you don't let him know that his baiting upsets you, he'll grow bored and leave you alone.'

  Fionn Areth bent down to retrieve the dropped rose, which vanished before he could touch it. If he masked his sharp flinch, he was less successful with the reflexive backstep provoked by the Sorcerer's abrupt appearance.

  Kharadmon's elegant image unfurled, standing with booted feet planted squarely over the void. His preference ran to flamboyant dress: a green cloak lined in vivid, flame orange, and a black-velvet doublet adorned at the seams with a sparkling band of glass beadwork. His spotless white shirt had lace cuffs and cord points tipped with wired gold emeralds.

  Tall, rakishly dapper, his streaked salt-and-pepper hair streaming in the wind, Kharadmon smiled. The expression set off his rapacious, sharp features. Pearl teeth parted a sable mustache and a beard trimmed down to a spade point. 'Well met, Fionn Areth,' he greeted. 'If the company's unsporting, I trust you're enjoying Rockfell's exceptional view?'

  'Well, he shouldn't be,' another voice cut in out of nowhere. 'This mountain knows the foul trouble that stirs in its bowels. When stone gets annoyed, it doesn't share your penchant for the ridiculous. You know you've cut the interval too fine? We haven't time to reset the wards before the advent of equinox.'

  'Ah, Luhaine!' Kharadmon's narrow features lit to manic delight. 'Still tripping over yourself to pontificate, I see. Did you think I would stall for caprice?'

  'Weren't you?' Luhaine retorted. 'That's a novelty.' His formed image crowded the narrow ledge: a short, rotund bald man with a waterfall beard spilled down a scholar's robe of dusky gray. He hooked exasperated thumbs at his girth, belted with a strap as sturdy and plain as a country plowman's ox collar. 'The last time we debated that point, you'll remember, you were flitting about with a summer swarm of cicadas.'

  'Not watching them copulate, but learning their language. I remember.' Kharadmon's smile vanished. The image of vexed elegance, he flicked out his sleeves as though stainless lace spun from thought and intent could set into wrinkles before his colle
ague's distaste. 'Short-lived creatures, cicadas, and wise. An example to careless, ignorant beings who use words before vision and accuse others of wasting irreplaceable time.'

  This once, Dakar picked up the nuance of underlying menace. 'Kharadmon? What in Athera held you up?'

  The elegant apparition of the Sorcerer stared back, unblinking. When troubled, his eyes wore the same shadowed hue as the spruce-covered foothills. 'Nothing in Athera. Unhappy news that should give you both pause.' He watched the fierce impact of that statement register: Dakar's brosy face turned to whey, and Luhaine's stout image snap frozen in gaping disgruntlement.

  'What is it?' Fionn Areth demanded. 'What's wrong?'

  His outburst was ignored.

  Kharadmon said, not thoughtful, 'Unlike rock, I prefer the grace of my sense of humor kept intact.'

  'Wraiths?' Luhaine's exclamation climbed a register above his placid orator's baritone. 'You say that free wraiths have moved out of Marak?'

  'Entangled in mazes, waylaid, and dizzied to blinded confusion.' Kharadmon allowed. 'A pack of two dozen, to be rudely precise. They're questing. By sheer luck, they don't realize the rich prize at the end of the hunting trail.' The Sorcerer advanced a smart step, spanned the chasm of air, and alighted without sound on the ledge. Poised with heels at the brink, in the chilling aplomb given only to bodiless spirits, he awarded Luhaine his weasel's smile, along with a flourishing court bow. 'Now we waste time. Rockfell's wards must be set under protection, and quickly. As you see, I've a dance left unpartnered that I must return and attend with some urgency.'

  Dakar's moon face drained an impossible shade paler. As though his legs failed him, he sat. 'If Arithon finds safety, his Masterbard's talents might help you Name those strayed wraiths.'

  Luhaine's flustered image dissolved into testy sparks. 'But his Grace of Rathain is far from uncompromised. We have a pending crisis right here to avert, before we can begin the first step of addressing repairs in the pit. Greater mercy above! With the wards safeguarding the Mistwraith unstable, the timing couldn't be worse.'