Floreskand_Wings Page 8

  “We’re still too close to Lornwater if they mean mischief,” Ulran explained. “Besides which, that felling family is still near. No, we should be safe enough tonight – however, we’ll organise watches. You, Cobrora, can have the first.”

  With an almighty bellow, Courdour burst out laughing. “Don't worry, city-dweller. If you hear or see anything, give us a nudge – though not too hard, or I might cut off your head!” He winked and Cobrora’s blood ran cold.

  ***

  On their ride the following day Cobrora shifted uneasily in the saddle, sore with riding and stiff after the first night camping outdoors.

  To steer thoughts away from this discomfort Cobrora took the opportunity to converse with Ulran since the track allowed them to ride two abreast. Courdour remained in front, plunging on.

  “I’m beginning to ache all over.” Cobrora grinned, although not really feeling like grinning. “I was really stiff this morning!”

  Courdour Alomar laughed loudly at this remark, but Cobrora didn’t understand why.

  “It takes a little time to adapt,’ Ulran explained, “but before this quest is over I imagine you will become a good horseman. Sarolee has taken to you, anyway.”

  “I hope so. You know, if you questioned me as to why I’d asked to join you now, Ulran, I would be hard-pressed to explain, save that I feel drawn–”

  “As do we all, in life’s passage.”

  “Yet, also, I believe I may have grasped at this quest in the hope it would help me broaden my life’s experience, prepare me for a pilgrimage to Sianlar.”

  “You have high ambitions, to aspire to that fane. I wish you well, when your time comes at Sianlar, Cobrora Fhord.”

  ***

  On the Fourth Dekinma they camped.

  Cobrora had been leaning against a tree when suddenly face and shoulder were soaked.

  “Rain–!" Then Cobrora looked around and, as Courdour Alomar laughed, realised the night sky was clear. “But–”

  “You've been soaked in the sugary excreta of dahal-nasqeds – night-devils to you, boy! They’re busy feeding in your tree – that’s why you couldn’t hear them!”

  Cobrora sulked by the fire, the clothes smelling quite vile as they dried.

  That night five men charged in without stealth or skill. Evidently they anticipated no strong defence. From their vantage point they could descry the entire camp in the firelight and the sheen of the moon in its last quarter: neither the old man nor the thin one would present them with any problem. But Ulran's prowess they knew well, so three of their number leapt at the sleeping form of Ulran.

  But Ulran was no longer in his bedding, only some provisions in a rough human shape. The three murderers bristled, stabbed the sacks, spilling grain as they looked about the camp.

  Courdour Alomar idly parried the downcutting blade as though waking from slumber, and, leaning against the tree bole he swung his shortsword in a vicious, deadly arc that severed his attacker’s arm from its shoulder. He silenced the vibrating scream with a quick thrust.

  Cobrora had been on watch when the attack materialised. An assailant leapt out from the darkness, blade glinting in the waning firelight. Cobrora froze. The villain’s knife flashed out, stabbing viciously at the city-dweller. Miraculously, the blade shattered on contact with an ironwood effigy of Amasor.

  As Cobrora Fhord sank to shaking knees thanking the white god, Courdour Alomar leapt across the flickering fire and despatched the dumbstruck villain. Then the warrior whirled round to see the three by Ulran’s bedroll: one lying dead, two others hard-pressed by the scything blade of Ulran's long curved sword.

  Quickly now, Ulran skewered a second assassin and with a deftly placed kick disarmed the last.

  Winded, the only survivor knelt before the innman’s lowered sword. Ulran stood, with his weapon’s point touching the attacker’s forehead.

  Courdour had expected the would-be killer to whimper for mercy as he dropped to his knees; instead he simply bowed his head, offered to the victor. A mercenary, then.

  “Who bought you, Mercenary?” Ulran demanded.

  Courdour Alomar listened intently while Cobrora slowly and unsteadily groped to stand. Though next to the fire, Cobrora still shivered.

  “Tell me, Rashen Pellore, and I will spare your life.”

  Rashen Pellore raised eyes with no light in them. “You know me, innman?”

  “I know you.”

  “How?”

  “It is my business to know. Now, tell me and I will let you live.”

  “I cannot live other than by being a mercenary,” Rashen Pellore declared levelly, “and if I reveal my employer’s identity I will never again be employed as a mercenary.” He shrugged fatalistically. “So, as you see, it is better that you kill me now, as I would have killed you, Ulran of the Red Tellar.”

  “So be it,” Ulran sighed. “But Badol Melomar’s not worth it.” And Rashen’s surprised eyes widened, moments before the massive blade smoothly decapitated him.

  “Oh, ye gods!” Cobrora exclaimed and lurched away.

  ***

  Ulran knelt by the other attacker, removed a ring from the corpse’s finger. “An assassin’s gildring,” he said, sliding it on his finger adjacent to the red ruby. “It might prove useful,” he mused, looking towards the edge of the clearing where Cobrora Fhord was retching spasmodically.

  He showed no emotion at observing Cobrora’s reaction, but noted how annoyed Courdour Alomar was with the city-dweller. Why hadn’t Cobrora sensed the danger, as a true psychic would? Was fear blanketing the ability? If so, then they now had a great problem on their hands. Yet, Ulran decided to reserve judgement. He cleaned his sword on some dry grass. Cobrora would need watching all the time.

  A day and a night followed without further incident.

  During the day they passed varied groups of travellers heading for the carnival city, Lornwater, but exchanged hardly a word. Cobrora’s part – or rather, lack of participation – in the repulsion of the ambush had driven a wedge between the city-dweller and Courdour Alomar. Ulran was hard-pressed to keep them on forced civil terms. At the slightest thing, Courdour’s temper would be vented upon the city-dweller. And, being a sensitive person by the very nature of those unreliable abilities, Cobrora was going to pieces with the eroding tension. And hothouse days and cold nights did little to relieve the situation.

  Ulran, as able as any stioner in weather-lore, forewarned his companions of any forthcoming chill night or debilitating hot day. In that humid forest, it did not seem possible that a man could go thirsty, yet without Ulran's stionery Cobrora would have expired for want of water: the ambush had cost them their water-skins as well as some grain. But Courdour Alomar seemed not to care for water or food, answering Ulran with monosyllables, intent merely on keeping on the move.

  So it was with hardly suppressed relief that Cobrora looked down upon the circular palisaded town that nestled in a natural hollow in the forest, giving it a stark, ghostlike appearance. The Cobalt Trail ran down cleaving through the grassy slope, under the guarded wooden gateway and led to the very centre of Soemoff.

  Buildings were few. On the right of the entrance was the rich quarter, as evinced by their whitebrick dwellings and Arqitor Fane. The long town garrison abutted the main road. In the centre of the town a wagon-park stood bereft of wagons, and just before the park a toll office spanned the road. Ulran smiled, pointing it out to Cobrora.

  On one side of the park were the stables, then behind these were wooden houses built in haphazard fashion to right and left, pushing against the tannery walls. Dregs of the tannery’s smoke curled into the cloudless sky: business had obviously shut down for the carnival.

  To the far left of the town was the large marketplace, also empty, and, nearby, storehouses, their huge wooden doors padlocked. To the far right, bordering the main road, which bent towards the cobalt mines, the Soemoff cattle pens held but five scrawny beasts not worthy of barter in Lornwater.

  “We’
ll obtain further provisions and another mule here,” Ulran informed his fellow travellers.

  Courdour grunted acknowledgement; Cobrora nodded, evading all eyes, though clearly anxious to ride down into Soemoff.

  At any other time the deserted town would have made Ulran or Courdour suspicious. But the townspeople had obviously left for the carnival, which was due to start in three days, on the First Sabin of Fornious – the First Quarter of the Seventh Moon.

  A speck in the sky caught Ulran’s attention. Scalrin, soaring high above them, sought a cloud directly over the town and vanished from sight.

  On the way down the sloping road Cobrora strained to stand upright in the stirrups and could descry the crenellated walls and a solitary corner tower with embrasured windows, beyond the trees to their right; the resident noble’s fortress.

  They rode slowly into Soemoff, past the idle sentry at the gateway of the tall palisade. Although the last all-out war with the Kellan-Mesqa had been in 1820, Soemoff supported a small garrison for protection: the Devastators still liked to raid occasionally.

  Besides the garrison there were living-quarters for the miners on the left, while the farmers and the few merchants necessary to provide Soemoff with continued life inhabited the other end of town.

  The overpowering smell of the tannery reached them. The majority of the buildings were made of wood upon stone foundations, quite unlike Lornwater, thought Cobrora; the timber was not the impervious ironwood, as that cost more than common townspeople or farmers could afford.

  As they approached the barracks on their right, it appeared that the only remaining residents were the three innmen; they would rake in a great deal from the itinerants heading for Lornwater; though a great deal less when they passed through on their way home, usually broke! It seemed the blacksmith, too, had decided to stay: Cobrora could see him across the gravel wagon-park, standing grime-faced at the stables’ entrance, the big man’s forge burning with a red glow, though his hammer and anvil were silent; he scrutinised them, doubtless speculating on the odds of ready custom.

  One establishment seemed to be doing exceedingly good business, strategically situated directly opposite the barracks; Cobrora flushed hotly as a half-naked woman leant over the frail-looking wooden balcony and beckoned to join her upstairs.

  “The brothel will do well.” Ulran grinned. “Saurosen IV always called Soemoff a town of animals – and he wasn’t referring to the market...”

  “That impotent pig!” Cobrora spat out suddenly, then started, realising how dangerous those words were.

  “So... You have some fight in you, after all!” Courdour chuckled.

  “Don't worry, Cobrora, your ‘treason’ is safe in our company.”

  “Speaking of company,” observed Courdour, nodding ahead.

  As one, they reined-in.

  Across the dirt road spread four troopers bearing the breast-plate crest of the local lord. A short distance behind, the toll office and bridge spanned the road. The garrison leader stepped forward. “Welcome to Soemoff, travellers. What business brings you through the lands of Lord Cantonera?”

  Leaning forward on his pommel, its leather creaking slightly, Ulran smiled down at the soldier. And Cobrora involuntarily tensed. “We two are travelling in search of work,” the innman lied and thumbed behind: “Courdour Alomar here has offered his company on the Cobalt Trail.”

  The garrison leader’s eyes tracked to the warrior and widened perceptibly, his face draining of blood, as though some childhood horror had risen up before him.

  Evidently, Courdour’s fame had even seeped into these small towns. The garrison leader shakily saluted, waved his spear at his guard and the way was made clear. “You'll find board at the Gilded Crest,” he said helpfully, indicating an inn on the right of the wagon-park, though doubtless neglecting to explain that he would earn a percentage for steering them there. The other two inns, Barter House and The Blue Flame, probably had similar arrangements with his comrades.

  “Thank you. We’ll be on our way again at first light.” Gentling Versayr forward, Ulran signalled for his companions to follow.

  As they passed beneath the toll bridge a man rushed to the rails and shouted down, “Stay! You have not paid your toll!”

  All three looked up.

  “For our safe passage through Oquar?” queried Ulran.

  “Aye, traveller, that’s Lord Cantonera’s ruling.”

  “Then, here, catch your toll!” And Courdour threw up a sack.

  Gingerly, the toll collector caught it.

  Ulran urged Versayr to go on.

  A scream from the toll-collector drew their attention and they glanced back. Face ashen, the toll-man dropped Rashen Pellore’s head to the road, where it bounced and then lay still. Further back, the garrison leader stared, immobile.

  “So much for your lord’s protection, toll-man!” shouted Courdour Alomar, and they rode on at a brisk canter, across the crunching stones of the wagon-park.

  Some time later, after they had settled into their respective quarters, a heart-rending cry sent both Courdour and Ulran grabbing for their swords and rushing to the open doorway of Cobrora’s room.

  Spread upon the cotton sheets of the bed were all the pouches, amulets, effigies, signs, papers and vials of Cobrora’s superstition. Kneeling by the bedside, head buried in hands, Cobrora was wailing and crying.

  “What ails you now?” Courdour demanded, his tone indicating he disapproved of men weeping.

  Between sobs, Cobrora answered, “My – my token, my figurine – for Alasor – it’s gone... stolen!”

  Stepping forward, Ulran sheathed his curved sword. He knelt beside the heartbroken city-dweller. Cobrora looked as though the whole world had crumbled underfoot, eyes dark and lost. “The white lesslord of water?” queried the innman after a moment.

  “Yes. All I’m left with is his antithesis – Mussor.” Blood-shot eyes streamed in the candlelight. “Don't you see, this is a bad omen. Evil surviving over good–”

  “Ye gods!” seethed Courdour in the doorway.

  Ignoring the warrior, Ulran smiled and clapped Cobrora on the back. “Stop worrying. You probably lost it during the ambush. Why not throw Mussor away as well, then you will be balanced, neither triumphing?”

  Courdour leant against the door frame and grunted.

  Sobs quieting, Cobrora said, with reluctance, “I suppose I could try. If I burned it–”

  “Now, try thinking ahead yourself, Cobrora,” Ulran said, building a fire in the disused hearth. “Don’t rely only on the gods and their omens. You walk of your own accord. Try thinking ahead on your own too.”

  Dropping the effigy of Mussor into the flames, Cobrora nodded and mustered a tentative conviction in voice that was hardly felt: “I'll certainly try.”

  And the wood hissed and steamed but could not burn.

  “Oh, no!”

  ***

  A dismal mist hung close to the ground as dawn glimmered weakly. Now they had two mules fully provisioned with ropes, axes, blankets, shovels and food sufficient for the journey to Courdour’s toran. They bid the Gilded Crest’s innman farewell.

  Turning down the street, they peered into the haze. Cobrora was on edge, eyes betraying lack of sleep. Of few words as they prepared, Cobrora had settled for declaring that the mist was attributable to the ill-omens amassing about them, preparing to cut them all down.

  Courdour simply laughed.

  Though the Crest’s innman had said the mist always came down in this hollow area just before dawn when the Sormakin blew, and dissipated two orms after sunrise, Ulran decided not to wait. Once outside Soemoff’s palisade, they would leave this trail and break new ground.

  Scalrin still hovered as they left. Ulran was tempted to enlist the bird’s help, but a more fruitful path presented itself. He called ahead: “Can you see further, Cobrora?”

  Turning with a start, the city-dweller blinked as though awakening from a doze. Was this what Ulran had meant last
night? See ahead? Stionery could not help the innman in this. “I'll – try.” Cobrora gently edged Sarolee forward, past the skeptical Courdour Alomar, into the wispy curtain of moist air.

  Outside the palisade’s gate, the clearing and small patchwork of upward-sloping vegetable farming petered out and undergrowth thickened beneath the horses’ tread. A tracery of outlying saplings warned of the beginnings of the forest.

  Cobrora slowed, peering through narrowed slits, temple pounding with the necessary concentration. The esoteric faculties had never been employed at a continuous pitch for any length of time comparable with this, and the effort was seriously draining. The headache jabbed insistently, but Cobrora persisted, forgetful now of last night’s ill omen, oblivious of the jangling effigies on either hip.

  Distraught though Cobrora had been, it was not difficult to appreciate the calming effect of Ulran. Perhaps I can understand a little now why Courdour, a fighter, behaved so painfully after the ambush: a man with fighting in his blood wouldn’t easily accept another cowering from the glory and pleasure, as he would deem it. A strange man, was Courdour Alomar.

  Slowly, they penetrated the woods. The strange prescience was such that Cobrora could not see shapes with eyes but rather sensed them. As a back-lashing branch almost thudded into Cobrora’s face, the city-dweller ducked instinctively and realised with a pleasant shock that, whereas earlier – using eyes alone – it would have been almost impossible to see it in time to dodge.

  On two occasions Cobrora called a halt and on dismounting they had discovered deep and vicious animal traps directly in their path. Weird. Unable to describe the danger precisely: it had been simply a cold, clamminess about the heart, recognised from past experience as a warning.

  Their progress was slow; but eventually they reached the edge and emerged to see the woods curving to their left, rising and falling with the grassy escarpment land.

  Now they rode to the manderon, the last wisps of morning mist snaking behind them, clinging to the humid woods. Cobrora looked back, and all that was visible were the tree-tops, looming out of an uncanny swathing haze.