Abruptly, the Norn stood straight, his jet eyes puzzled. A moment later he sagged forward and fell. A blue-fletched arrow quivered in the back of his neck.
“Keep your men together, Count Eolair!” Jiriki waved his bow as he shouted from up the slope. “If they are separated from each other, they will lose heart. And remember—these foes can bleed and die!” The Sitha turned his horse and spurred back into the thick of battle; in a moment he was obscured by snow and the twisting shapes of battle.
Eolair hurried downhill toward the Hernystiri. The hillside echoed with the shrieks of horses and men and even stranger creatures.
The confusion was almost complete. Eolair and Isorn had only just managed to rally their men for a charge up the hill when two of the white giants appeared at the top of the rise, carrying between them the trunk of a tree. With a choking roar, the giants came rushing down on Eolair’s men, using the tree like a scythe to crush all who were caught between them. Bones shattered and red-soaked forms vanished beneath the churned snow. A terrified Hernystirman managed to put an arrow into one giant’s eye, then a few more feathered the second until it was reeling. Still, two more men were smashed to death by the flailing tree trunk before the remaining Hernystiri dragged the giant down and killed him.
Eolair looked up to see that most of the Norns were engaged with the Sithi. Horrible as was the chaos of battle, the count was still compelled to stop and stare. Never since the dawn of time had such a thing been seen, the immortals at war. Those that were visible through the snow seemed to move with a ghastly, serpentine swiftness, feinting, leaping, swinging their dark swords like they were willow wands. Many contests seemed settled before the first blow was struck; indeed, in many of the single combats, after much dancelike movement, only one blow was struck—the blow that ended the fight.
There was a sour skirling of pipes from atop the hillside. Eolair looked up to see what seemed to be a line of trumpeters atop the stone, their long, tubelike instruments lifted to the gray sky. But the piping noise came from some musicians in the shadows of Naglimund below, for when the Norns atop the wall puffed their cheeks and blew, what came from their tubes was not sound but a cloud of dust as orange as sunset.
Eolair watched in sickened fascination. What could it be? Poison? Or just some other incomprehensible ritual of the immortals?
As the plume of orange floated down across the hillside, the tide of battle seemed to surge and writhe beneath it—but no one fell. If poison, the count thought, it was of a more subtle sort than he had heard of. Then Eolair felt a burning in his own throat and nostrils. He gasped for breath, and for a moment thought he would surely choke and die. A moment later he could breathe again. Then the sky dropped down upon him, the shadows began to stretch, and the snow seemed to catch fire.
Eolair was filled with a fear that blossomed like a great, black, ice-cold flower. Men were screaming all around him. He was screaming, too. And the Norns that now came surging forward out of the ruined shell of Naglimund were demons that even the priests had never dreamed. The count and his men turned to run, but the Sithi behind them, merciless and golden-eyed, were just as terrifying as their corpse-white cousins.
Trapped! Eolair thought, all else subsumed in panic. Trapped! Trapped! Trapped!
Something grabbed him and he lashed out, scratching with his nails to pull free of the horrible thing, a monster with a great yellow-tendriled face and shrieking mouth. He raised his sword to kill it, but something else struck him from behind and he fell sideways into the cold whiteness with the monstrous thing still clutching at him, still clawing at his arms and face. He was pushed face forward into the freezing snow, and though he struggled, he could not get free.
What is happening? he suddenly thought. There were monsters, yes, giants and Norns—but nothing so near. And the Sithi—he remembered how ghastly they had looked, how he had been certain that they intended to trap Eolair and the other Hernystiri between themselves and the Norns, then crush the mortals—the Sithi are not our foes …!
The weight on his back had lessened. He slipped free and sat up. There was no monster. Isorn crouched in the snow beside him, hanging his head like a sick calf. Although the madness of battle still raged around him, and his own men were snapping at each other and struggling brother against brother like crazed dogs, Eolair felt the terrible fear ebbing away. He reached up and pawed at his chilled face, then held out his gloved hand and stared at the orange-tinted snow.
“The snow washed it away,” he said. “Isorn! It is some poison they have blown at us! The snow washes it away!”
Isorn retched and nodded weakly. “Mine has come off, too.” He gasped and spat. “I tried … to kill you.”
“Quickly,” Eolair said, struggling to his feet. “We must try and get it off the others. Come!” He scooped up an armful of snow, scraping off the thin sprinkling of orange dust, and staggered to a small knot of squealing, struggling men nearby. They were all bleeding, but most only shallowly from wounds made by nails and teeth: although the poison had maddened them, it had made them clumsy and ineffectual as well. Eolair smashed clean snow into each face he could reach.
After he and Isorn had managed to bring some semblance of sanity back to the nearest men, they hurriedly explained and sent those they had rescued off to help others. One man did not get up. He had lost both eyes and was bleeding to death, staining all the ground around him. Eolair pulled the man’s cloak over his ruined face and then stooped to gather more snow.
The Sithi did not seem to be anywhere near as badly stricken by the dusty poison as Eolair and his men. Some of the immortals closest to the walls seemed dazed and slowed, but none showed symptoms of the unrestrained madness that had swept the Hernystiri. Still, the hillside was full of dreadful sights.
Likimeya and a few Sithi were surrounded by a company of Norn foot soldiers, and though Jiriki’s mother and her companions were mounted and able to deal deadly blows from above, one by one they were being pulled down into a mass of white hands that waved and swayed like some terrible plant.
Yizashi Grayspear faced a howling giant who already held a crushed Sithi body in each hand. The Sitha horseman, his face as sternly impassive as a hawk’s, spurred forward.
Jiriki and two others had knocked another of the giants to his knees, and now hacked at the still-living monster as though they butchered an ox. Great jets of blood fountained up, covering Jiriki and his companions in a sticky mist.
The limp body of Zinjadu, her pale-blue hair clotted with red, had been hoisted on the spears of a group of Norns as they ran back toward Naglimund’s walls in triumph. Chekai’so and dark Kuroyi rode them down before they could bear their prize to safety, and each killed three of their white-skinned brethren, although both took many wounds. When they had slaughtered the Norns, Chekai’so Amber-Locks draped Zinjadu’s corpse across his saddle. His own streaming blood mixed with hers as he and Kuroyi bore her back toward the Sithi camp.
The day wore on, full of madness and misery. Behind the mist and snow, the sun rose past noon and began to fall. The broken west wall of Naglimund began to glow with the light of a murky afternoon, and the snows grew even more red.
Maegwin walked along the edge of the battle like a ghost—as indeed she was. At first she had hidden behind the trees, afraid to witness such horrible things, but eventually her better sense had led her out again.
If I am dead, then what do I fear?
But it was hard to look at the bloody forms that lay scattered about the snowy hillside and not fear death.
Gods do not die, and mortals die but once, she reassured herself. When this is settled, they will all rise again.
But if they should all rise again, then what was the point of this battle? And if the gods could not die, then what did they fear from the demon hordes out of Scadach? It was puzzling.
Pondering, Maegwin walked slowly beside slayers and slain. Her cloak fluttered behind her, and her feet left small, even prints in the froth of white and
scarlet.
35
The Third House
Simon was furious. They had walked into a trap, as sweetly and stupidly as spring lambs led to the killing block.
“Can you move your hands at all?” he whispered to Miriamele. His own wrists were bound very securely: the two Fire Dancers who had done the job had some experience with knots.
She shook her head. He could barely see her in the deepening night.
They were kneeling side by side at the center of the forest clearing. Their arms had been tied behind their backs and their ankles roped. Seeing Miriamele trussed and helpless, the idea of brute animals readied for slaughter returned and black anger rose inside Simon once more.
I’m a knight! Doesn’t that mean anything? How could I let this happen?
He should have known. But he had been busy strutting like a mooncalf over the man Roelstan’s compliments. “You have seen this knight wield a sword,” the traitor had said. “He has naught to fear from Fire Dancers.”
And I believed him. I am not fit to be a knight. I am a disgrace to Josua and Morgenes and Binabik and everyone who’s ever tried to teach me anything.
Simon engaged in another futile struggle with his bonds, but the ropes held him in an unbreakable grip.
“You know something of these Fire Dancers, don’t you?” he whispered to Miriamele. “What are they going to do with us? What do they mean when they say they’re going to give us to the Storm King? Burn us?”
He felt Miriamele shudder against him. “I don’t know.” Her voice was flat, dead. “I suppose so.”
Simon’s terror and anger were for a moment overcome by a stab of regret. “I let you down, didn’t I?” he said quietly. “Some protector.”
“It’s not your fault. We were tricked.”
“I wish I could get my hands on that Roelstan’s throat. His wife was trying to tell us something was wrong, but I was too stupid to listen. But he—he …!”
“He was frightened, too.” Miriamele spoke as from a great and lofty height, as though the things of which she spoke were of little import. “I don’t know if I could give my own life up to save the lives of strangers. Why should I hate those two for not being able to?”
“’S Bloody Tree.” Simon didn’t have the strength to waste pity on treacherous Roelstan and Gullaighn. He had to save Miriamele somehow, had to burst these bonds and fight his way free. But he didn’t have the slightest idea how to begin.
The business of the Fire Dancer camp went on around them. Several white-robed folk were tending the fire and preparing a meal; others were feeding the goats and chickens, while still others sat and talked quietly. There were even a few women and children among them. But for the two bound prisoners and the omnipresent gleam of white robes, it might have been the onset of evening in any rural steading.
Maefwaru, the Fire Dancers’ leader, had taken a trio of his lieutenants into the large cottage. Simon did not much wish to think about what they might be discussing.
The evening grew deeper. The white-clad figures ate a frugal meal, none of which they offered to share with the prisoners. The fire danced and fluttered in the wind.
“Get them up.” Maefwaru’s eyes flicked across Simon and Miriamele, then rolled up to the blue-black sky. “It is nearing the time.”
Two of his helpers dragged the prisoners to their feet. Simon’s feet were numb, and it was difficult to balance with his ankles tied together; he swayed and would have fallen if the Fire Dancer behind him had not grabbed his arms and jerked him upright once more. Beside him, Miriamele also teetered. Her captor wrapped an arm around her, handling her as casually as if she had been a log.
“Don’t you touch her,” Simon snarled.
Miriamele gave him a tired look. “It does no good, Simon. Let it go.”
The Fire Dancer at her side grinned and pawed at her breasts for a moment, but a sharp sound from Maefwaru sobered him fast. As the robed man turned to face his chief, Miriamele hung in his grasp, her face devoid of feeling.
“Idiot,” Maefwaru said harshly. “These are not children’s toys. They are for Him—for the Master. Do you understand?”
Miriamele’s captor swallowed and nodded rapidly.
“It is time to go.” Maefwaru turned and headed for the edge of the clearing.
The Fire Dancer behind Simon gave him a rough shove. Simon toppled like a felled tree. His breath flew out in a great huff and the night swam with points of light.
“Their legs are tied,” the Fire Dancer said slowly.
Maefwaru whirled. “I know that! Take the ropes off their legs.”
“But … but what if they run?”
“Tie a rope to their arms,” said the leader. “Tie the other end around your waist.” He shook his bald head in thinly-concealed disgust.
Simon felt a flash of hope as the robed man produced a knife and bent to saw through the knots at his ankles. If Maefwaru was the only clever one, as seemed to be the case, perhaps there was some hope after all.
When he and Miriamele were both able to walk, the Fire Dancers tied ropes around both of them, then pushed them ahead as though they were balky oxen, prodding them with spear-points if they stumbled or lagged. The spears were oddly formed, short and yet slim-hafted and very sharp, not quite like anything Simon had seen before.
Maefwaru stepped through the vegetation at the edge of the clearing and disappeared, evidently leading them somewhere out of the clearing. Simon was a little relieved. He had been watching the fire for a long time and having very bad thoughts about it. At least they would be taken to some other place; it might be that their chance of escape would improve. Perhaps there would even be an opportunity as they traveled. He looked back and was dismayed to see that what seemed like the entire enclave of Fire Dancers was following them, a line of white trailing off into the gloom.
What had appeared to be solid forest was instead a well-packed trail that switched back and forth as it wound uphill. It was hard to see its progress more than a few ells ahead: the ground was thick with mist, a grayish murk that seemed to absorb sound as thoroughly as it masked sight. But for the muffled tread of two-score feet, the woods were silent. Not a nightbird sang. Even the wind had quieted.
Simon’s mind was racing, but as quickly as he thought of plans for escape, he had to abandon each in turn as impossible. He and Miriamele were vastly outnumbered and in an unfamiliar place. Even if they managed to jerk themselves free from the Fire Dancers who held their ropes, they would be unable to use their arms for balance or clearing a path, and would be caught within moments.
He looked back at the princess plodding along behind him. She looked cold and miserable and drearily resigned to whatever might come. At least they had let her keep her cloak. In her only moment of spirit, she had convinced one of their captors to allow her to wear it against the night breeze. Simon had not been so lucky. His cloak had gone, along with his sword and Qanuc knife. The horses and saddlebags had been taken somewhere, too. The only things left to him now were the clothes he wore and his life and soul.
And Miriamele’s life, too, he thought. I have sworn to protect it. That is still my responsibility.
There was some comfort in that. While he had breath in him, he had a purpose.
He was slapped in the face by a hanging branch. He spat out wet fir needles. Maefwaru was a small ghostly shape in the murk before him, leading them ever higher.
Where are we going? Perhaps it would be better if we never found out.
They stumbled on through the gray mist like damned souls trying to walk out of Hell.
It seemed they had been walking for hours. The mists had thinned a little, but the silence was still heavy, the air thick and damp. Then, as swiftly as the passing of winter twilight, they emerged from a tangle of trees and found themselves on the hilltop.
While they had passed through the shadows of the wooded hill a great wash of clouds had covered the sky overhead, extinguishing the moon and stars, so that now the on
ly light came from a few torches and the leaping flames of a huge bonfire. The summit’s sloping ground bulged with strange vast shapes, forms limned with flickering red light so that they seemed to move fitfully, like sleeping giants. Once these might have been pieces of some great wall or other large structure; now they lay scattered and broken, smothered beneath a matted carpet of vines and grass.
In the middle of the wide hilltop one piece of stone had been cut free from vegetation—a huge pale rock, angular as an ax head, that jutted to twice the height of a man. Between the high bonfire and this naked stone stood three motionless dark-robed shapes. They looked as though they had been waiting for a long time—perhaps as long as the rocks themselves had waited. As the Fire Dancers pushed the prisoners toward the center of the hill, the dark trio turned, almost in unison.
“Hail, Cloud Children!” Maefwaru shouted. “Hail to the Master’s first Chosen. We have come as He wished.”
The black-robed things regarded him silently.
“And we have brought more even than we promised,” Maefwaru continued. “Praise to the Master!” He turned and waved to his underlings, who hurried Simon and Miriamele forward; but as they approached the bonfire and the silent watchers, the Fire Dancers slowed, then stopped and looked helplessly back to their leader.
“Tie them to that tree, there.” Maefwaru gestured impatiently at the wind-gnarled corpse of a pine standing some twenty paces from the fire. “Hurry—it is almost midnight.”
Simon grunted in pain as one of their captors pulled his arms behind his back to secure them to the tree. As soon as the Fire Dancers had finished and withdrawn, he edged toward Miriamele until their shoulders touched, in part because he was frightened, and hungry for a little of her warmth, but also so that they might more easily whisper without attracting attention.
“Who are those three dark ones?” he asked under his breath.