A horn call rang out. Had the Cursed Ones found their trail, or were they giving up?
“It’s clear,” said Shevros, stepping out from a shadowed cleft, a natural chimney forged by unknown forces long ago.
“We must tie rope to the dogs, in case we need to haul them up,” said Agalleos.
Alain looped a harness of rope around their chests, backs, and bellies so they wouldn’t choke. He led them into the cleft; although it was still oppressively warm, the shade gave some relief from the heat. The builders had taken advantage of a natural incline already present in the escarpment when they chiseled out the steps. Climbing was hard work because the stair steps were not even. Whoever had hewn them out of the rock had merely worked with what was already there, so at times he had to take tiny steps, followed by a big lift. He was soon breathing hard. Shevros, in front, seemed scarcely winded, as though he climbed such staggering heights every morning before he broke his fast.
After about one hundred steps they came to the trap, a swaying bridge woven out of branches and rope and, poised above it, a lattice gate that held back a jumble of stones overbalanced into a horizontal cleft. Soldiers triggering the trap would be crushed once they were strung out on the bridge, and once the bridge was broken, it would be impossible to continue up the trail.
Maklos waited as the others negotiated the bridge. The hounds whined, nervous of the shifting ground, so Alain had to lead them across one at a time.
“How will Maklos follow us?”
“There’s a ladder hewn into the rock. There, you can see the beginning of it.”
“He’s going to climb straight up the rock face?”
“There are hand- and footholds. You can’t see them from here.”
Below, Maklos whistled, still grinning.
“Has he a sweetheart? I’ll be sure to describe his daring in great detail to her.”
Agalleos chuckled. “Then you’ll have an audience of ten or twelve.”
They climbed on, resting frequently. Once or twice they had to hoist the hounds up steep sections, but in the end they reached the top. Alain’s legs ached and his injured hand throbbed painfully. Scrub grew thinly here; the jumbled ridgeline was mostly rocks. They backtracked to the edge of the escarpment, a dizzying drop that looked down into Thorn Valley and beyond. A vista of rugged country unfolded before them. To the south and east, a line of sharp ridges and defiles gave out suddenly into a gulf of air and beyond that lay a hazy lowland, yellow with summer and bright with heat and color.
Shevros spat. “That is the country of the Cursed Ones. May they all rot.”
It was the longest speech he had yet made. “Why do you hate them so?” asked Alain.
Shevros gave him a disgusted look and turned away, slipping gracefully back into the cover of the rocks.
“We are driven from our homes by the Cursed Ones,” said Agalleos. “They destroyed our cities. Many of our people have died. Many more who escaped the ruins of our towns walked east to the country of our cousins, the tribes of Ilios, to beg for refuge, to make a new home if they can. Of course we hate them.”
“I was driven from my home.”
“Do you not hate the one who forced you to go?”
He shook his head, thinking of Geoffrey. “He did not understand what he was doing. He thought he was right, that he was only taking back what belonged to him.”
“Well,” said Agalleos, “you are young. Come.”
A cistern lay hidden within the rocks, enough water to drink their fill and even wash the dust off their faces and hands. To Alain’s surprise, he found Maklos there, chatting with his twin and looking pleased with himself.
“They’ve lost our trail,” he said to Agalleos. “They came no farther than the rotting pillars.”
“Good.” Agalleos sluiced water over his head, letting it dribble down his face in streams. “We’ll not lose this route today, then. Tomorrow it may save another one of us.” He measured the sun’s height, now halfway down to the western horizon. “We’ll go on at dusk. I want to cross the Chalk Path at night.”
Alain welcomed a chance to sleep. He woke, smelling smoke and cooking meat. Agalleos had built a fire deep in among rocks, letting dry tinder and many smoke holes disguise its presence. Sorrow and Rage were already eating, cracking bones in their haste to wolf down their meal. Shevros had snared a dozen small rock partridges, quickly devoured by the hungry companions. As the sun’s rim touched the western horizon, they shouldered their gear and walked north and west where the ridge spread into a large massif. There remained light to move quickly along the spine of the ridge. By the time it was too dark to move easily, they’d reached the high plateau which all the ravines and defiles and ridges spilled out of.
“Will the others have reached safety by now?” Alain asked when they stopped to water the hounds at another hidden cistern.
“Long since,” replied Agalleos. “Now we rest until moonrise. After that, we must walk quietly. No speaking.”
Alain was given leave to sleep while the others stood watch. No doubt, they understood better than he did what to watch for; they knew this land, while he did not. The injury to his hand made him woozy as exhaustion hit. He slept, grateful for his companions’ generosity.
They woke him at moonrise. With the heavens so clear the waning moon still gave enough light to negotiate the rocky ground as they hiked onward into pine woods. The night was alive with birds and insects. The ground litter, parched by summer, crackled under his feet. Now and again craggy outcrops, like uneven rock blisters, thrust up out of the earth, devoid of any vegetation except a few tenacious grasses. It was easy to see the stars through the thin foliage. The River of Souls streamed brightly across the sky. Had he already begun to forget the names of the constellations that Deacon Miria had taught him? The Heron struggled upward as it sank into the west; the Eagle, likewise, was beginning to slip west out of the zenith. Yet which was the name Adica had taught him, and which from his old life? Did it even matter anymore? This was his life now. He had given everything else away in exchange for his life; all that mattered was what he had here. Knowing that, at the end of this detour, Adica would be waiting gave him strength. A shadow of fear fluttered up, like a bat out of night. Had she woken from her trance? What if her vision trapped her? What if she never woke? He pushed fear aside. He had sat patiently beside her while she suffered through worse trances than this, last winter; it was the burden of being Hallowed One. As long as he watched over her, she would be safe. The sooner he returned to her, the safer she would be.
The Chalk Path shone before them, cutting straight through the forest like a line of power outlined in gleaming white. They approached cautiously, listening for other travelers, but the night remained silent. Gray teased the eastern sky. Dawn was coming. Chalk marked a road wide enough for two horsemen to ride abreast. It struck east and west as far as he could see, an unbroken line demarcating the chalky surface of the even road from the uneven forest loam and litter on either side.
They paused just beyond its border. Agalleos drew a pouch out of his gear and poured a mess of seeds, chaff, and scraps of herbs and torn petals into a hand.
“Stay close together. Walk swiftly. We must cross as soon as I throw these up, or else the Cursed Ones will know we have passed this way.”
“How can that be?” Alain grasped Sorrow’s collar tightly but let Maklos take hold of Rage.
“The Chalk Path marks the border of those lands that the Cursed Ones consider their own. It tracks any who walk on it. Once their scouts find our crossing point, they would be able to track us for days just from the dust on our feet. Queen Shuashaana’s magic will conceal us. Now. Go.”
He flung seeds and chaff into the air. They bolted across the path as the mixture drifted down, shimmering like sparks around them, and tumbled panting into the scant cover of the trees beyond. Agalleos and his companions ran onward, eager to get out of sight of the road, but Alain turned to look back.
No footpri
nts marked the path where they had crossed.
He saw no sign of their passage at all. Even the seeds and chaff had vanished. A last drifting flower petal, as light as down, spit brightness as it burst into flame and, a finger’s breadth from the betraying chalk trail, winked out of existence.
They traveled all that day overland, resting that night in a ruined town, long abandoned although soot still streaked the tumbled walls. Here they ate a meal of smoked venison and crumbling way-bread, flavored with aniseed and very sour.
“This road is longer than I thought,” said Alain as he reclined on a bed of leaves. Clouds hid the stars, although no rain fell. “How far have we come? How far have we left to go?”
Agalleos knelt beside him, constructing a hidden fire pit with stone and tiles. Shevros and Maklos had gone out to set snares. Birds were easy to catch in the wilderness that the war had made of these lands. “Queen Shuashaana’s magic is too powerful even for the Cursed Ones to defeat. That’s why she’s stayed here when most of our people, those who survived, have walked away to find new homes. The hills of this part of the country have many caves and tunnels worn into them, because of the soft rock. The queen sealed the labyrinth with her magic. There is a gate there, that she wove, where you can step from the land of the Cursed Ones into the loom outside her camp. But to walk is a path that takes many days. We must go north, and then cut back south and west.”
“Except for the worm’s path you spoke of.”
Agalleos grinned. “Truly. The worm’s path cuts back through the underside of the hills into the labyrinth. That saves three days’ walking. But the worm’s path is for young men.” He sat back from his work and patted his midsection. He hadn’t much fat on him, but certainly he was stockier than his young companions, having an older man’s girth. “I fear I’m too round to crawl on the worm’s path any longer, although I knew it well when I was a boy.” He picked up a few tiles. “Nay, friend. Rest your hand. I can do this myself.” A quail’s whistle sounded out of the dark, and he answered it, low and sweet. Shevros appeared carrying a string of partridges and two pheasants. “Be patient,” said Agalleos as he built a fire. “Caution will serve us well. Three more days.”
By dawn, Alain could eat his fill of the juicy meat, and there was plenty to carry for the day’s journey. Soon after they started out they bypassed a watchtower, set on a low-lying hill. From the shelter of the trees, Alain saw helmeted sentries atop the wall.
“That tower belonged to Narvos’ clan,” murmured Maklos, with a look that suggested he still took the loss personally. “The Cursed Ones took it when I was a boy.”
“All this was our country once,” said Agalleos.
“And will be again,” retorted Maklos.
They looked each at the other; something about the lightning shift of expressions, their grim frowns, made Alain shiver as at a touch of cold wind or the frozen lips of an evil spirit kissing his heart. They moved on into the forest, heading north into broken country.
By midday they reached the river. It was nothing at all like the great northern rivers, the Rhowne and the Veser, with their wide banks and streaming current. No Eika ship could have navigated this river; it was too rocky, too shallow, more rapids than river, really. The ford was guarded by an outpost of Cursed Ones, an earthen palisade, a stone tower, and two concentric ditches to protect against attacks. A road struck north, paved with stones, a magnificent piece of engineering.
“Their armies are moving north and west now,” whispered Agalleos, “to fight the Horse people.”
Alain told them about the group that had attacked at Queens’ Grave and kidnapped Adica. “Do you think they can walk the looms? Is that how they came there?”
Agalleos fingered his beard, as if the topic made him uncomfortable. “I’ve heard it said. I’ve never seen it, nor why should I have? I am not a Hallowed One, to be allowed to glimpse the magic of the heavens. The Cursed Ones have strong legs and growing armies. They have roads, and their own cursed magic. Why should they need to steal what little we have?”
“To make us their slaves,” said Maklos. “They would leave us with nothing but our deaths. Even our deaths they take from us, to give to their gods. This isn’t even their land. I wish they’d go back into their ships and let the sea swallow them up.”
“But don’t the Hallowed Ones have some great weaving planned?” asked Alain. “Isn’t their magic enough to defeat—?”
Agalleos slapped a hand against Alain’s mouth. “Speak not of what is forbidden. We are not Hallowed Ones. It is not allowed for us to hear such secrets or even speak of their existence.”
Shevros was staring at Alain as though he’d sprouted horns in place of his ears. Rage growled, and Agalleos, glancing at the hounds nervously, took a step back.
Maklos, standing closest to the edge of the wood, hissed softly. “Uncle. Come see.”
Alain’s face still stung from the unexpected blow. His heart raged, and yet he was ashamed of himself as well. What right had he to delve into the secrets known to Adica and her companions, that they had suffered and died for, that they had trained long years to master? Yet the more he knew, the more likely he could help Adica. Resentment flared. What right had the Holy One to thrust him into a world he did not understand, to command him to play his part, and yet never tell him the truth?
He had so many questions. How was it he could understand his companions? Was it because this was the afterlife? Yet he hadn’t been able to understand Two Fingers, or the folk in the desert, or the Akka people. Instead of the afterlife, perhaps this was simply a different life. Truly, people did not seem so dissimilar here, even if their customs and secrets were unfamiliar to him.
Sorrow licked his hand.
In any case, wasn’t it the Holy One they had come to Shu-Sha’s land to rescue? Once they had rescued her, she could answer his questions.
“Hsst!” Agalleos beckoned to Shevros. “Do you see that standard? What mark?”
Alain eased forward so that he, too, could see. Visitors had come to the outpost, a procession of at least two hundred people, most of them soldiers dressed in bronze armor and helmets and carrying the long spears that he now recognized as typical of the Cursed Ones.
“The blood-knife.” Shevros’ eyes were sharpest. Alain could not quite make out the insignia marked on the white standard, a narrow length of cloth bound vertically along a pole. “Look there. The high priest’s feathers.”
Shevros’ words struck the others to silence. They watched from concealment as the retinue entered through the gate and disappeared behind the palisade bank, but they had all glimpsed the figure wearing a magnificent headdress composed of iridescent blue-green feathers.
With a heavy voice, Agalleos spoke. “There can only be one reason the high priest of Serpent Skirt would leave his temple in the City of Skulls. He must be going out to oversee the return of an important prisoner. Or to kill her.”
They looked at each other, then, the uncle and his two young nephews. They were speaking not with words but with their expressions. Questions were asked, a decision made, and Alain did not yet even understand what was going on.
But they did.
“I’ll go back,” said Shevros. “I know the worm’s road best.” He grinned, just a little, as he looked at his twin. “I know you, Maklos. You’ll not be content if you don’t go forward. I wish you glory of it. Just don’t get yourself killed.” He grabbed his twin by the shoulders and kissed him soundly on either cheek.
“What’s going on?” demanded Alain. They looked at him as if they had forgotten he was there. Agalleos’ words penetrated far enough to waken in his mind the conversation he’d had with Laoina in those last moments before they’d parted. Rage whined. At the northern gate, the priest and his escort appeared again, supported by a dozen men from the outpost as they marched to the ford and began the crossing. “You think that party is going to fetch the Holy One, from wherever she is being held prisoner.”
“We must f
ollow them,” said Agalleos. “We cannot risk losing their trail. Shevros will return by the worm’s road to the camp and alert the queen. Then she can send a raiding party this far, at least. That way, maybe, we can rescue the Holy One. Otherwise…” He shrugged, making the gesture, at his throat, of a knife slitting the skin.
“I have to go back to the camp, to Adica.”
“If you must, then go.” Agalleos said the words without anger or accusation. “But if you go with Shevros, you must go now, and you must leave your spirit guides with us. We’ll take care of them as best as we are able. We’ll bring them safely back to you, if we can.”
Shevros was already shedding most of his gear, taking only a knife, two waterskins, and a pouch of food. His shield, his spear, even his sword he left behind.
“Ai, God,” murmured Alain, sick to the depths of his heart. The hounds gazed at him patiently. Tears welled in his eyes but did not fall.
Shevros, ready, turned to look at him expectantly, waiting for his decision.
“Why is the Holy One so important?” Alain asked finally, hearing the words tumble out, feeling as might a man scrabbling for a branch to grab onto as he slides over the edge of a cliff.
“Without the shaman of the Horse people,” said Agalleos, “so I have heard, the Hallowed Ones cannot work their magic. That is all I know.” He glanced impatiently toward the ford, where half of the priest’s party had already crossed. A raft had been brought for the man wearing the feather headdress. “That is all I need to know. I am theirs to command in the war against the Cursed Ones.”
“The Holy One brought me here,” murmured Alain. “She saved my life.”
There wasn’t really any choice. He had a debt to pay. Honor obliged him. And anyway, he could never abandon the hounds.
“I’ll stay with you.”
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