He took twelve riders with him for the chase, young bloods from some of the more neutral clans, including several of his own kin. He’d chosen carefully, wanting only youngsters who could be counted on to do as they were told.
Reaching the way station again before nightfall, he questioned the lad who watched the horses and learned that a certain signal had not been given by the last trio of dispatch riders, a fact that had raised suspicion almost before they’d ridden out of sight. That, and the fact that the Skalan rider had apparently understood more Aurënfaie than she let on.
The trail from here was not difficult to follow; the mare Beka had taken had a notch in her left rear hoof. Some miles on, though, Nyal was surprised to see that they’d fallen in with several other riders. Seregil and Alec must be more brazen than he’d guessed, passing themselves off as Akhendi here. They were certainly taking no pains to cover their tracks, keeping to the main road instead of splitting up and losing themselves in the network of side roads that branched off from it. There were streams they could have ridden up to cover their trail, byways that doubled back on themselves. Then again, Seregil had no way of knowing most of these routes.
“Perhaps these other horsemen are conspirators?” said one of the Silmai with him as they paused at a roadside spring where the fugitives had dismounted to drink.
“If so, then they aren’t being much help,” Nyal said, studying the footprints in the soft earth at the spring’s edge: two sets of Aurënfaie boots, one Skalan. The others had remained mounted.
“They can’t know the area, or they’d have shown him ways of getting away from the main road and putting us off the scent,” a Ra’basi kinsman named Woril noted.
“Not yet,” Nyal murmured, wondering again what Seregil could be up to. It wasn’t until the following day, when he finally found where the two groups of riders had parted, that he began to understand.
42
MISDIRECTION
Beka rode steadily through the night, avoiding the few Akhendi villagers she encountered along the way. She made no effort to cover her trail, counting on misdirection to protect her friends.
The rain continued, a cold, inexorable mist that seemed to seep right down to her bones. As the mountains loomed closer ahead, she finally gave up the ruse and turned aside onto a side road that twisted away to the east through the forest. By late the next day she was exhausted and utterly lost.
Ambling along, she spotted a game trail leading up a slope and followed it, hoping to find some shelter for the night. Just before dark, she found a dry patch of earth beneath a fallen fir tree and made camp there. Lightning had struck the tree sometime recently, shattering the trunk but not severing it, so that the thick top hung to the ground at an angle, creating a sheltered den among the lower boughs. After dragging in her pack, she dug a pit with her knife and built a little fire to stave off the chill.
Just for a few hours, she told herself, huddling close to the flames. The heat quickly baked the damp from her tunic and breeches. Wrapping herself in her blanket, she leaned against the rough bark behind her. A thin waxing moon showed itself between torn shreds of clouds, a reminder that in just two days the Iia’sidra would decide the success or failure of all their work here.
“By the Four,” she whispered. “Just let us get Klia home alive and I’ll be satisfied.”
As she drifted off to sleep, however, it was Nyal who filled her thoughts, tingeing her dreams with an uneasy mix of longing and doubt.
The grip of a strong hand on her shoulder startled Beka awake at dawn. There was just light enough to make out Nyal kneeling beside her, face inches from her own.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped, wondering if she was still dreaming.
“I’m sorry, talía,” he murmured, and Beka’s heart sank as she saw the armed men behind him.
She pulled back, berating herself bitterly for being so easily caught.
“Beka, please—” Nyal tried again, but she shoved him away and scrambled to her feet. How had they gotten so close without her hearing them?
“Their horses are here, but there’s no sign of them,” a Ra’basi told Nyal.
“You son of a bitch!” Beka snarled, rocked to the core as realization sank in. “You led them here!”
“Where are they, Beka?” he asked.
She searched his eyes for some sign of hope but found none. Leaning closer, as if to confide in him, she spat in his face. “Garshil ke’menios!”
Nyal’s mouth set in an angry line as he wiped his cheek with his sleeve. “There are others out looking for them, Captain, Haman among them.”
Beka turned her back on him, saying nothing.
“We’ll get nothing out of her,” Nyal told the others. “Korious, you and your men get her back to the city. Akara, you wait until it’s light enough, then scour the surrounding area for signs of them. I’ll backtrack, then catch up with you.”
“Very efficient, Ra’basi,” Beka muttered as they stripped her of weapons and tied her hands.
“I assure you, Captain, you’ll be treated with respect by these men,” Nyal assured her. “As for your friends, it would be better for everyone concerned if I’m the one to find them. They’re both in danger: Seregil and your almost-brother.”
Beka sneered at him, not allowing him to play on her fears. “Go to hell, traitor.”
The mountain road grew worse as Seregil and Alec went on. Bare stone peaks loomed ever closer, stark against the cloudy sky.
They reached the second village just before noon and found it as deserted as the first. No people meant no fresh horses, and Seregil’s mare was limping badly.
Dismounting in the overgrown square, he ran a hand over the back leg she was favoring and found an angry swelling at the hock.
“Shit!” he hissed, gentling her as she shied. “She’s bog spavined.”
“The gelding is still sound,” Alec told him, inspecting Seregil’s other horse. One of Alec’s horses, a bay mare, was cow hocked and probably wouldn’t cover much rough country without coming up lame sooner or later, too.
Seregil shifted his saddle onto the gelding, then pointed up toward a distant notch between two crags. “We should hit the trail I want a few miles further on, inside the magicked area. You can’t see it yet from here, but our pass is right up there. There’s a Dravnian tower near the top. If these nags hold out, we might just make it. I don’t want to be sleeping in the open tonight. There are wolves up there, and bandits.”
“And smugglers?”
“If so, I hope they’re smuggling horses. I suspect the war’s put an end to that, though. Not much point in hauling goods to the coast if there aren’t any Skalan night ships waiting for them.”
“Too bad. I was hoping to meet that uncle of yours I keep hearing about. What are you going to do about that lame horse?”
In answer, Seregil smacked her hard on the rump and watched as she trotted awkwardly out of sight between the deserted houses. “Come on. Let’s see how far we get before we lose that bay of yours.”
A mile or so past the village Seregil spotted a carved post half hidden by twining creeper and brush. “This is where you get blindfolded, my friend.”
Alec took out a strip of cloth and tied it over his eyes. “There, I’m in your hands, Guide.”
“Not in quite the fashion I like,” Seregil smirked, taking Alec’s reins and setting off again.
• • •
Alec leaned forward and braced himself against the stirrups as the ground grew steadily steeper. He knew by the smells around him that they were still in the woods, but the echoes of the horse’s hooves spoke of a narrow gap. From time to time he heard the rattle of loose stone, and for one heart-stopping moment his horse stumbled, scrabbling wildly for purchase. He clawed at the blindfold, terrified of being thrown off or crushed under a fallen horse.
“It’s all right.” Seregil’s hand locked around his wrist, drawing his hand away.
“Damn it, Seregil, how much
longer?” Alec gasped.
“Another mile or so. It levels out soon, I think.”
The riding did get easier, but presently Alec noticed that he was hearing echoes only on their left. A cold wind sighed steadily against his right cheek. “Are we by a cliff?” he asked, tensing again.
“Not too near,” Seregil assured him.
“Then why aren’t you talking?”
“I’m looking for the cutoff to the pass. Keep quiet and let me concentrate.”
After another small eternity he heard Seregil let out a pent-up breath. “I found our trail. It won’t be long now, I promise.”
The air grew cooler around them, and Alec smelled the spicy resin of pines and cedar. “Can I take this blindfold off?” he asked, as his earlier fears gave way to outright boredom. “I’d like to see what it looks like, with the magic.”
“It will make you sick,” Seregil warned. “Just hang on a bit longer. We’re nearly—oh, Illior! Alec, get your head down!”
Before Alec could obey, his horse wheeled sharply and he heard a sharp buzz close to his ear. Then something struck him hard in the chest and thigh, knocking the breath from his body in a startled grunt. Seregil yelled something and Alec’s horse reared. Then he was falling, falling—
The moment Seregil spotted the ambushers, he knew it was already too late.
Rounding a bend between two large outcroppings, he and Alec had come out into a narrow stretch of trail cut into a steep, sparsely wooded slope that slanted down to a riverbed several hundred feet below. Just ahead, the narrow cut up the mountainside that lead to the pass was gone, obliterated by a massive rock slide. The archers had taken positions up among the rocks, where they had a clear view of the killing floor below. Unable to go right or left, Seregil could only retreat the way he’d come and hope to get around the bend before they both got an arrow in the back. But as he wheeled his mount, dragging Alec’s around by the head rein, he saw more men standing on the stones he’d just passed. The trap was sprung.
“Get your head down!” he shouted again, but it was too late for that, too.
Alec’s bay reared, screaming, with an arrow protruding from its chest. Still blindfolded, Alec was thrown off, falling toward the downhill slope. Seregil just had time to register the shafts embedded in his friend’s shoulder and leg before Alec disappeared from view.
“Alec!” Seregil threw himself off his horse to follow but four more ambushers leaped from the scant brush just above him and wrestled him to the ground. He fought wildly, desperate to escape, to find Alec and get him away—
If he were still alive
—but he was overmatched. His captors pinned him on his belly, grinding his face into the dirt, then flipped him onto his back. Someone grasped him roughly by the hair and yanked his head back. A grey-haired man leaned over him, dagger in hand, and Seregil closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable slash across his throat.
Instead, the man sliced open the front of Seregil’s tunic, the tip of the knife scraping across the steel rings of the mail shirt beneath. Reaching in, he yanked the chain free and held up the Corruth’s ring. A younger man leaned into view, but before Seregil could get a proper look at him, the side of his head exploded in pain and the world went black.
Fear blotted out all else as Alec hit the ground and continued falling, tumbling head over heels. He’d always had a horror of falling, and doing it blind drove him into a panic. He fetched up at last against something that crushed the air from his lungs. Only then, as he lay sprawled on his side, bruised all over and gasping for air, was he able to give proper attention to the fiery pain lancing through his left thigh and right shoulder, and to a stabbing sensation just under his ribs. This last proved to be the hilt of his sword, caught underneath him at an awkward angle.
Thank the Four for that, at least, he thought, shifting the weapon a little so he could breathe.
Somewhere above he heard the sounds of men calling back and forth to one another, apparently looking for him.
Magic or no magic, he couldn’t stand waiting like some blind, wounded animal. Tearing off the hated blindfold, he blinked at the sudden brightness and saw—ferns.
He could see perfectly well, after all, though the slight prickle of magic across his skin told him he was not clear of the guarded zone yet.
Shouts from up the slope warned that there was no time to ponder the matter further. Raising his head a little, he found himself lying in a dense patch of tall, feathery fern at the base of an ancient birch tree. From here, he could make out the trail several hundred yards above him and a few men moving about there. Outlaws, he guessed, seeing that they wore no sen’gai. As he’d feared, a few others were making their way down in his general direction.
His right shoulder throbbed again as he ducked down. Freshly scarred chain showed through a rent in the arm of his tunic where an arrow had scored a glancing blow.
The wound in his leg was more serious. A shaft had pierced his thigh and lodged there. Sometime during his fall the feathered end had snapped off, but the steel head still protruded a scant few inches below his lower trouser lacing. Not giving himself time to think, he grasped the shaft just below the head and yanked it out.
Then he fainted.
When he came to, someone was dragging him over rough ground by his bad shoulder. The pain in his leg had risen to exquisite intensity and he greyed out again. When his mind cleared, he was lying mercifully still, cradled in strong arms against a hard chest.
“Seregil, I thought—” But the eyes close above his were hazel green, not grey.
“Stay quiet,” Nyal ordered, peering up over the edge of the gully where they lay. He was bareheaded and wore dull-colored clothing that blended in with the evening shadows lengthening across the forest floor.
Footsteps crunched over dead leaves nearby, then faded away in the opposite direction.
After a moment Nyal crouched down beside him and checked the wound on Alec’s leg. “It’s clean, but it needs binding. Stay here and keep your eyes shut if you can.”
“I can see,” Alec told him.
The Ra’basi blinked in surprise, but there was no time for explanations. Bent low, he hurried off down the gully, vanishing quickly in the shadowy underbrush.
The ambushers seemed to have given up on finding him for the moment. Looking up the slope, Alec saw no sign of movement. A few moments later Nyal was back with his bow and a large wayfarer’s pouch.
“It’s not bleeding too badly,” he muttered, pulling out a flask and a plain sen’gai. “Here, have a pull on this,” he ordered, handing Alec the flask.
The strong spirit burned Alec’s throat, and he took a second gulp, then craned his neck, nervously keeping watch while Nyal bound hasty compresses over the arrow holes.
“There, that should hold you for now.” Nyal clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, let’s see if you can walk on it. Seregil needs us.” Standing, he extended his hand.
Alec grasped it and pulled himself up. His leg still hurt like hell, but the drink, together with the pressure of the bandage, made it just bearable. “Who tracked us, besides you?”
“No one but me,” the Ra’basi replied, supporting Alec with a hand under his arm. “No other tracks cross yours. They were waiting for you. I’m only sorry I didn’t catch up with you sooner. They were probably trying to kill your horse when your leg got in the way.”
“And this?” Alec said doubtfully, showing him the tear in his tunic.
“Not everyone is as good a shot as you, my friend.”
Alec was sweating with pain by the time they reached the ground just below the level of the trail. Lying on their bellies, they peered up over the edge and found it deserted.
“Stay here,” Nyal whispered. Keeping low, he darted up over the edge of the bank, heading for Alec’s dead horse. A man sprang from a low clump of brush and rushed at the Ra’basi.
“Look out!” Alec called.
Nyal whirled and threw himself sideways, rolling
clear. The other man dove at him again, only to catch a sharp blow to the face that felled him like an ox. He went down without a sound.
Nyal tied and gagged the man, then coolly returned to his task, pulling Alec’s bow and quiver free of the saddle. The bowstring had snapped in the fall and swung uselessly from one tip as Nyal scrambled back down to where he waited.
“I hope you have an extra,” he said, thrusting the Radly into Alec’s hands. “Mine won’t fit this.”
Alec took a fresh string from his belt pouch and stood to bend the bow. Bracing one limb tip against his foot, he pushed down on the upper one and let out a grunt as pain flared in his shoulder again. Nyal took the bow and fitted the string into place.
“Can you draw?”
Alec flexed his arm again. “I think so.”
“And you can see?” Nyal said, shaking his head in amazement.
“It’s something to do with the Bash’wai, I think,” Alec offered, thinking of the strange farewell they’d given him.
“They certainly must have taken a liking to you. Come on. Let’s find Seregil.”
Dusk was coming on quickly now, and they spotted the yellow gleam of firelight high above the slide area choking the pass. Skirting the ruined trail, Nyal led him up a winding track that brought them out on a shelf of rock overlooking the top of a cliff. Eight men stood on a level stretch of ground near the edge. Several held torches, giving Alec enough light to shoot by. Behind them Seregil slumped on his knees and elbows, hands bound in front of him. His head was down, hair in his face. A man stood over him with his own sword while the others argued among themselves.
“It’s not right!” one man said angrily.
“It’s not your place to question,” a younger man retorted, speaking with the authority of a leader. “There’s no dishonor in it.”
So even Aurënfaie bandits fretted over atui? Alec eased an arrow from his quiver and set it to the string. Beside him, Nyal did the same. Just then, several of the men threw up their arms and walked a few paces off. Seregil fought weakly as two others grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him toward the cliff, clearly meaning to throw him over.