43

 

Bulion Tharn had come to accept his wife’s belief that mountains should be seen and not neared. The Carmines made a very fair backdrop to many views in the valley, especially at twilight, glowing pink against the darkening east. The Giants were not visible from the valley floor, but on a clear day both Traphz and Psomb could be made out from the uplands. He had always assumed that they were only snow-covered cones. Now he knew that he had never seen more than their summits, which rested on whole ranges of lesser peaks and foothills. Their true size amazed him and exhausted the horses. It took days to reach the lower slopes of Traphz, more days to circle around to the west and the entrance to High Pass. Only then did the expedition enter the Giants proper, heading north to Raragash through a labyrinth of gloomy ravines.

The supplies ran out before that, of course. He reported the problem to Fearmaster Zilion, who nodded contemptuously. The Faceless requisitioned what was needed. When the cavalcade reached the outskirts of the next village, one of the killers stood guard over a heap of grain sacks and other provisions. Knowing how much hard work those represented, Bulion wanted to pay for them. The warrior took his money and threw it in a ditch.

The size of the escort was worrying. By careful observation, Bulion had established that there were at least seven of them—the fearmaster and six killers. That was a very powerful group, far stronger than he would have considered necessary to intimidate nineteen civilians, three of them children. Why had so many been detached from an army in the field for such a trivial purpose, and why had a fearmaster been put in charge of it? There were five ranks in a Zarda warrior sect—killer, monster, fearmaster, deathleader, and dreadlord. Zilion would normally lead forty-nine men, not a squad of half a dozen. Bulion Tharn did not know why he and his companions should be thought so important. It seemed like… well… overkill.

After eleven days of sheep-dogging the travelers, the Faceless disappeared as unobtrusively as they had arrived. They did not say goodbye, they just failed to show up. Possibly only Bulion himself noticed, and he did not mention the matter until the noon break.

Despite the potent blaze of the sun, the air had a bitter bite. Gusts swirled silty ash down the valley. The bleak landscape bore no trees, and the horses scavenged slim fare amid the stones. The road was merely a line of old imperial marker stones, set far apart and mostly half-buried. The way had been climbing steadily for two days, and yet dark hills rose farther still on every hand, with snowy peaks above those, and even more peaks towering in the background, higher yet. The only signs of life were a few black specks in the blue sky. Jasbur said they were eagles, but she could not suggest what they found to eat.

Huddled in blankets, the company cowered behind rocks to keep out of the wind, munching on flat bread and cold beans, all tasting gritty. Nobody spoke very much. They were drained by the long trek—most of them had been on the road for nearly three weeks. Bulion was proud of them all. With a few exceptions, the people could continue indefinitely, but the horses were in pitiful shape. Ordur and Jasbur had promised that the expedition would reach the crater before dark; Tibal Frainith had nodded agreement. The disappearance of the Faceless was more confirmation.

That was when Bulion cleared his throat and announced loudly that he thought the escort had departed.

Jukion said, “Good riddance!” Others agreed with him, and that was that. No one had much energy for conversation.

Gwin just smiled and went on chewing.

How often had such strange companions made this pilgrimage? The three Jaulscaths crouched against a ridge in the distance. Seeing the children looking his way, Bulion waved. They waved back. The kids had to ride now. The cart had long since broken down and been discarded. He felt sorry for them, but soon their ordeal would end and they would be among others of their kind.

Wraxal Raddaith was off by himself, of course. The two Ogoalscaths formed another little group. Shard had trouble breathing at this altitude. He needed a break more than anyone. At least he had stopped laming horses—in fact there had been almost no evidence of Ogoalscath influence for the last week. One of the Awailscaths had gone through another transition, but that might be coincidence. The last obvious miracle had been the night Thiswion strung his bow for a few practice shots and a velvet-antlered elk blundered out of the bushes in front of him. Delicious!

The two Ivielscaths… Mandasil was doing better, being less surly and sorry for himself. The other men accepted him now. Gwin thought her bullying and lecturing had helped jolt him out of his self-pity. She might be right. She certainly had a gift for handling people, so perhaps that had been what he needed. Niad… Polion’s abduction had hurt her more than anyone, naturally. Gwin was wonderful with her, as gentle as she had been brutal to Mandasil. Niad was young and the young had resilience. Bulion wondered sometimes if she might yet present him with another great-grandchild. That wasn’t likely on the face of it, but he was confident that Polion had done some rehearsing before the wedding. At least Niad’s bitterness had not resulted in everyone coming down with fever or pox, which could easily have happened, according to Jasbur.

As for the Awailscaths—Jasbur and Ordur had stabilized, but Vaslar Nomith had gone through yet another transformation. To his great joy, he was now a man again. He was not much of a man, a hollow-chested runt, but he seemed to find that unimportant. His nose was misshapen and his teeth were askew. He also had an infuriating laugh.

When Vaslar had been a woman, Ordur had flirted with her to annoy Jasbur. Now it was Jasbur’s turn, and she missed no opportunity. The two of them were chuckling and smiling in clear view, with Vaslar’s laugh braying out from time to time. Ordur, in retaliation, had put himself between Gwin and Niad and was being attentive to both. The previous evening, he had almost come to blows with Vaslar. It was all very childish and annoying.

A strange crew! No, the Cursed were only passengers. The Tharns were the crew, and their patriarch gloried in their stamina, their competence, and the uncomplaining support they had given him. He had led them into needless danger, destroyed his grandson, stranded them far from home, and not one of them had whimpered. They had never faltered. They might not be barbarians, but they were still worthy to call themselves Zarda.

“Ordur?” Gwin said.

“Yes, Oh Pearl of the Morning?”

Bulion fingered a hunk of rough lava and contemplated homicide. Trouble was, it would make him seem like a testy old fool. Gwin was quite capable of handling Pretty Boy’s attempts at humor. Pretty Boy was not so pretty as usual. His childlike eyes were red-rimmed and his hair was as dark as a Tharn’s.

“Is Raragash a mountain or a hole in the ground?” she asked.

“Both. We are on Raragash and by tonight we shall be within it, and your presence will ennoble the entire caldera.”

“So isn’t it time I asked you a few more questions?”

Ordur’s confident smile wavered. “You must have worked out the answers by now. I suggest you keep them to yourself.”

“What will happen?”

“I’m an Awailscath, not a Shoolscath.”

“Stop evading! What do we do there? Go and call on Labranza Lamith?”

The Awailscath was openly shifty now. He glanced uneasily at Bulion, then quickly away. “You certainly won’t escape her notice. She’ll know you’ve arrived before you reach the crater floor. She’ll also know what the situation is outside—war in Wesnar, probably—and what the Karpana are doing. Mostly, I suggest you be very careful.” Again he glanced at Bulion.

So did Gwin. She was passing the knife to him.

He said, “Are you referring to that nonsense about me being the Renewer?”

Ordur turned slightly, excluding Niad from the talk, although Niad did not appear to be listening. Lowering his voice, he abandoned the banter. “I don’t think Labranza regards it as nonsense, Bulion Saj. I’m sure your wife has told you what I said about our beloved president. She is a woman who enjoys power, and she has enormous power. She is undoubtedly the most powerful person in Kuolia, with the possible exception of whoever currently leads the Karpana horde. A new emperor will change all that, unless Labranza can somehow contrive to rule the ruler. It would be much easier to kill you before anything unpleasant happens—unpleasant for her, I mean.”

“Pig muck!”

“Maybe. But you have fulfilled your promise. You have brought the Cursed to Raragash. Now the Faceless have left us, why don’t you and your brood turn tail and head south again? You and they will all be safer. Work your way south to the coast and catch a ship back to Daling.”

Bulion glanced over the camp, and the Tharns in particular. They were road-weary. They were all black with ash, because they had found no decent water in two days. For the last few nights the cold had forced them to sleep in heaps. Was he to ask them to go back through all that again, without a rest? No. And was he fool enough to think that the Faceless would not wait around to make sure that they had completed their task? They were probably watching him even now.

“I have no imperial ambitions whatsoever! None!”

Ordur’s eyes flickered uncertainly to Gwin. If he was inviting her to comment, she declined.

“Sometimes the fates move us in unexpected directions,” he said glibly. “And the truth may be less important than what is seen as the truth. You understand me.”

Under his glittery exterior, the current Ordur was unnervingly sharp. Bulion did understand.

“What Labranza thinks matters more than what I think, you mean?” What King Hexzion Garab of Wesnar thought was that Bulion Tharn required a fearmaster and six killers to keep tabs on him. “What if Shoolscaths in Daling really did predict that swill about me? They went mad, didn’t they? Isn’t that the story?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Then they had changed the future! Their prophecies invalidated themselves.”

Ordur shook his head. “Tell him, Gwin.”

“Mm?” Gwin poked a finger at a shiny pebble in the dirt. “He’s right, love. Or you’re wrong, I mean. The soothsayers changed their own futures, but not necessarily with those particular prophecies. They may have said loads of other things too. They may not have changed your future at all.” She bit her lip. “Ordur, what does Tibal think, do you know?”

“He never says.”

“But he has a very expressive face, which must be a real drawback to a Shoolscath. Don’t tell me you haven’t been prying, because I’ve watched you.”

The Awailscath clasped his forehead melodramatically. “Women!”

“Answer the question.”

“Why? If I’m right, that might endanger him.”

“You know why.”

Ordur’s eyes narrowed. He pouted. “And so do you! All right. I suspect I know what Tibal is thinking. I don’t think he sees you as an emperor, Bulion Tharn. And that is why I think you are going to be in very real danger. If Labranza has her way, you won’t leave Raragash alive. I’m not sure Tibal and I can stop her.”