Darkburn Book 4: The Haunt of Ternss by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 45

Leor stared upwards with a frown. Those soft, vibrating wings, again. Perhaps some flight of birds behind the driving clouds, chasing the Red Roads to the sea…

He glanced around to see if others noticed. There seemed to be more people than he’d thought, standing in a grave, attentive line. He blinked, and shook his head, and looked again. No, nobody stood there. His brain was playing tricks. The Riders of the Vonn were milling round in discontent, at odds with one another, and uneasy.

I wish that I had wings, he thought, to fly away from here. Huldarion’s displeasure was unfair. I don’t think I mentioned the stonemen’s youth to anyone. I’m almost sure I didn’t. Yet he seems not to believe me.

And now there is some issue with a singing bowl which I can’t comprehend. I’ve been friendly with the Vonn for centuries and yet I never heard of such an heirloom. Why has it been kept so secret? Why does it sing, and how? It has a magic I can’t fathom.

But then what magic can I fathom? True, I quelled the serpent, he thought glumly, staring at the churning clouds; but I don’t know how. I commanded my powers to do something, and they did – far more than I imagined possible. I froze the sea! Except I didn’t. It was just them; those powers that I’ve been given, have been loaded with, afflicted with, adorned with, crowned with, punished with.

And when I try to pin them down, my powers diminish. I don’t know how to use them. Before Tamu was dragged away, I tried to throw a cloak of wizardry around him, to make him so unobtrusive that the armourer would forget that he was there. I thought it might just work, because I did succeed in cloaking all those wolves up north before the battle. But wolves aren’t people. I can’t cloak any person other than myself.

Yet myself I cloak so often, he reflected ruefully, and in so many ways. I proudly wrap myself in the dramatic sweeping robes of wizardry and the deep authoritative voice and the pointed finger and the muttered spell, and I have no idea what any of it means. Everybody thinks me wise and powerful and I am drowning in ignorance.

And Tamu – my friend Tamu – he doesn’t even know I tried.

This last thought made Leor want to hurl himself upon the ground and wail like a sea-bird, with long sobbing cries. But he had to keep up his appearance. So he crossed his arms and wailed inwardly instead.

The men of Melmet still lingered, watching the movements of the Kelvhan troops across the water. The taller one kept giving Leor unfriendly glances.

“Thought you were a wizard,” he said.

Leor stared into space and clutched his failure tighter to him.

“Leave it, Inthed,” said his comrade. “He could have pulled a lightning bolt down on that bully-boy – and you know what would have happened? Six more bully-boys would have run up and grabbed us as well as the little chap, and carted us all off.”

But Inthed walked right up to Leor and stared at him nose to nose. He was almost as tall as Leor and considerably heavier.

“Couldn’t do it, could you?” he said. “Call yourself a wizard? Next to useless really, aren’t you?”

“Leave it, Inthed,” repeated the other patiently. “Let’s go and get some food.” He strolled over and took Inthed by the arm. Giving Leor a careful nod he said, “Don’t take it personally. He’s upset.”

“I’m stinking furious,” said Inthed. “Get off me, Jerred.”

“You’re hungry,” advised Jerred, and he steered Inthed away.

Still Leor did not move. He stood like a rock amidst the sea of Riders. Nobody seemed to know what was to happen next. They were arguing and clattering around with cooking gear and stowing it away again. The words replayed within his head. Next to useless really. Next to useless.

Could I have sent a lightning bolt upon Iajo’s head? he wondered. Would it have worked? It didn’t work on the monastery roof – it just inflamed the darkburn. So I expect it would have all gone wrong again, like that man Jerred said.

He walked away to seek more sympathetic company. Maeneb? Delgeb? No. Shebel; or Yaret: she would understand. Perhaps.

As he wandered through the camp he found himself remembering Bruilde. If only she were here… but she was old, too old to ride out any longer, no doubt sitting in a rocking chair, enjoying her retirement. Too old to farm, too old for anything: it was the curse of his long life, to see his former lovers growing old.

Yet he recalled his meeting with Bruilde last year, at her burnt-out farm. After his first shock at her grey hair he had found her not so very different to her younger self. Angry, patient, wise, unsympathetic – and strangely, unexpectedly alluring regardless of her years.

The truth is, he thought, that despite my own far more excessive age I don’t grasp this whole business of growing old. I thank the stars it won’t happen to me.

With this reflection he came upon Rothir and a number of Riders pitching camp; and noted that Rothir seemed to have aged a little overnight.

“Do you know where Yaret is?” he said.

Rothir glanced up from wrestling with the heavy canvas of the tent and shook his head. Leor looked round at the company. Theol, Rothir’s second in command, was there – but why were Orbrel and Hilbré, who were both Captains in their own right? Altogether there seemed to be too many people here, and the wrong ones.

“That upset about the stonemen,” he said. “Huldarion’s anger won’t last. He will come round.”

“But I will not,” said Rothir.

Now, Leor informed himself, now is the time to offer the wisdom of the years. Now is the time to draw on that accumulated knowledge; that weight of generations known and gone.

“Nothing will be achieved if the Vonn do not agree,” he said. “Success can only come if you are loyal.”

Rothir straightened up fully. He said, “What will you do, Leor, in the coming battle? Will you kill children?”

“I will do whatever’s necessary.”

“And so will I, apart from that. Perhaps you could offer a solution.”

“Me? How?”

“You’re a wizard,” Theol said. “Surely there are a hundred ways that you could use your magic. To stop the stonemen in their tracks; to fell their leaders so the others run away: or simply scare them off.”

“Scare them off?”

Theol shrugged. “You froze the sea. Can’t you freeze the sky and rain down giant hail on them? Or freeze the men themselves, paralyse their limbs? Blind them, or make them fall asleep? Open up the earth to swallow them? Make the standing stones fall down on them? There are so many things that you could do.”

Leor was bewildered. So many things, indeed; yet he had thought of none of them. Such power was beyond his expectations.

“I might make everybody blind, or paralysed,” he said.

Theol snorted. “You could try, at least.”

“But I never know the consequences!”

“You’ve had time enough to work them out,” said Theol. Leor realised that he had come to the wrong place for sympathy.

“You don’t know where Yaret is?” he pleaded.

“No.” Rothir did not look up again.

Leor moved on. He could read Theol’s unspoken comment in the shake of his head: Useless. Not even next to useless.

His heart was heavy as he trudged away. Indeed, why did he deserve sympathy? Why was he even seeking it, instead of doing what he could to help?

“But I cannot help,” he said aloud, and immediately was contradicted by his mind. Or conscience. Or something from within.

Of course you can, it said, brisk and impatient. What about Tamu? You couldn’t shield him, but you can shield yourself. So do it! Make sure Tamu’s safe.

Leor had misgivings. But his conscience, or whatever it was, was contemptuous of his unease. To appease it he walked over to the edge of the camp, and looked across the Red Roads. A couple of the Vonn were splashing out with waterskins to test and collect water.

He cloaked himself. Not physically, but with deflection. Anybody looking at him would see only a minor figure, just part of the landscape, entirely unremarkable and instantly forgettable. He waded out towards the Riders, and made as if to dip and fill a waterskin, although he had none with him. The other men didn’t even look up.

So he kept on going, fording the meandering Red Roads to the far side where some Kelvhan troops were watering horses. One raised his head and seemed about to speak; but then his gaze wandered off across the streams, as if the wizard had faded from his sight.

None the less Leor found his heart was thumping. He wanted to turn round and go back, and had to remind himself that even were he to be recognised, what harm could it do? These were allies. He was come to discuss high matters with the Kelvhan chiefs – no, no, he did not want to be led to Nerogun – no; he was come to offer greetings to the High Prince Faldron. A very proper undertaking for a wizard.

With this excuse ready he threaded his way between the Kelvhan carts: such a huge camp, this, so many thousands of soldiers that they seemed to stretch for miles. He made himself into one of them as he walked. Men stepped aside for him without noticing; one began a salute and then let his hand drop, looking faintly puzzled, before resuming polishing his armour.

There was a lot of armour-polishing going on. The Kelvhans’ idea of readying themselves for battle was presumably to make themselves as bright and glittering as possible.

No, Leor reproached himself. These Kelvhans were skilled, hardened fighters. The polish no doubt helped their mental readiness, and gave them confidence... If they needed more confidence than they possessed already.

At least their love of ornament made the nobles’ carriages easy to spot, for over them fluttered the tallest standards. He wove his way towards them, thinking he might hear some word of Tamu.

Still no one paid attention to him as he reached a great circle of carriages. The lords eschewed tents; instead, each had at least one carriage, heavy with gilded curlicues. None was larger or more ornate than than the pair standing at the centre: a grandly embellished travelling carriage and a long gear-wagon, hardly less decorative. Above each drooped the royal standard. There was an empty space around them; two guards stood sentry at their front.

Behind him were hurrying serving-men, who carried plates of food and armfuls of equipment – parasols, wine flagons, braziers. Their masters meanwhile drifted through the area, laughing and joking, or lounged on camp-chairs. But nobody approached the central pair of vehicles.

Leor mingled with the servants, trying to catch the words that floated past him. Where was Tamu? He drifted to a group of Lords and listened.

“A star-forsaken place this is.”

“You think the battle will be worth it?”

“If we even get to fight. The booty won’t amount to much.”

“You think not? The Lord Nerogun doesn’t ride along to battle unless the booty is considerable.”

“Well, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. Where is he now?” The speaker glanced around warily as if Nerogun might be eavesdropping.

“He’s questioning that priest,” a third man said; one vaguely familiar to Leor, with a fierce gaze under heavy brows that did not match his orange hair.

A snort. “That priest should be strung up by his ankles, like all priests. What’s he doing here anyway?”

“I imagine that’s what Nerogun is finding out,” the third man said. And he looked straight at Leor. “You there. When will our meal be ready?”

Leor stood there gaping; but a servant stepped forward with a bow and a prompt “Very soon, my Lord,” and the man’s gaze glided off him.

Feeling shaken, Leor slid away. He continued to drift amidst the crowds, yet learnt nothing of Tamu. At last he came upon a row of plain provision carts – and there he saw the priest Hokiro, chained up like a dog.

At least he bore no mark of injury. With so many guards around, Leor thought it wisest to approach no closer. His faith in his self-cloaking was not so great as all that.

So he retreated to where the guards were fewer, and the languid nobles were sitting down at trestle tables to eat. It made Leor hungry. He hadn’t thought to bring food with him. But these lords weren’t like the workmen he had sat down with in Kelvha city; he couldn’t risk pretending to be one of their number.

Instead he moved to and fro with the serving-men, and watched and listened. He had a stroke of luck when a roast fowl tumbled to the grass and was rejected by its eater, who cursed his lackey’s carelessness. Leor swooped on the fowl and bore it away. Withdrawing behind a carriage, he ate greedily: it was well-cooked, well-spiced, very tasty.

As he licked the last bones, a young equerry climbed down from the central travelling-carriage and walked past the pair of guards to stand outside the other royal wagon.

“Obor!” he shouted. A tall footman appeared under the wagon’s awning.

“My Lord?”

“His Highness requests the company of the archivist Tamu.”

Leor’s heart leapt as the footman bowed, and then retreated. Seconds later, there was Tamu underneath the awning, thankfully unhurt, and wiping his fingers hurriedly on his kerchief as if he too had just finished eating. Tamu climbed down awkwardly from the wagon and hauled himself up into the neighbouring carriage. The door closed behind him. The equerry seemed to be dismissed, for he sauntered off. The guards took up their posts again.

So who was in there? Prince Faldron, Shargun, Nerogun? Was this the moment for Tamu’s interrogation?

Leor walked round to the back of the vehicle and adopted an upright stance. I am a Kelvhan guard, he thought, no need to question me or my presence here; indeed you dare not, for I am here by royal command.

Then he strained his ears to listen.

Two voices. One was Tamu’s.

“What would you like to hear, Sire?”

“Sangiron the Adventurer,” said the other voice: it was the High Prince. “You said you are familiar with the chronicles. Do you know the tale of The White Bear?”

“I do, Sire.”

“Relate it to me.”

Leor could almost see the High Prince settling back amidst silk cushions, a goblet ready to his hand. And he could almost see Tamu, earnest and bumbling as he began to narrate.

Only he was not bumbling. Leor stood upright, pressed against the carriage’s canvas back, listening to the story of Prince Sangiron; his expedition north with half a dozen men, the traversing of the hostile plains of ice; the distant vision of the great white bear…

He stood there while the grey sky darkened and the campfires flared before being subdued to embers for the night; he travelled with Tamu and Faldron into the white wastes, following those huge pawprints, seeing wonders of slow rivers of ice and huge gaunt birds of prey. Tamu did not falter in the telling, until at last the Prince spoke.

“That will do,” he said. “We shall resume tomorrow.”

“Your Highness. I wish you peaceful rest,” said Tamu. Leor heard the carriage creak in the darkness as he went across to the other wagon and climbed within.

So Tamu was safe. No thanks to me, thought Leor glumly. As for the priest, I can’t help him, surrounded as he is with soldiers. I could cause a distraction – but then what? I can hardly whisk him back across the water to the Vonn.

His mission was accomplished. His conscience seemed satisfied, in part: he told himself he’d done all that he could. But he did not relish splashing over the Red Roads in the dark. He needed to see where he was going; and although he himself might be invisible, any light that he created would certainly be noted.

So he stayed where he was. After a while he crept beneath the royal carriage, and used a small and harmless spell to dry out the damp ground underneath him and warm it up. Then, wrapped in his cloak, he dreamed of snowy fields and mountains made of ice, with a silver moon above, and giant footprints, blue, below.