Valdemar 09 - [Mage Winds 01] - Winds of Fate Page 38

  She didn’t say what she was thinking; it wasn’t as if Need had willfully called these things up. : Will we have a chance to get up on that path first?:

  :I think we’ll make it up to the top. But there’s more trouble up there. It’s at the border of a bad area, and it has its own energies that are reacting to the changes elsewhere. I think you should know that disturbance brings predators and scavengers alike.:

  Well, that was no more than the law of nature. She sheathed the bow again and looked back down their trail. There was nothing immediately in sight.

  But there was a dark golden clot of something on the horizon, something tall enough to be visible above the grass, and it was coming closer. She rather doubted it was a herd of Shin‘a’in goats.

  The scent of water was stronger; she turned to face forward. The belt of greenery was near enough now to make out individual trees and bushes, and the waterfall dashed down the side of the cliff with a careless gaiety she wished she shared.

  She knew what awaited them and held Gwena back a little to let Skif shoot ahead of her. Cymry’s headlong pace slowed as she met the slippery rocks of the trail. Gwena’s shoulders bunched beneath Elspeth’s knees as she prepared to make the climb.

  The scramble up the trail was purest nightmare. If it had not been that the Companions were far more surefooted than the Heralds were, and far, far faster even on footing this treacherous, she would have stopped to dismount. As it was, she clung to the saddle with legs and both hands, drenched with water spray and her own sweat of fear. If she dared, she would have closed her eyes. Gwena skidded and slipped on the spray-slick rocks; she went to her knees at last once for every switchback, and there seemed to be hundreds of those. Every time Gwena lurched sideways, Elspeth lurched with her—further unbalancing the Companion and hindering her recovery. The only good thing was that the slower pace enabled Gwena to catch her breath again.

  Ahead, Cymry and Skif were in no better shape. That presented a second danger, that they might lose their balance and careen into Gwena and Elspeth, sending all four of them to their deaths.

  Gwena might have read her mind; the Companion stopped for a moment, sides heaving, to let Cymry put a little more distance between them. She stood with her head hanging, breathing deeply, extracting everything she could from the brief rest.

  Elspeth used the respite to peer through the spray, down to the foot of the trail.

  The entire trail was visible from this vantage point, and there was nothing on it except them. Yet. But peering up at her—at least, she presumed they were peering up at her—were several creatures of a dark-gold color that would have blended imperceptibly into the grasslands. They stood out now, only because of the brilliant green of the vegetation below the waterfall. Milling around them were some dark-brown slender beasts, whose fluid movements told her that the pack that had pursued them had recovered from the loss of its leader. In fact, there seemed to be more of them.

  I think I know what that blot on the horizon was now. I wonder where the other “hounds ” came from, though....

  And mingling with those creatures was something else; black, small animals that hopped rather than walked.

  She guessed from their behavior that there was some kind of consultation going on. The black creatures seemed to be the ones in charge, or conveying some kind of orders. As she watched, the thin creatures arrayed themselves below the cliff, providing a kind of rear guard. The golden-brown forms lined up in an orderly fashion, and started up the path with a sinister purpose-fulness. And the black dots sprouted wings and rose into the air.

  Crows—she realized. Then, as they drew nearer—Dearest gods—they’re so big!

  They were heading straight for the Heralds. And they could do a great deal of damage with those long, sharp bills, those fierce claws.

  Without being prompted by the sword, she pulled her bow again, hoping that dampness hadn’t gotten to the string. She nocked and sighted, and released; and repeated the action, filling the air below her with half a dozen arrows.

  Only three reached their mark, and one of those was by accident, as a crow flew into the path of one of the arrows while trying to avoid another. Of those three, one was only a wound; it passed through the nearest crow’s wing, and the bird spiraled down to the earth, cawing its pain, and keeping itself aloft with frantic flaps of its good wing.

  Poor as the marksmanship had been, it was enough to deter the rest of the birds. They kited off sideways, out of her arrow range; caught a thermal, and rowed through the air as fast as their wings could flap to vanish over the top of the cliff.

  Gwena lurched back into motion, and Elspeth was forced to put her bow away and resume her two-handed clutch on the saddle pommel. They were barely a third of the way to the top of the cliff and the shelter of the ruins.

  She hoped they would see that shelter—and that what awaited them at the top was not a further nest of foes.

  Wherever the crows had gone, they had not managed to herd another clutch of magically-constructed creatures to the ruins to meet them. And they didn’t return to harass the Heralds themselves.

  Elspeth heaved a sigh of relief that was echoed by Gwena as they approached the edge of the cliff without seeing any further opposition to their progress. They reached the end of the path without meeting any other dangers than the treacherous path itself—though the last third, so high above the floor of the Plains, had put Elspeth’s heart in her throat for the entire journey. She tried to use her FarSight to spy out the land ahead, but either her fear or something outside of herself interfered with her ability to See. She thought the way was clear, but she drew her bow—again—just in case it wasn’t.

  They scrambled up the final switchback, with Elspeth praying that there wasn’t anything lying in ambush, and found themselves on a smooth apron of masonry, uneven and weathered, with weeds growing through the cracks.

  But there was no time to marvel. A new threat climbed the trail behind them—a threat that was surefooted enough to have closed the gap between them. Elspeth had not had any chance to shoot at these new followers, but they were much bigger than the first creatures that had pursued them across the Plain as well as being armored with horny plates, and she was not terribly confident that their arrows would make much of an impression on these beasts. And they were barely two switchbacks behind the Heralds.

  She and Gwena pushed past Skif and scrambled for the shelter of that ruined towerlike edifice she had Seen. He followed right on Gwena’s crupper; the Companions’ hooves rang on the stone in perfect rhythm, sounding like one single horse.

  They reached the shelter of the stones just barely ahead of their pursuers; the first of the creatures came over the edge of the cliff as they whisked into a narrow cleft between two standing walls, a cleft just wide enough for the two of them, or one of them and a Companion, but deep enough for several to work unhindered behind whoever held the front.

  Skif and Cymry reached the cleft last, which put them in the position of initial defenders. As Elspeth threw herself from the saddle, she reached for bow-case and quiver. As she fumbled with the straps that held both in place on the saddle-skirt, the sword at her side uncoiled its power, and struck.

  At her.

  Her hand closed on the hilt of the blade before she was quite aware of what was happening. But as Need moved to take over the rest of her body, she fought back.

  It was a brief, sharp struggle; it ended in the blade’s surprised capitulation.

  :What in hell is wrong with you, girl?: Need shrilled in her mental “ear.” :I thought you were going to let me work magic against those things!:

  :Through me, not using me,: she snarled back. :That’s my body you’re trying to take over. You didn’t ask, you just tried to take.:

  Need seemed very much taken aback. While the blade pondered, Elspeth retrieved her bow and quiver, and counted out her shots. There were depressingly few arrows left; what she had, she would have to use carefully.

  :You�
��ve got a mothering-strong Mage-Gift,: the blade said, as Elspeth positioned herself behind Skif, with one arrow nocked to her bowstring. :I think if I guide you through it, we ought to be able to fend these things off long enough to give us a breathing space. Relax a little, will you?:

  Elspeth let down her guard, reluctantly. :That’s all I need,: Need said. :This will be like learning how to shoot. My hands on yours, guiding. That’s all. Now look, with your FarSight, below us.:

  Elspeth obeyed, wondering if this was a waste of time. But to her amazement, there was something down there. A kind of web of light, with a bright glow where the lines all met.

  :Those are ley-lines; the thing in the middle is a node. Reach out and touch it. I’ll help you.:

  There was an odd sensation that was similar to that of having hands on hers; she followed the guidance of those invisible “hands,” reaching out to touch—just barely touch—that bright glow.

  Although her physical hands merely pointed off into the heart of the ruins, those other “hands” penetrated deeply beneath the ground—deeper, she sensed, than the Plains below them. It was not effortless. She was sweating and trembling by the time she made contact; weak kneed with the effort, as if she had run up a second cliff trail as long as the one they had just traversed.

  Then she touched this “node”—and was hit with a blast of power, as if she stood in the path of an onrushing torrent. If she could have cried out, she would have. She had never felt so entirely helpless in her life.

  :Dammit—: Those invisible hands caught her; steadied her. She saw how they were holding her against the power, and altered her “stance,” opening to it instead of resisting it. Opening what, she didn’t know; in point of fact it “felt” like opening a door that she hadn’t been aware existed.

  Now instead of being swept away by the flood of power, she had become a conduit for it. It filled her, rather than overwhelming her.

  : Good,: the sword said, with grudging admiration. :I wasn’t that quick even when I was your age. And I never could handle nodes, only local energy, shallow lines, and power-pools. I think I’m jealous.:

  Elspeth opened her eyes to discover that the creatures that had followed them were only now lining up in front of their shelter. Amazingly, hardly any time at all had passed.

  :Well, child,: Need said, with grim satisfaction. :Let’s show these beasts that the mice they thought they trapped have fangs.:

  Elspeth followed the blade’s direction, raising her hands above her head and clasping them together for a moment while the power built within her, flooding channels she discovered as they were being filled, then letting it loose with a gesture of throwing.

  :You won’t need to do that forever,: Need told her, as a lance of energy, like a lightning bolt, leapt from her hand to impact squarely in the chest of one of the creatures. :Eventually, you’ll be able to send power without making those stupid gestures. And you’ll be able to use it less—crudely. But this will do for now. :

  Even as the blade spoke, she guided Elspeth through another three such displays. Skif and the Companions had been taken entirely by surprise; they stood looking at Elspeth as if she had suddenly grown an extra head, staring despite the danger outside the cleft, as if they did not recognize her.

  For that matter, she wasn’t entirely sure she recognized herself. Here she was, flinging lightning bolts about as if they were children’s balls—Elspeth, protected Heir, who had never been outside of Valdemar. Elspeth, otherwise very ordinary Herald, who had never been thought to have a particularly strong Gift, much less something like this. The power sang through her mind, light coalescing at her fingers and striking out in showers of sparks.

  Unfortunately, when the dazzle cleared from her eyes, it was apparent that her fiery attacks had not impressed the hunters that much.

  :Damn,: the sword swore. :They’ve been given some protection against magic attack. I didn’t know that could

  be done with constructs.: And, as if to herself, :I wonder what else has changed....:

  As the exhilaration of power and the impetus of fear both faded, Elspeth leaned against the rock wall and blinked to clear her eyes. For the first time Elspeth got a good look at their foes, as they huddled at a respectful distance from the opening of the cleft, their heads together as if they were discussing something. Perhaps they were....

  They were shaped rather like cattle, with horny plates instead of hair, and all of that uniform golden-brown that resembled the color of the parched grasslands of the Plains. They were not as clumsy, however, and were as tall at the shoulder as any of the Ashkevron warhorses. Nor were their heads or legs at all bovine; they bore resemblance to no animal that Elspeth recognized. From sharp, backswept horns, to wide, slitted eyes, to fanged mouths, their heads were alien and as purposeful as the pack of beasts that had chased the Heralds across the Plains. And there were odd feet on those legs, a kind of claw-hoof; the front legs more like a dog’s than a cow’s.

  The consultation ended, and half of the beasts trotted out of sight. Elspeth had no fear that they would come in from behind; those hooves were never made for climbing rock, and the tumble of stones behind them was beyond the capability of anything lacking humanlike hands and feet. What they were undoubtedly doing was making sure that the Heralds did not escape by climbing the rocks and slipping away.

  The remainder of the creatures settled down, as if perfectly prepared for a long wait.

  :I hate to tell you this,: Need said gloomily, :but if these things have defenses to magical attacks, they have probably been constructed very well. They might not need to eat, drink, or even sleep.:

  She sighed, and pulled her damp hair behind her ears. “Well, that was just what I needed to hear,” she muttered.

  “What was?” Skif asked, and she realized that the blade had left him out of the conversation again. Probably deliberately.

  Elspeth explained, as she and Cymry traded places.

  “Oh, hell,” he groaned. “We’re safe for now, I guess, but how are we going to get out of here? Poison the damn things? ”

  “They have to have a weakness somewhere,” she replied absently, studying the beasts with narrowed eyes. “If they’re protected in one area, that probably means they’ve given up protection somewhere else.”

  Suddenly, one of the beasts, which had been utterly silent up until then, let out a bloodcurdling shriek. The one nearest the opening reared up to its full height, pawing at something in its throat, its head and neck extended as far as they could reach while it shrieked again. As it reared, they saw what had hit it.

  An arrow, buried to the fletchings in its throat.

  The underbody was covered with soft skin, unlike the horny hide-plates. The area of weakness Elspeth had been hoping for. Her heart surged with elation, and her energy returned redoubled.

  A second arrow whirred past and thudded into the creature’s chest as it teetered on its hind legs. It bellowed again, then collapsed, and did not move.

  While its fellows began to look about confusedly, Skif darted out of cover before Elspeth could stop him. As a third arrow skimmed past him, just beyond his shoulder, and bounced off the hide of the nearest beast, distracting it, he flung one of his throwing knives at the beast’s eye. It hit squarely; the tiny knives were razor-sharp and heavy for their tiny size. The second beast threw up its head and collapsed like its brother.

  Skif darted back into cover.

  Before he had done more than reach the shelter of the cleft, a huge shadow passed overhead.

  They both looked up, as a second shadow followed the first, and a cry, like that of an eagle, but a hundred times louder, rang out.

  Dear gods—

  Elspeth gasped, and for one moment she could not even think.

  :What—the hell—are those?: the sword asked.

  Elspeth shook with nerves and fear, as the huge gryphons stooped on their pursuers. She had known, intellectually, that gryphons existed; Heralds had seen them in the sky north o
f Valdemar, but no one she knew had ever seen one this close.

  Or at least, if they had, they’d not lived to report the fact.

  For one panicked moment, she thought they had come to join the other beasts against them—and these creatures would not have the limitations of the hooved ones in prying the Heralds out of their shelter.

  But they attacked the strange creatures with talons and beaks, knocking one of them entirely off the cliff, and killing another before Elspeth could react, shrieking defiance as they shredded flesh and flew off again.

  Well, whatever they are, even if they aren’t on our side, they aren’t on their side either.

  The rest of the beasts turned to defend themselves, forming a heads-out circle, and it was clear that there would be no more easy kills.

  It was also clear that the gryphons were not going to give up. Nor, from the carefully placed arrows, was their still-unseen ally.

  And damn if I’m going to let them do this alone. Maybe they’ve heard the old saying about how “the enemy of my enemy is my friend. ”

  She ran out, nocking another arrow to her bow, before Skif could grab her and haul her back to safety.

  “Come on!” she shouted back at him, allowing a hint of mockery to enter her voice. “What are you waiting for? Winter?”

  Elspeth rested her back against a rock, and slid down it. Skif slumped nearby, with his head hanging, his forearms propped on his bent knees, and his hands dangling limply. There was a long shallow gash in her leg that she didn’t remember getting, and another wound (a bite) on her arm that she only recalled vaguely. It was a good thing she had more clothing with her; all Whites, though, the mere outfits were filthy. She’d taken both hits after she’d run out of arrows and knives, and the damned sword had insisted on getting in close to fight hand-to—tooth, horn, whatever.

  Neither wound was bleeding, and neither one hurt....