Chasers of the Wind

3

Ga-Nor leaned toward his captain’s ear and softly whispered, “I don’t like this.”

The shaggy-haired Da-Tur said nothing in reply. Ta-Ana answered for him, “The whole time we’ve been cooling our heels here, not a single one of those six men has budged. They sure sleep soundly!”

The Children of the Snow Leopard (one of the clans of the northern part of the Empire) were crouched on a low rocky ledge. Below them a small fire was burning, around which lay their adversaries, bundled up in tattered blankets. The cautious highlanders usually set a watch, but this time they hadn’t. And this fact did not sit well with the squad’s tracker. One might have thought that Ga-Nor had overlooked an ambush, but the captain of the redheaded soldiers would sooner chop off his own hand than believe that his blood brother could have missed a warning sign.

The uncertainty was throwing him off balance. Da-Tur thought yet again that their reconnaissance mission was cursed. The northerners who served at the Gates of the Six Towers knew the gorges and trails of the Boxwood Mountains like the backs of their own hands. They were the best scouts in the Empire. No enemy patrol could possibly slip through the mountain passes unobserved while the Children of the Snow Leopard watched over them.

When Da-Tur’s ten had left the Gates of Six Towers, they hadn’t thought they would encounter any trouble. Everything had been quiet as the squad descended into the valley beyond the primary ridge. But every settlement, every square inch of land had been swarming with Nabatorian soldiers. And then Ta-Ana had noticed the white robe of a Sdisian in their midst. The scouts returned back the way they had come without hesitation. They had to report what they had seen to the commander of the Gates as soon as possible.

On the return trip, in one of the gloomy ravines, they had been attacked by a mountain gove. They had acted foolishly. They should have bypassed the old watchtower that had been abandoned by the Empire’s soldiers back during the War of the Necromancers (fought over five hundred years before the events described here, after the Dark Revolt of the Damned. After the war the Empire gave up the lands that lay beyond the Gates of Six Towers and, having retreated across the mountain range, began a war with the Highborn for the forests of Uloron and Sandon). But the northerners were in a hurry, so they decided to cut their journey short and they did not take the detour. And so it was that they chanced upon the ravenous creature, which had just emerged from its summer hibernation. Only three of them survived: Da-Tur, Ga-Nor, and Ta-Ana. Seven Children of the Snow Leopard remained forever in that narrow gorge.

Ga-Nor, a tall, tanned man with red mustaches, raised himself up on his elbows and looked below. He contracted his bushy eyebrows. It really was strange that the highlanders hadn’t bothered to set up a watch.

Nothing. No movement at all. There was no sound except for a distant measured droning—a mountain river thundering through the shallows. There was no cause for alarm. If this was an ambush, it was very skillfully done. But skillful ambushes were beneath the dignity of the impatient highlanders. In any case, the Chus, as they called themselves, could not lie still for so long unless they were dead.

Suddenly Da-Tur understood.

“I swear by the hide of an ice demon! They’re dead!” he said, stunned.

“Let’s get out of here,” whispered Ta-Ana, marveling at herself. She had never been afraid of corpses, but everything that was happening right now seemed strange. “We shouldn’t disturb their souls.”

Ga-Nor nodded grimly and backed up the archer. “Dawn is still a long ways off. We can cover a lot of ground.”

Da-Tur stood up quietly, walked along the rocky ledge for about ten yards, getting as far away from the fire as possible, and then jumped down below. His comrades followed him. Glancing backward, they tried to hurry away.

A green glow suddenly flared up on the western side of the twin-peaked mountain. It turned into a ball of fire, which soared up into the sky in a steep arc, paused for a moment at its highest point, and then fell toward the spot where the carcasses of the Chus were lying. It burst soundlessly when it hit the ground, scattering emerald flames in every direction.

“A Sdisian sorcerer!”

This was an ambush, and it was made just for them. The White, the one Ta-Ana had spotted among the Nabatorians, had probably noticed the interlopers and decided to intercept them. Why risk letting the garrison at the Towers be forewarned?

“Let’s go! Quickly!”

Da-Tur could feel it in his gut as danger flooded into the ravine. He really hoped that the trap that had been set had not yet snapped shut and that there was a chance they could escape the necromancer’s grasping fingers.

“Look out! Behind you!” shouted the archer, who was standing on the ledge.

The captain of the squad turned around and recoiled. He swore loudly. The corpses scattered around the bonfire were standing up. Ga-Nor pulled his sword from his back. These creatures were surprisingly agile. The northerners barely had time to prepare for the fight.

Two set upon Da-Tur, and yet another one engaged the red-mustachioed Ga-Nor, but the last four headed straight for Ta-Ana at a brisk trot. The woman let loose an arrow into the face of one of the magical creations, but it had no effect.

The deformed faces shining in the moonlight, the bared teeth and the eyes burning with green fire would terrify anyone. Da-Tur pierced the chest of one of the Chus but it made no impression on his opponent. Ga-Nor, who had dispatched his adversary, ran to his aid.

“Cut off its head!” barked the tracker, deftly striking at the nearest corpse’s legs.

The captain spun about, split the skull of the Sdisian’s servant in half, and lunged forward to help the woman. After a minute everything was over.

The two men were panting heavily. Ta-Ana pulled an arrow from a stilled corpse with trembling hands. Da-Tur grabbed the small archer by the scruff of her neck and lifted her from her knees to her feet.

“To Ug with your damned arrow! We’ve got to try to get out of this ravine and lose ourselves in the mountains.”

They were racing along a stream, ghosting across the wet stones, their feet barely touching the ground. The ravine had turned into a narrow canyon, and the canyon walls shut out the sky. The moon was obstructed by clouds, and they had to run under the light of the stars. In the darkness all that could be heard was the heavy breathing of the scouts, the murmur of the stream, and the ever-increasing rumble of an unnamed river. After an eternity Da-Tur ordered a halt. Ga-Nor dropped down right where he stood and pressed his ear to the ground.

“No one,” the tracker breathed out finally, rising up from the stones. “They’re driving us into a trap, brother. There’s no escaping it.”

He was right. Only a mongoose could scale such steep cliffs. If they cut off the entrance and exited to the canyon, they would not escape.

“If we could get to the river,” Ta-Ana put in hopefully, “we could get away by the water.”

“We’ll get there,” said Da-Tur, his eyes glinting resolutely.

The current along the shore was strong, and they emerged from the water with difficulty. Only people ready to commit suicide or the Children of the Snow Leopard would dare swim in the dark through such a swift, icy mountain river. The former would crack their skulls against the shoals, but the latter pulled through. The soldiers had swum for more than half an hour and, thanks to the swiftness of the current, had left the danger far behind.

They collapsed upon the river stones, catching their breath. However, Ta-Ana immediately pulled herself up into a squat and pushed her hair out of her face. Then she attached a new, dry string to her yew bow, opened up a large wallet made of leather, and unfolded the oiled paper where she kept her arrows. The archer understood that without her bow things would go poorly for her and her comrades.

Ga-Nor had swallowed water while they were swimming and was now coughing it up.

The wind drove away the clouds, the moon emerged anew, and the northerners beheld the bleached and majestic ruins of an ancient city. People had abandoned the mountain capital of this former Imperial province when the War of the Necromancers began. Since then more than five hundred years had passed. No one had ever returned to live in Gerka, the City of a Thousand Columns, as travelers called it. The centuries had transformed this former pearl of the highlands into a dead kingdom of cold wind. It came here every evening from the snowcapped heights and mournfully wailed through the ruins of the ancient buildings. This place was known as a ghost town. The highlanders detoured around its borders and did not rest for the night if there was a distance of less than a league between them and its white walls.

But the northerners weren’t superstitious. The way through Gerka was five times shorter than any other. At the southernmost tip of the city a trail commenced, and that trail led to a pass, and from there it was no distance at all to the Gates.

They passed through a tall arch that had once been the main gate, and came out onto a wide street. Wherever they looked there were crumbling houses and hundreds of marble columns stretching toward the sky. The moonlight sparkled on them, enlivening them, making them seem as dazzlingly beautiful as they had been in those years when life teemed here. The silver-blue light gleamed in the gaps of the empty street, the old buildings cast dark shadows, and faint bluish wisps of incipient fog crept along the time-ravaged pavement.

Gerka stared impassively at the outsiders from the gloomy ruins of her buildings. She had no care for who came to her or why. She only sang her song with the wind. The wind was her eternal friend, but people always left and betrayed her. She had no desire to take vengeance on them for their treachery; she only desired one thing—to be left in peace. So the once great city let the three warriors from the far north pass through her without inflicting any harm on them.

Just as she would let those who followed after the redhaired warriors pass through.

The trail skirted the edge of a precipice. To the left of it was a basalt wall. To the right—a chasm. The scouts had been climbing for more than an hour already, and the valley that held the City of a Thousand Columns was far below. Da-Tur kept casting his eyes up at the faint stars. Dawn was not far off. By the time it arrived they needed to be at the pass, or better yet, beyond it.

Inhospitable, biting, icy wind; snow on the path. The pass was just a stone’s throw away. The night had robbed them of all their strength, and they were tired, but they continued to move forward doggedly. Ga-Nor repeatedly stopped and looked back. He didn’t really believe that they’d succeeded in deceiving the necromancer.

Ahead of them, a figure appeared on the path. Against the background of the rapidly brightening sky and the white stain of the snow only his silhouette was visible—tall, compact, wide-shouldered. He was walking from the direction of the pass. He was not hurrying, but ambling, as if he were out for a stroll.

Ta-Ana was in the lead. She took aim.

“May a snow gove take me! Who is that?” said the archer nervously, biting her lips.

“I don’t know,” replied Da-Tur tensely. “No one but the servants of the White could be here. In the leg.”

The woman smiled wolfishly and pulled back her bowstring. The stranger was almost upon them. Ga-Nor strained his sight and saw that the entire body of the man was covered in scaled armor.

“Don’t shoot! It’s a Fish!” he shouted at the exact same moment that Ta-Ana let loose her arrow.

An earsplitting crash rang out.

The stranger burst like an overripe melon. A warm shock of stinking air threw Ga-Nor, who had not been holding on to anything, into the chasm. Ta-Ana was also unlucky. As soon as the thing exploded hundreds of sharp metal scales flew from it in every direction. At least ten of them sliced through the woman, killing her on the spot.

Da-Tur had been standing by the wall, and it was only because of this that he did not fall below. One of the scales grazed his head, another left a deep cut along his forearm. The air stank of burnt flesh, hair, and something else. Something strange. Something repulsive.

On shaky legs the northerner walked over to Ta-Ana and fell to his knees beside her. He felt sick; blood was flowing down his arm. His head felt like it was splitting. Chunks of flesh that had very recently belonged to that deadly creature were scattered all around.

It was already light out, but still he was kneeling over the body of the woman. Finally he woke from his stupor, ripped his clan scarf from his neck, and wrapped it around the wound on his arm. He planted his sword into the ground, rested his weight upon it, jumped to his feet with a jerk, and… came face-to-face with three Morts.

They were ghastly, bony creatures, with long arms and legs, slender necks, and lustrous skulls. Sleek ebony skin stretched tightly over their protruding bones. Their amber eyes seemed to flash above the dark pits where their severed noses should be. They wore no armor at all. They held skeem-swords in their hands. They were the necromancer’s bodyguards, come to fetch their trophy.

Da-Tur roared and raised his blade, planning to sell his life dearly. The path was so narrow that his enemies could only come at him one at a time. This gave him a chance, if not to live, then to draw it out for as long as possible.

The redhead dealt with the first of his opponents quickly, despite its skill, by seizing the moment and simply tossing it into the chasm. Then he sprang forward, swinging his sword in a backward arc, forcing his enemies to retreat.

From somewhere below an all-too-familiar ball of green light came flying upward. It burst apart behind his back. The sorcerer was below, in the valley, by the exit from Gerka, and it would take him a long time to reach the Son of the Snow Leopard. By that time Da-Tur would have already won or lost.

A Mort lunged for his neck with his blades crossed like scissors, but Da-Tur dropped down and impaled the creature through its chest. He kicked at the body, freeing his blade and… choking on his own blood, fell onto his side.

At first he did not understand what had happened. He tried to get up but he couldn’t. For some reason his legs weren’t obeying him. Ta-Ana was standing over him. Her eyes were blazing with green fire.

When they had stumbled upon the Fish, Ga-Nor was the one standing closest to the edge. This circumstance actually saved him. As the explosion unfolded, the northerner was tumbling down below and so managed to escape being shredded by the steel scales.

He didn’t fall very far. His journey into the chasm was cut short by a most welcome white cedar. The dense, tenacious boughs of the atrophied little tree, which had driven its roots right into the cliff, took the force of the falling human body unto themselves and snapped. But they saved the Son of the Snow Leopard. Two yards below the cedar there was a narrow ledge. It was there that Ga-Nor’s fall came to an end. A fall from such a height onto a hard surface should have broken Ga-Nor’s bones, but thanks to the tree he only lost consciousness.

When the tracker regained consciousness, he let out a low groan. He opened his eyes and lay there, trying to figure out where he was. The sun was at its zenith. Quite a bit of time had passed since their encounter with the Fish. The memory of the sorcerer’s creature caused him to cautiously move his arms and legs to check if they were still whole. Everything was in working order.

It didn’t take him long to figure out where he had fallen. Ga-Nor gave sincere thanks to Ug for his survival. If not for this ledge, beaten into the cliff by wind and rain, the northerner would have fallen and fallen. And from this height the City of a Thousand Columns seemed no larger than his palm.

Ga-Nor examined the cliff closely and came to a disappointing conclusion. There were, of course, plenty of cracks, but he wouldn’t be able to stick his fingers in them. Just a bit higher was the cedar with its broken branches. If he could grab it with his belt, he might be able to reach it. But would the roots be able to take his weight? Unlikely. And even if he did manage to climb up there, what then? He still wouldn’t be able to get to the trail.

There was nowhere to go from this bird’s ledge. Going up was impossible, and you’d only go down if you wanted to end your own life. So he’d meet death alone with the mountain wind, the sky, and hunger.

The tracker tried not to think about what might have happened to his comrades. Ta-Ana had been standing closer than any of them to the Fish; it’s unlikely she managed to survive. Da-Tur, even if he’d remained whole, would most likely assume his kinsman had perished. If so, his blood brother was probably already beyond the pass and on his way to the Gates of Six Towers.

During the fall, Ga-Nor had lost his sword and all he had left was his dagger. If he had two of them, the northerner would not hesitate to climb the wall with them. He’d performed similar feats before, and once he’d even climbed up the sheer wall of the Tower of Rain on a bet. But there was no point in dreaming of getting to the top with just one dagger. It’d be easier to sprout wings.

The entire day passed by in fruitless efforts to find a way out of this trap. Ga-Nor paced his little platform from edge to edge but it was all in vain. Curses and prayers were no help.

Toward evening, when there was not more than an hour left until sunset, the tracker was leaning against the wall, picking up stones lying around him and chucking them into the chasm. Realizing the hopelessness of his situation, he was numbly counting the remaining days Ug had given him. He figured that he’d suffer quite a bit before he died of starvation. It was a chilling prospect.

His emotions got the better of him and the northerner began to swear. Loudly. And as he expected, nothing happened. Then he felt a shower of dust and small pebbles come down on his head and the nape of his neck. Ga-Nor leapt to his feet, fearing a potential rockslide. But nothing of the sort happened. The northerner gazed upward tensely and waited. Finally, pebbles showered down on him again, and then a few slightly larger stones. All the signs pointed to the fact that someone was walking up there. At this point the Son of the Snow Leopard couldn’t care less whether it was friend or foe. Forty was too young an age to die like a winter squirrel caught in a snare. It would be far better to die by an enemy’s blade and have a little vacation with Ug than to turn into a pale ghost.

“Hey!” he yelled with all his strength. “Hey! I’m here! Down here!”

At first no one answered. But then he saw a person looking down at him from above. Drawn by his cries, the stranger had lain down on the edge of the trail, peering down into the precipice. Ga-Nor wanted to shout yet again, this time from joy, but then he examined the stranger more closely and the shout stuck in his throat. He knew that face. Neither dirt nor blood could change it. The sharp jaw, the shaggy red hair, the scar on his brow. Da-Tur. But his upper lip was twisted into an evil grimace, baring his straight white teeth, and his eyes… his eyes were green.

The creature who had been his blood brother stared at him unflinchingly. Without taking his gaze from the corpse, the northerner reached for his dagger and this served as a signal. The corpse, bristling with the enchantment of the Sdisian, pounced on Ga-Nor. Splaying his arms and legs like a spider he fell to the spot where the soldier had just been.

The sound the body made as it met the ledge caused the Son of the Snow Leopard, who was long accustomed to both death and blood, to shiver violently. It seemed like the crunch of the bones could be heard even in the Golden Mark. Despite the broken ribs protruding through both flesh and clothes, the shattered arms and the right leg that was sticking out of its socket at an unnatural angle, the dead man tried to get up.

Ga-Nor did not hesitate. Pulling out his dagger he slipped behind the creation of the Sdisian sorcerer and grabbed hold of its bloodstained red mane, pulling the head of the dead man back and cutting open its neck with one swift motion. The weapon made a vile sound as it scraped across the creature’s vertebrae. The tracker stopped only when the green light faded from Da-Tur’s eyes.

Breathing heavily, he took his prize—a broad dagger—from the twice-dead body and with his foot he pushed the corpse over the precipice. Ga-Nor was not going to risk having that thing next to him. The Son of the Snow Leopard did not feel any regret over his actions. Da-Tur was long dead, his soul in Ug’s halls, and the thing that remained in this world was only a shell subject to the Sdisian’s whims.

The sun had almost reached the mountain peak and long shadows were covering the valley below. Ga-Nor quickly began his climb.

It was all much simpler than he had expected; the northerner easily found holds with the help of the daggers. He saw a crack, drove the dagger into it, pulled himself up by one arm, planted the second knife just a bit higher, and pulled himself up again. Over and over again. The Son of the Snow Leopard had no fear of heights and he was slowly but surely coming closer to the edge that would be his salvation. When no more than two yards remained until he reached it, the tracker paused and allowed himself a short rest. The top part of the cliff was far more difficult than all that had come before. The cracks were smaller. And the wind had picked up, too, threatening to blow him into the chasm.

Ga-Nor reached the very top just as darkness fell. Recalling Da-Tur’s fate he cautiously raised his head over the edge. Allowing his eyes to get accustomed to the darkness, he studied the area thoroughly. No one there. Wheezing in relief, he rolled over the edge and immediately sprung to his feet, menacingly clutching a dagger in each hand.

There were neither corpses nor Sdisian sorcerers. It was empty. Quiet. Ta-Ana’s body was nowhere to be found. That caused his hackles to rise. The tracker peered intently into the darkness, prepared to do battle, but no one attacked him. Whatever had become of the archer, she wasn’t here.

Ga-Nor saw Da-Tur’s sword lying right there on the trail. He picked it up and set off at a brisk pace for the pass, looking around constantly. The Son of the Snow Leopard had not yet given up hope of reaching the Towers and warning the commander. Perhaps it was not too late.

Before the War of the Necromancers the lands of the Empire stretched into Nabator itself and did not end at the Boxwood Mountains. All of what was now called the Borderlands had been part of the Empire. Cities and villages grew up in the valleys through which the trade routes wended their way. But everyday life shattered when the Damned appeared. From that point onward, these lands were abandoned by the Empire. Their dark fame spread too wide. Only the highlanders dared to live in the cheerless, cold valleys.

The people left, but the cities like Gerka remained. Eight of the Spires, watchtowers built by the Sculptor himself, were also abandoned. Only the ninth, dubbed the Alert Tower, was still used by the armies of the Empire. The ancient books tell that the Sculptor carved out these towers at the same time he created the legendary Gates. Soaring upward of sixty yards in height, constructed of black stone, with a multitude of arrow loops, they had stood for a thousand years.

From the outside you would never be able to tell that the last Spire in use had experienced many wars over the years. It looked exactly as it had the day its construction was finished. It seemed fragile and lovely, as if the Sculptor had not been a human, but a Je’arre. Some people said that the legendary master took a flow of mountain air into his hands and fashioned it into this shape of celestial beauty. And then he turned that air into stone.

In the stories told to us by our elders, it was said that until the War of the Necromancers, the watchmen in the towers could easily converse with their colleagues who were located in the other eight Spires. Perhaps there was an element of truth in these stories, but at the present time they seemed like fairy tales.

There were similar whispers that there was a vault under the tower, sealed nowadays, where the Paths of Petals slumber. Through them, a soldier could instantly travel to the Spire that required his assistance. But this too became legend long ago. The Walkers can no longer control the Petals.

The Sculptor built the Alert Tower not far from the road that led to two passes. Ga-Nor reached it at midday. From a distance, the tracker could see that there were dozens of vultures circling over the cliffs beyond which the Alert Tower was located. The Son of the Snow Leopard stopped and frowned. To an attentive man, such a congregation of scavengers spoke volumes.

The reality confirmed his worst fears. A gallows had been constructed in front of the Spire, and three dead men in the uniform of Imperial soldiers were dangling from it. All the rest were scattered below the walls; they hadn’t even found the time to bury them. Replete with the meat of the fresh corpses, the vultures were shrieking nastily at one another, fighting over the tastiest morsels.

The tower had new masters.

Nabatorians.

Ga-Nor hid behind some rocks and studied his enemies. What had happened was beyond his comprehension. Apparently a detachment of enemy troops had slipped through the pass and slaughtered the watchmen. The last part didn’t really surprise Ga-Nor. In former times, two hundred of the most select soldiers had served here, but recently the commander of the Gates had been sending about twenty. And sometimes not even that many.

The long years of peace had given them the impression of security. And as usual, it was a false impression.

And now it had come to a head. The watchmen had been caught unawares. They hadn’t even managed to raise the alarm. Twenty soldiers had no chance whatsoever against a hundred well-trained black-haired warriors.

The Nabatorians were making themselves at home and had already begun to settle into the Spire. That could only mean one thing—they weren’t expecting any danger from the direction of the Gates. What had happened to the fortress?

Ga-Nor stopped losing himself in speculation when cavalry appeared on the southern road. The northerner began to count, but he gave up at six hundred. A large squadron of pikemen and crossbowmen passed by next. Apparently, an entire army was gathering beneath the walls of the citadel. Ga-Nor wondered what the King of Nabator was expecting. The Gates were not so easy to take.

Throughout the day, companies of soldiers kept passing along the route. Ga-Nor also saw a group of six Sdisian sorcerers and dozens of their acolytes. A score of Fish slowly lumbered by, and nearly eight hundred Morts ran past swiftly. Two hundred creatures, equipped with enormous, powerful bows, floated past him, hovering over the ground. He recognized them as Burnt Souls. Judging from everything he had seen, the perpetual enemy of the Empire, the Kingdom of Nabator, had signed a treaty with Sdis and amassed a considerable force.

The tracker could not figure out what to do next. It would be sheer idiocy to remain where he was. They’d see him sooner or later. Fleeing into the mountains and waiting for it all to be over was unbefitting a Son of the Clan of the Snow Leopard. Should he try to make for the Gates? That was the most insane course of action he could think of. There was no way he could break through the enemy lines.

He put off the decision for the time being and remained where he was, having decided that it was best to take things slowly.

Toward nightfall he began scowling. The weather had turned cold and severe, and leaden clouds had enveloped the valley in a thick veil. And then the clouds burst, and the driving rain chased the enemy soldiers into the tower. The birds feasting on the corpses took to the air with indignant squawks. Stumbling and slipping in the greasy mud, a hundred corpses under the supervision of five Whites marched by, awkwardly keeping pace with the sergeant’s drums. Then the road was empty.

The northerner was beginning to think that under the cover of the inclement weather it might be worth the risk to try to sneak into the town by the Gates at the very least. There he could see what was happening and then decide what to do next.

At that moment two men exited the tower. Wrapping their cloaks around themselves, they picked up some shovels and headed in the direction of the hidden northerner. All he could do was try to refrain from bringing attention to himself. It shouldn’t really be all that difficult. It’s not particularly easy to catch sight of someone who’s lying up to his ears in mud.

The men halted about ten paces away from the Son of the Snow Leopard and began digging a pit.

“Damn that sergeant! He’s inside warming his ass up, and what about us?”

“We’re on the outs, like always!” agreed the second man. “I’d like to choke the life out of that bastard.”

“Oh yeah, you’ll choke him!” grumbled the first. “He’ll outlive us all, the rascal. He should be the one trudging about in the rain, digging a grave. I didn’t sign up for this!”

He huffed, angrily cast his shovel to the ground, grumbling curses, and walked over toward the place where Ga-Nor was hiding. Standing over him, the man began to untie his trouser strings. The Son of the Snow Leopard, realizing that he would soon be inundated not just by the rain, but by a much more unpleasant stream, rose up to his full, not insignificant height.

The Nabatorian thought that a demon had risen from the earth and he pissed his half-undone trousers with fear. The northerner swung his sword blindly and then leaped over the body as it fell into the mud and rushed toward his second adversary.

When it was all over he cast a quick glance at the tower. Grabbing the first body by the feet, he dragged it behind the cover of the rocks. Then he hid the second corpse. All this took about a minute. Sooner or later someone would come out into the rain to see how the gravediggers’ work was going. It would be a good idea to be as far away as possible at that moment.

He’d killed the second Nabatorian with a blow to the temple from his sword hilt. It would be thoughtless to soil the man’s clothes with blood, especially when they would fit so well. The redheaded warrior exchanged his clothes for the other’s quickly, and then he concealed his face beneath the hood of the cloak. He folded up his kilt and clan scarf and took them with him.

Four dozen horses were standing beneath an enclosed canopy attached to the side of the Alert Tower. Three of them were still saddled. He took one of the animals by the reins and led it out onto the road.

The foul weather had driven off the Nabatorian patrols to such an extent that no one bothered to stop a solitary rider. After an hour the northerner spied the small town spread out before the Gates and he grunted in surprise. He’d expected to stumble across ashes and ruin, as well as the enemy army. But the town seemed untouched, as if thousands of humans and nonhumans had never been there.

The tracker slowed his horse to a walk. Where had the enemy army disappeared to? It couldn’t have just vanished into thin air, unless, of course, that was something the Walkers could do.

He was riding slowly down the town’s only street when three riders appeared from beyond a turn and made their way toward him. He remained calm. The soldiers rode by him slowly, disinterestedly glancing at the emblem of one of the Nabatorian companies sewn into his cloak, and went on their way without saying a word.

That worked out quite well.

All at once, the citadel emerged from the shroud of rain. Four of the six towers were in ruins and the Wings were flung wide open. Until this moment Ga-Nor hadn’t really entertained the notion that the Gates could really have fallen. He could not imagine how this happened. Who was to blame for such a blunder? Who was responsible for the fact that the enemy had entered the lands of the Empire?

“Hey, you!”

He pulled at the bridle and turned around. Two men with crossbows were standing in the road.

“Are you from the tower?”

Ga-Nor couldn’t deny that, so he nodded.

“With a message for the commander?”

He nodded again. One of the Nabatorian soldiers frowned.

“Why so shy, friend?”

“Would you feel like chatting after bumping along for an hour in the rain?”

Ga-Nor tried to soften out his hard “r,” which would give him away as a native of the north.

“Well, all right. On with you.”

He thanked Ug that the war dogs hadn’t bothered to peek under his cloak. There’s no way he could explain away his red hair. Redheads are a rarity in Nabator, where almost everyone is swarthy and black-haired.

It would be smart to turn back while he still could. The mountains were vast; he could easily hide himself there. But it would be even better to head west. Sooner or later he’d reach the Golden Mark, and from there he could reach the Empire by sea. But… There they were, the Wings. Five more minutes and he’d already be home.

Ga-Nor came to a decision.

At the turn they tried to stop him but he hollered, dug his heels into the horse’s sides, and, not paying any heed to the outraged cries behind him, galloped through the inner courtyard. He trampled an idiot who didn’t have time to jump aside, hacked away at a fumbling halberdier with his sword, and then passed through the gate of the Viceroy into the lands of the Empire.

Horns sounded behind his back.