Songsmith

10

The countryside around them was wild and empty of any sign of humankind. Steel Talon soared off into a sky shading into the purples of late evening, presumably searching for a place to sleep through the night. As the travelers rode across fields of tough, pale green grass, they saw no roads, no paths save game trails. This portion of Arvon seemed uninhabited, in contrast to the countryside Eydryth knew.

“We must be far to the northwest of Kar Garudwyn,” she said, tilting back on the Keplian’s rump to study the emerging stars, using them to gauge their relative location. “My father and I did not go far into the northwest because we were told that it was largely deserted, and such seems to be the case.”

They passed no farmsteads, no villages, saw no distant lights. Herds of pronghorns and deer stared at them curiously, not particularly alarmed at their presence. “Man is not a predator they know,” Alon observed. “We are indeed far from any villages or farmsteads. How far do you think we are from Kar Garudwyn?”

“Four days’ ride—perhaps more—but that is only a guess,” she replied. “If my reckoning is correct, we should strike the edge of Bluemantle lands late tomorrow or early the next day. Then we will make better time, traveling the roads.”

“Perhaps we should not go to Kar Garudwyn immediately. Perhaps we should seek Yachne first,” he suggested.

Eydryth shifted position, trying unsuccessfully to ease the sore muscles in her thighs and buttocks and sighed deeply. “No,” she said, after a moment’s consideration. “We must go to Kar Garudwyn first.”

“Why?” he challenged. “Yachne is the threat. The sooner I deal with her, the sooner your foster-father will be safe.”

Eydryth repressed a shudder as she remembered precisely how her companion proposed to “deal” with the renegade witch. But she forced herself to mask her feelings as she responded, evenly, “Because if we can but reach Kar Garudwyn, there is a Place of Power nearby, where Kerovan can seek refuge. It is called the Setting Up of the Kings. From what I know of the workings of magic, if Kerovan went there, Yachne’s summoning spell could not pull him away; he would be protected.”

“If it is a place of great Power, that could be true,” Alon conceded reluctantly.

“Also,” the songsmith added, “after Kerovan is safe, we would then have help in our search for Yachne.”

“What kind of help?” he asked, skeptically.

“My foster-sister, Hyana, could probably scry out the witch’s whereabouts. Then Joisan and Sylvya would ride with us to seek her. All of them are Wise Women to be reckoned with.”

Alon’s only reply was a noncommittal grunt. Eydryth bit her lip, concerned about him. This surly, brooding man seemed not at all the companion she had been coming to regard as a friend during the past six days. Can it be only six days? she wondered, dazedly. It seems as though I have known him forever…

They halted for the night only when it grew so dark (the moon would not rise until long after midnight) that even Monso and Alon were having difficulty picking a path, and Eydryth had been riding blind for a long time. They camped in a meadow that was surrounded on three sides by forest some distance away. Tall growths of tangled wild rosebushes shielded them from the brisk northern breeze, their blossoming fragrance pervading the air, heady and sweet.

By the time they had unpacked and tended the Keplian, the travelers were almost too tired to eat, themselves. Hastily they swallowed a cold meal, since Eydryth advised against lighting a fire. “It would be best not to flaunt our presence,” she cautioned Alon as they spread out their bedrolls.

“Why?” Alon said. “We have seen no sign of anyone but ourselves. Every land has its brigands, but would outlaws roam so far from homesteads and villages?”

“I know not,” she said quietly. “My concern lies with the possible presence of other… dangers. Arvon, like Escore, holds perils for the unwary.” She glanced cautiously around her. “Perhaps we should stand watches.”

“Monso will warn if anyone comes,” Alon pointed out. “If we are to make good time on the morrow, we will need a full night’s sleep.” Eydryth agreed, knowing that any animal’s senses were far superior to her own.

But even though she was weary, snuggled warmly in her cloak and blankets, slumber eluded the songsmith, chased away by her uneasy thoughts, and questions that only time would answer. Will Dahaun’s red mud cure my father? Will we reach Kerovan in time to warn him? Will our warning be enough to save him, or will Yachne be able to summon him to her no matter where he may be, or how we try to protect him?

And lastly, and most worrisome of all: Alon is changing before my eyes. He is suspicious and morose… not himself.

Why? And, more importantly, what can I do to halt what is happening?

Her eyelids were finally growing heavy. With a sigh, Eydryth let them close…

She awakened with a start when Monso snorted loudly. It seemed that sleep had only claimed her for a moment, but the waning moon had risen, shedding a pallid light over the meadow. Eydryth lay in her blankets, every sense alert, listening. Monso snorted again. Last year’s dead grass and bushes crackled as he pawed restlessly.

The songsmith turned her head on her arm, moving slowly, as if she still slept, but her eyes were open, scanning the distant woods, the field surrounding them. In the darkness, nothing moved. Nothing… for many heartbeats, nothing…

Then, at the corner of her vision, something flickered. Alarmed now, Eydryth sat up, straining her eyes in the dim moonlight. Many faintly glowing shapes were drifting toward their campsite, borne on the night breeze. The songsmith reached for her companion’s shoulder, nudged it. “Alon!” she whispered.

He awoke with a start, then sat up. “What… what is it?”

“Rouse you! Danger!”

As he rubbed blearily at his eyes, still groggy with sleep, Eydryth threw aside her blanket, pulled on her boots, then picked up the quarterstaff that lay beside her. With one swift movement, her sword was in her hand. She stood poised and ready.

Once more she attempted to discern what those wafting shapes were. They glowed a sickly greenish color against the distant blackness of the forest, a green shot through with streaks of pale purple. Eydryth had seen slime growths on the walls of caves glow eerily in just the same way. What could these floating creatures be?

Monso suddenly sounded a stallion’s shrill battle-challenge, teeth bared to snap, forelegs ready to strike. The Keplian’s nostrils flared widely; then he snorted again, as though he scented something noxious. Eydryth hastily fastened a lead-shank to the stallion’s halter, then tied him to a scrubby tree beside their packs.

By the time she finished, Alon was on his feet—boots on, sword out and ready. As they stood together, his shoulder brushed Eydryth’s; for a moment she fought the urge to lean against him, take his hand. Human comfort seemed very desirable in the face of the strange creatures bobbing ever closer to them. “What is it?” he whispered.

Eydryth pointed to those faintly luminous wind-riding shapes. “Look over there. Five… six… ten… at least a dozen of them, perhaps more.”

“A dozen of what?” he demanded.

She shrugged, knowing he could see her clearly in the moonlight, even though his face was naught but a dim blur to her own eyes. “I cannot be sure… but I believe they may be web-riders.”

He gave her a quick, incredulous glance. “But they are only tales… legends! I have traveled the length and breadth of Escore, and never have I heard of them as anything but stories to terrify children when told before a roaring fire in midwinter!”

“In Arvon, like Escore, many old tales prove to have all-too-real substance,” she reminded him. “And if they are indeed web-riders… we may not live to see the morn, Alon.”

Just then the minstrel caught a faint whiff of an odor that made her nose wrinkle. Rank it was, as though their visitors were long-dead and decayed. “Whatever they are, their smell tells me they come from the Left, not the Right-Hand Path.”

Alon sniffed, too. Eydryth saw the white blur his hand made as he traced a glowing sign in the air. With a muttered curse, he jerked his fingers back, as if they had been burned. “You have the right of it,” he agreed. “There is no doubt that they mean us harm.”

“Could Yachne have sent them?”

“Possible. It is also possible that they are denizens of this land. Perhaps they are the reason that no one lives here.”

The thought made Eydryth shudder as she watched those distant shapes drifting closer… closer. “Can you see them clearly?” she whispered to Alon.

“They appear to be greenish-white creatures riding atop those purple filaments,” he said, his voice hardly more than a breath against her ear. “They are perhaps two handspans in width, with long, many-jointed legs…”

“Like spiders?”

“More like some ugly cross between a spider and a crab,” he said. “They seem half-transparent, as though they are so light that they wove those webs, then cast them adrift on the night breeze and leaped upon them to ride them here.” He shuddered in his turn. “They are fanged, and have pincers, or claws. I would wager that they are poisonous, like spiders.”

“You have just described a web-rider,” she said grimly.

“I know.”

Eydryth glanced around her, wondering whether they should make a stand here, or try to run. Her breath caught in her throat, and her fingers clamped onto Alon’s forearm with a force that made him gasp. “More of them… many more…” she whispered. “We are surrounded!”

As the fell creatures bobbed closer, Eydryth could make out what Alon had described. Their eyes gleamed tiny and reddish in the faint moonlight. Their pincers and fangs dripped with venom. Could they be intelligent? There was no way to know. One thing was certain… they were at a grave disadvantage trying to fight in the darkness. “Can you summon light?” she asked the Adept. “Enough so I can see to use my sword?”

“I can,” he said, and made several gestures. A wan violet light flickered unevenly over the tramped-down grass marking their campsite. “But I do not believe that swordplay is the best way to fight them.”

“Then what is?” she countered, edging around him until they stood back-to-back, her sword in her hand. By now the web-riders were so close that some of them were little more than a sword-length from the perimeter of their campsite. The creatures seemed to be at the mercy of the breeze, with little ability to direct their floating webs. That is one small thing in our favor, Eydryth thought.

“I may be able to—,” Alon began; then he broke off as Monso screamed again and lunged toward the circling invaders. The lead-shank parted with a snap. “No, Monso!” Alon shouted, dashing up to catch the Keplian’s halter. But the stallion reared violently, pulling his master clean off his feet, then, with a toss of his head, flung Alon down. Eydryth heard him land with a thud, heard him gasping, trying to regain the breath that had been driven from his lungs.

The songsmith started after the black half-bred as he plunged at the web-riders, shrieking his battle cry. A flashing forehoof struck, sending one of their attackers fluttering to the ground. Monso pounced like a cat, trampling the downed web-rider into the short turf.

Eydryth managed to grab Monso’s halter, then halt him. She was surprised at his sudden docility, but the reason for it soon became clear. As he took a step backward, the stallion nearly fell when his right foreleg buckled beneath him. The songsmith glanced down at the leg, but the light was too dim for her to see clearly. Bending down, she ran an expert hand down the slim, sinewed length, discovering a rapidly swelling area above the knee. It was hot and throbbing. “Alon!” she cried. “He’s been stung or bitten!”

The Adept was already hobbling toward them, still wheezing. He flung himself down beside the Keplian. “We’ll have to get a poultice on it immediately, to draw out the poison,” Eydryth gasped. “I have herbs and bandages in my—”

Alon shook his head, halting her words. “Just hold them off for a moment,” he ordered. Eydryth straightened, her sword at the ready. The web-riders ringed them now, but none had crossed into the light Alon had summoned. The songsmith kept one eye on them, while stealing glances at her companion as he grasped the stallion’s leg in both hands, all the while muttering under his breath. Violet light shimmered from between his fingers.

Catching a flash of motion in the corner of her eye, the bard whirled, raising sword into guard position. She was barely in time to duck and parry as a glowing shape swooped down at her head. Seen this close, the web-rider appeared more crab than insect as its pincers snapped viciously, barely a handspan from her eyes.

Repelled, she slashed upward, her sword catching the creature in its midsection, slicing it in two. It made a shrill noise that hurt her ears as the blade clove its body. Even as she winced back from that eerie sound, a glowing greenish ichor sprayed outward from the dying thing, sending a spray of droplets spattering across her right hand.

Eydryth screamed with pain as the web-rider’s “blood” seared her hand. Her skin felt as though she had been doused with liquid fire. Clamping her teeth onto her lip, she quickly caught up her blanket and wiped the noxious slime off her flesh, but the ichor still burned fiercely; her vision blurred with the pain of it.

Swallowing, she forced herself to flex her fingers, pick up her dropped sword. Perhaps some virtue emanated from the quan-iron in its gryphon’s-head hilt, for, as she touched it, the pain eased a little, though she still had to stifle a groan every time she moved her fingers.

The web-riders were now closing in on every side as the breeze picked up. Eydryth caught up the blanket, wrapped it around her left hand and forearm, using it as makeshift shield to buffet the drifting creatures away.

With her right hand, she wove intricate patterns with the point and edge of her sword, parrying and thrusting, trying to watch everywhere at once. Even as she strove, she recognized that her efforts could not save them for long; sooner or later an attacker would swoop at her from behind her back, and she would find herself stung or bitten.

For long moments Eydryth held them off, moving with a precision that she had never employed against a human opponent. Suddenly she sensed something behind her, nearly brushing her hair!

Stifling a shriek, she whirled, only to see Alon behind her, his hand sweeping in a blow aimed at her head. She ducked, wondering if he had gone mad, but a second later, with a muffled curse, he grabbed her shoulder, holding her steady, then knocked a web-rider off her head with his bare hand. Eydryth shrank back as he struck it to the earth with the songsmith’s quarterstaff. Quickly he pounded the staff’s steel-shod butt into the center of the creature’s back. The web-rider squealed, convulsed and died.

“We have to get away!” the songsmith shouted, pointing to the east. “Into the woods, where the wind cannot carry them! How is Monso? Can he move?”

“I drew the poison out,” he gasped, “but he’ll need—” He broke off as he batted away another of their attackers.

“But can we get away?”

“We don’t have to run,” he promised grimly. “Just hold them off until I get my wand…”

Quickly he upended the saddlebag, spilling its contents, then grabbed the branch of elder. Extending it before him, he began to hum, then thread the fingers of his free hand through the air, as though combing it, or gathering up something invisible. The breeze against Eydryth’s face intensified, tossing her hair into her eyes, plucking at the loose sleeves of her shirt.

Even as he continued those gathering motions with one hand, Alon began to make circling motions in the air with the wand. The wind picked up, now blowing so hard that Eydryth staggered, then braced herself against it. Something long and dark lashed her face, stinging her eyes, and for a terror-stricken moment she thought one of the web-riders had landed there, but her attacker proved to be naught but Monso’s tail. She brushed the clinging horsehair aside, realizing that the sudden gale must be Alon’s doing. Blinking, she looked about her for the web-riders.

With that first gust, the noxious creatures had been blown away from their intended prey. Eydryth sighed with relief and lowered her sword, painfully loosing her swollen fingers from their tight clench about its hilt, holding it now with her left hand.

As the minstrel watched, fascinated, Alon began to make circling motions with the tip of the wand, just as if he were stirring soup. The wind began to swirl around the massed web-riders, blowing them against each other. Each glowing shape was caught up by that tiny maelstrom, caught past all escaping. Within moments their attackers resembled a small, sickly greenish cyclone.

“Good!” Eydryth raised her voice to be heard above the wind. “How far away can you be from that thing and still keep them so prisoned?” She wondered whether she could find some way to cut them down while they were helpless. Cold iron seemed to work against them… but the throbbing of her hand was a warning against close-quarters sword-wielding.

If we can get far enough away before his power over the web-riders fails, then we can surround ourselves with trees and a protective circle, so no menace can come at us again this night, she thought. Then she remembered the Keplian’s injured leg. Monso could not carry them; they would be limited to the distance they could make afoot.

“I have other plans for these vermin,” Alon told her, in a voice that was cold and even with suppressed rage. So saying, he closed his eyes, concentrating. After a moment, sweat sheened his forehead. The whirlwind with its spinning, squeaking inhabitants seemed to glow even brighter—

—and then, without warning, exploded into flame!

Even though she had been considering ways to kill the evil things herself, Eydryth bit back a cry of protest. Kill them, yes, but to burn them alive—!

For many heartbeats the trapped creatures struggled against the inferno that was consuming them, shrilling protests in high-pitched hisses and cries. Then, just when the songsmith thought she could stand the sounds no more, and must run gibbering away into the night, silence fell. Of their attackers, there remained naught but ash drifting on the soft breeze.

Eydryth clenched her teeth as the pain of her wounded hand reawakened, but it was not the pain that made her stomach turn over queasily. In the waning moonlight, she had caught a glimpse of Alon’s face as he contemplated his victory.

The Adept was smiling.

It took the travelers until the first faint flush of dawn to tend each other’s wounds (Alon had a livid welt along the side of his jaw where the venom from one of the creatures had sprayed). After poulticing and binding up each other’s wounds, they turned their attention to the Keplian. The stallion’s leg showed only a slight swelling now, but Alon worked again at drawing out any remaining vestiges of poison.

The stallion could not be ridden until the swelling was completely gone, but Alon decided that he would be able to carry their packs.

Finally, when all their tasks were over, Eydryth sat on her bedroll, regarding the pearl-touched sky with a listless indifference. She knew that she should climb to her feet and set off across those meadows again, but her body cried out for respite. She felt that she could not have been more wearied if she had walked every step from Escore to Arvon without halting.

“We ought to go,” she murmured to Alon, who was sitting beside her, slumped over with his elbows resting on his drawn-up knees, head bowed with an exhaustion like unto her own.

He managed to raise his head, stared at her with dark-ringed eyes. “Monso needs a few hours to recover from any lingering effects of that creature’s venom,” he said. “And neither of us will get far afoot without rest. Sleep, Eydryth. I intend to.”

Feeling like a traitor—What if Yachne is even now closing in on Kerovan?—Eydryth nevertheless realized that her companion had the right of it. She nodded at him, then tumbled over onto her blankets, pulled an edge of her battered cloak across her and knew no more.

Alon’s nudge roused her midmorn, and, with a groan, she rolled over and sat up groggily. A bath, she thought longingly. If only we had Dahaun’s red pools hereabouts. Her nostrils wrinkled at the smell of food, simmering in a pot over a small, nearly smokeless fire.

“Here,” the Adept said, extending a cup filled with thick, hot gruel that was flavored with dried fruit. “Try this. You need to eat.”

“I cannot…” she protested, feeling her stomach lurch. “I don’t feel as though I could ever eat again.”

He gave her a level glance. “Food will aid your body in overcoming the effects of the web-rider’s poison,” he said. “If you do not eat, you’ll be too weak to walk, and, remember, Monso goes unburdened today, save for our packs.” The cup moved toward her again. “Try… please.”

Dubiously, she took the thick stuff, sipped cautiously. As soon as she had downed the first few swallows, the churning in her middle quieted. The world around her seemed to solidify, brighten; a measure of strength returned to her limbs.

When it was time to go, she was able to stand and walk unassisted. As the travelers set out, Steel Talon swooped toward them, alighting on a nearby branch. The falcon screamed excitedly, flapping his wings with agitation. Alon stopped to stare at the bird intently. “What was he trying to tell you?” Eydryth asked, when he began walking again.

“I cannot be sure,” he said. “Contact between us is tenuous at best. But he believes that his quest may be coming to an end. He feels that soon he may be able to join his master.”

Eydryth glanced over her shoulder at the bird, seeing him wing upward into the skies. “Poor Steel Talon…”

Alon’s expression was grim. “We cannot help him. Best we concentrate on helping ourselves and those who are depending upon us.”

They walked throughout the rest of the morning, trying to keep a steady, swift pace, chewing hunks of journeybread for their nooning without halting, then slogging determinedly into the afternoon. Eydryth thought longingly of the swiftness with which the Keplian had borne them as she forced herself to keep up with the others. Every muscle in her body seemed to be sprained or bruised.

Alon was quiet again, brooding, and she did not like the look in his eyes when she happened to meet them. His thoughts, she could tell, were far from lightsome. Something was growing in him, some darkness of spirit that she feared.

In the early afternoon they climbed a long, sloping hill, then halted on its summit to breathe and scan the countryside before them. The hill sloped downward to a raw gorge of boulder-strewn, earth-colored land that seemed to be filled with a faint haze, despite the sun’s brightness overhead. The rift extended as far in either direction as the songsmith could see.

“Our path lies straight across yon gorge,” she said, eyeing it dubiously. “But I like not the looks of it.”

“Kar Garudwyn lies in that direction?” he asked, pointing.

“Yes. But that looks like very rough ground. Do you think we should turn aside, find a way around it?”

“Finding a way around would take us many extra hours of walking.” Alon pointed out the truth. “The entire stretch is no more than half a mile wide. Despite its raw look, the ground appears solid. If we take it slowly over those rocks, there should be no danger.”

Leading Monso, he started off down the hill. Eydryth followed, growing ever more repelled by this strange, narrow floor to this small divide. For a moment she wanted to shout to Alon not to venture onto this ground, but she forced herself to silence, remembering the urgency of their journey.

It will not take more than a half-hour to cross, she judged, eyeing the land before them, trying to find comfort in her thought. Alon has the right of it… finding a way around would delay us by half a day or more…

Ahead of her, Alon stepped from the green verge of grass onto that churned earth. He waved at her. “It is solid. Come ahead!”

The songsmith nerved herself to step over that border. She took a few strides, then gasped as a section of ground that had seemed perfectly steady turned abruptly, twisting her ankle. She barely saved herself from a fall by quick use of her staff. Hobbling forward, she felt another chunk of earth turn beneath her heel. “Alon!” she cried. “Wait!”

He stumbled, nearly falling, catching himself on Monso’s ragged mane, then halted and stood staring about him, his expression one of bewilderment and growing unease. Eydryth limped up to join him; then she, in turn, regarded the landscape surrounding them.

The green hillsides had vanished. Now the rock-strewn gorge seemed to stretch before them—and behind them—into infinity. Overhead, the sun had vanished, but a brassy, glaring sky made the land about them shimmer with heat. There was no living vegetation. Rather, dead trees seemed to have been cast down like a child’s jackstraws, and the underbrush was withered to a spectral ashy grey. Shadowy vines looped and coiled, snaking across the broken, churned ground. They were not living, for they bore no hint of green, rather resembled long-dead serpents.

As they stood there, a tremor rippled through the soil beneath their feet, making them both cry out and clutch at Monso, who threw up his head and whinnied with terror. A long crevice opened in the rocky ground, even as they watched. Finally the shaking quieted and their feet were once more planted on steady footing.

“Alon…” Eydryth’s words died on her lips, and she could only stand mute, knowing her fear must be written upon her features.

He nodded, shoulders sagging heavily. “I have been a fool. If only I weren’t so tired I could have sensed it…” His mouth tightened grimly. “The entire place… ensorcelled. This is Yachne’s doing. Her trap. And I marched us straight into it.”