The Dark-Eyes War

Chapter 6

He had become a creature of the night, a man who hid in shadows and walked with wraiths at his shoulder. Not long ago Torgan Plye had been a successful merchant, renowned throughout the Southlands for the quality of his wares and his refusal to back down when bargaining. He'd been wealthy, comfortable, and respected, if not liked.

Now his gold was all but gone. His wares had been taken from him by the Fal'Borna. Every a'laq in the clan lands wanted him dead; every Qirsi warrior on the plain wanted to be the one to kill him. He himself had killed; he'd snapped Jasha's neck with his own hands, and he had exposed Q'Daer of the Fal'Borna and Grinsa, the Forelander, to the deadly plague that had taken the lives of so many white-hairs. Their deaths were on his head as well.

Torgan should have been miserable. Until the night when he killed his fellow merchant and the Qirsi, he had considered himself a coward. The Torgan of old would have been paralyzed with fear, ashamed of his actions. He would have been waiting to die.

It was enough to make this new Torgan, a man he barely recognized, laugh out loud. For too long he had allowed himself to be controlled by his fears and browbeaten by the white-hairs, of whose magic he was so afraid. Two turns ago-it seemed so much longer!-when he first realized that he had been responsible for spreading the plague to S'Plaed's sept, Torgan had been racked by guilt. His time as a prisoner of the Fal'Borna had changed him, made him bolder. He had never felt so alive, so free, so strong.

It had been several days since he left Jasha's limp form lying on the plain-he'd lost track of the exact count. His nose still hurt from the blow he'd received from Sirj, the young Mettai, but the pain had dulled. He probably looked a mess, but that was a small price to pay for his freedom. He'd gotten away from the white-hairs and the Mettai early in the waning. Now the waning had progressed far enough that the moons did not rise until well after nightfall. Yet in just these few days, Torgan, who had never been much of a horseman before, and who had lost one eye to a coinmonger in his youth, had grown perfectly comfortable riding by starlight. It almost seemed that sleeping during the day and traveling at night had improved the vision in his remaining eye, allowing him to see in darkness, something that in the past would have bewildered him.

On this night, by the time Panya, the white moon, appeared on the eastern horizon, Torgan had already covered nearly a full league. He had been navigating by the stars. Seeing the moon rise, a bright sickle carving through the darkness, he realized that he'd been angling slightly toward the south. He adjusted his course a bit and rode on.

He'd been fortunate so far. He had avoided Fal'Borna septs and had managed to steer clear of any white-hair riders. The truth was, though, he didn't know what he'd do when he finally encountered the Qirsi. War was coming to the plain. He'd learned that much from Q'Daer before sickening the man with the small scrap of Mettai basket that he still carried. He wanted to make his way to the safety of Eandi land as quickly as possible, but a part of him also wanted to exact some revenge on the sorcerer race. The Fal'Borna had robbed him of his wealth, humiliated him time and again, and threatened so often to kill him that Torgan had come to doubt that he'd ever see his native Tordjanne again. He wanted vengeance beyond what he'd reaped by killing Q'Daer and Grinsa. He wanted to be part of the war, to be counted among the Eandi soldiers who would soon be fanning across the plain.

So when he spotted the sept ahead and slightly to the north, he stopped, his eves fixed on the faint glow of spent cooking fires, and the small shelters illuminated by Panya's light. Then he turned and rode toward the settlement.

It was late, and no one stirred in the sept. Still, he stopped well short of the first shelters and covered the remaining distance on foot. He'd named the horse the Qirsi had given him Trey, after a farrier he'd known as a boy. The beast, like all Fal'Borna horses, was well trained and obedient. He left it behind, confident that it would stay put and keep quiet.

Torgan wasn't entirely certain what he intended to do once he reached the village, but he'd brought the scrap of Mettai basket with him. Now, as he walked, he pulled out his knife and cut away a small piece from that scrap, and tried to decide what to do with it.

He had sickened Q'Daer by hiding the piece of basket in the Fal'Borna's sleeping roll. Clearly he wouldn't be able to get that close to any of the Fal'Borna living in this settlement. Instead, he scanned the sept for a place he could leave the cutting where it wouldn't be noticed but would infect as many as possible. As soon as he spotted the grinding stones, it came to him. The grain, of course. What better way to spread the plague than through their food supply?

He stayed clear of the paddock at the west end of the sept, fearing that if he frightened the horses they'd wake the Fal'Borna. As it was, his mere presence in the settlement drew a few low whinnies from the beasts. Three wild dogs searching for food at the fringe of the sept growled at him. But though Torgan stopped in his tracks, his heart hammering as he watched for movement, no one awoke. After several moments, he went on toward the grinding stones and the large baskets of unground grain just beside them.

He didn't place the basket cutting in the largest of the grain baskets, but rather in the one nearest to the grinding stones. He didn't leave it where it could be seen, but neither did he bury it too deeply in the grain. The women who worked the stones would find it soon enough, and by the time they did it would be too late.

Satisfied that he had placed it as well as he could, Torgan began to retreat into the darkness. He slipped what was left of the basket scrap back into his pocket and sheathed his blade.

The dogs growled at him again as he slipped past them.

And that was when he heard the voices.

"There it is again!" one of them said. A man's voice, youthful, but strong. "The dogs, you mean."

"Yes. Over this way. Near the grain."

"It's probably rabbits, or something of that sort."

Torgan had to resist an urge to run, knowing that they'd hear him. He slowly backed farther into the shadows and lowered himself to the ground. He could see the men now. Both of them were broad and muscular, their white hair tied back in the way of Fal'Borna warriors. They reminded him of Q'Daer.

As they approached, one of the men shouted something at the dogs and scared the animals off.

"You see anything?" the other man asked.

The first man peered into the darkness, his gaze passing right over Torgan. After a moment he shook his head. "No, nothing."

"A rabbit or two won't eat much grain," the second man said. "We should get back to the horses in case those dogs come back."

His companion nodded, but continued to stare in Torgan's direction. A lone cloud drifted in front of Panya, darkening the plain somewhat.

"What is it?"

"I thought I saw something. Did the a'laq say anything to you about one of the horses getting loose?"

Torgan felt his mouth go dry, even as he thanked every god he could name for that stray cloud.

"Not that I remember. You see a horse?"

"I thought I did. I was probably imagining it, or looking at another dog." One of the horses whinnied again.

"Come on. Let's get back to the paddock."

Still the first man stared Torgan's way for another second or two. Then he gave up and followed his companion in the opposite direction.

Torgan closed his eyes and took several long, deep breaths, enjoying the smell of the plain grass and the very fact that he was still alive. At last, when he was certain that the men were far enough away, he climbed to his feet. Keeping in a low crouch, he crept back to Trey. He led the beast away on foot, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder, half expecting at any moment to see a Fal'Borna war party bearing down on him.

When he could no longer see the shelters or the dim glow of the fires, he remounted and rode on.

He rested a few times, but still managed to cover another two leagues or so before the sky in front of him began to brighten with the approach of dawn. Then, as he had each of the last several nights, he began to search for a place to bed down for the day. There were few copses in the central plain, but the closer he came to the Silverwater, the more he found. On this morning he found a small, dense cluster of trees along a rill that fed into the stream he'd been following. He dismounted, walked Trey to the center of the copse, and pulled out his sleeping roll.

Before lying down, he ate a small bit of dried meat and the last of his hard cheese. He'd left the company in a rush. Grinsa and Q'Daer were sickened but alive, and the two Mettai would have used their magic against him if he'd given them the chance. So Torgan had been forced to flee without much food in his travel sack. He'd managed to salt away a bit during their journeying, but he hadn't expected that he would wind up alone on the plain. Thus far he had rationed what little he had, and supplemented it with roots that he found along the way. At this point he would have paid handsomely for some meat, if only he had some gold and somewhere to spend it. But he wasn't starving, and he actually felt himself growing leaner.

"All part of the new Torgan," he muttered to himself.

Trey shook his head and snorted.

Torgan lay down, wrapped himself in a blanket, and soon fell into a deep slumber. He awoke once to the sound of hoofbeats when the sun was high overhead. He heard no voices, though, and the footfalls sounded relatively light. He assumed that a herd of rilda had gone past. In moments he was asleep again.

When next he woke, the sky had begun to darken and a cold wind had risen from the west. Was his mind playing tricks on him, or did he smell a hint of smoke riding that wind? Torgan threw off his blankets, hurried out of the copse, and scrambled up the bank of the rill back onto the plain. Looking westward, back the way he had come, he saw several small smudges of smoke rising from the ground. The sept? Had he actually managed to spread the Mettai woman's plague to that small settlement?

He shivered, blaming it on the wind. Then he returned to the copse, packed up his sleeping roll, and ate a few more bites of dried meat. When the sun had set, and Torgan thought it was dark enough, he led Trey out of the trees and resumed his ride toward the Silverwater.

Over the course of the next two nights, Torgan encountered no more septs, and while he would have been willing to use another piece of the cursed basket against another settlement, a part of him was relieved that he didn't have to. He'd come too close to being found by the Fal'Borna sentries that night. He didn't want to take such risks again.

On the third night after his foray into the settlement, he woke in yet another copse, ate a small meal, and began to ride just as he had the previous nights. The sky had clouded over and a light snow had begun to fall. There was little wind, and the air was cold, but not frigid. Torgan's spirits were high-he liked snow, and though he knew he was still in danger, he knew as well that he'd covered much ground since leaving the company. He sensed that he was drawing nigh to the Silverwater.

With the sky clouded over, he couldn't navigate as he had in recent nights, nor could he see as well. He tried to keep Trey on a straight path toward what he thought was east. Eventually the moons would rise, and even through the clouds he'd be able to see their glow. Then he'd be certain. "The moons won't be up tonight."

He reined Trey to a halt and looked around wildly, his pulse abruptly racing.

"Who said that?" he called.

He saw no one, and when he received no answer he started to wonder if he'd been imagining things. Maybe he'd spoken the words himself without realizing it. It did occur to him now that it must have been late in the waning.

This might well be Pitch Night, the last of the turn, when neither moon would rise.

If so, the morning would bring a new turn-the Celebration Moon, the last turn of the moons of this year.

Torgan looked around for another moment before clicking his tongue at Trey. The beast started forward once more.

"If tomorrow begins the Celebration Moon, then what does that make tonight?"

Torgan stopped again, his hands shaking.

"Who's there?" he shouted. He tried to sound angry, but even he could hear the fright in his voice.

"A friend," came the reply. And then laughter. Not of one voice, but of dozens.

Had the Fal'Borna found him? Was he surrounded by warriors here in the dark of the plain?

He considered spurring his horse to a gallop in an attempt to get away. He couldn't ride as well as the Fal'Borna, but Trey was a strong animal and had been trained by the clanspeople. It might work.

"You can't escape us."

Three times the voice had done that, but only now did Torgan take note. They were reading his thoughts. Yes, it had to be the Qirsi. Who else could do that?

"Let me show you."

Suddenly the grass around him seemed to be gleaming, as if some magical mist were rising from the ground. At first the light was soft, silvery, diffuse, like Panya's glow seeping through clouds on a hazy Planting night. But it hardened quickly, growing brighter, taking form.

Wraiths. A horde of them.

And at the fore, surrounded by men and women who clearly were Qirsi, their long white hair radiant, nearly blinding, stood Jasha Ziffel. His eyes glittered like white gems and his head was tilted to the side, as if he were a child asking a question of his father.

The wraith gestured at his neck. "You did this," he said.

Torgan shook his head. "I'm dreaming. You're not real."

"You've forgotten what day it is, Torgan. You've forgotten your moon lore."

The realization stole his breath. If the turn of the Celebration Moon began with the morrow, then this was Pitch Night of the Memory Moon. Some in the north and beyond the Border Mountains in the Forelands called it Bian's Moon. The dead walked the land this night. The wronged dead. They haunted those who had caused their deaths or tormented them during their lives.

He should have expected to see Jasha, and Grinsa and Q'Daer as well. But who were these others?

"What are these people doing here with you?" Torgan narrowed his eyes. "Are they from S'Plaed's sept? Or C'Bijor's Neck? I didn't do anything wrong to them! At that point I didn't know that the baskets were cursed!"

"They're not from S'Plaed's sept or the Neck," Jasha's wraith said. "They're from Q'Rohn's sept."

Torgan frowned. "I've never-"

"Three nights ago," one of the Qirsi said, his voice like an icy wind. "You poisoned our grain, spread the plague through our village. Twenty-seven died. We're fortunate it wasn't more."

Torgan said nothing. He sat his mount, staring at the dead-at his dead-until at last his gaze came to rest once more on Jasha.

"Where are the two white-hairs? The Forelander and the Fal'Borna?" Jasha shrugged. "They're not dead."

"What? That's impossible! I gave them the plague. Q'Daer was dying. Grinsa was starting to get sick. I saw them!"

"They're not dead," the wraith said again, with maddening equanimity.

It made no sense. They had to be dead. But clearly they weren't here.

"So what is it you want of me?" Torgan asked. He glanced at the Fal'Borna wraiths again, but quickly turned back to Jasha. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to look into the eyes of those other dead. For better or worse, he had known Jasha. For a brief time they might even have been friends, although he wasn't sure that the young merchant-

"We were never friends," Jasha said coldly. "I don't think you've ever had a friend."

"Stop doing that," Torgan said.

"Doing what?"

"You know full well what I mean! Stop reading my thoughts!" A terrible grin spread across the wraith's face. "No," he said.

"I don't care what you do," Torgan said. He flicked the reins and Trey started forward again. The creature seemed perfectly calm. If the wraiths bothered him, he showed no sign of it.

"He can't see us. Only you can."

Torgan ignored him, staring straight ahead. He knew better than to think that the ghosts would leave him alone. But if they were going to haunt him throughout the night, he could at least cover some ground at the same time.

"What do you know about wraiths, Torgan?" Jasha asked him. "What do you know about this night?"

Torgan refused to answer. The young merchant seemed to be floating along with him, as did the wraiths of the Fal'Borna. They didn't appear to be moving, yet they kept pace with Trey. In fact, they appeared to be coming closer, pressing in on him.

"Do you know that if you touch us, you'll cross over into the god's realm and be lost forever to the world of the living? Do you know that you don't even have to mean to touch us? It can just be an accident. A chance encounter."

The other wraiths laughed.

"Leave me alone," Torgan said.

Their laughter grew, and immediately Torgan wished that he'd kept silent.

"Leave you alone?" Jasha repeated, sounding delighted, as if Torgan had just shared a joke. "That's the last thing we want to do! There's so much each of us wants to say to you. One night is hardly enough."

Torgan clamped his mouth shut, determined not to say anything more to any of them.

Still the glowing figures closed in on him, eyeing him hungrily. Torgan tried to ignore them, but he couldn't help but wonder if what Jasha told him was true. Would he die if he touched one of them? Could the wraiths make him touch them? Could they kill him, in effect, by giving him no choice but to touch them?

"Of course it's true," Jasha said. "The dead cannot lie, Torgan. Bian forbids it. Isn't that ironic? The god known as the Deceiver demands the truth of all who dwell in his realm." The young merchant leered at him. "Do you know what else? Since we can read your thoughts, you can't lie to us, either. All those times you lied to me when I was alive; the way you deceived all of us at the end, when you sickened Grinsa and Q'Daer. And now that I'm dead I can finally have an honest conversation with you." He shook his head. "Don't you find that funny?"

Suddenly Jasha swung his fist at Torgan's face, making the merchant jerk away.

"I asked you if you thought that was funny," the wraith demanded, his voice so hard and cold that it could have been the god himself asking the question.

"No!" Torgan said. "I don't find any of this funny."

Jasha shook his head, grinning again. "No, I don't suppose you do. Aren't you going to beg for our forgiveness, Torgan?"

"Would it do me any good?"

Jasha laughed, a terrible sound, like boulders grinding against one another. "Now that's the Torgan Plye I know. Always looking to make that profit." He laughed again, then shook his glowing head. "No, Torgan. It wouldn't do you any good at all."

The moment he said this, two of the Fal'Borna wraiths broke away from the others, soaring up into the night sky, wheeling like hawks, and diving straight at Torgan's face.

Torgan ducked out of the way and pulled Trey's reins, making the horse veer off to the side.

Immediately two more wraiths did the same, coming directly at him again, so that once more he had to turn sharply. He'd barely recovered from that assault when a third pair swooped down at him. Soon they were diving toward him from every angle, so that he had to turn his horse repeatedly. It was as if he had stumbled upon a swarm of giant hornets. He did everything in his power to keep them from touching him, knowing that one mistake would mean his death. Torgan wasn't an accomplished rider, and he could feel the beast straining against his increasingly desperate attempts to turn. He also sensed that the horse was tiring. He tried reining the animal to a halt, but instantly the Fal'Borna wraiths altered their attacks and dove at him from the side. He had no choice but to spur his mount into motion again.

On and on it went. The wraiths, it seemed, were immune to fatigue, or perhaps by taking turns they kept themselves from growing weary. Torgan, though, could barely keep himself in the saddle. The muscles in his back, legs, and arms were on fire. His hands shook with exhaustion and terror. His breath came in great gasps and his clothes were soaked with sweat so that the cold night wind knifed through, chilling the merchant to the bone.

"You look tired, Torgan," Jasha called to him.

"Make them stop. Please."

"I could, you know," Jasha said.

"Then do. For pity's sake."

Abruptly, Jasha was beside him, matching Torgan's every movement as if the wraith were also on a horse. "Did you know that in the Deceiver's realm Eandi and white-hairs live together?"

Torgan dodged another assault, and then another.

"I hadn't known," Jasha went on, as if they were chatting over ales in some city inn. "I hadn't thought about it much, really. But if you'd asked me I would have told you that there must have been two underrealms; one for our kind and one for theirs." He shrugged. "I was wrong."

Two pairs of Fal'Borna ghosts dove at him simultaneously, one pair from the left, the other from the right. Torgan was forced to pivot first one way and then the other. Trey reared, nearly unseating him. And no sooner had Torgan righted himself than he saw another pair of ghosts streaking toward him. Again he turned the horse, and again it tried to throw him off.

"I can't help it!" he told the animal. "They're trying to kill me."

"No, we're not," Jasha said, beside him once more. "If we wanted to kill you, you'd be dead by now."

"Then what? What is it you're trying to do to me?"

Still more of the wraiths flew toward him. Torgan fought his mount, trying to make the animal respond. But apparently Trey had reached his limit. Torgan pulled hard on the reins, frantic now. Wraiths were coming at him from both sides. If he didn't move they'd surely hit him. He yanked back with all his might. Trey reared once, twice, kicking out with his front hooves.

And Torgan tumbled back, slamming into the cold ground, the force of his landing knocking the breath from his lungs. He heard Trey bolt away, but before he could raise his head to see where the beast had gone, he found himself surrounded by the wraiths once more. They pressed in around him, staring down hungrily, their pale eyes like flames, their hair gleaming as if lit by the white moon. They began to reach for him. One might have thought that they could pluck the life from his body, so eager did they seem to touch him. Torgan huddled in a ball on the ground, trembling, cold, terrified, certain that he was about to die.

"Enough."

Jasha didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The wraiths sighed as one. Torgan could tell without looking that they had backed away from him. He opened his eyes slowly and unfolded his body. He felt ungainly, thick, dull. The wraiths still stared at him, their hair stirring slightly, though for the moment the wind on the plain had died away. From what he saw in the ghosts' eyes he could tell that they had broken off reluctantly, that they had yet to satisfy their desire for vengeance.

"Thank you, Jasha," Torgan whispered. He sat up, and his head began to spin. He tried to look past the wraiths to see where Trey had gone, but they blocked his view.

"Don't thank me," the young merchant said.

Torgan climbed to his feet, staggered a bit, but managed to remain upright. He thought he could see Trey a short distance off to the… the south? Torgan turned a slow circle, peering over the heads of the ghosts. He tried to spot something-anything-that might allow him to orient himself. He looked up at the sky, but it was still covered over with clouds. What time was it? How soon until morning?

"You seem confused, Torgan."

He looked at Jasha. Had this been their purpose all along? What had he said before? If we wanted to kill you, you'd be dead by now.

"Where will you go?" Jasha asked him. "Which way to Eandi land?" Torgan shook his head. "It doesn't matter. It's just a few hours. As soon as the sun starts to rise I'll know which way to go."

"And where will you sleep? You don't travel by day. We know you don't. That's very clever, by the way: resting when it's light and making your way eastward after nightfall? Very clever indeed. But where will you pass the night?"

Torgan looked around again, but could see little. The wraiths were too bright and the land beyond them too dark. He strained his ears, hoping to hear flowing water. There had to be woodlands nearby.

"What if there aren't?"

Torgan looked at Jasha again, but the wraith's face revealed nothing. He wasn't smiling anymore. He didn't appear to be gloating or mocking him. If anything, he looked slightly sad.

"You don't want the Fal'Borna to find me, Jasha." Torgan eyed the others. "None of you do. I still have more of that cursed basket."

An angry murmur rose from the wraiths.

He forced himself to look the ghosts in the eye, one by one. "If your purpose tonight was to ensure that I'll be captured by your fellow white-hairs, then you've made a terrible mistake. I would have gladly ridden the rest of the way to the Silverwater without hurting anyone else. But if I can only survive by bringing the plague to more septs, then that's what I'll do."

"Do you have the basket with you, Torgan?" Jasha asked.

"Of course I do. How do you think-?"

Jasha shook his head. "I mean with you. In your hand or in your pocket?"

"No, of course not. It's…" He trailed off, looking past the wraiths once more. Had he really seen Trey, or had he imagined it? What if the horse hadn't stopped a short distance off? What if it was still running even now?

"You've been very clever," Jasha said again. "But what will you do without that basket? What will you do without your horse, without your food, without a sleeping roll or a blanket? What will you do if you don't know where you are or which way you're supposed to go?"

Torgan was shaking again. And this time he couldn't blame it on exhaustion or the cold. "I'll survive," he said, his voice quavering. "That's what I've always done." He nodded. "One way or another, I'll make it to the wash."

Jasha nodded once. "We'll see."

An instant later, the wraiths were gone. Torgan blinked several times, but he couldn't see anything. He felt as if he'd been staring into a fire too long. He whistled. Nothing. He called out Trey's name, but the only sound he heard was the distant howl of a wild dog. He opened his mouth to shout for the horse again, but then stopped himself. What if there was a sept nearby? He took a step, stopped, looked around again. Which way was east? "Damn you, Jasha," he whispered.