Lords of the Shadows, page 17
part #4 of Raven Series
And when she turned Argor was gone. But his laughter came from the cavern, loud, pleasant, and then his voice spoke words that thrilled her. “Until we meet, my Raven, value what you learn here as you value me.”
“Illusion then!” she cried, relieved, delighted; she raised the Mabion sword to kiss its blade. “I shall not lift you against a friend, not now, not ever. This I swear!”
And the blade ceased to shake and twist in her grip, as if it approved these words.
She walked away from the rift, across the now-bright cavern; she came to where the others waited for her in the shallow cave, and with Spellbinder alone she walked to the distant lake. Here she bathed again, and relaxed, and then sat with the warlock, the sword stretched between them.
“A strange looking sword,” said Spellbinder with a smile. His pale eyes flashed with amusement and Raven laughed, reached to stroke the ill-shaped blade.
“Shape seems not to matter. The power of it, Spellbinder, by the All Mother, the power of it! I shall give Q’Ithrig a duel to remember.”
Spellbinder reached to touch the sword himself. Acting impulsively, not really thinking of what she did, Raven slapped his hand away, pulled the sword closer to her. Instantly she was ashamed, staring at the warlock through wide, almost shocked eyes. Spellbinder was frowning.
“No need for remorse,” he said gently. “You must beware possession by the sword. Powerful it might be, but it is merely a tool. Do not become the slave to your own sense of invincibility.”
“I shall not,” said Raven quietly. She looked up, brushed hair from her face. “I fought against an illusion again…Donwayne, that foul warrior. I felt again all my hatred and abhorrence. It was a good feeling, Spellbinder, a moment of pleasure to know I could still feel an emotion towards him. I felt bitter when he was revealed as illusion, and now again my mind is at peace. But I would dearly love to feel that uncertainty as a pounding irritation in my head and heart, to not know whether he still lives or is at last truly dead. I dislike this indifference.”
Spellbinder took her hands in his, stroked her fingers, the raw flesh, the broken skin and blisters where the forging had made rough her warrior’s hands. “It will change,” he said. “Although this pace, our world, will never be the same again. But you, Raven, you shall be as you were. You grow stronger and more independent all the time and soon will come a day when you will cease to feel so much a whim of invisible Sorcerers and Priests who charge you with their deeds.”
Raven gathered up the sword into her arms, and cradled it as she might hold a child, stroking it gently as she said, “I hope so, Spellbinder, I truly hope so.” And looking up at the warlock through eyes rimmed dark with weariness and dulled by the Fires, she said, “Our world will never again be the same? What makes you say that?”
Spellbinder looked grim as he rose to his feet and reached to help her up. “Come and see.”
They fetched their horses. Parwya seemed anxious to leave the cavern, but Spellbinder insisted that Raven should see what they themselves had discovered while the sword was being forged.
He led the way back to the lake and around it, so that in the vastness of the place they lost sight of Parwya and the camp, and were soon in the gloomy part of the mountain where the light from the Eternal Fires and the mabion crystals that smothers the ceiling of the vault could not reach.
Here the flying creatures flapped noisily about them angered by the intruders. Spellbinder rode carefully through the scattered rocks and perilous chasms carved about the cavern floor, splashed through ice-cold streams of water running down into the lake, and led the way cautiously towards the growing place of light that Raven had seen on entering the place of the forge.
At first she thought it was some shining white crystalline substance, but as she drew nearer she realised it was a window into the day, and that bright sunlight was shafting into the darkness of this part of the cavern.
The horses grew restless as they approached this light, hooves slipping on the loose rubble and dirt that marked the pathway up to what Raven could see was a narrow exit to the outside world.
As they came into this tall tunnel Raven felt a blast of cold hit her and she shivered violently. In that brilliant light she dismounted after Spellbinder and, swords clutched carefully in both hands, she stumbled up to stand looking down through the gap to the strange land beyond. Her breath frosted as it might in winter. The cold was almost unbearable, but no wind blew here.
“Yonder,” said Spellbinder, “is the land where the Ghost Lords held power. We stand, Raven, at the Wall of Minds.”
She peered into the distance and saw a land much like any other land: forested hills and high, snow-capped peaks of mountains. Animals roamed in herds across the open land, and she could see the gleam of metal. There was smoke distantly and here and there were the unmistakable signs of man: dark towers rising above the trees, with bizarrely shaped structures at their summits that seemed to turn slowly, so that light glanced from glass or polished steel.
“This is the only way through at the moment,” said Spellbinder. “And for us it is no way at all.”
“Why?” asked Raven, her eyes taking in as much of that unknown land as they could.
“Because we have no time now, and once we have left this cavern we shall not be able to re-enter. The passageway in will be closed to us.”
Raven considered that, wrapping her arms about her body to keep in the warmth. “But this was how Q’Ithrig came into our world. He breached the Wall of Minds—”
“Aye,” said Spellbinder, and stepped forward, crying out in some pain but holding his ground.
Raven watched in amazement as frost formed on his hair and eyelids, and on his outstretched hands. Spellbinder stepped back and brushed the ice from his body. “There is a lingering after effect, but the power of the wall died with he who created it along this gap in the mountain.”
Raven remembered the creatures she had seen scattered, dead, about Rigghazelt, the All-Seeing tree. “Q’Ithrig killed the guardians of the Wall. Yes, I saw them near Kharwhan.”
“You saw those who guard the Creatore of the Wall,” corrected the warlock. “The Wall of Minds is made of a thousand such minds, and what Q’Ithrig destroyed was the weary and failing link in that web of minds that guarded this particular passageway. Look above you, peer hard at the rock.”
Raven obeyed, staring up at the dark rock that was the mouth of the tunnel; for a moment she thought she was looking at the wind and rain scarred pattern of an exposed pinnacle, a part of the rock that was shaped and twisted into an uncannily living shape. Then she realised that she was looking through the rock and the twisted, dead shape of a man entombed there.
He was old, this one, she sensed it more than saw it; his arms were outstretched, his body fat and naked, and hideously wrinkled and twisted in ways that would suggest the bones that had once supported him were now broken and turned upon their original axes. His eyes, though open, stared blinding from behind the translucent rock, and his mouth gamed and the skin was drawn back from his teeth so that Raven could see the beginnings of a grinning skull forming there.
“Wherever in the wall these ancient Creators are wearying they will fall prey to any simple magic,” said Spellbinder thoughtfully. “Q’Ithrig was lucky to find this one. No doubt the killing took some time, but the Wall of Minds has outlived the function it originally must have served, and increasingly we can expect it to be breached by whatever lies beyond.”
“Then it is no wonder that those who form and fashion the inner lands are perturbed.” Raven took Spellbinder’s arm and pulled him away from the passage to the outside. “I’m cold. Let us go back.”
Parwya was agitated and anxious when they returned. Already mounted, she and her brother turned and led the way swiftly across the cavern. It was noticeable that the light in the place was fading, though the Eternal Fires still surged and roared as air passed through them; but like that wall of Fire that had hidden Kharwhan from her eyes so many days before, the light of the burning rocks seemed not to cast a shadow now to light their way.
“You did well, Raven,” said Parwya to her as they rode. “You have forged well, and been tested well. But there is something more that you should know.”
They were riding past the crumbling shelter close to the Eternal Fires, and Raven acknowledged the place with a wave of her bright, new sword.
“The sword must be protected,” said the Uthaan Princess. “You have seen something of its power, and its use, you have learned that even though it desires it you must not raise it against a friend. Nor, Raven, must you use it against the weak. The sword is powered by your courage, and that of your opponents. To fight those who are no match for you is to weaken the sword, not strengthen it. Fair single combat with a champion is one thing, but against a farmer carrying some stick weapon, that is not allowed.”
Disturbed by the implications Raven turned to Spellbinder and said grimly, “It seems I am already part way the slave of the sword.”
The warlock shook his head. “No Raven, not yet, and perhaps not ever. To use the sword honourably and nobly will be to keep it a tool always; only by abuse will you lose its respect.”
And then they were at the narrow passage up to the crystal mirror in the temple. They dismounted and Parwya led the way silently up to the city.
Thirteen
Men went to the grey river of the Sorvim,
They went to do battle there
Blue and bright was the colour of their iron,
Large were their hearts with pride, full with courage
They died there, and their red blood congealed in the grey river of death.
from The Striking of the Winds—Ogonors epic poem
Only Raven was surprised to find that the ancient city was deserted of Ginnim warrior and Dark Knight both. Then she realised that Q’Ithrig would not pick this place to fight her, so close to the forge and its possible hidden tricks. And he would not abuse the sword he had fashioned by tackling Raven before she was adept with her own Mabion weapon.
“It is common sense, not honour,” said Parwya with a smile. “He has fallen back into the tribal lands and will pick his place with care.”
They rode through the streets, between the ruins of old houses, and came to the open gates from the city. Spellbinder said ,”Perhaps he is waiting for us, but I think probably not. He seeks the Ghost Shield of Urla, and has already fired two Shield Halls looking for it. The Shield Hall he failed to open was that at Bacrag. There, I think, he will have gone again; his chances of finding the ancient weapon there are much heightened. With both shield and sword he will be a mighty taskmaster, Raven.”
But Raven laughed and gripped the crude-fashioned wooden hilt of her Mabion sword, her eyes shining with an uncustomary arrogance as she said, “Shield or no shield, Q’Ithrig shall soon know the sting of this blade.”
They rode across the valley, to the narrow pass between the high mountains, and the forested slopes of the hills beyond. They went with care here, alert and sensitive to both ambush and signs of Q’Ithrig’s passing.
By hours spent riding hard, snatching sleep in the saddle and food when the chance to catch it presented itself, by days and nights they came back to the Lost Lands, and passed at length that five-edged spear of the Sorvim, its skull cleaved clean through and left, a fallen trophy, the sign of an intruder who mocked the gory warning.
This night they rested early, finding an overhang in which to shelter for a few hours; it was shortly after dusk and Raven was glad of the night spent on her cloak, fully stretched on the ground. Earlier in the day Parwya had seen riders on a distant ridge, the sparkle of their weapons telling of their readiness for war. It seemed prudent to sleep with their backs to the cliff; by turns they kept the watch, the fire hidden behind a fence of cloaks and the crouched body of the one who guarded.
It was close to dawn when Raven was awoken by the hissed words of alarm from the Uthaan Prince, Korm. She reached for her two swords and moved to crouch beside him. Spellbinder too was awake and armed, and the last embers of the fire were being hidden by Parwya, in case they were betrayed by the smell of ash.
“There are riders come towards us,” said Korm. “I heard their horses, and their weary sounds of travel. Look, there!”
Out of the night came five riders, travellers slumped in saddle and fatigued from face to weary bearing. The horses moved with heads drooped low, cold night air frosting the breath from their nostrils. Cloaked they were, and wet with night damp and sweat. The leader stared at Raven and the others through eyes that gleamed in the first stray light of the coming day, gleamed with anger and relief. “Are you she they call Raven?” he asked, and Raven answered, “Aye,”
At this the riders dismounted, left their horses where they were and came across to the cave wall. The Uthaan drew their swords with swift movements, and the travellers hesistated, then came on. “We are from the Seven Valleys…the Ogonors. We have been sent to find you. A Great battle will be fought on the plains beyond the hills of the Sorvim. You must pass that battle before you go in pursuit of those you seek. We are sent to bring you.”
The man had thrown back his cloak, revealing an amoured body with his sword strapped across the front of his hip, his hand resting not on the hilt but on the sheath.
I am Ragarg, son of the Warchief Miriak of the Sjiosma, who live in the valley of the leaning trees, close to the lands of the Genach. These are others of other tribes, I know them not, save that they are Ogonors. We have ridden hard without rest, and we are hungry and blistered. IF you have food to spare we should enjoy your hospitality, and then we must ride.”
“Aye,” said Spellbinder. “We have food, and you are welcome.” He watched the group cannily, his pale eyes narrowed; as day broke and the land grew light, the hills shrouded in mist and dew, so the visitors were clearer seen, and Raven noticed that one was a woman.
“Have you seen ought of a young and scrawny girl called Tu’ilza?” she asked, addressing the question to the woman. This one was fierce of eye and mouth, grim-faced, Raven thought, and angry with this mission; she was a swords-woman, and a battle voice, and she stared carefully at Raven before shaking her head. It was unlikely that Tu’ilza was yet alive, Raven knew, and she choked with the thought of it. Her hand touched the Mabion sword as if it craved a death by compensation. The dark-haired woman smiled thinly. “The Ghost Lord still has a hostage, though. That much Silver told me to tell you.”
Raven’s heart surged with the mention of his name. Even Spellbinder seemed happy. “Silver has sent you, then?”
“Aye,” sair Ragarg. “He leads his tribe in the confrontation with Ginnim and Dubthag both. The battle shall be short and swift; the numbers of the enemy are small, most of them riding on to deeper lands.”
“Bacrag, no doubt,” said Spellbinder. “He will siege the place again, and this time he will succeed.”
They went to the fire and built it up again, then fried meats and root vegetables gathered from the grounds about them, and ate heartily of the strong flavoured food. The Ogonors grew more rested and relaxed, but the woman continued to stare at Raven, her gaze averted each time Raven met it. There was a pinchedness about her, a tension in the lines of her face, the way she gripped her knife to cut the meat on her platter. She squatted, ungainly in her cloak, and Raven could see the marks of battle and riding on her legs, and the callouses that told of her skill on horseback. She was a wild one, this. There was no bonding on her wrists, and because she was no girl, but a woman mature in years and hardened in heart, Raven guessed there was a deeper bitterness in her soul, the bitterness of one who is not mated.
“You are Raven, then,” this woman said, and nodded as if she recognised something, or saw something to be true that she had hitherto only suspected.
“None other,” said Raven, and she glanced at Spellbinder who made a sign of puzzlement with his eyes, as if to say “Be on your guard, I sense something wrong.” “Who are you?”
The woman smiled wanly. “You may call be Bronze.”
“A strange name for one of your tirbe,” said Raven. “No tribal name at all. Is that why you are not bonded?”
“Perhaps. But is not something I would wish to talk about here, Raven. I have a message for you, to be told in private.” She rose to her feet. Her companions watched anxiously, sensing the strangeness in the woman’s behavior, sensing the readiness of the Uthaan and Spellbinder both to assist Raven if there was trouble. Weapons were obtrusive, hands tense, eyes alive, and conversation withered to nothing.
Raven followed the woman Bronze to a place some yards away, then down a slope to stand among small trees and gorse-like shrubbery that snagged at her boots and cloak.
The woman turned abruptly, held up her wrists. Bronze gleamed on the right hand, now, and on the left the bracelet of rush that was given between lovers; but Raven had eyes only for the bronze, the emblem of bonding between warriors.
Raven stared hard at this woman, feeling some nagging doubt trying to surface in her mind. She felt the sword writhe in her grip, but she kept her hands on its protected blade, refusing to touch the hilt, conscious of her Tirwand steel blade on her left hip. Until this woman made a move of aggression, Raven was determined to try and keep calm.
“You are Raven,” said the woman. “My name is Erinna. I am bonded to a man of the Genach, but that man has betrayed me, betrayed me most foully, and for a reason I can settle now. You are the cause of it, and you shall die for it…!”
And though she had been speaking calmly, abruptly there was a sword in her hand, slicing the air towards Raven. Raven leapt backwards, hearing a distant cry of alarm as Parwya saw the attack.
Though she reached for the ordinary sword on her belt, Raven found her hand drawing forth the Mabion blade. She dodged another blow from Erinna, and then the gleam of gold met the sparkle of silver, there was a clash, like the ringing of a bell, and a slicing of air and flesh. Erinna’s head rolled bloodily across the ground; her corpse collapsed, its arms outstretched, both bracelets stained with dark red blood.
