Peril’s Gate. Janny Wurts

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СКАЧАТЬ forbearance as the boy led into the candlelit closet that served as the bursar’s office.

      The stuffy space already held two muscled sergeants armed with chain mail and swords. They faced off against an overstrung baker who shook fat, pink fists in brisk argument. ‘Damn your haste to the eighth fire of Sithaer! I can’t supply a half company of men on a mountain foray at short notice! You want loaves, and not bricks shaped of flour, you’ll wait. Bread dough takes time. Can’t hurry that. You want your provender delivered in three hours, we can make good on half what you’ve listed, provided you settle for soda biscuits.’

      ‘What foray!’ bellowed the Mayor of Jaelot, ignored where he stood at the threshold. ‘No such command was sealed by my hand! Who dares presume to send mounted men haring off into the Skyshiels?’

      Hobnails grated as the sergeants spun volte-face. The baker squeaked and fell silent. Beyond them, a sparkling, deliberate movement, the guard captain arose from the trestle. With the shutters latched closed, sullen light from the candle lamp chased his mail shirt with glitters of reflection. Bypassing rank, he spoke first to the baker. ‘Bring biscuit in casks. We’ll hold the supply train, and send them along when they’re loaded.’

      The mayor flushed purple. Choking with outrage, he tugged at his pearl-stitched collar of state.

      Before he could howl, the guard captain turned on him. Too large a man for the confines of walls, his no-nonsense manner seemed stripped away to a magma core of aggression. His weathered, flint face displayed chilling resolve, and his stare held a sharpened, fanatical intensity. ‘You do want the Spinner of Darkness destroyed?’

      The mayor shut his gaping mouth like a trout. Set aback under scrutiny that bored like an auger, he sucked in a shaken breath. ‘We have patrols already in pursuit of the Master of Shadow.’ Wary as the man who handled hot coals when he had expected an ice cube, he added, ‘I’ve come to demand why my orders concerning the Koriani witches have failed to be carried out!’

      ‘The messengers you sent only got underfoot.’ No longer the stolid commander at arms who paid ruling rank proper deference, the guard captain’s mood took on a terrifying edge. ‘And the demons-accursed witches don’t signify.’ He kicked back his bench and stalked past the boards of the trestle. ‘The watch had your warrant to arrest them last night. Wasted effort, of course. The Koriathain had gone, though the hour before, my sentries reported the good sisters seemed to be everywhere. No search will contain them. Whether or not they’re inside town walls, no weapon I have can break through their wards of protection.

      Since they’ll hide behind spellcraft and slink where they please, the larger concern should take precedence. We must turn every resource we have in pursuit of the Master of Shadow.’

      The mayor advanced a gimping, short step. ‘How dare you!’ Flushed to his wattles, no small bit afraid, he let his shrill tirade gain force. ‘Those witches allowed our prized quarry to go free!

      They have their own web of secretive politics, and I rue the hour we gave them our trust. We were without doubt betrayed by their senior. That small, bronze-haired healer broke her word as well, though she swore me a vow of life forfeit. I want her brought to justice for the bastard’s escape. Reassign your men here. I won’t sanction the authority to send our best company to break their fool necks in the mountains.’

      The guard captain’s baleful stillness held threat. ‘I say again, do you want the shadow-bending felon taken down? Or are you not sworn to the Light, with Jaelot’s resources pledged to support the Divine Prince’s Alliance?’

      ‘We’re pledged, not possessed,’ the mayor hedged, his gloved fingers clasped in dismay for the change that made his captain a volatile stranger. ‘The s’Ffalenn pretender is criminal, and sorcerer, and likely by now, he’s made his escape to the seacoast.’

      ‘The coast is cut off. Bastard can’t slip by us that way.’ The guard captain advanced, the mailed fist on his sword tensed as though ready to kill. ‘By my tracker’s report, since the hour we flushed him, the criminal has turned northwest. He’s alone, and in flight toward the high ground. We’ll pin him against the ravines, or break his heart and spirit in the Skyshiels.’ At the mayor’s hissed protest, he flexed his hand, the sword inched from the sheath a glittering fraction. ‘I won’t argue further!

      In this case, the Light of true justice must prevail, no matter the cost of our sacrifice. Stand aside, old man! Whether the slinking fiend of a sorcerer leads us a chase through Baiyen Gap, I’ll take our best lancers and hound him. No haunts, and no threat of old wives’ tales will stop me. Nor will your shrinking, faint heart.’

      Overfaced, whitely shocked, the mayor backed down.

      His guard captain shoved past with obstinate force, the spark in his eyes the blazing flame of a lethal dedication. ‘I’ll do what I’m trained for, to my last thought and breath. The men I select will bear arms until the Master of Shadow lies dead.’

       Winter 5670

      Red Dawn

      Four days after the solstice that brought the outbreak of dire portents, a wounded drover staggers into the gates of Karfael, within the crown territory of Tysan; brought before the posted Alliance officer, he delivers grim tidings from Westwood, of a caravan attacked and burned by a pack of free-flying Khadrim…

      Several hundred leagues to the east, under the bruised colors of a cloudy dawn, the Prince of the Light and his picked cadre of field officers ride east, fired with resolve to achieve their sworn charge, and bring down the Spinner of Darkness…

      While daylight brightens the peaks of the Skyshiels, and the blizzard disperses beneath the roaring winds of high altitude, a dark-haired royal fugitive on a stumbling horse sights a golden eagle perched on a branch; yet when he attempts a closer survey, he finds no trace of any winged being, but only the vague and lingering sense that uncanny eyes watch his back…

      Winter 5670

       III.

       Baiyen Gap

      By morning, true to Luhaine’s promise, the two horses Dakar had picked for hard journeying had exhausted the last of their stamina. Dismounted, as wearied himself from breasting the pocketed gullies and crossing ridges cloaked with stunted trees, Arithon paused to take stock. His night of brisk riding had carried him well into the Skyshiel uplands. Here, the forested foothills of the coast gave way to slab-sided ravines, notched with the gashed seams of past rockfalls and spindled thickets of fir. The relentless winds funneled through the high gaps, driving plumed streamers of snow. The steep vales yielded poor prospect of shelter, deserted except for the pine sparrows that chirped and fluttered in the branches, dauntlessly pecking for seeds.

      Bone tired and chilled, with his boots sodden from crossing a fast-flowing stream, Arithon acknowledged his stark need for rest. He had descended from the scoured stone of the heights, driven by threat of exposure; the subtle inroads carved by exhaustion could creep up on a man unawares. Cold dulled the wits. Many a traveler perished in these wilds, lulled into the stupefied peace of fogged judgment. Every gut instinct СКАЧАТЬ