The Two of Swords, Volume 2 Page 25

  “What are you doing up there?” came a voice from below. He grinned. Then he caught a glimpse of movement in the valley on the far side of the ridge, and forgot all about water for a while.

  “Corason? Where are you?” The sound of her voice made him wince; he’d forgotten her, too, and now she’d come to look for him. He craned his neck round and saw her, clambering unsteadily up through the loose rocks towards the top of the ridge. He leapt like a lion, grabbed the backs of her knees and sent her toppling; then he grabbed her face and pressed the palm of his hand into her mouth.

  “Never,” he hissed, “never ever stand on a skyline. Got that?”

  A frantic mumble implied that she’d got it just fine. He let go, then shushed her. Then, keeping his arm bent and using only one finger, he pointed.

  “I can’t see anything,” she whispered. “It’s just—oh.”

  Well, she could be forgiven for that. It was only movement that had caught his eye. Whoever they were, they knew what they were doing; no flash of sunlight on spear blades or armour, presumably they’d painted them or allowed them to rust. It was only once you’d noticed them that you realised how many of them there were; the whole mountainside was moving, crawling with them. The closest thing he’d ever seen to it was a flow of lava.

  “Who are they?”

  “Well,” he said quietly, “they aren’t Senza’s lot, so they’ve got to be the West. Other than that, I haven’t got the faintest idea.”

  “There’s so many of them.”

  A tiny shake of the head. “You’re just not used to seeing armies,” he said. “That’s probably only four or five thousand. My guess is, though, that that’s just a vanguard. See how they’re picking their way? They’re light troops, well ahead of the main body. If the usual ratios apply, you multiply them by twenty.”

  She tried to wriggle away; he clamped a hand on the back of her neck, and she stopped still.

  “We stay here till they’ve gone,” he said. “Doesn’t matter how long it takes. They’re well down the slope; we’re on the bloody skyline. If they see us, they’ll have to catch us. Do you understand?”

  He felt her head nod, and let go. “Now then,” he said. “A question for you. Apart from Senza Belot, who do we know who’s mad enough to bring a hundred thousand men through this appalling place, and brilliant enough to actually be able to do it?”

  She turned her head and stared at him. “He’s dead,” she said.

  He remembered the flask, groped for it with his left hand, found it. Empty, of course. “The spring’s just behind you,” he said, handing her the flask. “Very carefully, squirm your way round and fill this. Don’t raise your hand or any part of you more than fifteen degrees above the horizontal.”

  That kept her busy while he thought. She would, of course, insist on trying to tell Senza. Did he have a problem with that? Not really. Except—he had no idea why, he just knew. Senza wouldn’t need telling. Senza Belot, sprawling in atypical idleness under the walls of Rasch. He’d never intended to take the city. He’d known this army was coming. He’d been waiting for it. And now, thanks to Commissioner Axio and Commissioner Corason of the Lodge, he’d be meeting it at a place he hadn’t chosen, outnumbered five to one, with no prepared resources, no diabolically ingenious strategy. And all for a stupid pack of playing cards.

  “Change of plan,” he said.

  “What?”

  He kept his eyes fixed on the stream of movement. “We need to get off this ridge,” he said. “We need to get our horses, get back on the road and ride like lunatics till we meet Senza. Agreed?”

  “You want to warn him?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. Well? Are you coming or not?”

  Only Imperial couriers and lunatics venture beyond a cautious trot on the steep climb up from the Crossed Hands to the Horns. Corason had never been so scared in his life. He didn’t spare a single thought for his companion until he saw the crumbling rock-carvings of Horn Gate and knew the worst of it was over; downhill, and a straight, flat road. Then he looked over his shoulder. She was still there, about seventy yards behind him, going well.

  They reckon the winged gods of Horn Gate were put there to commemorate some battle or other. It’s exactly the place where you’d expect a battle to have been fought; five hundred men holding off a million, or something of the sort. If so, it would follow that the commander of the million was an idiot, to have brought so many men to a place with no water or shade, where the road crawls between two soaring mountains. Two thousand men could beat five hundred there; a million wouldn’t stand a chance.

  He waited for her. She drew up beside him and gasped, “What’s the matter? Why’ve you stopped?”

  “He’s not here,” Corason said. “I was sure he would be. It’s what—” He laughed; it came out as a snorting noise. “It’s what I’d have done, so of course Senza wouldn’t, because he’s a genius, et cetera.” He breathed out slowly. “In that case, we don’t have to kill ourselves hurrying,” he said. “Beyond the Horns, the road ceases to matter. It’s irrelevant. There’s another way round, quicker, it cuts a great fat dog-leg off the road.”

  “Not on the map.”

  “You believe in the map, how sweet. It’s there all right, as seventy thousand Esjauzida found out the hard way about six hundred years ago, when they tried to invade the empire.”

  “Who?”

  “Precisely. Things did not go well with them, and all because they didn’t know about the back road. Senza knows about it, you can bet your life, and so he’ll stop short. Which means they, that lot, the lot we’ve just seen, will get there before we can, no matter how fast we go.” She was staring at him, which annoyed him. “We’ve failed,” he said. “We can’t warn Senza. Our chance at a place in history—gone. Oh, well, never mind.” Suddenly he realised what was eating him, and he tore off his heavy coat and threw it on the ground. “God, I’m hot. Let’s stop and let the horses catch their breath. No point being cruel to dumb animals.”

  “We can’t just—”

  “I can.” He dropped his feet out of the stirrups, stretched his legs and more or less fell out of the saddle. “You go on if you like; you’ll be wasting your time.” He peeled off a jerkin and an arming coat; they were soaked in sweat. “I’ll say this for failure: I feel wonderfully relaxed.” He tucked the end of the reins under a heavy stone and sat down on the ground. “Takes all the pressure off you.”

  She stayed where she was for a while, then got down and sat next to him. “Aren’t you boiled in all that lot?” he asked.

  She was staring at her toes. “Do you really think that could be Forza Belot?”

  “Can’t be, he’s dead.” There were a few grey lines in her hair, he noticed. Well, he had that to look forward to, if he lived that long. “So, presumably that’s another general of equal brilliance and daring that Central neglected to brief me about. Come on, who else could it be?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t got a clue about war stuff. I’m only here to stop you sending news of Senza’s withdrawal to the West. I think I’ve had a wasted trip.”

  He stared at her. “You’re kidding,” he said. “That’s what they sent you for?”

  She nodded. “They think your lot are on the West’s side,” she said. “That’s why you stopped Senza from taking Rasch. They think you’re spying for the West, and your job was to report about troop movements. And I’ve come all this way for nothing. And Senza’s going to walk straight into a trap and be slaughtered, and we’ll lose and there’s nothing I can do about it. Not that I care all that much, except those bastards killed my husband.” She sighed, and stretched out her legs. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to eat, have you?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you, but it’s all right. I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do next.”

  Corason yawned. “It’s not like we’re awash with options,” he said. “We can’t turn round and go back to Choris
; the horses would starve even if we don’t. Therefore—”

  “We?”

  “Sorry, I’m being presumptuous. I’m going to carry on, at a gentle ambling pace, until I reach either Senza Belot or the huge flock of kites feeding off his dead army. In the former instance, I shall cadge food, water and possibly a fresh horse; in the latter, I guess I could sit around and wait for Ocnisant to show up. Or I could follow Forza and try my luck with him.” He paused. There was no reason why he should add anything. “If you want, you can come with me.”

  “Tag along with Senza’s army and get slaughtered. No thanks.”

  “Cadge what you need to get home, then make an excuse and leave. That’s what I intend to do, I just told you. We can go together.”

  “Really. Where, exactly?”

  “It’s not going to matter terribly much, is it?” He hadn’t meant to shout. “If Senza’s army gets wiped out, the war will be over and your side will have lost. Unless my people can work another miracle, Choris will be rubble and ash, and you won’t have a home or a life to go back to. Just for once, try listening to what I’m telling you, instead of scoring points all the time. There’s a fair chance that the world is about to change out of all recognition. We’re lucky: we can see it coming. If we’re very, very lucky we might just be able to get out of the way before the sky falls on our heads.” He hesitated; he no longer seemed to be in control of the words tumbling out of his mouth. “Come with me to Lodge Central. They can find work for you there: you can pretend to be a craftsman. No, listen. If you’re with the Lodge, you might stand a chance of finding out if your family’s made it through. We might be able to reach them, bring them out. We can do that sort of thing. Looking after our own is what we’re there for. I know you’ve got a whole bunch of silly prejudices about us, but if everything collapses in ruins, we’re your best chance of seeing your son again. Well? Or are you just going to wander around here among the rocks and give the kites indigestion?”

  She was quiet for a very long time. Then she said, “Is that what they are, kites? I thought they were some kind of buzzard.” She stood up and brushed dust off her skirt. “It’s a very kind offer and you may possibly mean it, but I think I may have other options you haven’t mentioned. No, don’t get up.” She walked past him, then half turned and kicked him hard just above his ear. And that was that, for an indefinite period.

  When he woke up, he was stone deaf. He could see blinding light, and his head hurt unbearably, and he couldn’t hear anything. Maybe there wasn’t anything to hear. He raised his boot and banged his heel on the ground. Nothing.

  He dragged himself on to his hands and knees and loomed round. No horses—no, not as bad as that. His horse was gone, but hers was about fifty yards away, nibbling a tiny clump of grass sticking out of a crack in the rocks. Had she really kicked him in the head? It made no sense. Could it possibly have been, well, an accident?

  He considered the memory, which was quite clear and sharp: no, not really. I may have other options, she’d said, and then, wham.

  He tried to stand up, but that made him dizzy and sick. He squatted down on a stone until the world stopped spinning, and tried to think; not easy, in a bobbing, silent world where he’d just been kicked stupid by a lady clerk.

  His horse was gone; therefore, she’d taken it in preference to her own; also the saddlebags, containing two and a bit days’ rations of dried fruit and biscuit and a three-quarters-full leather bottle of water. Nice of her to leave him her horse; a delicate, graceful thing whose legs might well snap off under his weight. Was there a spring near here? He couldn’t remember.

  The headache was getting worse. I’m maimed for life, he thought; I’m useless, nobody will want me for anything if I can’t hear what they’re saying. He filled his lungs and yelled as loud as he could; he felt the breath leave him, but heard nothing at all. The effort made him feel sick again, and his mouth filled with acid. Just as well there wasn’t anything in there to come out.

  He closed his eyes, which was worse, so he opened them again, and looked at the horse. Probably a good idea to grab hold of it as soon as possible; if anything spooked it and it bolted, that wouldn’t be good. He stood up, and this time managed to stay up, though the pounding in his skull made him want to cry. Even if there was a spring nearby, he had nothing to carry water in. He took a step, and his knees buckled. God, what a state to be in. At times like this, you can see the real advantages of death; so much less pain and misery than the other thing.

  Maybe the horse was sorry for him. It held still—a mare, he noted, maybe nine, ten years old; well, it had got this far, so maybe it was tougher than it looked. His hands had somehow turned stupid while he’d been asleep, and it took him a long time to lengthen the stirrup leathers. He saw something he recognised, but couldn’t understand what it was doing there. He hoisted himself into the saddle and felt the mare wince and sag. And why not? Misery isn’t something you hoard, it’s something you share.

  Actually, it was better in the saddle than on his inadequate, swaying feet. He waited for his head to stop pumping, then looked up and down the road. Which way? He couldn’t remember. Did we come up the road or down it?

  Up; because there behind him were the Horns, definitely past those; therefore this way. Onwards. He nudged the mare with his heels. She stayed where she was. Women.

  The familiar thing he’d seen was a maker’s mark. Where was it, now? Oh, yes, on the girth. A curious sigil, embossed into the leather. But it was just a plain old ordinary maker’s mark, that was all. Seen dozens like it.

  Down this road somewhere was Senza Belot’s army. They’d have doctors, you could bet your life. They could tell him about his injuries; yes, and he wouldn’t be able to hear a word they said.

  The sun was low in the sky by the time he reached the bottom of the dip, and there wasn’t much point in staring at the ground for hoofmarks or the scrapes of wheels. In front of him the road climbed steeply. Right at the top, he knew for a fact, there was a stream that ran down the side of the rock face and under the road; it came out again about forty yards on the other side, and there was a soft patch, plainly marked with reeds. He decided it would keep till morning. A good night’s sleep, that was what he needed. While there was still light enough to see, he scouted round for enough cover to hide himself and the horse; deaf, he was easy prey. But he found just the thing, a place where a large boulder had rolled down the slope and split in two; the crack was just wide enough for a man and a horse to lodge in comfortably, and there was even a patch of grass, about the size of a spread-out cloak, to take the horse’s mind off her misery for a while. He wrapped the reins round his ankle and double-knotted them to make sure, then lay down with his rolled-up coat as a pillow. He was freezing cold again, and thirsty, and painfully hungry, but at least he couldn’t hear the kites laughing at him.

  The horse woke him up, tugging at his ankle. For a moment he couldn’t remember anything: why something was trying to yank his foot off; why it was so damn quiet. Then it all came back to him, infinitely depressing. He opened his eyes and saw clear blue sky. His forehead was faintly damp with dew. He ran the back of his hand over his brow, then licked it.

  The horse gave him a look that would have touched a heart of stone; he swore at it, disentangled the reins from his leg and levered himself upright by bracing his arms on the sides of the split boulder. A kite got up suddenly a few feet away in a silent explosion of wings. He tried to lead the horse on, but she dug her heels in. At least his head had stopped hurting. Another glorious day in the arsehole of the universe.

  When he reached the road, he saw that it had changed. Loose stones had been split or ground to powder; the verges were shredded with hoofprints; apple cores and a hat monstrously squashed. He stared for a whole minute, then burst out into silent laughter. Senza’s army had passed him in the night, and he hadn’t heard a damn thing.

  At least he knew which way they’d gone, by the direction of the hooves: back the way he
’d just come. Incredible; it must have taken them hours to file past the place where he’d been sleeping, and he’d missed the whole thing; like that man who came all the way from North Permia just to hear Oida sing at the Old and New Festival at Choris, got slightly delayed and arrived just as the audience were filing out of the amphitheatre.

  The horse didn’t want to let him get on her back. She wouldn’t keep still, walking on when he had one foot in the stirrup and one on the ground. At one point, he seriously considered leading her all the way back up the damn hill, but eventually he made it into the saddle, using a stone as a mounting block and leaping through the air.

  They couldn’t be that far ahead of him, surely. He tried to kick the mare into trotting up the hill, but she preferred being booted in the ribs to killing herself.

  Halfway up the rise, he realised he knew something important, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Definitely there was something, he knew it for sure. Quite possibly it had come to him during the night, the solution to a problem gradually working its way up to the surface, like an arrowhead in too deep for surgery. He wondered if it was something to do with the bang on the head; perhaps, as well as being deaf for the rest of his life, he’d have great big holes in his memory and not be able to concentrate. Perhaps something significant had happened, but he’d forgotten it completely, because of the concussion; he’d been through something similar once before, except that on that occasion it had been strong drink rather than a boot to the temple. He tried to distract his mind by thinking of what he’d do to that bloody woman if ever he caught up with her, but that didn’t work at all. The stupid thing was, he was more worried about her than anything else. If Forza’s scouts got her, and she had anything in the way of official papers on her, they might well lynch her as a spy.

  Something appeared on the skyline, and he couldn’t make out what it was; the sun was behind it and it was shrouded in dust. He stopped the mare and gazed at it, and made out a man, on foot, running faster than he’d ever seen a man run before. That was all the more remarkable because the runner was wearing full armour, forty pounds of small rectangular steel plates from knee to collarbone and a six-pound crested helmet. A moment later, two horsemen came up over the rise, also going ridiculously fast. They were horse-archers, slim, long-haired young men on ponies, no stirrups, their toes almost trailing on the ground. The armoured runner wasn’t looking round. It was incredible how he could run so fast on an imperfect surface without stumbling, but he was managing it. But the horsemen overtook him, parting so as to come up on either side of him. They passed him, and he was lying on his face, two arrows sticking out of him, like withies growing out of the trunk of a fallen willow. The horsemen crossed each other, miraculously not colliding, wheeled and turned back; a moment later they’d vanished, as though they’d never been there.