"The Schemes of Dragons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smeds Dave)

XII

AS TOREN, GEIM, AND DEENA emerged from the portal, they were watched.

The watcher's name was Hadradril. He was a wizard of the Ril, one of the elite cadre of magicians that studied under the Dragon himself-currently the lowest ranked of them, but that was no insult. The youth glowing from his lean, almost gaunt features was natural, not the result of longevity spells. That he had come so far so soon proved his ambition, ruthlessness, and talent.

From his vantage behind a berry bramble two hills away, he made out only the simplest physical details of the new arrivals. The sun flashed off the blond heads of the two tall ones. They carried themselves like men despite lack of beards. The short one with the brown hair walked like a female.

On another level, he sensed a great many facts. The last man to emerge possessed minor magical abilities, enough to activate the talisman that opened the portal, and wield simple magical weapons, of which he carried at least one. The woman had essentially no gift, though like her companions she wore a talisman of pursuit, calibrated for her use-which meant that she had been in contact with a major sorcerer.

The other man interested him most of all. His aura blazed with green, snakelike filaments of energy, at least as potent as those Hadradril had seen emanating from his fellow Ril wizards. But the filaments coiled in wild, unchannelled patterns. Only a fraction of his power had been disciplined and brought under his control. He should have been put into training as a child; now, in adulthood, he might never be able to organize and tap his abilities.

This was the quarry Hadradril had waited weeks to snare, the prize that Gloroc had sent him to find. While most of the other high magicians stayed safe in Elandris, hoping to win the Dragon's favor by keeping close and constantly in view, Hadradril had ventured into the territory of the enemy, and now had the means of quick promotion at hand.

The newcomers closed the portal and set off down the hill. Hadradril let them go. The sun shone brightly. The grassy countryside, though vibrant with the green of springtime and beautiful to behold, provided few places to set up an ambush. He would be patient. He raised his talisman of pursuit. The necklace's gem pulsed with a steady, blue glow. He would not lose track of his prey.

When the strangers had disappeared toward the nearest town, Hadradril brought his oeikani out of concealment, mounted, and followed at a leisurely pace.

Toren gazed about, numb. First the city, now this. His hunger crawled into some hidden niche of his body and was forgotten, obscured by the unease of walking on land that he considered barren. The country rolled and spread to the horizon like the Flat, home of the Alahihr, the Vanihr's most hated enemies, who dared to cut trees down to plant their crops. He had seen the Flat once, but that had been from the safety of the forest. Here trees, when they occurred, stood alone in a sea of nibbled grass, while livestock dung decomposed in their shade. It was even worse when they reached the first of the cultivated fields.

"What's wrong?" Deena asked.

"This ground," he said, pointing to the upturned soil. "They grow food in it?"

"Of course."

He was in a land of sinners. Deena pressed him to say more, but he kept silent. He decided he lacked the words in her language to explain why ground crops were evil.

Deena spoke to Geim, who seemed to grasp the problem. "This land is not barren because the folk cleared it," he told Toren. "It has been this way as long as they can remember. They grow food because the earth provides very little otherwise. Is that a sin?"

"Men should not live without trees. They will go mad."

"On the contrary," Geim said even-handedly, "most people in the north find this type of landscape soothing."

Toren did not believe that. "What is the name of this place?"

"We are in the nation of Irigion."

"How much farther north is Serthe?"

Geim paused. "Serthe is southwest of here. The portal dropped us in the center of the continent."

Toren felt his home sail farther over the horizon.

The farms became more frequent as they left the slightly rolling terrain and entered a broad valley. Fences rose around the pastures. Homesteads appeared. A shepherd boy watched them from a haystack, a horn hanging at his side-a dark-haired boy, with a pale complexion like that of Deena or the Ijitians Toren had seen in Talitha. Now it was Toren whose skin color did not belong, as the stare of the boy proved.

They stopped to watch a farmer open a floodgate, to let water flow down a shallow canal toward his orchard. The orchard astounded Toren even more than the plowed fields. Trees, deliberately placed in rows, instead of allowed to sprout at random as nature intended. Even when they grew honest food, they did it sacrilegiously.

As the sun grew swollen and red in the west, they reached the edge of a small village. Two armed men met them at the perimeter.

"Your business?" the taller one asked. They startled Toren by using Deena's language.

"We were told to ask for Mayor Korv," Deena replied. "And to show him this." She held out a copper coin. Toren briefly glimpsed the engraved image-a frog.

The sentry took the coin. His eyebrows raised. "I will fetch him. You can wait at the inn. Vodd will take you there."

"Our thanks, Goodman."

The first man strode away. Toren, Geim, and Deena followed Vodd toward the hamlet's only two-story structure. The town bustled, full of laborers done with their day's work in the fields, or wives gossiping before preparation of the evening meal. Toren couldn't keep up with the new sights-people in skirts, men with beards, walls of clay brick, oeikani much larger than those of the Wood. The citizens blinked and pointed at the golden skins of the Vanihr. They made less of a fuss about the hair, though villagers who were blond tended toward darker, honey tones, rather than the brilliant yellow of the southern race. Toren could not help but notice that an unusual number of the inhabitants carried weapons.

He picked up snatches of conversations-twice he heard "faces like boys" murmured behind his and Geim's backs-but for the most part the chatter blended into a chaotic buzz. Some of the people spoke the language that Geim and Deena shared, which, other than the familiar sound, completely washed over him.

"What is this place?" Toren asked Deena.

"The village is called Greenfield. Struth has an arrangement with the local officials-they keep watch on the portal exit, and provide hospitality for those who come through, in exchange for gold and certain gifts of sorcery."

"Why are so many of them armed?"

"Greenfield is near the border of Mirien, my homeland," she said wistfully. "Many of the people living here are refugees from the Dragon's invasion. They are wary of further incursions." That explained the presence of two languages.

A pretty tavern girl greeted them inside the inn. "Visitors for the mayor," Vodd announced.

"Then they'll want to sit in his booth," she replied, and showed them to an alcove. Toren chose the seat against the far wall, behind the table, grateful to slip out of conspicuous view.

"We'll get you some new clothes soon," Deena said. "It will make you feel a little less out of place."

"I like what I'm wearing now," Toren said.

The front door opened, letting in Vodd's companion and a stout elder in a well-tailored shirt and kilt. The latter joined them in the alcove.

He lay Deena's coin on the polished wood. "I'm Mayor Korv. How may I serve the emissaries of Struth?"

"Food, a night's lodging, and a few supplies for the road," Deena answered. "We'll leave for the temple in the morning."

"A modest request," Korv declared. "I'll tend to the first right now." He beckoned the serving girl. "You've just come from Talitha?" he asked when she was gone.

"Yes."

"Then you'll want news."

"Yes. How go the Dragon's conquests?" Deena asked.

The mayor's face clouded. "You've heard that he took Tamisan?"

"Yes."

"His main force is now moving slowly into Simorilia." He tugged his kinky, disarrayed beard. "We seem to be safe here for the moment. I hope it lasts."

"It won't," Deena said.

Toren had to listen attentively to be able to follow the dialogue. His command of the tongue still wavered, and Korv spoke with a different accent than Deena. He gave up, which was just as well because the conversation soon shifted into the other language, which the mayor seemed equally comfortable speaking. Geim asked him several questions.

The girl brought bowls of stew. The rising steam smote Toren with the sharp, bitter aroma of unknown spices. He guessed that the meat came from the small, woolly grazing animals he had seen earlier that day. The vegetables looked like some sort of roots or tubers.

"Are these grown in open fields?" he asked Deena, poking at a vegetable with a two-tined fork.

"Yes," she answered. "That one is called nioc. It's very good."

He glanced at Geim. His fellow Vanihr was shovelling his portion down with gusto. Toren did not know what to do. Every bit of the recipe offended the religious laws of his people. Even the meat came from livestock raised on treeless land. Yet he had to eat something sooner or later.

Geim nudged him. "You're not going to start this nonsense again, are you?"

Toren scowled, and took a bite.

"You see?" Deena said encouragingly. "When I was a child my mother fed us nioc every day. She taught me how to prepare it a dozen different ways."

He grimaced as he swallowed. "That must be why your skin is so pale."

"Try the mutton, then. These spices are delicious."

"I'd really prefer some snake," Toren said, but he relented and began eating everything. It filled his belly with a soothing heat, and it did curb his hunger. However, he could not muster the enthusiasm Geim and Deena were displaying.

Half an hour later, his stomach suddenly spasmed. The mayor quickly directed him toward the rear door. He staggered away and, once free of the shame of observation, he lost the meal.

I will never eat sinner's food again, he vowed.

When he didn't return, Geim came to find him. Toren was leaning against the outhouse, letting the cool twilight air calm the fierce heat in his neck and cheeks.

"You don't look like much of a dragon killer," Geim said.

"I'm not," Toren said stiffly.

"Don't be embarrassed. Strange food often does this. You'll adjust."

"Did it ever happen to you?"

"Of course. My first meals in three different ports. But that was when I was younger. Now I can eat anything."

"Then I look forward to my old age," Toren quipped.

"Come back inside," Geim suggested. "Perhaps if you ate bread only…"

"I'm not hungry anymore," Toren said, but he followed Geim inside, no longer nauseated. The tavern girl tried unsuccessfully to suppress a sympathetic grin as he passed. He blushed. His throat stung. He still felt queasy. A warrior should not have to feel so miserable in front of women.

Korv reassured him, and tore off a quarter loaf of pale brown bread. More sin, but what did it matter? Toren nibbled at it. He found it much lighter than the dense cakes of his homeland, and though the flour tasted of field grains rather than seeds and nuts, it went down easily. He supplemented it with ale, a light, pleasant brew, the first thing he had genuinely liked all evening. It cut the sour film at the back of his mouth.

A small, tousled head suddenly appeared over the table's edge. A young boy stared at Toren and Geim with bright, wide eyes.

The mayor chuckled and patted the child on the head. "My grandson, Pell. I apologize. He's never seen Vanihr before."

Toren's gaze lingered on his awed observer. "I have a boy your age," he told him, suddenly guilty. He had not thought of Rhi all day.

Made bold by the comment, Pell blurted, "Is it true that in your country, you sleep hanging from trees?"

Toren smiled. "Sometimes." But clearly the boy had the wrong idea. How to explain? He turned to Geim. "Do they have a word for immei?"

Geim told Deena the term. She translated it for Pell.

"Oh," Pell said, crestfallen. "Hammocks. We have those."

Toren could not face such disappointment. "One of my uncles was stolen from one by a mooncat when he was a baby," he added.

"Really?" Pell gasped. "Did he die?"

"No. Mooncats sometimes catch prey and don't make the kill until they get hungry. My grandfather found him in time."

Pell produced a dozen eager questions about mooncats almost before he took another breath. Toren patiently answered them, assisted by Deena when his vocabulary fell short. A pair of intrigued adult patrons shifted nearer the table. The topic evolved to other points. By the time the second pitcher of ale was empty, Toren felt a little less out of place.

He breathed thanks that his ancestors could not see him now.

Toren endured Deena's appraisal of his new clothing. He had chosen a peasant shirt, vest, and winter trousers, though, as she quickly informed him, in the warming weather the folk of Irigion would be shifting to kilts. He had also picked muted, neutral colors, though local fashion favored brighter tones.

"It will do," she muttered, obviously dissatisfied, but unwilling to argue further. Geim had arrived with the oeikani.

The animals shuffled near the entrance to the inn. Three bore saddles, the fourth complained about its heavy load of fresh supplies. Toren caught their scent on the late morning breeze. He wrinkled his nose.

Deena stepped forward and stroked her beast's nose. The creature did not seem to mind.

"These things are truly tame?" he asked.

"Yes. The doe you'll be riding is especially well-behaved."

Deer were meant for hunting, not transportation, Toren believed. No matter how big the species. He examined his from its long, flowing mane to the tuft of hair at the end of its whiplike tail, and down to its cloven hooves.

Geim showed him how to mount.

"Just hold on to the saddle horn," Geim said. "The oeikani will do the rest. You'll get used to it in no time. How does it feel?"

Toren felt much too high, but he was a modhiv. "Fine," he said too quickly.

Geim chuckled, mounted, and lashed Toren's reins to the back of his saddle. Deena took the pack animal's reins.

Mayor Korv came to bid the them farewell. They thanked him for his hospitality, and he in turn complimented them on a good evening of tales of distant lands. His final words were more subdued.

"There was a visitor at the portal earlier this month. He was only seen once, but I thought you should know. There's not much reason for a stranger to pass by the cairn by chance."

"What did he look like?" Deena asked.

"Tall and gaunt. Dark clothing. The shepherd only saw him briefly, from a distance."

Toren felt the beginning of an itch somewhere between his ears.

They began riding. Toren clenched the horn and tried to let his body roll with the oeikani's motion, as he had been instructed. Though the animals strode at a leisurely pace, they reached the outskirts of the town amazingly fast. It was, Toren had to admit, a convenient way to cover distance without taking a single pace.

Little Pell ran to the edge of the village and waved them on their way.

The road climbed into foothills. Pastures evolved into fields of wild grass and brambles. The trees thickened. Toren had not known this type of tree in the wood-oaks, Deena called them. The modhiv sighed as the boughs interlaced overhead, offering surcease from the afternoon sun; the shade made him feel at home. Oak wasp larvae hopped inside their tiny egg cases, bouncing across the forest floor in their struggle to escape; their birthing noise often resembled the babbling of a brook or loud whispers of raindrops striking brittle, fallen leaves.

The pleasantness of his surroundings made the itch in his head all the more noticeable.

"We're in danger," Toren said.

Geim and Deena reined up. "As with the cannibals?" the northern Vanihr asked.

"Yes. We should go another way."

Geim gestured toward the right. There was no road there, but the brush and trees left plenty of passage for the oeikani. "How about that way?"

"Perhaps. I won't know until we try it."

Hadradril frowned. His prey had left the road. He abandoned the ambush point he had selected, climbed back onto his oeikani, and parallelled the detour.

"No good," Toren said. He stared about. The trees here stood widely spaced, the ground free of brush as if a fire had come a few years before to clear the undergrowth. The sensation of danger pulsed only faintly, but it was growing stronger once again.

"You're certain?" Geim asked.

"Yes."

"I don't know what to do," Geim muttered. "I doubt Mayor Korv would have men to spare as an escort, and we must go on."

"Perhaps we could go back to Talitha for a few days," Toren said, aware that he sounded overly eager.

Geim shook his head. "Portals only go one way. To return to Talitha, we'd have to travel by ship, as Deena, Ivayer, and I did when we came south in search of you."

Toren was not sure which bothered him more, the premonition, or the realization that his home was now inconceivably far away.

"Let's go back to the road," Geim said. "If you still sense a problem, we'll go back to Greenfield for the night."

Hadradril's expression blackened. The pulse in his talisman of pursuit slowed and weakened. They had turned away again. Twice could not be chance.

The quarry had enough control over his power to sense a threat. Yet, surely, such an undisciplined talent could be thwarted. The wizard pulled a thin cape from his saddle bags, and draped it over himself. He pulled a blanket of the same material out and covered his oeikani's withers. He whispered the words of activation.

A simple spell, but it would mask his presence. His prey would have to consciously know what to do to circumvent it. Hadradril headed back to his original ambush point.

The itch faded as Toren and his companions approached the road, then vanished altogether. He frowned. He did not trust the sudden way it had stopped. It seemed too convenient.

Yet, perhaps they had fooled whoever threatened them, and were now out of danger. When they reached the road, Geim decided they should continue in their original direction. Toren reluctantly agreed. The day waned; they could not remain indecisive.

The route grew rougher, the ruts of spring rains not yet worn down in this rarely travelled region. In one place a tree had fallen over part of the road. Cover abounded on either side-too much. Toren keened his extra sense, and felt nothing.

Late in the afternoon, as they rose over a small hillock, he assembled his blowgun and laid it across his thighs.

At the base of the hillock, the feeling came on him like fire. He twisted.

An arrow grazed his side.

Only then could he sense how magic had been foiling his ability. Out of a thicket emerged a gaunt figure in embroidered silk riding gear, bow in hand, a plain grey cloak on his shoulders.

Geim threw his net. It raced straight toward Hadradril. The wizard barely had time to drop his bow before he was felled.

Toren, Deena, and Geim jumped out of their saddles, the latter drawing his sword as he dropped. Toren moved to approach the thicket from the left, Geim from the right, while Deena took the reins of the oeikani.

The men made it four or five steps. Then, no matter how hard they struggled, their feet would not leave the road. They were anchored. Toren noticed that the dust on which they stood was strangely colored.

"Just a little trick I learned in my apprentice days," the wizard said blithely, and stood up. He twirled the net in front of him. "Now this is a clever toy. I should make one of my own some time."

Despite his banter, the wizard could not conceal his spellcasting from Toren. A waver in the air led from Hadradril to the colored dust. Not only did his feet refuse to budge, but his limbs grew leaden and useless. Deena, who had been trying to reach the bow in her saddle, lowered her arm. Geim's sword point dropped. Toren's hand, which had been reaching toward the pouch of darts on his belt, stopped.

Hadradril picked up his bow and nocked a fresh arrow. He chuckled. "That's better," he said, and aimed at the modhiv.

He drew back the bowstring with tortoiselike slowness. Toren frowned at the snail's pace of the wizard's movements, then the light of realization dawned. The immobilization spell consumed nearly all the sorcerer's power and concentration. Hadradril could not afford to devote much attention to his physical movements.

The filament of energy binding Toren's arms resembled a rope. And if he disturbed the knot-right there-just so…

Suddenly the paralysis disappeared. He loaded a dart, lifted his blowgun, and fired.

The missile struck Hadradril in the chest. He cried out, released the arrow, clutched his chest, dropped the bow. The shaft came at Toren too fast for him to dodge it, but the wizard's aim had been skewed just enough. The point sliced the edge of one of his sleeves and continued past.

"Quick!" Geim shouted. "Get him!"

Geim charged forward and slashed at Hadradril's neck. The sword stopped a finger's breadth away from the skin. Sparks scattered in every direction. Undaunted, Geim continued to hack.

For Toren's eyes, the ward radiated angry, red, resistant tones. He considered trying to negate it, but had no idea how. Deena shoved a sword into his hand. Geim had the right idea-beat at the barrier with all their might. Keep Hadradril occupied, and the poison would do the rest.

Toren had never used a sword, but there was no need for finesse. He chopped at the wizard's legs, while Geim swung at the upper body. Deena, armed with a knife, stood poised to assist, should there be room for her.

Hadradril staggered. He tugged the dart from his chest, but the pain only intensified. He had underestimated his victim. His life was dribbling away.

Take him with me, was his foremost thought. But it was all he could do to maintain the ward. The venom spread, dulling his senses. He knew no sorcery to counteract it. Hands trembling, he reached back to his quiver, bent down and retrieved his bow. One of the blades had nearly cut through the ward. He winced. He had to be careful, move very slowly.

He drew back the arrow, pointed it at the adept, and let go. Thanks to his sluggish movement, the target anticipated him and simply stepped out of the way.

He withdrew another arrow. The result was the same.

Hadradril moaned. His only consolation was that the other sorcerers of the Ril would not see him fall. He shuddered, knees threatening to buckle. His chest burned. Spots flickered in front of his eyes.

Dying. Only one chance, one remote chance, to fulfill his mission. Once he dropped the ward, he could cast the spell in an instant.

Each impact sent numbing tingles up the sword. The weapon threatened to fall out of Toren's grip. Tiny, brief fires flickered in the twigs at their feet, ignited by the sparks.

Hadradril emitted a weak, strangled cry, perhaps a word. The ward disintegrated with a sudden snap of wind.

Geim chopped off the wizard's head.

Toren set down his sword, suddenly very weary. The head rolled to a stop. The body crumpled to the ground. Geim wiped the sweat from his forehead and stepped back. "You're good with that blowgun," he told Toren.

They heard an odd hissing. Geim stared in outrage as his sword began to sizzle and dissolve. Likewise, smoke rose from the mulch near both parts of the wizard's neck, and from Toren's vest, which had been splattered during the decapitation.

"Take it off!" Deena shouted at Toren. The modhiv was already moving. He threw the vest off just before the fabric burned through.

"The bastard!" Geim growled. "He put a spell on his blood. This was my best blade." He shook it, wiped it on the corpse's clothing, but the metal still bubbled. The fine polished edges warped into ragged, rusted contours.

A foul odor rose from the discarded piece of clothing. Toren watched it being destroyed with a pensive stare.

"Oh, well," Deena said. "You didn't like that vest, anyway."

Regrettably the acid blood was having no effect on the sorcerer's own flesh, though the necklace that had been around his neck fumed and decomposed.

Toren caught his breath. He pointed out the necklace, lying in the twigs near the head. Geim lifted it up with the tip of his afflicted sword. It possessed a single blue gem. Evidently it was still able to draw a small amount of energy from the dead man, because it pulsed with faint but rapid flashes. Geim scowled, and held the jewel closer to Toren.

The flashes sped up, until they were nearly a constant glow. When Geim removed the gem from Toren's immediate vicinity, the flashes slowed down.

"Like Ivayer's bracelet," Toren said.

"A talisman of pursuit," Geim said. "This was no random attack. He was looking for you."