The Castle Of Hape. Caves Of Fire And Ice. The Joining Of The Stone

Ram rode out for Blackcob well before dusk. As he left the ruins, he turned in the saddle and saw Skeelie standing in a portal watching him. He waved, but wished she were not compelled to see him ride out, compelled to worry over him. She had sat with him while he ate an early meal, nagged him about his wound, as had Tayba. He turned his back on the ruins and made his way through the village. The low sun behind the stone houses made the thatched roofs shine, sent deep shadows across the cobbles. His horses’ hooves struck sharp staccato as he exchanged greetings with men and women coming in from work, from the drilling field. He could smell suppers cooking. Children flocked around his two horses, then stormed away like leaves blown. He left the town at last to pass occasional farms along the sea cliff, then soon the cliff was empty of all but the sweeping grass, the wind salt and harsh. Waves pounded up the side of the cliff bouncing spray into his face. He relished the solitude, needed this solitude to heal the sense of defeat that would not leave him, the sense of mounting disaster. The sense of wasted lives. They had lost some good men at Folkstone. He would be a long time forgetting it.

And the attacks kept coming. Not a large, full-scale battle, but small, bedeviling attacks first in one place, then another, harassing the farmers and herders, delaying what should have been the joyful, disorderly growth of the new country; destroying crops, stealing livestock . . .

Yes, and that was just what the Seer BroogArl intended. Delay and harassment, the wasting of Carriol’s resources, the disrupting of her peaceful pursuits, of building new craftsmen’s shops, of fencing rich pasture, breaking new farmland. All lay untended, interrupted as Carriol’s settlers went off to defend the land—and perhaps to die. Such harassment did BroogArl’s work most effectively. If it lasted long enough, Ram wondered reluctantly, could the Pellian Seers conquer Carriol?

And something else kept nudging him, a feeling of urgency that puzzled him. His senses seemed infected by it. As if, ahead, lay not only his mission to the gods, to the valley of Eresu, but something else—something beckoning. The very air around him seemed fresh with anticipation, the wind sharper, even the sea meadows seemed brighter in spite of his sickness at the recent battle, in spite of his mourning of friends. He had no idea what made such a feeling, but the sense of anticipation refused to leave him, and the ride along the coast seemed as perfect as the songs in citadel, rich and full of subtleties, glorious with the powers of sea and wind.

He must be growing foolish; this must be some twisting of his mind grown out of his relief at being still alive after battle. Some wild reverence for life so nearly lost.

Even when the pack mare grew edgy, snorting and pulling back, he was more amused than disturbed. He spoke only gently to his own mount when he started to sidestep and stare at emptiness. The waning day was clear as a jewel; there was nothing to disturb them.

They settled at last and Ram, lulled by the steady rhythm of the sea, thought with pleasure of the two-year-old colts that would be ready soon for breaking. Fine colts, near the finest yet of the new breed he and Jerthon had taken so much time with. Well-made, eager animals, sensible in battle—not like these two, gaping at nothing. Colts that would one day sire a line of the finest horses in Ere, quick, short-coupled horses, handy in battle and fast and brave in attack.

He left the sea cliffs with reluctance to head inland, down through low-lying fog into the marsh cut by the river Somat Cul as it bowed south to meet the sea. The river was flanked here by coppery reeds, the air very still. Even the suck of hooves was silenced by the press of fog. The marsh smelled of decaying life and of new growth. Ahead, the fog thickened into a mass as heavy as a wall. As he approached it, the pack mare snorted and plunged wildly, and his mount went spraddle-legged, staring. A hushing sigh came from the mass of fog, then all at once, where the fog was thickest, a shape began to form.

It was tall, seemed to swell in size until it loomed above him. Was it . . . was it winged? A winged figure? But it was too large to be a horse of Eresu. Was that a human torso rising between the great shadows of its wings? Not a god!

It was utterly silent, did not speak into his mind as a god would. As the fog thickened further, it all but vanished, yet the frightened horses plunged and fought him so wildly it was all he could do to keep the frantic mare from pulling away.

The figure darkened again, came clearer. Then it spoke to him. “Ramad! You are Ramad!” Its voice was hollow, void of expression or of kindness. And it spoke aloud, not in a god’s thought-language. He swallowed, waited in silence, clutching his sword and knowing a sword was useless.

“You are Ramad of wolves, are you not! Answer me, Seer!”