P. Hodgell - The Sea of Time

“Run,” said Ashe over her shoulder to Kirien.

Kirien scrambled to her feet and dived out the door. She had no conscious thought where she was going, even as her feet scrabbled on the sloping shelf of the trail. It seemed to go on forever. Stones rolled under her feet. The unseen abyss called.

Suddenly her hand began to twitch, almost making her lose her grip on the wall. Aunt Trishien was sending a message. Kirien fumbled for her tablet, and dropped it. When she awkwardly bent to retrieve it, a shuffling foot inadvertently kicked it off the ledge into the void.

Moments later, with a lunge, she found herself back at the mouth of the tunnel, gasping facedown on the stony floor.

Her hands still shook, but with nothing more than fatigue and strain. Whatever her aunt had tried to tell her was lost.

What had happened, though, back in the cave?

As her head had turned, she thought she had seen the thing crumble even as it had lurched forward, but instinct told her that it wasn’t dead—well, no more so than it had already been. On the path, she had heard the door thud shut behind her and the rasp of the key in the lock. Ancestors, please, let Ashe and Index be safe. She should go back to check, but her nerve failed her.

Voices called to each other down the stone tunnel and the wooden hall, from within Mount Alban.

“If you really want to help,” Ashe had said, “lead them away.”

Kirien struggled to her feet.

At the outer door she paused a moment, then shut it, hearing the lock engage within. Now that Ashe had the key which apparently worked on both doors, on both sides, she needn’t leave it open.

Where were the Caineron? The wooden maze that made up the college’s core distorted sound. If she could reach the stair . . .

As she dashed forward, however, someone stepped into the corridor in front of her. Kirien skidded to a stop, turned, and ran into the arms of another tall Kendar.

“M’lady Kirien, isn’t it?” he said, looking down at her. “M’lord Caldane would like a few words with you.”

“What time d’you think it is?” asked Rowan, gazing up into the fog-bound sky. The sun had to be up there somewhere.

“Late afternoon, I’d say,” Grimly replied, reshaping his mouth for human speech. Otherwise, he was in his complete furs, trotting beside Torisen’s post horse. “And my paws are getting sore.”

“You should have accepted a mount at Falkirr,” said Torisen, glancing down at him.

“Then my butt would ache.”

The mist was denser than it had been at Gothregor. Now one could barely see more than a horse’s length ahead. Their pace, accordingly, had been slower than expected, although they were still outpacing the main Knorth force which now, hopefully, had been augmented by the Brandan keep. Ten riders and two wolvers, with at least fifty miles yet to go. Bare branches dripped on their heads. The wet stones of the River Road were slippery underfoot. When the dark came—all too soon now—it would be hard to see anything.

Yce loped along at Torisen’s other stirrup, making no comment. No one had thought about Yce in the rush to leave Gothregor, and by the time she had ghosted up level with them out of the fog, it had been too late to send her back.

“Lady?”

“I do well enough,” answered Trishien, through gritted teeth. It was a long time since she had last ridden astride and her muscles burned, but be damned if she meant to hold anyone up. Her gloved fingers fluttered to the tablet that she carried thrust into her coat. Why had there been no word from Kirien since that last, terse message?

Kindrie saw her motion. “I’m sure your niece is all right,” he said. “Caldane would never dare hurt her.”

“As for what Caldane would or wouldn’t do,” she replied tartly, “Ancestors only know.”

Grimly and Yce both pricked their ears.

“Someone is coming,” said the former.

They must be approaching Wilden by now—near Shadow Rock too, for that matter, but the Danior keep was on the other side of the Silver from both them and the next post station, for which the Randir were responsible.

Torisen signaled a halt. Behind him, swords rasped free of their scabbards. His own hand dropped to the hilt of Kin-Slayer, but before he could draw it, a pale horse splashed with mud to its shoulders plunged down the slope to their right and into their midst. The rider set her mount back on its hocks to stop it, then dropped the reins and raised empty hands.

Rowan barked a challenge.

“Quiet,” came a low, rasping response, “for Ancestors’ sake.”

The stranger drew up next to Torisen, ignoring the two wolvers although they made her mount dance nervously.

“Highlord, an ambush has been set for you at the Wilden post station,” she said in a voice that grated on the nerves.

As far as Torisen could recall, he had never met this Kendar before, and he thought that he would have remembered her. She had a distinctive, square face, small eyes, and the clenched, blunt jaw of a Molocar. A scar across her throat explained the gravel in her voice.

“How did the Randir know that I was coming?” he asked.

“As I understand it, Lady Rawneth had prior knowledge of Lord Caineron’s plans. She knew that the Jaran Lordan would communicate with her aunt—that’s you, I assume, Matriarch—and that her aunt would tell you, lord. No one could doubt what would happen next. I can show you a way around the trap.”

Rowan snorted. “In order to lead us into another one? Why should we trust you, Randir?”

“Look.” The woman bent forward and lifted a heavy fall of hair off the back of her neck. The wavy lines of the rathorn sigil were branded into her flesh, the white scars decades old.

“An Oath-breaker,” said Burr, and his eyes grew hard. As a rule, Knorth Kendar did not sympathize with those of their house who had failed to follow their lord Ganth into exile after the White Hills.

“I carried an unborn child at the time,” said the woman in a flat voice. “It died anyway. After that, the Randir took me in. Follow if you will.”

She turned her horse and plunged back up the slope.

Rowan reined about to regain Torisen’s side. “Are you mad, Blackie? She betrayed your father. Why not his son?”

“Was it sensible for anyone to follow Ganth Grayling over the Ebonbane? Remember, he threw down his power like a petulant child with a broken toy and abandoned his followers, all but the ones who couldn’t conceive of life without him. Those I pity and hope some day to reclaim.”

He summoned one of his riders and sent him back to warn the main Knorth body about the ambush. Another rider peeled off to cross the Silver as best she could to alert the Danior keep to Mount Alban’s plight.

The diminished vanguard left the road. The slope above was slick with last year’s matted grass and cut across by streams that tumbled down from Wilden’s moat higher up. The widest of these were bridged; the rest required fording. Their guide rode before them, barely visible. Then she disappeared.

“I warned you,” said Rowan, keeping her voice low. “Now what?”

Grimly had trotted on ahead. Now he slipped back to rejoin them.

“She’s met someone on a bridge,” he reported. “Most likely a guard. They’re talking.”

Torisen edged forward, acutely aware of the muffled jingle of tack as the others followed him. Now he could see the bridge and two mounted figures on its crown, their horses standing head to tail. There was a grunt. One of the riders slumped and toppled. The other signaled the Knorth to advance and rode on. Crossing the bridge, Torisen looked down at the huddled figure of a Randir who appeared to have been knifed. His horse stood over him, whickering to his oncoming mates. Grimly offered him to Yce, then swung up into the saddle himself when she refused, much to the animal’s distress: no horse wanted to have a wolver on its back.