Overseer Tun bowed. ‘As you order.’
‘Oh, and Overseer,’ Pon-lor added. ‘Tie up our friend here.’
The man’s fat lips pulled back over greying rotten teeth. ‘Yes, Magister.’
Their guide said nothing; if anything, his mouth hardened to flint against all that he could have said.
He is enraged yet he voices no complaint? Interesting …
Wrapping his soaked robes more tightly about himself, Pon-lor moved to where a rock overhang offered shelter. Here bone-dry leaves crackled beneath his sandals and swirled about him. He crossed his legs, rested his hands palms upward on his knees, and turned inward.
Up until now his pitiful lack of results had caused him to neglect his obligations. But he could put it off no longer. It was long past time to contact Master Golan.
It took longer than usual to achieve the necessary centring and no-mind inner calm before he found himself looking down upon himself seated cross-legged, his long black hair draped like an unruly mane down the back of his robes. Having separated his self from that which was the mere flesh, this accidental temporary vessel, he turned away and sought the strong glowing vitality that would be Master Golan.
So strong in fact was his master’s essence that he found himself drawn as inexorably as a stone down a steep slope. He followed the man’s trail with ease until he reached a point where it suddenly thinned. Here the normally crystal-clear plane of the élan vital, that which inhabits and thus animates the corporal and profane flesh, clouded. Entities swirled ahead. Creatures of energy and essence that could feed upon him. All moved within a larger influence, a permeating misty radiance that appeared to pulse outwards from some central hidden presence.
Ardata herself. The Queen of the Ancient Kind.
He was too late. Master Golan had already entered her demesnes.
He turned about and willed his return to his vessel.
Under the rock shelf Pon-lor’s chest rose in a shuddering intake of breath and his eyelids fluttered. As always came the agony of ghost-knife jabbings and pricklings tormenting him as he returned to his body. The flesh was chilled in the damp as well, dangerously so. He began the meditative course that would raise his body temperature. Soon tendrils of steam began wafting into the chill night air.
Overseer Tun knelt awkwardly before him. ‘Orders, Magister?’
‘We continue on, Overseer.’
‘Very good, lord.’
Pon-lor eased his effort of focusing his energy and began on a course of muscle relaxation. Dimly, he became aware of the heat of a steady hard stare. Without shifting his gaze he identified the narrowed glittering eyes of their guide out amid the darkness. The usual expected hostility filled them. Yet he was also surprised — and amused — to detect a ferocious pride coupled with an equally ferocious contempt held for him. It seems our village raider all-in-patches harbours a very high opinion of himself. Well, who doesn’t? Yet it is obvious that it has brought him nothing but torment. Pon-lor closed his eyes. No matter. Tomorrow we will be rid of him.
In the morning he broke his fast on a pinch of rice, some smoked fish, and tea. Even as he squatted to take care of the needs of his body, his robes hiked up, two guardsmen kept watch, as it was the philosophy of the Thaumaturgs that such values as modesty and squeamishness no longer pertain once all ties to the profane flesh have been cast aside.
Overseer Tun determined the order of march. Their guide led, followed immediately by the overseer and two guards. A second unit of four guards followed this group, then Pon-lor and the rest of the detachment. The cliffs of the prominence steamed in the early morning sun. As they climbed, more and more of the jungle expanse to the west came into view. Great streamers of mist clung to the canopy and it seemed to Pon-lor as if suspended rivers were meandering through the treetops.
The stone ledges also steamed, and were slick with the last of the run-off that came crashing down out of the unseen heights. His guards hacked at the fat hanging leaves and the tangles of roots and vines, or held the worst aside for his passage. Birds startled everyone as they burst screeching and shrieking from the foliage in explosions of brilliant colour. Each time, Pon-lor’s hands clenched. It was the suddenness of it that always shocked him.
Monkeys scampering through the hanging forest scolded them with their chatter. And once, from far above, came the roar of a jungle cat. That, Pon-lor noted, gave his men pause. While all were armed with swords, shields and knives, they carried very few spears or bows.
A regrettable oversight, that. Have to let Principal Scribe Thorn know of it when I return.
What would he do, should such a beast attack the column? Not that any living Thaumaturg had any personal experience in the matter: all such wild animals, the great fanged cat, the lesser fire cat, the man-hunting leopard, the tusk-boar, the titanic cave bear, the two-horned rhinoceros, and all the great river beasts, had all been eradicated from their lands generations ago. Still, a hunting cat shouldn’t attack any large body of men, armed or not. At least that was his learning on the subject. Unless of course the old folk tales were true and all the many fanged and toothed denizens of the jungle obeyed the commands of the Ancient Queen herself; to say nothing of every spirit, demon, shape-changer, ghost, elemental, and all such supernatural entities.
He wiped his sleeve across his sweaty face. Not a thought to dwell upon as we approach her demesnes …
The path continued up the side of the rock outcropping, or mount. At times it was no wider than a goat trail. In many places rockslides had ploughed across the trail and only the most rudimentary track had been cleared. He scrambled with his hands over the sharp broken rock.
This path has not seen much commerce! There must be other ways up.
On his right, empty sky gaped as the route wound round the vertical cliff. The sun was near its highest — and these days the arching glow of the Banner, or Fallen God’s Chariot, as some cults would have it, still marred the sky — when a scream froze them all where they edged along.
It had come from the rear. Pon-lor began shuffling backwards to investigate. Voices called from the van but the wind rendered them unintelligible. His guards gathered behind him, hands on sword grips. A lone guard came round the nearest curve of the overhanging cliff. He set his hands to his mouth to yelclass="underline" ‘The last man fell!’
‘What happened?’ Pon-lor called.
‘I did not see it!’
Damn. ‘Was there blood? Sign?’
‘No, m’lord!’
He tightened his robes about himself against the rising wind. ‘Very well!’ To his men, ‘Close up. No one walks alone.’
‘Aye, m’lord.’
Past a rockfall Tun waited with the van guards, together with their guide. ‘What happened, Magister?’ the overseer asked, his slit gaze on Jak.
‘A man fell. The last.’
Tun’s eyes almost disappeared in their pockets of fat. His hands tightened in their studded leather wraps. ‘Odd that it should be the very last.’
‘No one saw what happened. I do not want to lose anyone else so we will tighten up the order of march.’
Tun bowed. ‘Very good, Magister.’
Progress slowed to a hesitant crawl. Now the greatest danger came from each other as rocks turned underfoot and tumbled down the path, threatening those behind. Who are these people? Pon-lor found himself wondering. Mountain goats?
Late in the day the ground levelled. They had reached the top, or at least a level portion of the heights. He was exhausted. His shirting beneath his robes stuck to him and his calves felt as if they had seized. Here, they re-entered dense jungle of tall fat kapok trees draped in vines. Pink and gold orchids hung in the vines as if snared in the act of climbing. A layer of rotting leaves and other fallen litter carpeted the rocky ground. It was as if they had climbed nothing at all. Except, that was, for the wind; strong gusts now brushed the branches overhead and stirred the hanging parasitical creepers, sending them rustling and whispering.