“Come back you bloody nag!” he raged. The only answer was the distant drum of hooves. “Should’ve cut his throat years ago,” Vaelin muttered.
“Don’t move, brother.”
Nortah stood beneath the part collapsed archway. His blond hair was longer, reaching nearly to his shoulders, and the beginnings of a youthful beard showed on his chin. Instead of his brother’s garb he wore a set of buckskin trews and a leather jerkin. Apart from the hunting knife in his belt he was unarmed. Vaelin had expected defiance, plus a modicum of the usual scorn and mockery, so was surprised that Nortah’s expression was one of grave concern.
“Brother,” he addressed Nortah formally, “Aspect Arlyn commands your immediate return…”
Nortah barely seemed to hear him, edging closer with his hands raised, and Vaelin noticed how his eyes kept flicking to the side, focusing on something to the rear…
Vealin whirled, his sword coming free from the scabbard in a blur.
“DON’T!” Nortah’s shout coming too late as something large and immensely strong slammed into Vaelin’s side, the force of the charge jarring his sword from his grip and sending him into the air to land a good ten feet away, his breath forced from his lungs by the impact.
He scrabbled for the dagger in his boot, dragging air into his lungs and trying to ignore the sharp pain in his chest which told of at least one broken rib. He pushed himself upright, shouting with pain, and promptly fell again as a wave of nausea blurred his vision and tipped the ground beneath his feet. More than just a broken rib. He struggled, waving his dagger wildly, trying to rise and finding Nortah standing over him. Vaelin drew back expecting an attack, reversing his hold on the dagger to parry a thrust…
Nortah had his back to him, standing with his hands raised above his head, waving frantically. “NO! No! Leave him!”
There was a sound, like a snarl mixed with a growl. But it was not a sound any dog would ever make.
Vaelin had seen wild cats in the Urlish and the Martishe but the beast that confronted him now was so different in size and shape he almost concluded it was from another species altogether. It stood over four feet tall at the shoulder, its lean, powerful frame covered in snow white fur shot through with dark black stripes. Massive paws scraped at the ground with claws more than two inches long, and its eyes, bright green and shining out from the complex striped mask of its face, seemed to glow with malevolent intent. Meeting his gaze it hissed, bearing fangs like ivory daggers.
“NO!” Nortah yelled, placing himself between the cat and Vaelin. “No!”
The cat snarled again, raising a paw to slash the air in annoyance then shifted to the left, seeking to edge past Nortah. Vaelin was amazed. Does it fear him?
A hand clap sounded, loud and sharp in the chilled mountain air. Vaelin tore his gaze from the snarling cat and saw a young woman standing a short distance away, a slender young woman with auburn hair and a familiar and very pretty oval face.
“Sella?” he said, wincing as a fresh wave of pain swept through him, his vision swimming. When it cleared he found her standing over him, smiling warmly, the cat was at her side now, nuzzling her leg as she played a hand through its fur. Behind her he could see other figures emerging from the ruins, dozens of people, young and old, men and women.
“Brother?” Nortah was kneeling next to him, his face pale with concern. “Are you hurt?”
“I…” Meeting Nortah’s gaze and seeing the worry in his eyes he felt a great swell of shame in his breast. I came here to kill you, my friend. What kind of man am I? “I’m fine,” he said, pushing himself upright and promptly passing out from the savage flare of agony in his chest.
Chapter 8
He was woken by voices, softly spoken but tense with conflict.
“…a danger to us all,” a man was whispering heatedly.
“No more than I,” answered a familiar voice.
“You are as much a fugitive as we are, brother. He is a member of an order that kills our kind.”
“This man is under my protection. No harm will come to him.”
“I’m not talking about harming him. There are other ways, we can keep him sleeping…”
“A bit late for that,” Vaelin said, opening his eyes.
He lay on a bed of furs in a large bare room, the walls and the ceiling richly decorated with faded paintings of animals and strange sea creatures he couldn’t name. The floor was covered in an elaborate mosaic showing a pear tree laden with fruit surrounded by unfamiliar symbols and intricate swirling patterns. Nortah stood near the door accompanied by a slightly built man with greying hair and wary eyes.
“Brother,” Nortah said with a smile. “You are well?”
Vaelin felt at his side, expecting to find it tender to the touch but there was no pain. Pulling down the furs he saw the livid bruise he expected was absent, his flesh smooth and unmarked. “It appears so. Thought that beast had broken a rib at least.”
“She did more than that,” the slightly built man said. “Weaver had to spend half the night on you. Snowdance is not a easy animal to control, even for Sella.”
“Snowdance?”
“The cat,” Nortah explained. “A war-cat left behind by the Ice Horde. It seems some of them made the mistake of wandering into Lonak lands after the Tower Lord sent them packing. Sella found her when she was a kitten. Apparently she’s not yet fully grown.”
“Grown large and ferocious enough to keep us safe,” the other man said, giving Vaelin a cold look. “Until now.”
“This is Harlick,” Nortah said. “He’s scared of you. Most of them are.”
“Them?”
“The people who live here, and a very strange bunch they are too.” He went to a corner where Vaelin’s clothes and weapons were neatly arranged and tossed him a shirt. “Get dressed and I’ll give you a tour of the fallen city.”
Outside the sun was bright and high, warming the air and banishing shadows from the ruins. They emerged from what appeared to have been an official building of some kind, its size and the cluster of symbols carved into the lintel above the entrance marked it out as a place of importance.
“Harlick thinks it was a library,” Nortah said. “He should know, used to be a man of importance in the Grand Library in Varinshold. What became of all the books, however.” He shrugged.
“Gone to dust ages past, most like,” Vaelin said. Looking around he was struck by an impression of beauty despoiled. The elegance of the buildings, evident in every line and carving, had been displaced and disfigured by the city’s fall. His eyes picked out marks in the stonework and the broken statues, not cracks of age but scars hewn into the stone. Elsewhere he noted the way all the taller buildings had fallen in different directions, as if pulled down at random. There was a violence to the destruction that spoke of more than the deprivations of passing years and harshness of the elements.
“This place was attacked,” he murmured. “Torn down centuries ago.”
“Sella said the same thing.” Nortah’s face clouded a little. “She has dreams sometimes. Bad dreams, about what happened here.”
Vaelin turned to face him, searching his face for signs of wrongness. Nortah was certainly different, the weariness that dulled his eyes since their time in the Martishe was gone, replaced by something Vaelin took a moment to recognise. He’s happy.
“Brother,” he said. “I must know. Has she touched you?”
Nortah’s expression was both amused and guarded. “My father once told me there are some things a true nobleman does not discuss.”
Vaelin was momentarily undecided whether to be jealous or angry that Nortah could throw off his vows so easily. He surprised himself by finding he was neither. “I meant…”
There was a rapid scrape of claws on stone and Vaelin fought to contain his alarm as the war-cat Snowdance bounded toward them, leaping a fallen column and nearly knocking Nortah from his feet as she pressed her great head against him, purring loudly.
“Hello you vicious beast,” Nortah greeted her, tickling her behind the ears, for all the world as if he was petting a kitten. Vaelin couldn’t stop himself edging away. The obvious power of the animal made even Scratch look weak in comparison.
“She won’t hurt you,” Nortah assured him, scratching the cat’s jaw as she angled her head. “Sella won’t let her.”
Nortah led him through the ruins to a cluster of buildings which seemed more intact than the others. There were people there, about thirty in all of varying ages, with a few children running about. Most of the adults regarded Vaelin with a mixture of fear and suspicion, a few were openly hostile. Oddly they showed no fear of Snowdance, a couple of children even running over to pet her.
“Why didn’t you take his sword?” a tall man with a black beard demanded of Nortah. He was clutching a heavy quarter staff and a little girl was peering out from behind his legs, eyes wide with fear and curiosity.
“It’s not mine to take,” Nortah replied in a placid tone. “And I’d advise you not to try, Rannil.”
Vaelin was struck by the way the people avoided his gaze as they moved through the camp, a couple even covered their faces although he knew none of them. There was also a murmur from the blood-song, a tone he hadn’t heard before, it felt almost like recognition.