we're on somebody's trail.» Paran grunted, then kicked his horse forward.
Toc followed. «And it's a nasty somebody,» he continued «Those ravens look like they was blasted from the inside out. Hell, even the flies avoid» Toc squinted at the hills south of them. They'd found a woodcutter's trail through the Tahlyn Forest, shaving days off their journey. As soon as they'd returned to the Rhivi traders» track, however, they'd found the ravens, and also the signs of two horses and one moccasined man on foot. This latter group of tracks was only a few days old.
«Can't understand why the Adjunct and that Imass are moving so slowly,» Toc muttered, repeating words he'd uttered a dozen times since the day's beginning. «You think she doesn't know something's trailing her?»
«She's an arrogant woman,» Paran said, his free hand gripping his sword. «And with that Imass with her, why should she worry?
«Power draws power,» Toc said, scratching again at his scar. The motion triggered yet another flash of light in his head, but it was changing. At times he thought he could almost see images, scenes within the light. «Damn Seven Cities» superstitions, anyway,» he growled, under his breath.
Paran looked at him oddly. «You say something?»
«No.» Toc hunched down in his saddle. The captain had been pushing them hard. His obsession was running them down; even with the extra mount, the horses were near finished. And a thought nagged Toc. What would happen when they caught up with the Adjunct? Obviously, Paran intended to catch Lorn and the Imass, spurred by vengeance that overwhelmed his previous intentions. With Lorn dead or her plans awry, Paran's command would be safe. He could join Whiskeyjack and the squad at leisure. Assuming they still lived, of course.
Toc could think of a thousand flaws in the Captain's plans. First and foremost was the T'lan Imass. Was Paran's sword its match? In the past, sorcery had been flung at the Imass warriors with a frenzy born of desperation. Nothing had worked. The only way to destroy an Imass was to chop it to pieces. Toc didn't think the captain's weapon, god-touched as it was, could do the job, but there was no convincing Paran of anything these days.
They came upon another raven, its feathers fluttering in the wind, its entrails swollen by the sun and bright red like cherries. Toc rubbed his scar again, and almost fell from the saddle as an image, clear and precise, burgeoned in his head. He saw a small shape, moving so fast as to be but a blur. Horses screamed, and a massive tear opened up in the air. He jolted, as if something large and heavy had struck him, and the tear yawned, swirling darkness beyond. Toc heard his own horse scream. Then it was gone, and he found himself gripping the hinged horn of his saddle with all his strength.
Paran rode ahead, apparently noticing nothing, his back straight and his gaze fixed southward. One hand played lightly on the sword's pommel.
Toc shook himself, leaned to one side and spat. What had he just seen?
That tear-how could the air itself be torn like that? The answer came to him. A Warren, an opening Warren could do that. He spurred his horse alongside Paran's.
«Captain, we're heading into an ambush.»
Paran's head snapped around. His eyes glittered. «Then prepare yourself.» Toc opened his mouth to protest, but he shut it without speaking.
What was the use? He strung his bow and loosened the scimitar in its scabbard, then set an arrow against the bowstring. He glanced over at Paran, who had unsheathed his sword and laid it across his thighs. «It'll come by Warren, Captain.»
Paran found no need to question Toc's certitude. He almost looked eager.
Toc studied the sword, Chance. The dull, hazy light played along the polished blade like water. Somehow it, too, looked eager to Toc's eye.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
«Tis bloody stirrups when the Jaghut ride their souls, a thund'rous charge without surcease, the hard knots within thud drumming fierce the flow of ice a certain promise:
«tis the Jaghut warring the dusk on a field of broken stones:
Jaghut Fisher (b.?)
Quick ben sat in the hut, his back to the ancient stone the Wall before him rose the five sticks that linked him with Hairlock. The string connecting the sticks was taut. Across fron the wizard, near the hide-covered entrance, sat Trotts.
Kalam had still not recovered enough to accompany Quick Ben or to guard him as Trotts now did. The wizard had known the Barghast warrior for years, he'd fought alongside him in more battles than he cared to recall, and more than once one of them had saved the other's skin. And yet Quick Ben realized he really knew very little about Trotts. The one thing he did know, however, comforted him. The Barghast was a savage, brutal fighter, as capable with his throwing axes as he was with the longsword he now cradled in his lap. And he was fearless in the face of sorcery, secure in the fetishes tied into his braids and in the woad tattoos inscribed by the hand of his clan's shaman.
Considering what might fall into their laps, those protections could come in handy.
The Barghast stared at the wizard with flat, expressionless eyes, unwavering in the dim light.
Quick Ben shook out the kinks in his hands, then bent forward to study the array of tied sticks. «Hairlock's crouching inside his Warren,» he said. «Not moving. Seems to be waiting.» He sat back and withdrew his dagger, which he jammed point first into the packed earth. «So we wait, too. And watch.»
Trotts asked, «Watch what?»
«Never mind.» Quick Ben sighed. «You have that scrap of bedroll?»
Trotts removed from a sleeve a torn piece of cloth. He came forward, giving the sticks more room than was necessary, and pushed the scrap into the wizard's hand.
Quick Ben set it down on his left. He muttered a few words and passed his hand over it. «Resume your seat,» he said. «And keep your weapon ready in case things go bad.»
He closed his eyes then, reaching into his Warren. Before him an image formed that made him jerk with surprise. «What,» he whispered, «is Hairlock doing on Rhivi Plain?»
Paran could feel nothing but the white fire of vengeance, filling his mind, coruscating through his body. Oponn had chosen to use him. Now he would use Oponn, the Twins» power, that horrifying edge of destruction that came with Ascendancy. And like the gods, he could be cold-blooded in that use, even if it meant pulling Oponn kicking and screaming on to this plain to face whatever lay ahead.
A hiss of warning that might have been his conscience reached through to him. Toc the Younger was his friend, perhaps the only friend he had.
Unprotected by any god, his chance of surviving what was coming was slim. Would there be another death to lay at his feet? Paran pushed aside the possibility. He was here to answer for Tattersail's murder. The Adjunct had taught him the value of being singleminded. But what did Tattersail teach you?
«If things get too hot,» he said, «pull out, Toc. Ride for Darujhistan. Find Whiskeyjack.»
The scout nodded.
«If I go down-»
«I heard you, Captain.»
«Good.»
Silence fell between them, the only sounds remaining the thump of hoofs and the hot west wind that blew like sand whispering across stone.
Vague anticipations crowded Paran's head. Was the Adjunct waiting for them? If she recognized him and Toc, she'd have no reason to attack them. For all she knew, the captain had been killed. And Toc was a Claw.
There'd be no ambush. The Adjunct would simply step out into the open and hail him, no doubt shocked by his appearance but hardly suspicious.
And when she came close, Chance would sing. It would be done, and if necessary they'd deal with the Imass afterwards. He hoped that the Imass would simply leave with the mission's collapse. Without the Adjunct, everything would fall through.
At least, so he hoped. Chance might be a gifted sword, but the T'lan Imass were Elder creations, born of sorceries that made Oponn less than a child.
Paran's grip on the sword's handle was tight. His hand ached, and he could feel sweat between his fingers. Chance felt no different from any other weapon. Should he be expecting something more? He couldn't recall much of the time he'd last used it, against the Hound. But if there was power in the weapon, should he not be able to sense it? As it was, Chance felt cold, as if he clutched a shard of ice that refused to melt in his grip. If anything, Chance felt awkward, as if he was a novice and held it wrongly.
What had triggered this sudden crumpling of confidence? Pulling an Ascendant into the fray: how precisely do I do that? Of course, if Oponn's as eager as last time: Maybe it was no more than just the tension that came with waiting for something to happen. Was Toc mistaken? He turned to the man beside him and opened his mouth to speak.
A loud, manic cackle stopped him. Paran pulled savagely on the reins.
His horse screamed and reared. The air seemed to rip and a cold wind gusted against them. The captain raised his sword and cursed. The horse screamed again, this time in pain. It crumpled beneath him, as if its bones had been turned to dust. Paran sprawled, the sword flying from his hand as the ground rose up to meet him. The horse's fall had the sound of a bag filled with rocks and lamp oil, landing beside him and rolling over his legs.
Toc's bowstring twanged and an arrow shattered against something hard.
Paran pushed himself on to his side and looked up.
The puppet Hairlock floated above the ground twenty feet ahead. A second arrow struck as the captain watched, also shattering.
Hairlock laughed again, swinging his mad stare to Toc. He gestured.
Paran cried out, twisting to see Toc thrown from his mount. The Claw cartwheeled through the air. A jagged tear opened in the air in front of him. Paran shouted a second time in helpless horror as Toc the Younger plunged into that tear and disappeared into swirling mists. The rent closed with a snap, leaving no sign of Paran's companion.
Hairlock descended slowly to the ground. The puppet paused to adjust his tattered clothing, then strode towards Paran.
«I thought it might be you,» Hairlock sniggered. «Isn't vengeance sweeter than honey, eh, Captain? Your death will be long, protracted and very, very painful. Imagine my pleasure at seeing you like this!»
Paran pushed with his legs. The horse's body fell back, freeing him. He scrambled to his feet and dived for his sword, grasping it while rolling, then regained his feet.
Hairlock watched in evident amusement and began to advance. «That weapon is not for me, Captain. It'll not even cut me. So,» the puppet came on, «wail away.»
Paran raised the weapon, a wave of despair coming over him.
Hairlock stopped and cocked his head. He whirled to face the north.
«Impossible!» the puppet snarled.
Now Paran caught what Hairlock had already heard: the howling of Hounds.
In the hut Quick Ben had watched the ambush, dumbfounded. What was Paran doing? Where was Tattersail? «Hood's Path,» he'd whispered angrily,» talk about losing track!» In any case, it had all happened too fast for him to prevent the loss of the one-eyed man accompanying the captain.
His eyes flew open and he snatched the scrap of cloth. «Sorry,» he hissed. «Sorry! Hear me, woman! I know you. I know who you are. Cotillion, Patron of Assassins, the Rope, I call upon
