The Night of the Swarm

Pazel did not know quite what Mzithrinis meant by the Unseen. But he thought of the Night Gods, setting the murder of a world as a challenge on a school exam. ‘My money’s on insane,’ he said.

Once more she looked at him askance. ‘Don’t make jokes,’ she said.

‘I wasn’t.’

She stomped on, and he feared she was too angry to talk any longer. The path narrowed, until he could no longer walk at her side. ‘Neda,’ he said, ‘is there anything you want to remember, about the. . words that passed between you and Vispek? Something you want me to remind you of later on?’

Neda looked back at him, startled. ‘Pazel, I came out of the spell hours ago.’

For a moment Pazel was at a perfect loss. Then he saw it, and wondered that he had not before. ‘Your Gift,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘The door-charm worked. I did lose my memory — for a heartbeat or two. Then everything came back. It happened even faster than it used to in Babqri, when the Father put me in a trance. And that’s not the worst part. I remember everything, Pazel. Every turn, every trail, and how long we spent on each, and twenty, thirty landmarks. I could draw you a map.’

‘Pitfire, Neda.’

‘I can’t help it. There’s no way to make it stop.’

Pazel looked at the selk ahead, and lowered his voice. ‘Didn’t they know about your Gift? I thought Ramachni talked about it.’

‘We both did. I even showed them what I could do. But they still didn’t imagine it would prove stronger than the magic of the gate.’

Pazel was shaken. ‘People underestimate our mother,’ he said.

Neda’s hands were in fists. ‘I swear on her life,’ she said, ‘that I will not be the one to betray that place. Never.’

‘Oh, for Rin’s sake,’ said Pazel. ‘You’re not going to betray anyone. Just keep your mouth shut about Ularamyth, that’s all.’

‘And what if I’m captured? I might be able to withstand torture — we are trained to resist the methods of the Secret Fist — but what could I do against a spell? What if they use magic to dig the secret from my mind?’

‘You tell me. What then?’

This time Neda stopped and leaned over him, the way she used to in the days when he only came up to her waist. He could not really look at her; he was facing into the sun.

‘Then I’ll claim the privilege of an unbeliever,’ she said, ‘and cut my throat.’

By mid-afternoon they had climbed much higher: the path behind them dwindled to a thread. For a long time they walked in the mountain’s shadow, and the air grew cold indeed. At length they joined a wider, flatter trail. Pazel could see old paving stones poking out here and there from beneath the frozen soil. ‘Those are fragments of the Royal Highway,’ said Thaulinin, ‘by which travellers could once walk or ride, or even hire a carriage, from these slopes all the way to the city of Isima, and beyond it to the Weeping Glen. It was from Isima that the greatest of the Mountain Kings ruled: Urakan he was called, him for whom the tallest peak is named, and great-grandfather to Valridith the suicide. In Urakan’s day the high country bustled with merchants and peddlers and herdsman, passing from one fastness to the next.’

As they marched on, Pazel saw other hints of the glory of those lost days: a great limbless statue on a ridgetop, its boulder-sized head cracked open like an egg beside the trail; square holes that might have been the foundations of houses; rock walls enclosing barren fields — former pastures, maybe, or cemeteries.

Round one steep knoll they came suddenly upon a chasm, spanned by a stone bridge. It was a narrow crevasse; Pazel might easily have thrown a stone across it, but the bridge was less than four feet wide, and frighteningly unrailed, and the wind came in blasting gusts between the cliff walls. Here for the first time they bound themselves together with rope. Even Shilu was tied to the rest, although Valgrif crossed untethered, crouching low on his belly. Creeping over the arch, boots skidding on tiny patches of ice, Pazel felt dizziness assault him suddenly. His head was light. The wind pushed, pulled, teased. He could almost see it, snapping and coiling in the gorge. .

A hand touched his shoulder. It was Cayer Vispek, who had been tied into the line behind him. The sfvantskor’s voice was low and calm.

‘The bridge is two lines painted on solid ground. Fear not: you could walk between them in twice this wind. You have that level of control. Think of walking, nothing else.’

Pazel took a deep breath, and tried to obey. Two lines on solid ground. He stepped forward, and found to his surprise that the dizziness was almost gone. He knows what he’s doing, Pazel thought, in some matters at least.

Just beyond the bridge there stood a dense clump of pines. The selk, heavily burdened as they were, dropped their packs and began snatching up armfuls of dry, dead limbs. The rest of the party joined the effort. The limbs they tied up in bundles and strapped atop their packs, and into any spaces left over they stuffed pine cones. Brilliant, thought Pazel. We’re going to need these when we reach that shelter. But when he felt the extra weight on his back he wondered if they ever would.

Now Thaulinin set a faster pace, for the sun was low in the sky. They even ran where the trail was level. In this way they came at last to the base of the first peak, Isarak — and saw before them a disaster.

The road ahead was carved into the mountainside, its outer shoulder a cliff that fell away to terrible depths. And covering it, burying it, was snow: deep, powdery snow, in a wind-sculpted drift that followed the trail for a mile or more. Pazel thought: Impossible. We can’t go through that. We’re not blary miners, or moles.

‘Sheer cliffs above and below,’ said Ensyl, shielding her eyes. ‘We may be spending the night in that tent after all.’

Thaulinin turned and looked at her sharply. ‘We cannot,’ he said. ‘The cold that is coming is too great. We need stone around us, and a fire.’

‘That is not fresh snowfall,’ said Hercol, raising his eyes. ‘It must have broken away from the summit on a warm day, and settled here.’

‘Who cares where it came from?’ said Big Skip. ‘There’s no muckin’ way we can-’

‘Dig!’ said Thaulinin. ‘Dig or perish! In an hour’s time this trail will be black!’

Straight into the white mass they dived. The snow was light, but piled to depths of twelve feet or more. They were digging a tunnel, and each time they advanced a yard it collapsed. Their new coats were tight at sleeve and collar, yet it trickled in all the same. The selk had the worst of the job, cutting the initial trail, mindful always of the savage drop-off nearby. But for everyone the labour was exhausting. The snow toppled; they scooped it away and wriggled forward. It was like an odd sort of swimming: half dog-paddle, half treading water. But how long could you do that before you grew tired and sank? Ahead, behind, above: there was nothing to see but snow — that and an occasional, stomach-churning glimpse of the distant lowlands, when they strayed close to the precipice.

Dusk fell. Pazel rubbed his eyes, struggling to distinguish snow from air. Ramachni and the ixchel, walking atop the drift, shouted down encouragement. But they had been doing that for ages. If they all curled up here, close together beneath the snow, would they keep each other warm? Or would they die in their sleep, frozen, fused together like an unfinished sculpture, and be found by crows in the springtime?

Even as he mused on the question he heard glad cries from the selk: they had reached the far side of the drift at last. One by one the party stumbled out, shaking snow from their clothes and hair. The sun was gone: only a dull red glow remained in the sky. Now, as he felt the knife of the wind, Pazel had his answer: they would freeze to death if they stayed here. The snow melted by the heat of their bodies had soaked them through.

‘I feared as much,’ said Thaulinin. ‘We have taken too long. The shelter is still three miles away.’

‘Then let us tie ourselves together and run,’ said Hercol. ‘Not quickly, but steadily, wherever the trail permits.’

‘Locate your fire beetles,’ said Thaulinin, ‘but I beg you: do not use them unless you feel death itself tugging at your sleeves. The heat they contain is terribly potent, but it will not last long.’

Once more they bound themselves together. Then they ran, limbs shaking, teeth chattering uncontrollably. The light dimmed further, the trail narrowed and grew steep. Bolutu slipped on a patch of ice and skidded wildly; the rope stopped him only when his torso was already over the precipice. They raised him, clapped him on the back