In the Caves of Exile Read online

  He whirled, Stared into the setting sun; catherine wheels filled his vision and with a curse he shaded his eyes with a shaking hand. His heart was thumping erratically. Fear: it took him by the throat. Twenty small, greyish-white; spiderish creatures were creeping silently from the wood and moved slowly toward him with purpose. They carried knives, short swords, spears. And behind the armed came two more, bearing a stone bowl between them. With his heightened inner sense, its use was all too clear: even across the clearing the reek of blood reached him.

  Mothers aid me! He was white under his beard; the hand that brought the sword to guard, the one that drew the dagger from its arm-sheath, were trembling. One of the bowl-holders shouted aloud, the shielding that had almost hidden them was gone, and terror wrapped him in clammy arms. He nearly fell.

  They came on, still slowly but with no less deadly intent. My blood to that dish, my life to their hands—"Gods and Mothers, your aid to me!” His cry echoed across the rocks.

  There was no answer, save that the Mathkkra flung themselves forward. He set his shoulder against stone and waited.

  Ylia stood in the place that was already her favorite, of all the places in the Tower: the small southern balcony, where she could gaze out across the flowering trees, across the rough bridge and the broad, shallow river. Beyond them lay the southernmost of the holdings and neatly stone-separated pelts of plowlands to where the river vanished in tall pine forest. A faint, deep gold still reflected off the currents from the sun that had gone beyond her sight moments before: candlelight and hearthlight appeared in open doorways and shutters, the smell of cooking drifted down the City streets. A few men still tended their lands, though most had abandoned them at sunset. Far down the valley, she could hear the high bleat of sheep, the lowing of cattle and the clatter of bells, the calls of the herders as they came to the temporary pens erected near the east base of the bridge. A horseman galloped up the road from the Aresada and clattered across the bridge, rode at a more seemly pace beneath her portal and headed toward the barracks.

  Her fingers strayed absently across the sword hilts, and stopped there. It was warm. But it generally was, as though it had a life of its own. As it does. The thought gave her no comfort. She pushed it aside; pointless. She'd made her decision when she ignored the warnings that rang through her head in the pit, and taken the sword anyway.

  The shield, and the horn, rested in their chest in her chambers, at the foot of her bed. She'd never fought with shield, except one time with Marhan and strictly as an exercise. If the leather lozenge had other use, she didn't know it. And the horn: a day might come when a battle-horn was needed. Like the shield, it might be more than that. She didn't know. The sword: that she could use. Whatever its other virtues, it was also sword, and none had ever fitted her so well before.

  Whatever else it did, at least it did that.

  Her hand tingled unpleasantly, she became suddenly aware that all of her did. The inner sense came sharply aware: someone or something was calling and for immediate aid. Nisana? But she knew even as she sent the thought it wasn't the cat. Nisana was out in the tall grasses behind the Tower, hunting. And who else within Nedao might call?

  But that was wrong, too: It was well outside the valley, south of the Aresada and high up the slopes. Need, dire need, that rang through her; terror, disgust, anger at that fear permeated the cry for help. Danger. Someone was near to losing his life.

  She closed her eyes, caught at the balcony with her free hand and sent out a search. So intense was that call it brought her around, took the mind-touch and sent it flying south and west. It fastened on its source in less than a breath.

  Mathkkra! Mathkkra, sweating and chittering in the light of the last sun, a swarm of them, armed with blades and bloody purpose. They pressed forward to attack. A man faced them, his back hard against stone. His left arm hung useless at his side, a black-stained dagger lay where it had fallen; blood ran down his fingers, from his shoulder.

  I know that stone, the Nasath protect me, I know it! Prophecy and tree-dream rang her like a bell and she swayed with it, nearly losing the far vision: Her fingers tightened on the hilts, the nails of her free hand dug into the palm. It was the mountain-hunter. He fought like a man exhausted, and without the rock he might have fallen. The set of his face said he knew he wouldn't see the moon rise, but there would be fewer of his enemy to walk away when he fell. No. No man dies so, not by the hands of these—things! She drew the sword, pulled the dagger into her left hand and bridged.

  She came in behind him and well to the side, fearing to trust her inner sight and the bridging any better than that. She swayed, caught at rock—It must someday become practical to use, damn the thing! The hunter pivoted sharply, his breath catching in his throat with a strangled little sound, and he tried to block against whatever was there with his left. He staggered. She willed herself what strength she could, leaped to his side.

  The Mathkkra stared at her briefly but pressed the attack as though her presence, and the manner of it, made no difference at all. But the man still stared at her in stunned surprise, and was nearly run through; she felled three of the creatures as they sprang for him. At her wordless shout of warning, he pulled his mouth shut and turned back to fight with a fury that belied his wounds. The Mathkkra hung on grimly for a long moment and then scrambled back out of reach, ten fewer than they had been moments before.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded roughly.

  “I came to help you.”

  “Leave!” he snapped. It was her turn to stare: What's the matter with him? “I ask no man's aid, surely no woman's! Do you think to tip the balance against so many of those?”

  “Why not? Two are twice as many swords as one, or so I hear. But if you prefer death, tell me now and I'll give you a clean one before I go!”

  He laughed. Shook his head. “Funny woman, aren't you? Who'd want to die, by their hands or any? I've fought here for near an hour to avoid that fate.” He sobered sharply and glared at her. “But I will not see your death added to my debt to the Mothers! You came by our magic—go the same way!”

  Ylia glared back. “You made it clear enough once you are exile by Choice, but you are still Nedaoan! Take care how you speak to me!” He muttered something under his breath, turned his head back to keep a close watch on the Mathkkra. She cast a worried glance at the sky, another, at least as worried, at her companion. The sun was already off them. It would be gone shortly and the Mathkkra would become more bold as night came. And there might be more of them, more light-shy than these. Or there might be Thullen.

  But with only the two of them, and one clearly unable to leave the support of the rock, they could not attack. And the Power in her was near dead still from the drain of bridging.

  “Why did you come?” He broke a long silence; his eyes, like hers, remained on the Mathkkra, who seemed to be discussing some plan or other. “I asked, you ignored me.”

  “I answered the rudest of your remarks first; your fault if I forgot the other,” she replied shortly. “I thought I told you I felt a call for aid, I saw your need, and I came.”

  Call,” he snorted, but a chill ran through him. Gods and Mothers, was that what I did, when I called upon you for help? I touched upon AEldra Power? He was still fighting the strange reverberations, deep in his own inner resource, that her arrival had set up. Anger set it thrumming: how dare she come here, he thought, with her sword-marred beauty, her eyes burning a hole in him, her man's breeches and man's weapons so incongruous with such a woman's body and small woman's hands? How dare she shred his concentration so. The white horrors would have him with no effort at all, now, and drain his lifeblood into that stone dish ... His stomach twisted and he nearly gagged. “I called no one. Who would answer?”

  “Not aloud.” He snorted again. “Called. Power to Power,” She added, but she herself didn't look like she believed it. He laughed loudly and mockingly. The Mathkkra started, retreated a pace.

  “Power to
Power. Of course, I forgot, I'm AEldra! Don't I look it?”

  “Forget it,” she said shortly. I must have been mistaken, how could a great brainless oaf like this have drawn search, whatever his need?

  “No. I want to know what this gabble is.”

  “If I knew, I'd tell you,” she snapped. “It happened, or I couldn't have sensed you all the way from the valley, could I?”

  “Why ask me? I don't know about these AEldra things. That's your domain. Look.” It took effort, it cost him to set aside anger that was more than half fear for her, terror for himself and the grim certainty of that bowl waiting for him, back there in the shadows. Get her out of here! “There is no point to this arguing. Leave now, I have enough blots against my inner being to send me to the Black Well this night. I'd not add your death to that list! I'll take what of these I can with me, to offset. By all the Mothers at once, don't impede me!”

  “Impede you!” she shouted in a sudden fury. “Did you think I'd come so far to crouch at your back, you hairy oaf? Did you—'Ware!” The Mathkkra, white blots in a deep blue gloom, pressed forward. The hunter cast her one last furious look, muttered a blistering oath and braced himself, his right shin scraping against rock. To his intense discomfort, she braced herself hard against his left shoulder and brought up her blades.

  Her sword slammed against a short Mathkkra sword, and a clash rang through her head: a shower of blue-white sparks cascaded around her. The breath caught in her throat: True-dream. By all the gods at once, I don't want it!

  Her companion cried out in sudden terror. The Mathkkra huddled down and away from them, and a patch of inky night sailed down the ledge and across them. “Don't meet its eyes,” she shouted at him. “It'll freeze you!” The creature circled once, high up, banked over the black fir across the ravine and sailed straight for them. Mathkkra scrambled down from the rock, screeing fear of their own. The hunter brought an arm up to shield his eyes. She threw herself in front of him.

  “Shelagn!” Pain ran through her like a shock, the blade flared and the ledge seemed to shake under her feet. A spiral of silver smoke shot upward catching the flying horror in its blast; with a wailing howl that chilled her blood, the thing simply vanished. She stared at the place it had been, stunned, until the hunter touched her arm and pointed. The Mathkkra were on their feet again, beginning a slow stalk.

  “By all the Hells at once, what was that, and what did you do to it?” he whispered. She swallowed hard.

  “I don't know. Don't ask.” He staggered suddenly and fell against her, nearly taking her down with him. With difficulty, she helped him back against the rock, back into a niche that would keep him upright and protect his flanks.

  “Leave me."’ He'd only a whisper left for voice, and only will kept his fingers around the hilts of his sword. “I won't last another pass, and you can't aid a dead man!” Silence. “Please leave.”

  “No”

  You—you know, I laughed, when I first saw you, clad like that. Back in that valley you've taken. But the old Swordmaster always did teach well. I can see his style in your moves. And you learned well.” His eyes searched her face, though he couldn't see it at all clearly; for encroaching night and the blur his vision had become. What is the matter with me? I can feel her fear, feel her thought—she's—black hell, she's pitying me, I won't have it! He levered himself a little more upright. “Go!”

  “No!” She wasn't residing him, there was too much else chasing through her thought at the moment: Terror at what the blade had done, fear for him. He was going to die anyway, more Mathkkra would come now and even if they fought the creatures off, he'd die of blood loss before she could do a thing about it. He can't! Horrible man that he is, he can't!

  Shelagn's sword: She'd give almost anything not to use it again, not like that. But—not his life, no human life given to those. There were more Mathkkra. Twice as many at least and with such reinforcements they were ready to take the humans. And able, for how could two alone oppose so many? She could feel their assurance, their certainty—her death. His. Their blood for the stone sacrifice bowl, though the man had already wasted much.

  She tore her thought free of them, braced herself and reluctantly brought the sword up again. The Nasath guard my inner being, and shield it from what I do. “Shelagn,” she whispered.

  She couldn't see: the very black of hell came forth with the smoke and hid the Mathkkra. Muted, too, their terrified shrieks. It faded slowly, taking with it her fear, the fear that was Mathkkra. A faint touch of the second level of sight, all there was in her: two alone remained standing, and they turned to flee. She flung the dagger after one, dropped the sword and brought up her hands to send Baelfyr at the other. It fell, burning, into the ravine.

  She knelt, gathered in the sword with fingers that remembered the sharp shock and feared it, but it was again only a blade. With a shudder, she returned it to its sheath and went to retrieve her dagger. She set her teeth against her lower lip, sent a reluctant mind-touch through the bodies of the enemy. None lived.

  She turned back, then, and clambered up the rock ledge. The hunter lay in a huddle amid the rock where she'd set him before the last attack. “If he's died,” she whispered. His sword lay red and wet across two of his fallen foe.

  She knelt, felt his throat for pulse. It took twice-through her mother's calming charm to force her fingers still enough to feel it. There, but fast and much too faint. She caught at his shoulders, pulled him free of the rocks, turned him face up. Probed his wounds, with a light mind-touch.

  He could die anyway. But that was foolish. She'd healed Brelian once, and after a night twice as arduous as this. If the sword had left her strength enough.

  It had. She spied his guttering campfire, and kept protective arms around his shoulders as she bridged them. The distance was so slight, she scarcely felt it, even burdened and worn as she was. She draped her furred cloak over him while she fed the blaze sticks and brought it back to reluctant life. She ate some of the done bits of meat from his skewers, turned the rest to the fire, and went back to him.

  He'd lost blood, and he'd received a number of minor cuts. By themselves, those would have healed sooner or later, and if he'd scarred no one would see them. She grinned weakly: if the Mathkkra had marked his face from chin to brow, the beard would hide most and who'd see what was left? The grin faded: for some reason, it bothered her, still, the way he looked at her face.

  His left arm was broken. It bled still, sluggishly now, from a deep cut that ran all the way through shoulder muscle. A job, that's what he'd be. And here, in the dark, alone. She couldn't. She knew she'd never have the nerve to close her eyes, to close off all the protective senses to center them on a healing. ‘Nisana—Nisana!'

  Long silence. Then: ‘What?’

  'I need you, come now!’

  'I was asleep,’ the cat grumbled. ‘Can it wait?’

  'No.’

  The cat grumbled again, but joined and moments later was at her side. ‘Is this what you left the walls for? I thought you were practicing the bridging!’

  'I don't. You know that.’

  'You should, you know you should—but this!' She gazed around the clearing, took in the fallen Mathkkra, the gravely wounded mountain-hunter. ‘If I were Marhan or Erken, I'd chew your ears just now. I won't. Explain yourself and this later. I'll guard, you heal.’

  'Thanks, cat.’ Now she could close her eyes, close away her thought, with reasonable confidence. The healing was, as she'd feared, difficult. But the sword seemed to have taken none of her strength for what it did. Ylia pushed to her feet finally, found the hunter's pack and covered him with his own blankets, took her cloak back and wrapped it around chilled shoulders.

  'I'll stay,’ Nisana offered.

  'No. I will. He'll sleep, he'll need a guard. I'll do it.’

  Nisana eyed her curiously, bit off a ‘Why?’ Foolish, all too often, to ask why humans did things. Frequently they didn't know themselves. And there were things to do wi
th battle companionship she would never make sense of anyway. Besides, if the man woke—he couldn't speak with her, and she remembered the looks he'd given her when they first met. Worse than that fool of a Swordmaster, this one. I don't need another such fool. ‘You're worn, you still overuse for a bridging. Rest if you can, but set a shielding around you both if you sleep, girl.’

  'I will. If there's danger I'll send for you.’ She half pulled the sword from its sheath. ‘I need to think. About things—what's happened here. I'll tell you tomorrow.’ She looked across the fire. “All right?”

  'It has to be, I suppose,’ Nisana replied huffily. Mysteries and turbid riddles. Unlikely in this open child, and momentarily irritating. She reminded herself Ylia was not the kind who made up mysteries and fiddles to give her self importance. What's chanced here? But clearly she would get nothing more from Ylia just now, not without simply reading her. And that Nisana would not do, not unless Ylia asked her to. ‘I can send Golsat to take your place, if you wish, or Brelian.’

  “No. I'll be all right. And I need to think.”

  'I don't like this,’ the cat snapped finally. ‘But your mind's set, isn't it?’ And she vanished. Ylia sighed. Nisana was going to be hard to placate.

  The smell of cooking meat brought her back to the moment; she reached for the nearest skewer, cursed as she burned fingers on it, worked meat loose with her dagger and the hunter's Narran knife and tossed it from hand to hand until it cooled enough to eat.

  It was with difficulty that she pushed aside all thought save hunger until she'd eaten enough. And then it smote at her from all sides, curdled her stomach and tickled the hair on the back of her neck. What have I done tonight? And by all the hells of all the gods and demons at once, how did this Nedaoan call to me?

  If the girl could have seen what I saw of her thought, beyond what she intended me to see; if she could have seen the shadings and harmonics of what she thought, I doubt that she would have been so willing for me to read her. I'd tried, more than once, to explain even to Scythia why I preferred not to read human thought. Somehow, the invasion of privacy must not be as repugnant to them as it is to those of my kind. Clearly, they did not realize that I came away each time with a little more of them entwined with me. Or—frightening thought indeed—they knew, and did not care.