Deadhouse Gates полностью

Nevertheless, they were being trailed by … someone. The assassin felt it in his bones. He was tempted to lay an ambush of his own, but he was one man alone and his pursuers might be many. Moreover, he was uncertain whether Apt would assist his efforts — he suspected not. His only advantage was the swiftness of his travel. He'd found his horse after the battle without much trouble, and the animal seemed impervious to the rigours of the journey. He'd begun to suspect that an issue of pride had arisen between the stallion and the demon — his mount's bolting from the fight must have stung, and it was as if the horse was determined to recover whatever delusions of dominance he possessed.

Kalam climbed back into the saddle. Apt had found the trail left by the fleeing survivors and was sniffing the air, swinging its long, blunt head from side to side.

'Not our problem,' Kalam told it, loosening the lone surviving long-knife at his belt. 'We've enough troubles of our own, Apt.' He nudged his mount and set off in a direction that would take him well around the trail.

In deepening dusk he rode across the plain. Despite its size, the demon seemed to vanish within the gloom. A demon born in the Shadow Realm, I shouldn't be surprised.

The grassland dipped ahead — another ancient river track. As he approached, figures rose from cover along the nearest bank. Cursing under his breath, Kalam slowed his mount, raising both hands, palms forward.

'Mekral, Obarii,' Kalam said. 'I ride the Whirlwind!'

'Closer then,' a voice replied.

Hands still raised, Kalam guided his horse forward with his heels and knees.

'Mekral,' the same voice acknowledged. A man stepped clear of the high grasses, a tulwar in one hand. 'Come join us in our feast, rider. You have news of the north?'

Relaxing, Kalam dismounted. 'Months old, Obarii. I've not spoken aloud in weeks — what stories can you tell me?'

The spokesman was simply another bandit who now marauded behind the rebellion's noble mask. He showed the assassin a gap-toothed smile. 'Vengeance against the Mezla, Mekral. Sweet as spring water, such vengeance.'

'The Whirlwind has seen no defeat, then? Have the Mezla armies done nothing?'

Leading his horse, Kalam strode with the raiders down into the encampment. It had been carelessly laid out, revealing a sloppy mind in command. A large pile of wood was about to be set alight, promising a cooking fire that would be visible across half the Odhan. A small herd of oxen had been paddocked inside a makeshift kraal just downwind of the camp.

'The Mezla armies have done nothing but die,' the leader said, grinning. 'We have heard that but one remains, far to the southeast. Led by a Wickan with a heart of black, bloodless stone.'

Kalam grunted. A man passed him a wineskin and, nodding his thanks, he drank deep. Saltoan, booty from the Mezla — probably the wagons I saw earlier. Same for the oxen. 'Southeast? One of the coastal cities?'

'Aye, Hissar. But Hissar is now in Kamist Reloe's hands. As are all the cities but Aren, and Aren has the Jhistal within. The Wickan flees overland, chained with refugees by the thousand — they beg his protection even as they lap his blood.'

'Not black-hearted enough, then,' Kalam muttered.

'True. He should leave them to Reloe's armies, but he fears the wrath of the coddled fools commanding in Aren, not that they'll breathe much longer.'

'What is this Wickan's name?'

'Coltaine. It's said he is winged like a crow, and finds much to laugh about amidst slaughter. A long, slow death awaits him, this much Kamist Reloe has promised.'

'May the Whirlwind reap every reward it's earned,' the assassin said, drinking again.

'A beautiful horse you have, Mekral.'

'And loyal. Beware the stranger seeking to ride him.' Kalam hoped the warning was not too subtle for the man.

The bandit leader shrugged. 'All things can be tamed.'

The assassin sighed, set down the wineskin. 'Are you betrayers of the Whirlwind?' he asked.

All motion around him ceased. Off to his left the fire's bone-dry wood crackled in a rising flame.

The leader spread his hands, an offended expression on his face. 'A simple compliment, Mekral! How have we earned such suspicion? We are not thieves or murderers, friend. We are believers! Your fine horse is yours, of course, though I have gold-'

'Not for sale, Obarii.'

'You have not heard my offer!'

'All Seven Holy Treasures will not sway me,' Kalam growled.

'Then no more shall be said of such matters.' The man retrieved the wineskin and offered it to Kalam.

He accepted but did no more than wet his lips.

'These are sad times,' the bandit leader continued, 'when trust is a rare thing among fellow soldiers. We all ride in Sha'ik's name, after all. We share a single, hated enemy. Nights such as these, granted peace under the stars amidst this holy war, are cause for celebration and brotherhood, friend.'