In the Red Lord's Reach Page 7

  The dimness of the forest was welcome to him. He sat down in his bower, head in his hands. He felt cold, though the spring air was warm enough. There was a tightness in his chest when he thought of the gifts he had given the people of the mountains—a few meals of venison and a dead child. No matter that the death was partly caused by a woman's madness. He had made it possible: if he had not convinced Daugas to leave, if he had not squatted by the brink, if—above all—he did not possess a witch's power, then the image of the bloody child would not now be filling his heart.

  After a time, he slipped the lute and pack from his shoulders and lay back among the boughs. He was not done with the mountains yet. Above him, he could see the sky through many layers of leaves; there was a full day ahead of him, a day for rest and planning. After dusk, he would return to the Red Lord's valley, and while human and animal slept the dark time away, he would steal goats. He did not relish the thought of traveling with kicking, bleating burdens: he would gain a few bruises, he knew, from this night's work. And he would have to dodge guardian dogs and the masters wakened by their barking. It would not be a simple matter, not like stealing chickens from a closed coop; this night would test his reflexes to their limits. He found his heart beating faster at the thought of the danger, but he did not let that weaken his resolve. He would gather a herd for the people of the mountains, tame goats that would not shy from men, that would eat the tough grasses of the heights and give milk and skins in return. He would gather the herd that they were afraid to gather for themselves, and bring it to their mountain fastness without leaving any trail that mortal men could follow. He would give them life and, with that gift, wipe the image of the dead child from his heart. And he would have some small vengeance on the Red Lord in the bargain, by helping his exiles to survive.

  Of them all, Daugas might guess the source of the gift; Alaric hoped he would not be foolish enough to frighten the others into starving while a witch's goats thrived before their eyes. Then he thought of Malgis. She would eat. He nodded to himself. They would all eat, when they were hungry enough.

  And Alaric would be free to travel on.

  Part Three

  The Nomads Of The North

  THE AIR WAS thin and chill at the crest of the ridge, and Alaric the minstrel found his breath coming hard and fast even though he stood quite still. Far behind, in the lowlands of the south, spring was well begun, meadows lush with new greenery, tender buds on every tree; but here among the highest of the great northern mountains, the heavy hand of winter ruled. Though the sun was blinding bright, it gave no heat; beneath the frigid sky, snowfields glittered as if strewn with gemstones, and here and there naked boulders thrust up, too steep and jagged for snow to cling, but cold themselves as any ice.

  Alaric shivered and pulled his cloak tighter. Slung against his chest, his lute shared the warmth of his body. On his back, his knapsack was light with just a change of clothes and a few scraps of meat tucked into it, and a seldom-used sword. He had traveled far with so few possessions; he expected to travel farther yet before the longest night closed his eyes, and so excised the canker of his dreams.

  During his stay in the mountains, those dreams were grim and desolate. Within them, he saw himself running over a vast dark plain, but never gaining a stride on the gaunt shadow that loomed above the distant peaks. He knew that shadow, and its staring red eyes that pierced the hazy clouds. Eyes hot as coals, which burned into his neck when he averted his face. They were the eyes of a lord of misery, a Lord of Blood; and they held a bottomless hunger that gnawed at his bones.

  He had more than his fill of such dreams, and of the somber mountains in which he suffered them; he was glad to see that this latest crest marked the last of the heights. Beyond, the land sloped downward ruggedly; in the distance, he could just make out the snowline, where frozen winter began at last to give way to hardy herbs and scrub. An ordinary human being—especially one with so little mountain-climbing experience as Alaric—would have labored at that descent, half scrambling, half sliding, clutching at frigid boulders, exhausting himself in the journey. An ordinary human would have taken two or three days to reach the end of the snow. But Alaric merely sighted on an outcropping far below, and in a single heartbeat, he was there. Four more such traverses brought him to the snowline. There, he brushed the clinging whiteness from his boots before moving on.

  At last the land leveled itself into a rolling plain that stretched to the horizon, a plain where new grass was just beginning to show amid last year's dried and yellowed tussocks. Scattered trees, their branches barely touched with green, marked the sites of brooks and ponds, and a light, erratic wind blew as warm as spring should be. The young minstrel pushed his cloak back to let that breeze sweep the mountain chill from his body and from his heart.

  Late in the afternoon, he caught his first glimpse of living creatures on the plain, a faint line of dots moving westward far ahead. With caution born of his wanderings, he dropped to the ground; wild or domesticated, whatever those creatures were, they might be trailed by men, and a stranger with a witch's mode of travel had need of caution when men were near. Lying on his belly, Alaric used his power to move closer, shielded by clumps of tufted grass.

  The creatures were deer of a sort he had never seen before, with huge feet and slender legs that gave them a gawky, lumbering stride, as if they were never quite properly balanced. Their chunky bodies showed the tattered remnants of half-shed winter coats, like patches of thick pale fungus growing on their dark skins. Most of them were females, their brows not encumbered by antlers, their bellies bulging with unborn young; only a few were males, their massive, velvet-sheathed racks branching both forward over their noses and back past their ears.

  Two of the largest males had riders.

  Seated well forward on their mounts, elbows just touching the antlers which flanked them like curving armrests, the riders were men of middle years, their shoulders broad, their hands and faces weathered and hard. They wore leather jerkins and trews, and fur-trimmed, knee-high boots, and they had long dark hair clubbed behind with leather thongs. Each carried a bow slung over his shoulder, and a quiver of arrows fletched in white beside it; each bore a short sword at his waist. They did not speak to each other as they rode, nor did they seem to be in any hurry, lazing along beside the other deer, letting their mounts graze at will.

  Herders, thought Alaric. That meant a village nearby, hot food cooked by another hand than his own, and ears to listen to his songs. He moved back to the place from which he had first sighted them and rose to his feet, dusting the dry grass from his tunic. Gauging the sun's height above the horizon, he judged he would spend a good part of the remaining daylight in approaching them as an ordinary traveler would. He tucked the lute under one arm and set off at a brisk pace.

  They saw him, as he had presumed they would, long before he was close enough to hail them. One rode a short way toward him and then, obviously reluctant to leave the herd too far behind, stopped and waited, while his mount dipped its broad muzzle into the grass once more. Alaric's shadow was a long, thin companion at his side by the time he reached that rider.

  "Good eve," said the minstrel, halting a few paces from man and beast, sweeping his hat off and making a deep bow. At that sudden movement, the deer started, taking three or four clumsy steps backward before its master could calm it, with one hand on the reins and the other gripping an antler. Though the creature wore a bridle, its rider sat bareback, without saddle or stirrups—a precarious perch, Alaric thought, on a skittish creature whose antlers could gash a rider as he fell. He backed off himself, not wanting to be injured by some accident. "Forgive me," he said quickly. "I did not mean to frighten your steed."

  The herder peered down at him with pale greenish eyes rimmed by countless fine creases. "Who are you?" he asked.

  "I am Alaric, singer of songs." The minstrel curled both hands about the neck of his lute. "If you care for music, I have a good deal in me. Or if not, perhaps you can te
ll me of folk who do."

  "I have not heard your name before," said the herder. He had a faint, lilting accent, pleasant to the ear in spite of the wariness in his words. "Where do you come from?"

  Alaric tipped his head back toward the mountains. "The south."

  The man glanced in that direction, his pale eyes seeming to measure the distance to those peaks before they turned to the minstrel again. "You crossed the mountains?"

  Alaric nodded.

  "The passes are open, then."

  "Open enough, for a careful climber with very little baggage."

  The man considered him a moment longer, and then the creases about his eyes deepened as his mouth broke into a smile. "I am Fowsh, of Nuriki's band. We've had no southern minstrel among us in my memory. Perhaps your songs will all be new to us."

  Alaric bowed again, slowly this time. "Some of them at least, for I have written those myself and not yet taught them to any other singer."

  "Come to our camp, then," said the herder. "The day is nearly gone, and we must return for supper. You can ride old White-ear over there." He waved toward the grazing animals.

  Alaric looked at the herd uncertainly. "I have never ridden a deer before."

  "Never at all?"

  "I've ridden horses, but I don't think it is quite the same."

  "Horses?" said the man. "Ah, yes, I've heard of them. Well, you won't find it difficult. My daughter has only known four summers, and she rides easily." He turned his animal about and led Alaric toward the rest of the creatures.

  White-ear was docile enough, standing still in response to the herder's caressing hand on its neck. But though the deer was not so tall as a horse, it proved much more troublesome to mount. There was no saddle to clutch, no mane, and when the minstrel tried to lean his weight on an antler, White-ear ducked its head and shook him off. At last, with a helping hand from the second herder, he managed to scramble up gracelessly. Once astride the creature's back, he found his seat a bony one, and when the deer began to walk, he felt every step as an awkward shift in its shoulders, a shift that threatened to send him sliding down one side or the other at every moment. He clung to both antlers and quickly discovered that White-ear would veer to the right or left depending on which antler bore the greater weight. Fortunately, in spite of his varying signals, the deer was inclined to follow its mates, and so Alaric stayed with the herd, though on a path that wavered tipsily.

  He had only just begun to gain a bit of control over his mount, clinging with knees and thighs, easing his grip on the antlers, when the herders' camp became visible in the distance. It was a cluster of perhaps a dozen tents arranged in a rough circle; outside this ring, in a series of enclosures formed by posts with ropes stretched between them, were groups of deer like the ones he accompanied. One of the pens was empty, and Alaric's companions led their charges to it, dismounted, and drew a pair of ropes aside to let their deer enter.

  Alaric was glad enough to set his feet on the ground once more, and gladder still to follow the herders into the circle of tents, where a crowd of people bustled among a dozen cooking fires, and the smell of roasting meat filled the air. Here were more dark-haired men in leather, and as many women, dark-haired too, with their tresses unbound and splashing over their shoulders, and their eyes all pale shades of green or blue. The women wore leather, too, fur-trimmed boots showing beneath their fringed leather skirts, and sleeveless leather bodices above. Even the children wore finely cured hides, the same mellow brown as their elders, like the wood of the black walnut tree. And the tents were also made of hide stitched together with strong sinew.

  Children were the first to notice Alaric's arrival. Three little ones happened to be nearby, and their great pale eyes became round as coins when they saw the stranger. Two of them stared a moment and then ran, shouting, to their mothers. The third stood her ground and merely looked up. Fowsh swung her up into his arms and gave her plump cheek a kiss, but the child did not take her eyes from the minstrel.

  He smiled at her, and then he doffed his cap and gave her his deepest bow.

  A moment later, the people at the nearest fires had turned their faces toward him, women with ladles in their hands, men kneeling at roasting spits. One of the latter stood as Fowsh led Alaric in his direction. He was gray-haired and gray-bearded, but his back was straight, and his bare arms were heavily muscled. A stocky, gray-haired woman stood at the other side of his fire, stirring the contents of a shallow pot, and close by her were à woman perhaps half her age and a beardless youth.

  "We have a guest for supper," the herder said to them all. "A minstrel from the south. He calls himself Alaric."

  "From the south?" said the older man. He looked Alaric up and down, his bushy eyebrows arching high above his pale eyes. "We don't see many travelers from the south."

  "I don't wonder at that," Alaric said, still smiling. Thoughts of the Red Lord flashed through his mind, threatening that smile, but he swept them away, as a broom clears dusty cobwebs from a corner. "The mountains offer little hospitality. But I have traveled all my life, and a few mountains cannot daunt me."

  The man stroked his short beard with thick, callused fingers. "And where are you bound, traveler, that mountains mean so little to you? On some quest for gold or gems? You will be disappointed if that is so, for we have none here in the north."

  "I have no quest," said Alaric, "unless it be to view the great Northern Sea of legend. But I have no home, either, and an unquenchable wanderlust. I trade my songs for food and lodging. And the smell of your supper makes me hope that you will be generous with at least the first."

  "Of course we shall," the gray-haired woman said sharply. "In the north we do not turn folk away from our fires."

  "My thanks, good lady." Alaric bowed to her.

  "You southern fools know nothing of life here. Why, when I was a girl a whole caravan of men froze to death on this very plain almost in sight of our own camp. We found them after a storm, all huddled together in a few flimsy tents. They'd not enough sense to slaughter their animals and wrap themselves in the carcasses. You'd find the Northern Sea, would you?" She shook the dripping ladle at him, her expression stern. "And you with no fur to cover you, nothing but a few thin woolens. What a fool you are!"

  Alaric shrugged lightly. "Perhaps so, good lady. But I am willing to learn from you. I have no desire to die young."

  She gave him a long, appraising look. "Anyone who travels alone and in a foreign land desires to die young."

  "Ah, now, Mother," said Fowsh, "don't judge him so harshly. The young never think of death." Turning his face to Alaric, he said, "Our family had another son once. He went into the mountains, alone, and never returned. A mother does not forget the child she bore, even after twenty-five years."

  "He was young and foolish, like you, minstrel," said the old woman.

  Alaric wondered if she had lost him to the Red Lord, but that was not a question he would ever dare to ask. Instead, he said, "There are dangers in the mountains—I saw many while I was there, but I was fortunate enough to escape them. I sorrow that your son was not so fortunate, kind lady."

  "It was long ago," the old man said gruffly. Of a sudden, he knelt at the spit once more and turned the brace of small birds that roasted over the flames. "Come," he said, glancing over his shoulder at Alaric, "if you be a minstrel,' give us a song while supper finishes its cooking. Oren!" He waved at the beardless youth. "Bring a rug for our guest."

  The boy ducked into the nearest tent and quickly returned with a cream-colored carpet, large enough for two or three people to sit upon in comfort. Its color, and its thick, felted texture, betrayed its origin in the shaggy hair of the deer. Oren spread it near the fire, and Alaric settled himself upon it, easing the pack and the lute down beside him.

  At the first chords, the first few words that fell from his lips, heads turned in every part of the camp. People who had not given over watching the stranger since his arrival now moved toward him, ladles, knives, even bow
ls still in their hands. Others craned to see the source of the music, like hungry animals who, smelling food, sought it location. And they stilled themselves to listen, their silence flowing like ripples in a pond, outward from the minstrel till it washed against the tents.

  "Let yonder hill be my only guide

  Through storm and wind, through day and night,

  My love is there, in the crystal tree;

  A prisoner now, she waits for me."

  It was an old tale of love and enchantment, of a princess captive, of an evil sorcerer, of a valiant knight; and like so many of Alaric's songs, it had a joyless ending. With the sorcerer's blood still marking his blade, the knight struck the crystal tree to break the spell, only to discover that enchantment could outlive the enchanter. The last verse found him dying of grief, his arms clasped about the tree. By the time the final melancholy words were sung, almost in a whisper, several of Alaric's listeners were weeping.

  The evening breeze carried the last chord away, leaving only deep quiet for a moment, and then, as the leather-clad people realized the song was done and would not immediately yield to another, they began to talk again among themselves, but softly. And they turned once more to their suppers.

  The younger woman at the gray beard's fire was one of those who wept. She dashed the tears away with the back of one wrist and gave a sigh. "Oh, it's a sad world where such things happen."

  Alaric watched her for a moment, as she held a bowl for the gray-haired woman to fill from the bubbling pot. And when she brought him that bowl, he smiled at her gently and said, "Fortunately, such things happen only rarely."

  The stew was meaty, with fleshy roots sliced thickly into it. When Alaric finished his share, the graybeard pulled a bird off the spit for him. After they had all eaten, there were cups of blue-white liquid passed around, pungent as strong wine.