The Golden Griffin (Book 3) (18 page)

Chantmer gained the stairs, and the chill evaporated from the air. He staggered up to lean against one of the stone columns. Sharp, stinging coughs rose from his chest. He hacked and spit. When he finished, the taste of blood and swamp water mingled on his lips.

Wights swirled in the darkness, but none climbed the stairs. Roghan sank to the stone platform. He was breathing heavily. He pulled off his robe and searched his torso until he found one of his few remaining tattoos.

The trip across the Desolation had cost Roghan much of his strength. Tattoos of vines, sunbursts, fists, daggers, and other runes and symbols had covered his bare arms only a few days earlier. Each represented a spell to be called forth when needed. The mage bled many of them away simply crossing the Desolation. At times he’d been forced to sacrifice markings representing stronger incantations simply to keep the passage open for a few minutes longer.

“We must be close,” Chantmer said. “The Temple of the Sky Brother is no more than a mile from the Tothian Way.”

Roghan opened his eyes. “After that we still have to cross the southern wastes. A day and a night until we gain the safety of open desert.”

“You said it would be easier south of the Way.”

“Easier, not easy. I’ve spent much of my magic. And there are enemies ahead. I have detected a seeker.”

“So have I. Who is it?”

“I don’t know, but they are close. Can’t you feel them?”

“No, I cannot,” Chantmer admitted. “You should have let me rest more in the mountains. I would be stronger.”

Yes, he thought to himself, and strong enough to resist this wizard from the south.

#

Only three weeks earlier, Chantmer the Tall had been rotting at the bottom of a swamp in Estmor. Following the unsuccessful fight atop the Golden Tower in Arvada, he’d fled the battlefield as a wisp of red smoke. When he’d tried to reconstitute himself, he discovered to his horror that he didn’t have enough strength to both form his body and bind his soul to his flesh. And so his wight had hovered over his body, a ghostly blue light that shined from the bottom of the pond.

Every day the body sank further into the mud, snails nested in its beard, and worms ate its flesh. Occasionally, a mud turtle or six-foot-long gar came to investigate the blue light and, seeing the rotting body, thought to bite off a meal. They fled when they saw the wight.

Week after week, Chantmer’s wight clung to the body, determined not to drift away to join the other souls that wandered aimlessly through the swamps of Estmor.

And then one day a light appeared in the sky overhead, shining through the black water in swirls and circles. The wight looked up and feared. A single thought penetrated the dusty, untrod halls that had become its mind.

The Harvester!

Terrified, the wight turned to flee, ready to abandon the corpse. But it couldn’t escape. Half-bound to the body after all, tendrils grew from its fingers and toes and anchored it to the flesh of the dead body.

A splash overhead, then someone dove to the bottom of the pond. Strong hands gripped the corpse and dislodged it from the mud. Water beetles shot away from their nests in its robes. The diver dragged the body toward the light, and the wight was pulled along with it. The body broke the surface, and still the wight couldn’t break free.

“Help me,” the man cried. “You didn’t say anything about a wight.”

“Never mind,” a second voice said, a few feet away. “It can’t hurt you. Bring him here. Hurry, hurry.”

The light was bright after weeks at the bottom of the swamp, and the wight couldn’t see either speaker. The swimmer dragged the body through the water by its hair, then a second man hoisted it out of the water and into a boat. The first man scrambled in, where he lay gasping.

“Stand back,” the second, deeper voice told the swimmer. “If the wight touches you out of the water, you’ll regret it.”

“I thought you said—”

“Quiet.”

The second speaker loomed over the body, light reflecting from robes. “Animach na regram.”

The wight screamed as a jolt of pain shot through it. It wrenched free from the corpse at last and turned to flee, but the body wouldn’t let go. It reached out two hands, grabbed the blue light, and dragged it toward its open mouth. The corpse stuffed the wight into its mouth and chewed with teeth that hung loose in their gums. The wight screamed again.

“By the Brothers!” The boat listed to one side.

“Jark, if you jump out of this boat, I’ll leave you for the wights.”

Chantmer the Tall sat up suddenly in the boat, his mind churning against the rot. He was alive.

But oh, the pain. It ripped his flesh from his toes to his eyeballs. His skin shivered and crawled, barely hanging to his muscles. He opened his mouth but could neither speak nor breathe.

He looked at the two men through clouded eyes. The first was a wizard of some kind, beardless, with dark, braided hair. Red and black tattoos marked his palms, and an amulet hung from a chain at his neck. He watched with pride burning in his eyes at his accomplishment.

The second man was a long, muscular fellow with a short-cropped black beard. This was the one called Jark. A Veyrian soldier. He scrambled to the far side of the boat from Chantmer, where he stared, wide-eyed.

Chantmer looked down at his hands, dismayed at the open sores, the worms and the leaches attached to the flesh. He coughed, and brackish water burbled from his chest and ran down his chin.

Something kicked in his chest. Once, twice, and then a third time, this time stronger. It was his heart, restarting. The bugs fell from his skin and squirmed at the bottom of the boat. He coughed again, and not as much water came up this time. He took in a long, ragged gasp. The pain was terrible.

“By the Brothers,” Jark said again. He fumbled for a knife at his waist, but then he thought better of it and let his hands fall to his side.

Chantmer studied the open sores on his hands as blood began to ooze from his skin. His innards churned and his heart beat stronger now. His vision cleared. He looked at Jark and then at the wizard, who squinted at him against the bright light cast by the lamp. Stars flickered overhead and a cool night breeze washed over the boat. Frogs bellowed at the edge of the swamp, but they sounded to Chantmer’s ears as though they called from the bottom of a well.

“Thank you,” he rasped. “But who are you and why have you rescued me?”

And then a coughing spell overcame him and he fell back into the boat. The wizard lay a blanket over his body.

“Rest, friend. I will answer your questions later. We have far to travel and many enemies to avoid. Knights Temperate and Toth’s ravagers alike are roaming the land. Either one will kill you.”

Jark recovered enough of his wits to pick up the oars and row them toward the shore, some hundred yards distant.

Exhaustion overcame Chantmer. He needed time to rest and heal.

Who had rescued him and why? Not the dark wizard, and not the Free Kingdoms. The Cloud Kingdoms? No. Neither the wizard nor his man Jark spoke like an Aristonian.

Someone else then. But who?

And then Chantmer let sleep wash over him.

#

The day after his rebirth, Chantmer the Tall woke to a terrible shiver. It was already dusk. He sat up. His thoughts were clearer.

He’d dozed throughout the day, aware of the jostling horse below him, but unable to wake enough to gauge his surroundings.

“My name is Roghan,” the wizard said. “How do you feel?”

Roghan sat on the ground a few feet away. He leaned forward expectantly, one tattooed hand fingering the amulet around his neck. Now that Chantmer’s mind had cleared, the tattoos answered one question. This man was a mage from the sultanates.

Chantmer ignored Roghan’s question and studied his surroundings instead.

They’d cleared Estmor and camped in the foothills on the western slopes of the Dragon’s Spine. A light rain drizzled from the sky, and a crisp breeze came down from the mountains with the setting sun. These didn’t cause his shiver. No, he wasn’t cold at all, but burning hot, as with a fever. He watched in interest as rain hit his flesh and sizzled. A cloud of steam enveloped his head. His breath shot from his mouth, hot as dragon’s fire.

“The Harvester take you both,” Jark grumbled near the fire. He scowled in their direction, then turned back to his work.

The man cooked a rabbit and a pair of quail on sticks over the fire. Chantmer’s stomach rumbled at the sight and smell of the sizzling food.

“Your friend is not fond of wizards,” Chantmer said. His tongue was thick and awkward.

His heart was pounding, like it wanted to hammer free from his chest. The skin on his arms no longer sloughed free, but was still waxy and pale. New veins crawled through his arms like tunneling worms. His extremities tingled as if pricked by thousands of needles.

“He’s a Veyrian,” Roghan said. “Have you ever met a Veyrian who wasn’t superstitious?”

“How is it that you have a Veyrian in your employ?”

“The survivors of the battle have few friends in this land. They are outlaws and refugees.”

“So let him return to his own kind.”

Jark snorted.

“I found him huddled in the ruins of an Estmor shrine,” Roghan said. “Hiding. He was more than willing to obey me for food and a few shekels.”

Jark turned from the fire. “You didn’t say anything about wights, and you said nothing about the Harvester. Listen.”

Baying hounds and a huntsman’s horn sounded to the south. The sound didn’t concern Chantmer. The Harvester would find plenty of souls to gather in Estmor without worrying about those still bound to the living.

Jark nodded at Roghan. “See, wizard. You’ve drawn the dark gatherer with your sorcery.” He turned a sharp gaze to Chantmer. “He’ll come to reclaim his own.”

“Tell me, Veyrian,” Chantmer said. “If it troubles you so much to see me brought back to life, why did you follow King Toth to Eriscoba? He has cheated death for centuries.”

“I didn’t follow Toth,” Jark said irritably.

“But you did,” Chantmer insisted. “You wear the crimson and gold. And you carry a Veyrian blade. You fought with Toth at Arvada. Why?”

“I don’t know. I can’t answer that.”

Roghan thumbed the amulet around his neck. “I found dozens of Veyrians in the swamps of Estmor. Hiding from the dark wizard. If they cross into the khalifates, their feet will march to Veyre of their own accord to rejoin Toth’s army.”

“Interesting,” Chantmer said. “Then the dark wizard compels their obedience.”

He climbed to his feet with a groan. Every muscle protested. He was burning even more fiercely now, and wisps of smoke rose from his clothing, so he stripped it off. Then he made his way naked to the fire. He reached directly into the flames and pulled out one of the quail. It was crispy and sizzling, but cool to his touch. Jark watched, wide-eyed.

Chantmer pulled off the wings and ate them, his hunger so fierce that he chewed through meat, bones, and sinew. He started in on the body. Grease sizzled and ran down his arms. Both Jark and Roghan watched now, the latter narrowing his eyes and stroking thoughtfully at his cheek.

“Do you have any water?” Chantmer asked when he finished. “I have a raging thirst.”

Jark retrieved a waterskin from the bags where they sat next to the horses. He held it out to Chantmer, but the wizard shook his head. “Pour it on my hands, first.”

The first few drops boiled away, but as Jark poured, it cooled his flesh until it only steamed as it ran to the ground. At last his hands were cool enough to take the skin without destroying it. He drank until the water was gone.

“What a strange sensation,” he said, and handed back the empty skin. “My body is trying to heal too quickly, I believe.”

He retrieved the robe and slipped back into it. It was marked with cartouches in the old tongue. He waited for a moment to see if the robe would begin to smoke, but the worst of the fever had passed.

“I see no reason to linger,” Chantmer told Roghan. “You can eat while we ride. You live under Sultan Mufashe, if I read your tattoos correctly. He has ordered you to bring me to him, yes?”

“Very good,” Roghan said.

Chantmer held no love for the decadent desert lords, and had no wish to flee from Eriscoba like a criminal. But in his weakened state, he couldn’t challenge this wizard openly. And he didn’t dare wait for Markal and the other meddlers to find him.

Roghan rose. He mumbled a spell under his breath and then reached into the fire to grab his own quail from the flames. Jark’s eyes widened again.

“Well?” Chantmer said. “Shall we travel?”

“Why not? We’ll put in a few hours. Then you’ll be flat on your back again.”

“No, I’m feeling much better.”

“The easy part is done. Ahead of you lies many weeks before you recover your strength.”

Chantmer snorted in disbelief. In two days, he thought, he’d be riding these two into the ground.

“What about me?” Jark asked. “Am I supposed to return to Estmor? Or am I coming with you to the sultanates?”

“I’m sorry, Chantmer,” Roghan said. “I’d forgotten about our friend.” He started to mumble under his breath and held out his hands toward the Veyrian, who backed away, alarmed.

“No need for that,” Chantmer said. He snapped his fingers to disperse the other wizard’s spell. But he had no power, and his effort failed.

“He knows too much,” Roghan said. “We can’t let him go.”

“Then let me come with you,” Jark said, his breathing coming fast now. “I don’t want to stay here, and Toth will call me back to Veyre if I leave the swamps.” There was no more of the superstitious nonsense, now that he realized his life hung in the balance.

“It’s your decision,” Roghan said to Chantmer.

Chantmer considered. If Roghan turned nasty, Jark might prove a useful ally. “Very well. Come with us. But keep your mouth shut.”

There were only two horses; Roghan hadn’t counted on bringing anyone but Chantmer from the swamps. The two wizards rode. Jark trotted to keep up. He cursed and stumbled in the dark behind them.

Chantmer smelled smoke a few hours before dawn. The smell came from directly in front of them, the embers of a small cookfire, so faint on the wind that he’d almost missed it. The odor of horses hung in the air, and men spoke in low voices. His senses were not as sharp as Narud’s, but he thought them stronger than Roghan’s. The other wizard wrapped his fingers through his horse’s mane, eyes half-closed. Chantmer didn’t think he could hear or smell the camp yet.