The other armigers had told him he had something fine to look forward to.
Yet here he was, among some of the loftiest peaks on the island, unable to see a thing. Riding higher and higher, leaning so far forward in his saddle accommodating the steep angle of the dreadful track that his head nearly rested on the mule’s mane, he knew nothing at all of his awesome surroundings. Now and then the beast put a foot wrong, but it never fell. Primmie didn’t even need his soothing talent; the mule knew its business and ignored his efforts to prompt its movement.
Snudge rode at the tail-end of the small train, sunken in gloom, cold and aching in every joint, especially his knees, wondering whether the rest of the war was going to be as miserable and boring as this.
Stergos bespoke him silently twice, but there was nothing to report, not even the cry of a raven or an eagle. The only sounds were hooves clopping on wet rock, the creak of harness, the blowing of the four laboring animals, and the occasional rattle of stones falling into misty emptiness.
Finally Ord Sedgewick turned about in his saddle and called out, “It won’t be long now. See how the track is less steep, and wider? Perhaps a quarter of an hour to go.”
Snudge grunted. He was half asleep, having forgotten completely about the uncanny guides.
Until he heard them.
He jerked bolt upright, bringing a snort from Primmie, listening.
Windspeech! Not the human sort, but a murmurous piping whisper of alien talents bespeaking one another. There were far more than he could count, and after a bit he could distinguish what they said, even though the language was not his own.
Four humans. Ah!
Not the most succulent sort, but in this barren place perhaps the best we can hope for.
Hungry! Hungry!
NO.
We’ve come so far, Shanakin, fasting, fasting!
Not even furry animals here to slake our need. They all hide in the rocks from the cold and the oncoming night. Give us leave to take these men and their beasts.
NO.
Hungry! Hungry! These four come ahead of the others. They won’t be missed. The lady will never know. We beseech you, Shanakin!
NO. I have promised her.
We must, we must! Our Lights grow faint. We are weak from making the fog. And hungry. So hungry.
NO. Wait. You must wait.
Monsters! Snudge sat petrified with fear, jaws clamped tight to keep from moaning aloud. His nearly invisible companions rode on unconcerned, speaking about the welcome prospect of soon being able to dismount and make a fire, not knowing that their lives were in peril from the very beings that Princess Ullanoth had entrusted their safety to.
Hungry. So hungry! These four won’t be missed.
Wait. You must wait.
Who were these creatures? Not Salka, certainly, for their windvoices were very different from the brutes of Cala Bay, but some sort of maneater nevertheless.
Hungry.
NO. Wait!
A moment later Snudge heard the windvoice of Stergos bespeak him: Deveron! Deveron, answer me.
He almost responded with a frantic warning—catching himself just in time. What if the demonic things overheard him and were provoked to strike?
God’s Teeth! he thought. What shall I do?
Then he saw the tiny white light, hanging an arm’s length above his head, and stifled a shriek as Primmie braced all four legs and skidded to an abrupt halt.
You are different from the others, aren’t you, boy? Interesting! I am Shanakin, ruler of the Small Lights. Bespeak me wordlessly, so as not to alert your companions.
Hoping to conceal his talent, Snudge whispered, “My lord, please don’t eat us!”
The spunkie darted at him, striking his hooded head with a blow as sharp as a flung stone. Snudge muffled a yelp.
Did I not tell you to use windspeech, dodpate? Obey me!
He did so. “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry, my lord.”
A wild talent. Very rare indeed. Does Princess Ullanoth know that you serve Conrig?
“No, my lord. Please don’t tell her!”
Hah! Small chance of that. What’s your name?
“Snudge.” But not really…
Well, Snudge, you may rest assured that you and your companions will not be harmed by us so long as we are treated with respect. We are here to guide you. Our feeding will come later, as the Conjure-Princess has promised, but that needn’t concern you.
“No, my lord. May I inform Prince Conrig of your presence here? He was anxious to know whether you and your—your subjects had arrived. That is why he sent me ahead with the scouts.”
I have a better idea! Ride on now with your companions, and when you reach the summit I’ll tell you about it.
Below, Prince Conrig struggled along leading his blindfolded courser, almost at the end of his strength. Every breath was painful. He could hardly lift his feet and found himself clinging to the reins, letting the blinded horse drag him as it was forced along by Stergos’s beast pressing close at its heels. Only profane urging of the animals by the men afoot kept the column moving at all.
The lanterns had been lit. The sun was well down now and the last pinkish glow had faded from the shrouded sky. Though there was still light enough to see the ground beneath their feet, darkness would be upon them soon. So confusing was the fogbound terrain that not even Jass Easterdale and the experienced highland guides could estimate how far they were from the top of the pass. They could only guess that it must be fairly close now.
“Try to windspeak Snudge again,” Conrig hissed to Stergos, who trudged miserably behind him.
“I’ve done nothing but try,” mumbled the Doctor Arcanorum. “There’s no answer. I even attempted to bespeak Princess Ullanoth, with no result. All we can do is continue on. At least it has not grown much colder.”
Perhaps not, the prince thought in dejection, but neither was it any warmer. Men and beasts exhaled great clouds of vapor, and ominous white patches glittered here and there among the dark rocks when beams from the lanterns swept over them.
“Column, halt and stand easy,” came the command, passed man to man down the line. Conrig, Stergos, Tanaby Vanguard, Beorbrook, and the Heart Companions were near the head of the force, preceded only by Count Ramscrest, a score of his handpicked knights, and the scouts.
Duke Tanaby’s place was just ahead of the prince, and he drew close to the royal brothers so they could converse without being overheard.
“Godsons, we are coming to the end of our tether. Even the most valiant of the men are losing heart. Before long, they will start dropping from exhaustion and the army will be stalled dead on the trail, perhaps only a short distance from the summit. We should have sent either Vra-Doman or Vra-Stergos ahead with the scouts rather than your squire Deveron, so that we might keep in constant contact via windspeech at this crucial part of our journey and bolster our failing courage and strength. I know you didn’t want to put either of the Brethren in peril, but—”
“We dared not send one of them,” Conrig cut him off. “Neither is a man of action, with the stamina to keep up with your scouts, and I swore not to endanger their lives if it could be avoided.”
“We should have brought along more talented men,” the duke said wearily.
“I considered it, and I know that having only two alchymists accompany us was a calculated risk. But the gamble seemed necessary for security’s sake, since we knew not how far Kilian’s tentacles might have extended in the Order of Zeth. But so that you may not be anxious, Godfather, I’ll confide in you: there is a third man of talent accompanying us, and he did go with the advance party.”
“Bazekoy’s Bones!” the duke exclaimed. “Surely you don’t mean the boy—”
“Yes. My young liege man, Deveron, is a secret wild talent. This is how he was able to ferret out the spy at our council of war, and how he also confirmed my suspicion of Kilian’s treachery. Deveron is not only capable of windspeech, he can also exert uncanny infl
uence upon horses and move about so stealthily that only the keenest adept will notice him. I appointed him my intelligencer. Please tell no one of his talent, not even the earl marshal, for he is my private confidant as well as my secret weapon. He was instructed to bespeak Stergos frequently and survey the top of the pass for signs of our uncanny guides. He has not reported back for over an hour, however. God only knows why.”
“I thought there was something odd about that lad! I’ll say nothing of his talent, of course, but I pray he’s worthy of your trust.”
Conrig chuckled wryly. “So do I. And God help us all if he’s a rogue, for he knows almost every detail of my strategy for Sovereignty.” He wrapped his waterproof leather cloak more tightly about him. “The devil take this cold and damp! Even if there is no frost, we’ll perish if we spend the night marooned on this track—”
“Con!” Stergos cried, in a voice suddenly full of joy. He had moved back at the duke’s approach, but now slithered forward again, around the prince’s blindfolded horse.
“What is it?” said Conrig eagerly. “Have you windspeech from Snudge?”
When Stergos’s face fell in dismay at having the boy’s secret spoken of before the duke, Conrig hastened to reassure. “Our godfather now knows that I employ a wild talent, Gossy. Speak freely.”
“He’s at the head of our column, come down from the summit on muleback, while leaving the other scouts to organize the camp! We have less than three hundred ells to go before reaching the top! Even now, the good word is traveling down the column.”
“God be thanked!” Tanaby cried. Other happy exclamations could be heard echoing among the rocks above.
“The boy says he brought our guides with him,” Stergos continued. “Let’s go forward and see.”
Newly energized, they gave the reins of their mounts over to others and struggled up the exiguous trail. They collected Beorbrook as they went, passed Ramscrest’s knights and the scouts, who were laughing and chattering with relief, and finally reached the thickset count himself, clad all in waxed leather and standing with his back to a tall rock at a sharp turn in the trail where there was a bit more room. His arms were crossed over his chest and he glowered fiercely at Snudge, who sat his mule.
“Your Grace, Lord Stergos, Earl Marshal, my lord Duke,” Snudge said solemnly, bowing in the saddle. “Since the day is so far advanced, our good guides agreed to accompany me, so that our forces may be brought safely to the summit even in full darkness. The track ahead is very difficult.”
“But where the hell are the guides?” Ramscrest bellowed. “This young knave refuses to tell me!”
Abruptly, the fog seemed to explode with a thousand sparks of golden light. They wreathed Snudge and his stolid mount and extended in a sinuous dancing swarm along the zig-zag switchback trail above the halted army. Where the bits of brilliance hovered, the fog now began to vanish, leaving a tunnel of clear air no higher than a horse’s head. As Conrig and the others watched open-mouthed, the flood of tiny glowing things flowed over and past them going downhill, banishing both fog and darkness for the cheering warriors following behind.
“God’s Breath!” Beorbrook exclaimed. “They’re spunkies!”
One of Ramscrest’s knights, an ox-like young stalwart named Ruabon Lifton, gave a loud, uneasy guffaw. “Swive a swan, lads! It’s the silly little bogles our mums and nursemaids used to threaten us with when we were naughty children! Remember how they said spunkies’d carry us off and drain our blood if we stayed too long outside in the evening? And now the same willy-wisps will light our way to camp. Spunkies as guides! What a great joke!”
The tiny sparks flared and a tinkling hiss, oddly menacing, filled the frigid air.
“They prefer to be called Small Lights,” Snudge announced. “The other name they consider offensive.”
Ruabon went off into gales of near-hysterical mirth, joined by a few of his companions. “Do they! Well, futter me if I give a damn, though they’re well-met in this fog, for all that.”
Even Conrig was smiling as he turned to Vanguard and Ramscrest. “What do you think, my lords? Will the Virago and our other wary friends be satisfied with the benign aspect of our guides?”
“I can’t think why not,” Tanaby said.
“It’s incredible!” the earl marshal exclaimed. “They can dissolve the bloody fog!”
“That’s because they made it, my lord,” said Snudge.
“You can talk to them?” Tanaby Vanguard said, amazed.
“To their leader only, lord Duke, who awaits you at the summit meadow, where you may speak to him, too, if you wish. May I suggest that you now mount up and follow me? The trail from here on is very steep but not as narrow as previously, and your horses should not be distressed with their eyes uncovered, moving inside the lighted tunnel. They won’t be able to see much outside of it.” He wheeled about. “Follow me when you’re ready.”
Ramscrest asked the prince, “Who the hell is this armiger of yours? A wizard in disguise?”
“Only a brave and intelligent young man,” Conrig replied easily, “whom I value highly. Fall in close behind me, Munlow, and I’ll tell you something about him as we go.”
It was very late when the entire army finally gathered safely on the summit, not that the time could be ascertained with any accuracy, save by the empty bellies and sore muscles of the men. The spunkies arranged themselves in a low dome above the campsite, obliterating the groundmist beneath and providing dim illumination to the area. Snudge had been given assurance that the glow of the uncanny creatures would be imperceptible to an enemy windwatcher because of the thick layer of fog remaining overhead.
The high meadow had proved to be strewn with large rocks, but was mercifully free of boggy ground. Because of the dampness of the air, the scouts had thus far been unable to light any fires. Stergos and Doman ordered the men to whack down more brush and dead bracken with their blades and axes, making twenty or so sodden heaps scattered about the site. Then the two alchymists gingerly broke apart several tarnblaze bombshells, distributed the contents, and ignited chymicals and wet fuel with their talent. While the army huddled near the fires, volunteers cooked up cauldrons of hot oatmeal porridge, which was served with ample quantities of cold meat and mead. Nobles and thanes received identical meals, including a tot of spirits as a nightcap.
There was insufficient burnable material to keep fires going long for warmth, so the warriors made do as best they could laying out their saddles as pillows, improvising groundcloths from their leather cloaks, and donning all the clothing they had brought with them. The lighter-clad seagoing warriors took the spots nearest to the fires and commandeered the smelly load-pads of the sumpter beasts for mattresses and coverings. A single small tent was set up to shelter the non-combatant Brothers of Zeth, who were unused to sleeping rough, but everyone else—including the prince—was resigned to a cold night in the open.
Before the army retired, Conrig gave a brief speech.
“We’ve successfully covered the worst terrain in our journey without losing a man. Well done!” There were perfunctory cheers. “Redfern Castle, a small Didionite fortress, lies about five-and-twenty leagues away downhill. Tomorrow, we’ll set out as soon as the track can be seen, guided by our uncanny allies, the Small Lights. They have assured me that no other outposts of enemy warriors are emplaced between the pass and the castle. A force of fifty knights led by Lords Cloudfell and Catclaw will descend first, hooves muffled, and array themselves out of sight in the fog, near the castle’s drawbridge. Another magical ally of ours, who is already hidden inside the castle, will lower the bridge and open the gate for our attacking force. This ally is already known to some of you: she is Ullanoth, Conjure-Princess of Moss, a great friend of Cathra, whose help will enable us to conquer Didion.”
The thanes, who had not known the identity of the mysterious “magical ally” assisting Conrig’s cause, although they were aware that the person had recruited the spunkies, greeted this informatio
n with ambiguous murmurs.
Conrig continued. “Redfern will fall into our hands like an overripe fruit. And we need not worry that its windvoices will warn Holt Mallburn of our invasion— for the same powerful princess who opens the castle gates to us will already have silenced those voices. Once we have secured Castle Redfern, we’ll rest for a day before moving on as swiftly as possible to Holt Mallburn. That’s all I wish to say to you men tonight. But before we sleep I will introduce you to the being responsible for bringing us safely to this place—who also caused the magical fog that has shielded us from the windsight of our foe.”
Conrig paused, looking up. From the fuzzy glowing dome above came a whirling ball of several dozen golden sparks, looking like a swarm of incandescent bees. The ball hovered before the prince, who inclined his head politely, whereupon the golden bits of radiance were extinguished, leaving a single blue-white Small Light floating alone.
“I am Shanakin,” said a distinct high-pitched voice. Conrig felt the flesh at the back of his neck crawl, remembering what Snudge had told him about these creatures. He wondered whether anyone else had experienced a similar touch of grue, and cursed Ullanoth for not telling him the truth about the spunkies— whatever it might be.
“My people are not friends of humankind,” Shanakin said. “For the sake of the Conjure-Princess only are we here, serving you. Remember that and have respect! We are Small Lights, but we have our ways—as many humans know to their everlasting sorrow.”
The ball of sparkling attendants reappeared, hiding their tiny ruler, and all of them wafted up into the formless glowing dome.
The men remained still as statues for a moment, then relaxed and began to laugh nervously and whisper among themselves.