‘A few times. Why?’
‘Do you remember how hard it was to get your breath?’
‘Right at first, I suppose. I remember getting a little lightheaded.’
‘Exactly. I don’t know where Klael went to recruit these soldiers, but it wasn’t from around here. I think they’re used to thicker air. Let’s make them chase us. Why go to all the trouble of killing somebody if the air’s going to do the job for you?’
‘It’s worth a try.’ Tikume shrugged. ‘It takes a lot of the fun out of it, though.’
‘We can have fun with the Cynesgans later,’ Kring told him. ‘Let’s run Klael’s infantry to death first. Then we can go slaughter Cyrgon’s cavalry.’
‘Sort of follow my lead on this,’ Stragen told Talen as the two mounted the rickety stairs leading up to the loft. ‘I’ve gotten to know Valash fairly well, so I can gauge his reactions a little better than you can.’
‘All right,’ Talen shrugged. ‘He’s your fish. I’ll let you play him.’
Stragen opened the door to the stale-smelling loft, and the two of them threaded their way through the clutter to Valash’s corner. The bony Dacite in the brocade jacket was not alone. A gaunt Styric with open, seeping sores on his face slumped in a chair at the table. The Styric’s right arm hung limply at his side, the right side of his ulcerated face sagged, and his right eyelid drooped down to almost totally cover the eye. He was mumbling to himself, evidently completely unaware of his surroundings.
‘This isn’t a good time, Vymer,’ Valash said.
‘It’s quite important, Master Valash,’ Stragen said quickly.
‘All right, but don’t take too long.’
As they approached the table, Talen’s stomach suddenly churned. An overpowering odor of putrefying flesh emanated from the comatose Styric.
‘This is my master,’ Valash said shortly.
‘Ogerajin?’ Stragen asked.
‘How did you know his name?’
‘You mentioned it to me once, I think—or maybe it was one of your friends. Isn’t he a little sick to be out and about?’
‘That’s none of your concern, Vymer. What’s this important information you have for me?’
‘Not me, Master Valash. Reldin here picked up something.’
‘Speak up then, boy.’
‘Yes, Master Valash,’ Talen said, ducking his head in a sort of half-bow. ‘I went into a waterfront tavern earlier today, and I heard a couple of Edomish sailors talking. They seemed very excited about something, so I slipped a little closer to find out why they were so worked up. Well, you know how Edomishmen feel about the Church of Chyrellos.’
‘Get on with it, Reldin.’
‘Yes, sir. I was only trying to explain. Anyway, one of the sailors had just reached port, and he was telling the other one to get word to somebody in Edam—Rebal, I think his name is. It seems that the first sailor had just come in from Valesia, and when he’d been leaving port there, his ship passed a fleet coming into the harbor at Valesia.”
‘What’s so significant about that?’ Valash demanded.
‘I was just coming to that. What made the first sailor so excited was the fact that the ships he saw were all flying the banners of the Church of Chyrellos and the rails were lined with men wearing armor. He kept babbling something about Church Knights coming to impose heresies on the people of Tamuli.’
Valash was staring at him in open-mouthed horror.
‘As soon as I heard that part, I slipped away. Vymer here thought you might want to know about it, but I wasn’t so sure. What difference should it make to us that the Elenes are arguing about religion? It doesn’t involve us, does it?’
‘How many ships?’ Valash demanded in a half-strangled tone. His eyes were bulging.
‘The sailor wasn’t too specific, Master Valash.’ Talen smiled. I sort of got the impression that he ran out of the numbers that he knew the names of. I guess that fleet stretched from horizon to horizon. If those men in armor are Church Knights, I’d say that all of them are on board these ships. I’ve heard things about those people. I certainly wouldn’t want to be the one they’re coming after. How much would you say this information’s worth, Master Valash?’
Valash reached for his purse without any protest.
‘Have any messengers from those camps out in the woods gone by lately, Master Valash?’ Stragen asked suddenly.
‘That’s none of your concern, Vymer.’
‘Whatever you say, Master Valash. All I was getting at is that you ought to warn them about talking in public. I came across a couple of men who looked as if they’ve been living in the woods. One of them was telling the other that they couldn’t do anything until Scarpa got instructions from Cyrga.’
‘Who’s Cyrga? I’ve never heard of him.’
‘It’s not a who, Vymer,’ Talen said. ‘It’s a where. Cyrga’s a town over in Cynesga.’
‘Really?’ Stragen’s expression grew curious. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever heard the name. Where is it? What route would you take to get to Cyrga?’
‘The pathway lies close by the Well of Vigay,’ the diseased Ogerajin announced in a loud, declamatory voice.
Valash made a slightly strangled noise and ineffectually tried to wave his hands warningly in front of his master’s face, but Ogerajin brushed him aside. ‘Keep morning at thy back,’ the Styric continued.
‘Master Ogerajin,’ Valash protested in a squeaky tone.
‘Silence, knave,’ Ogerajin thundered at him. ‘I will answer this traveler’s question. If it is his intent to present himself and bow down to Cyrgon, he must know the way. Proceed, traveler, past the Well of Vigay and trek northwesterly into the desert. Thy destination shall be the Forbidden Mountains where none may go without Cyrgon’s leave except at their peril. When thou dost reach those black, forbidding heights, seek ye the Pillars of Cyrgon, for without them to guide thee, Cyrga will remain forever hidden.’
‘Please, Master.’ Valash was helplessly wringing his hands as he stared in chagrin at the raving old lunatic.
‘I have commanded thy silence, knave. Speak once more and thou shalt surely die.’ He turned back to fix Stragen with his single wild eye. ‘Be not dismayed, traveler, by the Plains of Salt which nomads fear to cross. Ride, boldly ride across the dead whiteness, empty of life save only where miscreants labor in the quarries to mine the precious salt.
‘From the verge of the Plains of Salt wilt thou behold low on the horizon before thee the dark shapes of the Forbidden Mountains, and, if it please Cyrgon, his fiery white pillars will guide thee to his Hidden City. Let not the Plain of Bones disquiet thee. The bones are those of the nameless slaves who toil until death for Cyrgon’s chosen, and, having served their purpose, are then given to the desert.
‘Beyond the Plain of Bones wilt thou come to the Gates of illusion behind which lies concealed the Hidden City of Cyrga. The eye of mortal man cannot perceive those gates. Stark they stand as a fractured wall at the verge of the Forbidden Mountains to bar thy way. Bend thine eye, however, upon Cyrgon’s two white pilars and direct thy steps toward the emptiness which doth lie between them. Trust not the evidence which thine eye doth present unto thee, for the solid-seeming wall is as mist and will not bar thy way. Pass through it and proceed along the dark coridor to the Glen of Heroes where lie the unnumbered regiments of Cyrgon in restless sleep, awaiting the trumpet call of his mighty voice summoning them forth once more to smite his enemies.’
Valash stepped back a pace and urgently beckoned to Talen to follow him. Curious, Talen followed the Dacite. ‘Don’t pay any attention to Master Ogerajin, boy,’ Valash said urgently. ‘He hasn’t been well lately, and he has these spells quite often.’
‘I’d already guessed that, Master Valash. Shouldn’t you get him to a physician? He’s really raving, you know.’
‘There’s nothing a physician could do for him,’ Valash shrugged. ‘Just make sure that Vymer understands that the old man doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’ Valash seemed unusually concerned about Ogerajin’s ravings.