Free Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 by Wild Magic (v1.1) Page A

occupied then to remonstrate with their prisoners'
recalcitrant beasts.
                It took an effort to drive the
horses forward, and as they approached the barbican it seemed to Calandryll the
chill grew deeper. He eyed the gates with apprehension, wondering if the
charnel odor he caught on the breeze was real, or a figment of his imagination,
and knew, though not why, that from the blockhouse emanated a sensation of
dread, of insensate horror.
                He felt his mouth go dry as he
passed between the gates, and then wanted to spit, badly, for it seemed a sour,
bilious clot filled his throat. Nor, he saw, were the Jesserytes insensible to
the sensation: they fingered swordhilts, shaped warding gestures, veils
rustling metallic as heads turned warily from side to side. Only Temchen
appeared unmoved, and that, so Calandryll thought, was a result of innate
discipline, a grim determination to show no dread. The armored man barked a
command, hand chopping air, urging his men on down the tunnel that filled all
the center of the fortification.
                Calandryll saw gates, dim at the
farther end, these closed and barred, and lesser openings to either side, shut
off with heavy doors. Overhead were machiolations, and then a band of welcome
light, albeit faint, as a door was flung open, Temchen turning aside there,
down some inner corridor.
                The lesser tunnel gave way to a
small bailey, stabling around three sides, more sable-armored warriors standing
in postures of expectancy, alert, crook-bladed pikes and curved swords in their
hands, as if unsure what they might expect of the reluctant visitors. Archers
manned the ramparts, arrows nocked, downward aimed. Temchen dismounted, bowed to
a man whose armor was marked with symbols in yellow and silver, who answered in
kind and lifted his veil, the better to study the captives.
                Calandryll found little in his
features to distinguish him from Temchen. Save that he wore a stiff, triangular
beard and seemed a few years older, they might be brothers, the elder
apparently superior in rank, for it was he who issued the order that brought
the captives down from their horses to stand before him, another that had their
bonds removed, all save the cords about their wrists, the gags in their mouths.
                Temchen spoke their names,
indicating them each in turn, and the older man nodded, and conversed briefly
with the younger. Then, without further word, he spun on his heel and marched
briskly to an inner stairwell. Temchen pointed after him, barking orders that
set a guard about the four, motioning them to follow, he bustling past to fall
into step with the other as they climbed into the depths of the barbican.
                The stairs led to a corridor beneath
the roof, banded with light from the embrasures running down its length, the
omnipresent sensation of dread somewhat abated here, that relief almost
physical, as if a weight were lifted. Calandryll wondered if that easing was a
result of the hieroglyphs he saw daubed at intervals along the walls or the
censers wafting pungent smoke in the still, dry air, and what it meant. The
glyphs, he guessed, were imbued with magic of some manner, and likely the
incense, too, though by whom and why remained a mystery, fie could only follow
his captors as they walked the gallery to a door of black wood, where Temchen
and the other man halted, removing their helms before tapping softly;
respectfully, Calandryll thought, wondering what awaited within.
                A voice responded, presumably
granting permission to enter, for Temchen nodded and a guard swung the door
wide, standing back as the two Jesseryte chieftains went in, halted, and bowed
low.
                There followed a murmured
conversation and then Temchen beckoned, the guards herding the captives into a
chamber longer than it was wide, lit dim save where a