Blades of the Banished - Robert Ryan Page 0,9

from cracks in the earth. The stories also mentioned lakes of boiling water. He would have to see that before he believed it. But on the other hand, he was going to keep an open mind on the subject.

“We’d better find a place to camp,” he said. “And quickly. There’s no chance of travelling through here during the day. There could be eyes on us from anywhere.”

Erlissa looked around. “What about over there?”

Ahead was a clump of boulders and shattered rocks. It would offer shade from the hot sun, and best of all, it would also offer a hidden vantage point to watch for any sign of pursuing elugs, or anybody else that was around.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We probably won’t find anywhere better.”

They reached the boulders and dismounted. They led the horses by hand, and Lanrik drew his sword. He did not know what was inside the tumbled rocks. There might be room for a dozen men.

His fears were needless. There was no one there. The air was cooler though, as he expected, for there were many small spots of shade. That would change during the day, but for a while at least the nighttime cool lingered and they would benefit by it.

They unsaddled the horses and fed them a ration of grain. Feed was always a problem, but in this land water was even scarcer. They would need to find a supply soon.

They ate a quick breakfast. It was only stale bread and dried strips of beef, but they did not feel like anything more. They had not quite finished when they heard a sound. It seemed at once dim and remote, and then loud and clear. It thrummed through the air for a long time, mostly deep and resonant, but sometimes wavery and sinuous, and then it ceased just as suddenly as it had started.

They looked at each other.

“I’ve heard that sound before,” Erlissa said.

Lanrik had too. Beyond doubt, it was a talnak horn. He had winded one himself once, in what seemed another life. He remembered the strange instrument, gold mouthed and heavy, that he had taken from the shazrahad’s tent. It told him one thing at least; the blower was an Azan, rather than an elug.

They waited. Lanrik was ready to slide up and onto a boulder to see what was happening, but just at that moment another horn answered. This one was much closer.

“That’s from further down the valley,” he said. “Probably from somewhere along the same path that we climbed during the night.”

Erlissa looked at him, and her expression was troubled.

“Are we hunted already?”

4. Tall, Dark and Grim

Lanrik wanted to see what was happening. He stood on a pile of shattered rock and used it to help him clamber up one of the boulders. A moment later, Erlissa joined him.

They slid forward carefully, being sure to keep their heads down. A taller boulder to their left offered cover so that they could not be seen from higher up the trail. Most of the path, however, was visible from their vantage.

The road seemed deserted. Nor did they hear more horns, but they waited patiently. After some minutes, they saw a column of riders wind their way down the trail.

As expected, they were Azan. Lanrik counted fifty-three of them. The riders wore their customary robes, white and flowing, and colored headdresses. He noticed that none were the scarlet of a shazrahad.

They came close to the boulders. The noise of so many hooves over hard ground was loud, but the sweet jingle of small bells attached to the leather harnesses cut through it. No doubt such ornaments would be removed before combat.

Each man bore a tulwar in a hardened leather sheath at his side. The curved blades were ideal for use on horseback. Some also held spears, a less suitable weapon, but they were few and probably intended to be thrown at an enemy from a distance.

They carried no shields. Timber was scarce in this country, and defense did not suit their method of fighting anyway.

Exactly what these men were doing, he was not yet sure. One thing he did know: they were warriors. He could read that on them clearly, and he did not need to see their weapons to confirm it. The looks on their faces showed him more than enough. They were hard men, used to fighting and killing – or being killed.

They spoke little as they rode, but their voices were harsh when they did so. All the while they gazed about