Swordmistress of Chaos by Robert Holdstock, Angus Wells Read Free Book Online Page B

the sun-mellowed rock washed by the light to the same shades as glazed up from the desert. Along the top was a wooden barrier, some five feet high, behind which stood archers and javelin men. Beyond the wall Raven could see the familiar spires of the place reflecting the afternoon sun in a myriad patterns of dancing light. The spires were built of the same solid stone as the wall, though coloured, so that they shone blue and green and grey, silver and gold, dark umber and deeper black; iridescent, they were, the cupola surmounting each structure bright gold where the sun struck from the beaten metal plates.
    At several places along the wall were gates. Each one a massive, heavy-timbered thing of weathered beams and great metal rivets, inset with small watch-doors and peep-holes. Around each gate there were cave-like openings in the stone of the wall, black holes little higher than a man’s thigh. Those, Raven knew, were the exit points for the slavehounds; she shuddered at the thought.
    As they approached the main gates, crossbows sighted upon them, and the harsh voice of the watch-serjeant called for them to halt. They reined in, waiting while a section of the fortified gate was swung open to reveal a space just wide enough for a single horse to pass through. Then they were beckoned on.
    Spellbinder led the way. He had applied a dye to his skin, so that he appeared swarthy as some Xandrone herder and in place of his armour he wore flowing robes of a rich brown colour. Beneath the folds of cloth there was a mail war-shirt, and daggers were hidden about his person. Raven was similarly disguised in robes of virginal white, a deep-fronted cowl obscuring her features. She, too, wore mail beneath the robe and carried a knife in addition to the throwing stars belted around her slender waist.
    ‘Who comes?’
    An officer appeared in the entrance, behind him, a troop of swordsmen.
    ‘Two wanderers,’ shouted Spellbinder. ‘Pilgrims out of Ghorm, bound for the North.’
    ‘Ride closer.’
    Spellbinder urged his mount through the portal, Raven close at his back. They were allowed to enter the gate, finding themselves in a stone-walled enclave betwixt the great outer wall and a smaller, inner circle. Between both walls there was an open space, blocked off from the entry gate by sturdy wooden palings. Within the space paced the gaunt shapes of the slavehounds, while the upper reaches of both walls were patrolled by archers.
    ‘What business have you in Lyand?’ For the captain of a merchant city’s army, the officer was distinctly unfriendly. ‘How came you here?’
    ‘We seek rest and a safe place to pass the night,’ answered Spellbinder. ‘The southern wastes are a trifle unfriendly to unarmed travelers. As to our coming, why, we rode here.’
    ‘Bound for the North, you said,’ grunted the soldier. ‘Why?’
    ‘We go to worship at the Temple of the Stone in Quell,’ said Spellbinder, softly.
    ‘So, Stone-kissers.’ The tone was contemptuous. ‘Then there’s little to fear from you. Pass on.’
    The appellation of Stone pilgrims was sufficient passport to allow them entry into the city, though both wondered why the merchant-centre closed her defences so tight.
    They found out when they reached the tavern Argor had described to them.
    There, the greeting was warmer. It was a small, snug place, redolent of pungent khif and spilled wine. Rich odours of cooking meat entranced their stomachs, and the smiling woman who came out to direct them to the stableyard was dumpy and flour-stained, a motherly figure totally unlike the surly watchmen.
    ‘Is she,’ asked Raven, ‘Argor’s paramour?’
    ‘Aye,’ whispered Spellbinder, chuckling, ‘though it seems she’s aged somewhat in the last years.’
    ‘What if she remembers you?’ Raven was abruptly conscious of the city patrols. ‘What then?’
    ‘How should she know me?’ Spellbinder murmured. ‘She saw me once, three years ago. Then I dressed in silver mail.