The Dark Defiles Read Free

Ornley, shadowed by their men, glaring at the locals and each other whenever they crossed paths. Desperate to bring the temperature down, Hald and Rakan both habitually stayed in town with the bulk of their respective commands, put their men through punishing work schedules, held exhaustive training sessions, and did anything they could to head off the simmering sense of boredom and frustration.
    Egar found himself some local whores.
    And Mahmal Shanta sat with a racking cough in his stateroom aboard the flagship Pride of Yhelteth, spitting up phlegm, drinking hot herbal infusions, and poring over charts, all the while trying to pretend he was not planning their empty-handed return home.
    The search went on, pared back to Ringil and a marine detachment under Hald’s occasional command to do the digging. The unspoken understanding—Gil was the sharp end. He had the spells and the alien iron blade; if the Illwrack Changeling popped up out of the next grave in fighting temper, Ringil was the man to put him down. As they exhausted the more promising fragments of legend and hearsay closer to town, Nyanar and Dragon’s Demise were detailed to carry them whenever a site was—or was reputed to be—sailing distance away. Which was all the time these days.
    It was starting to feel like clutching at straws. Like going through the motions. Gil’s patience, never his strong suit, was frayed down to shreds. The itch to kill something stalked him day and night. What he wouldn’t give for the Illwrack Changeling to erupt from the damp earth and grass right in front of him right now, sword in hand, undead eyes aflame.
    He’d cut the fucker down like barley.
    The sheep track wound its unhurried way across the shoulder of the hill, dropping by hairpin increments into the valley below. A couple of ruined crofts showed hearth ends and tumbled dry stone walls rising out of the heather like longboats drowned in shallow water. Bedraggled-looking sheep dotted the slope, stood at a distance, chewing patiently and watching them pass. One or two of the nearer ones beat an ungainly, lumbering retreat from the path, as if warned in advance of Gil’s state of mind.
    I’m going to put that fucking Helmsman over the rail when we get back. I’m going to sink it in Ornley sound without a cable and leave it there to rot.
    If Archeth doesn’t beat me to it.
    I’m going to—
    He jerked to a halt, awareness of the thing that blocked his path coming late through his seething mood. He teetered back a couple of inches.
    Behind him, he heard the marines’ banter dry up.
    The ram stood its ground on the path. It was big, bulking nearly twice the size of the sheep they’d seen, and it was old, fist-thick horns coiling twice around and then out to wicked downward-jabbing spikes. Its fleece was a filthy yellowish white, matted across a back as broad as a mule’s. It stood well over waist height on Ringil, and it stared him down out of pupils that were slotted black openings into emptiness. Its chin was raised toward him, and it seemed to be smiling at some private joke.
    Ringil took a sharp step forward. Jerked arms upward and wide—not unlike, it suddenly dawned on him, one of the charlatan witches you saw pissing about at magic in Strov square.
    The ram stayed where it was.
    “I’m in no mood for you,” Gil barked. “Go on, fuck off.”
    Silence. A couple of nervous guffaws from the marines.
    The moment stretched and broke. The ram took a step sideways, tossed its head in a gesture as if to say look up there, and ambled off toward one of the ruined crofts.
    Ringil looked, a flinching glance, back up the rain-soaked hillside and—
    Black flap of cloak, glimmer of faint blue fire in motion.
    A dark figure, moving on the ridgeline, head down as if watching him—
    He blinked. Stood there, locked still, trying to be sure. The flicker of movement, out of the corner of his eye.
    There and gone.
    Oh, come off it.
    He came back around, spotted the ram