Wing & Nien

by Shytei Corellian

  Wing stared down at her for an incredulous moment before his head fell back.

  Upon the steep white field of tenuous rock, Wing found himself engulfed in silence. He was aware that he was shaking uncontrollably, that his lungs were working terribly hard to gather air. He knew what had happened…

  It was just that, suddenly, it didn’t matter.

  It could have been a moment or hours before Wing felt someone at his side. Startled, he lurched up. The ground beneath him began to slip and he felt the hot breath of the shy’teh once more upon his skin.

  He snarled and lashed out.

  “Ouch! Wing, wait! It’s me! It’s me! Hold still!”

  Hearing a human voice beside him was as remarkable as finding a horse in a tiny glass jar.

  Disbelieving, Wing realized his eyes had opened but he had failed to see who was beside him or what was happening.

  “Be easy, Wing, rest easy. Let me have a look.”

  Wing blinked, and this time saw Rhusta. The old man’s reality was so powerful that Wing gasped and would have reached out to hug the old man had his body or mind been working properly.

  Rhusta moved Wing’s shoulder and pain became Wing’s new and only reality.

  He gasped and cried out: “Stop!” His voice sounded like the twisting of metal and echoed inside of him like a white-hot sword being struck by a smith’s anvil. He was sure if Rhusta touched his shoulder again he would lose consciousness.

  “Sech’nya canvacutuss,” Rhusta said, swearing in two different languages.

  Incredibly, and despite the agony racing through his shoulder, Wing laughed. He’d never experienced the old man so raw, so unguarded.

  “Bloody beast nicked an artery,” Rhusta was muttering beside him. “And you’ve damn near torn your shoulder clean off.”

  Wing closed his eyes, appreciating Rhusta’s bedside manner as well as knowing he had not overreacted to the blinding pain he’d felt when Rhusta had moved his shoulder. He wondered if he’d ever have use of his arm again as the sound of ripping material cut through across his hearing and Wing grunted as Rhusta pressed what must have been part of Rhusta’s own shirt against the bite wounds in Wing’s shoulder and the side of his neck. The smell of blood rose hot and tangy upon Wing’s tongue and made his head reel…

  Or perhaps it was the loss of it that was making Wing feel so light, so relaxed.

  Oh, he realized. I’m bleeding to death. Rhusta had just mentioned that the cat had nicked an artery.

  The pressure Rhusta was placing upon his shoulder and neck was so great that Wing almost wished he would let him bleed to death. Still, he strove to remain conscious, his breath grating through his chest, enduring each everlasting moment until Rhusta sat back at last. “Yosha, sententliaaat,” he swore again, and Wing was now certain he’d never heard anyone who could curse more creatively. He could also tell that Rhusta was now looking over the rest of him, assessing the damage. Thankfully, the old man didn’t give any more detailed descriptions of what he was finding.

  “Come on now,” Rhusta said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Get out of here? Wing thought to himself. Is he joking?

  Wing forced himself to open his eyes and, this time, saw the world as it had been before the shy’teh had leapt out of from behind the boulder and hit him square.

  Beside him, Rhusta was bare-chested, with a bright red mark running across his breast. Other bruises were beginning to bloom across the old man’s body.

  We’re in great shape, Wing thought as Rhusta took Wing’s less-damaged arm and began to pull, trying to get Wing on his feet.

  Wing couldn’t imagine being able to stand but did so anyway, surprised at his success, at least until he put weight on his right leg.

  From deep in the lower part of his leg a pain shot straight up and registered in his brain like the worst kind of news.

  Wing gasped as stars shot out the sides of his vision and he went back to his knees, dragging Rhusta with him.

  Breathing hard, Wing muttered, “Just go. I’m not getting out of here.”

  He had not spoken casually, he meant it. Truly, as the initial shock of pain began to subside all he really wanted was to be left alone, to sleep.

  But Rhusta was not having it, snarling back at him: “Yes you are, and so am I. Now come on, up you get.”

  With far more strength than Wing thought the old man possessed, he hauled Wing back to his feet and began to drag him.

  Evident that Rhusta had no intention of letting him be, Wing had no choice but to help.

  They began to make their way out of the talus field.

  Healthy, one could not hope to survive the shifting field of razor-edged white rock fragments without great personal risk; and Wing was far from well. His right shoulder hung from his body like a tattered shawl, and every time he put pressure on his right leg it felt as if someone were twisting into the bone with a dull blade. What was worse, his vision kept failing along with his mind; what was happening in there anyway?

  Like a wounded bird tethered to a frightened fent, they stumbled and fell and dug in and climbed, sliding back through the flesh-tearing rock two steps for every one they gained.

  Wing persevered for a time and simply moved — a mindless, ravaged carcass. Rhusta would pull, Wing would take one step on his left leg and then crawl on his right. Unable to use his other hand, every time he fell he landed partially on the torn shoulder, each renewed wave of agony ripping him closer toward the sweet release of unconsciousness. The blows were lessened by Rhusta’s effort to keep him aloft, nevertheless, as he went down the next time, Wing begged, “Wait, Rhusta. Wait.”

  Releasing his other arm, Rhusta helped ease him down. The cessation of motion was so remarkably delicious, Wing smiled. Beside him, he heard Rhusta’s heavy breathing — the strain of the inhale, the ragged scratch of the exhale. Wing was about to insist, again, that Rhusta leave him and go on when he heard Rhusta getting up, the talus scratching around under his feet.

  “Come on now,” Rhusta said. “Just a little further.”

  “No,” Wing said, but it was too late, the old man was already dragging him back to his feet.

  Wing moaned and bit down like a wild horse on the end of a new bridle, grinding his teeth, head spinning with the effort. He was right, he was going to die — except it would not be from the damage done by the claws of the shy’teh but by the sheer stubbornness of the man trying to save his life.

  Step by precarious step, Rhusta succeeded in bringing them out of the scree field.

  Back upon the thin trail where they’d been hiking at the time of the shy’teh’s attack, Rhusta eased Wing down at last. Wing’s breath escaped him in a concussive wave.

  “We did it,” Rhusta said, lying beside him, panting horribly. “I can’t believe it.”

  It had been a feat and even though Wing could feel the triumphant, hopeful spark of triumph in Rhusta’s voice, Wing felt no such thing finally allowing himself to go still, lying akimbo and broken and he didn’t care, he was still at last. He could rest now, at last, and if that were a sleep of death, so much the better.

  He heard Rhusta move beside him and then the old man had grabbed his shoulders.

  “Merehr!” he cried. “Don’t you dare!”

  Wing vaguely felt what must have been Rhusta’s ear pressing against his lips.

  Merehr? Wing thought absently.

  “Come back, come on, open your eyes. I still need your help.”

  The exhaustion, the deep heavy pull upon his consciousness was the only sensation Wing was capable of understanding.

  And then Rhusta slapped his face.

  Wing gasped as if the slap had somehow compressed air into his lungs. His eyes rolled and opened momentarily.

  “Good,” Rhusta said. “Good. Now, let’s just…”

  But as quickly as he’d been brought back, Wing disappeared again, falling back inside a tiny space within himself that was dark and warm and safe. He was aware of
the world outside of this place; it simply didn’t seem to matter.

  “No no no! Hang on!” he heard Rhusta shouting from some very distant place.

  He heard other vague sounds, felt the gravel and sand on the trail move around him as Rhusta walked back and forth, mumbling indistinctly.

  Eventually he felt his body being dragged and placed, perhaps, upon some sort of conveyance. After that there was only the shifting shade of light and colour that passed through his eyelids accompanied by fleeting spikes of white pain, sweeping black nausea, and flashes of blue that had nothing to do with the sky overhead. He passed completely into a stillness for a time, and then became aware of the presence of heat upon his skin. Not of the sun, nor of the luminescent light that seemed to persist down some deep pathway through his mind, but of fire.

  Had they actually — incredibly — made it back to Rhusta’s cabin?

  He was aware then of lying on a floor, of blankets, and the occasional snatches of Rieevan words whispered just beyond his hearing.

  These whisperings found themselves intermingled with other dreams where Nien came to him:

  “Come on, Wing. If you don’t get up and we don’t meet fa out in the fields, he’ll have our hides.”

  “Nien?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, let’s go.”

  “Nien, wait. I need help.”

  “I know, little brother.”

  Wing took a step toward his brother, but the ground fell away beneath him.

  He thought he cried out, reaching out, searching for Nien. He had to have been real — hadn’t he?

  But the improbability was pulled from his mind as he slipped away again, dipping into the light and then, into a deep velvety black.

  Chapter 56

  With You, The Most Trusted Things

  A day later and only briefly, Rhusta was sitting near Wing in his rocking chair, punching holes in a piece of tanned leather, when Wing came around, this time to the world of the living.

  “The cub?” Wing asked, his tongue slow in forming the words.

  “Cub?” Rhusta replied, leaning forward in his chair. “What cub?”

  “The shy’teh’s cub.”

  For a moment, Rhusta wondered how coherent Wing really was.

  “Behind the boulder field,” Wing muttered. “A patch of brush.”

  “I saw no cub. Go to sleep now.”

  “Find it,” Wing said and his eyes closed.

  Rhusta watched Wing for a time, the fading firelight moving across the Rieevan’s pale features. Setting aside his work, Rhusta stirred the coals in the fire and retired to his bed. Lying on his back, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, sleep played the elusive hope.

  Could Wing be right? he wondered. That the shy’teh had attacked to protect a cub was logical, but had Wing really seen it?

  Rhusta was attuned to the forest, to every space and nuance in the hills and mountains surrounding his home, but he would never expect to be aware of a shy’teh’s cub. Seeing an adult shy’teh was an occurrence so rare that most wondered if the big cats had only ever been creatures of legend.

  Nevertheless…

  It seemed Rhusta had only just fallen to sleep when a knock came upon the old cabin door.

  Surprised, confused, and then grumbling, Rhusta pushed himself from his bed and stumbled across the room. On the other side of the door gleamed the familiar face of an old friend: “Rhusta!”

  Monteray stood outside the door to Rhusta’s cabin. Rhusta blinked at him dubiously and then stepped back, allowing Monteray to enter.

  “How are you?” Monteray asked, stomping his boots off before stepping inside. “Did I wake you?”

  “Actually, yes.” Rhusta scrubbed at his eyes. “Come in, come in. Let me wake up and I’ll get us something to drink.”

  Monteray entered behind him and, as he laid his duffel aside and shrugged out of his coat, looked in the direction of the long stretch of blankets spread out near the fireplace.

  “That’s the reason the sun’s up and I’m still trying to rub the bugs from my eyes,” Rhusta said, seeing that Monteray had noticed his house guest as he placed two cups on the table.

  “Who is it?”

  “Wing Cawutt. Merehr, as my people used to call him.”

  “That’s Wing?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “From Lant, yes. He certainly doesn’t look Rieevan.”

  “I know. Neither do I.” Looking around, Rhusta swore.

  “Here,” Monteray said, holding out the small black pot Rhusta used for heating water.

  “Thanks,” Rhusta said.

  “I know I’m earlier than you expected, but — ”

  “Had another of your premonitions?”

  Monteray didn’t directly answer, saying instead, “There have been some things happening that I wanted to talk with you about.” Glancing at Wing, he added, “Looks like I’m not the only one.”

  Rhusta grunted in reply as he filled the little pot with water and hung it on the hook inside the fireplace, tossing wood beneath it and stirring the nearly dwindled coals.

  Monteray withdrew a large wine skin out of his bag and set it on the table with a thump.

  “Bless you!” Rhusta exclaimed. “Hiona?”

  “Of course.” Monteray grinned. He indicated Wing. “Why did you say your people used to call him Merehr?”

  Rhusta went to speak, but his voice stalled. He stepped over to the table and took up the wine skin. He hoped Monteray didn’t notice the tremble in his hand as he took a long drink.

  As Rhusta lowered the skin again, breathing deeply and re-corking it, he said, “The Rieevans are dead, Mont. All of them. Killed by the Ka’ull.”

  The look on Monteray’s face plunged the cabin into a silence so profound Rhusta forgot to breathe.

  “We knew they’d taken Lou,” Rhusta said, his voice wavering. “We knew.”

  “And Tou,” Monteray said. “So, Wing escaped? The Rieevans are now enslaved as well?”

  Rhusta shook his head. “No, Mont.” And as his long-time friend looked back at him, Rhusta could see that Monteray understood: The Ka’ull had not planned on enslaving the Rieevans. What they’d wanted was the land. A staging area. A thing Monteray as well as Commander Lant had suspected. A thing, also, they had shared with Rhusta in his last visit with each of them.

  The emotion, the realization moving through Monteray looked to crush him. Rhusta understood the feeling.

  “You’re sure?” Monteray asked.

  “Merehr said it. You can believe it.”

  “When?”

  “He’s been here nearly five turns. I don’t know how long it took him to get this far.”

  Monteray swallowed, and it looked as if he’d swallowed something deadly, foreign. “We waited too long,” he breathed. “When the Ka’ull were driven from Jayak we didn’t bother to find out where they’d gone.”

  “It could have been another of the Ka’ull forces, come down river and through the pass from Tou. Either way…”

  Monteray ran his hands through his thick greying hair. “We didn’t bother to find out, and now…” Monteray froze. His eyes darted to Rhusta and stopped there. “Lant,” he said. “Did Wing say anything of Commander Lant? Have you seen him? He knew what was coming. He would have made it out...”

  “No word of him,” Rhusta said with difficulty. Lant had been Monteray’s closest friend.

  Of course, Lant could have made it out of Rieeve, but Rhusta knew what was clearly playing across Monteray’s face —

  Lant had not made it out because he’d chosen to stay.

  Rhusta uncorked the wine skin again and thrust it into Monteray’s hand.

  “Mont,” he said, “pull it together. Wing, there, he needs you.”

  Monteray stared at the wine skin. “I know, I…” He took a drink.

  Closing his eyes, he swallowed and breathed deeply. When he set the wine skin back down on the table Rhusta noticed his hands were a little steadier. Mon
teray opened his eyes again.

  “In all the time Wing’s been here,” Monteray said, his voice hitching from the strength of the wine, “he’s said nothing more? No details. Only what you’ve told me?”

  “That’s it.” Rhusta’s eyes betrayed him. “But he doesn’t exactly know that I there is any, uh, reason to.”

  “All the gods, Rhusta,” Monteray swore quietly.

  “What?” Rhusta barked.

  “You haven’t told him?”

  Rhusta felt his flash of defensiveness and anger twist his face. “No. And don’t start — ” Rhusta jerked the pot from the fireplace and placed it with unnecessary force upon the table.

  Thankfully, Monteray turned his attention back to Wing.

  “About seven turns ago,” Monteray said, “Kate found a man, a Preak man, out by the river. The thing was, he was dressed in the clothing of the Rieevan Cant and near dead from battle wounds. We took him in, tended to him. He has been working with me on the house and staying in our cabin since that time.”

  Rhusta listened before saying, “Nien Cawutt — his brother — was Preak. The only Rieevan of Preak origin I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Well, this man wore what I assumed to be the symbol of the Cant’s First on his shoulder-mantle.” Monteray shook his head. “I suspected…No,” he said, “I knew.”

  “It appears,” Rhusta said, “that both brothers have attempted to find you since the attack. It makes sense that one succeeded while the other did not.”

  Monteray raised an eyebrow in question.

  “Wing knew his fields only. But Nien...well, he was uncommonly adventurous for a Rieevan, and knowledgeable. He knew more about our world than any of his people, except for Lant obviously.”

  Monteray nodded. “That’s about what Commander Lant told me.” He glanced at Rhusta. But he is not that same man, now. Which,” Monteray added thoughtfully, “may be why I questioned my initial hunch about him.”

  Rhusta was quiet a beat before indicating Wing, “Neither is he.”

  Softly, Monteray said, “Here, in this room, in his blood and body — and in yours,” Monteray added, glancing at Rhusta, “is the mysterious and singular code to a race now extinct.” Rhusta swallowed back the inability to conceive of such a thing, trying to bury it, ignore it. “With such news, how have you managed to keep your identity from him?”