Shadow of the Seer

by Michael Scott Rohan

  By now that was enough. He knew how to sit, what to do, how to provoke the pain and the reaction. He clutched the drum as he had clutched Savi, half to one side, and the lightning burst inside him with a roar he could almost hear. Pain seemed to shake the very floor beneath him. His mind numbed, his eyes dimmed, and suddenly he was lost on a long road, in the blackest night. Then the Trail lit the darkness, a thread of racing wildfire, and he was blown like a driven leaf towards the rising, glittering Wall.

  To his astonishment he struck it, painfully, helplessly, as if it was a solid thing; and the gust of pain hurled him upwards, helpless as a leaf, dashed against the black blades of glass and off again, whirling ever higher. Confusedly he saw things stir within its shadows, images, visions, chaotic scenes of face and form – riders, battlements, great misty rivers with boats upon them, strange forests that seemed distorted to his sight after the stunted trees he knew. A bleak expanse of snow beneath a jet-black sky, but with a handful of brightly coloured jewels glowing in a hollow. A woman’s body, naked, floated in emptiness, among a whirling wash of light. Not Savi’s; a young shape, it seemed, and yet her skin was weirdly pale and her hair could not be human, shining ashen white and gold. A wind whirled among high columns of coloured stone, and whipped at the bright robes tall men wore. And lastly smoke curled upwards, from sprawling shapes along a strange wide strand, and the smoke also was turned to red and gold by the sunrise, spiralling higher, ever higher …

  Until there were black summits below him, the peaks of a glassy mountain range, and he whirled and wheeled in the light and the smoke he could actually smell, tinged with wild scents and strange spices. Tossed helpless upon the gusts he soared, and looked down, down …

  … to glimpse the farther side of the Wall.

  Something stirred far below, sounds came boiling up, as if he now heard what he had only seen in the glass. Horses galloped over stony roads, voices shrilled and bellowed and swords clashed on shields, women screamed, bodies fell crashing down into darkness.

  ‘Show me!’ he commanded, and strove to gain control. He was blowing back and forth about the summit, catching only the faintest glimpses. He must ride the wind, master it so that he could swoop low among the landscape of visions laid out before him there. He was a dry leaf; he must become a bird. But even as he thought of that his mind would no longer obey him, wheeling away swiftly with a harsh gull’s scream over a terrain turned suddenly eerie, white and blank. It split apart, opening a cleft of sulphurous fire from which dark things scuttled, ant-like. Screams and roars erupted, and above him some black edifice toppled in a cloud of flame. Frantically he flung himself aside, and saw passing beneath him the burning rooftrees, the heap of corpses, the hideous feast on the threshold of his home. He clamped his eyes tight shut, and felt the sudden weight of the mask about his head like a dull hammer-blow.

  When he opened his eyes again, there was only his shadowed room, and the wind whispering in the pines outside, and the constant undertow of pain. Alya’s eyes ran with tears, he was sweating and more exhausted than he had ever been since his wounding; yet also he was happy. For a moment he had broken free. What he had seen, he was hardly sure; but in time he would learn to control that, to winnow the truth from the tangle.

  What mattered was the seeing! He had channelled his suffering as surely as any ritual ordeal. This was deeper than any starvation or self-laceration! He had seized his troubles and hammered wings of them, to carry his spirit on its quest. He had shown that maimed as he was, he could still serve the Citadel’s great need. Broken he might be, but not beyond use.

  Tomorrow he could tell Saquavan that, and with him Ushaya. He savoured the thought. That with help – and yes, with training, that might appease the old man – he could still serve the chieftain’s plans after all. Let Vansha be chieftain, if he had truly changed for the better. But now Alya could fairly earn support and sustenance, and with them Saviyal.

  He plucked off the mask and set it in hiding once again, and crawled to his mat with a heart full of light.

  He woke to turmoil. The dull blare of a bark horn, abruptly cut off. Other horn-calls, like none he knew, clearer, harder. And with them shouting, screaming, a flurry of movement past his door. The village curs barking hysterically. The legs of a horse, galloping.

  Startled out of dreams, he tried to spring up. He fell, twisting his body sharply, and agony contorted him. He screamed, but it was lost in the cries outside. Sweating, breathless, he pulled himself over to his seat, hoisted himself up on it, arms hanging over, and saw a black horse come wheeling past the opening, so fast that it skidded and scrabbled on the rough powdery surface, almost sat, slid and crashed out against the bushes and through. Down the steep slope beyond toppled beast and rider, screaming, cascading into the depths of the valley. Yet behind them, hardly glancing at where the horse had fallen, came another rush of men, with the glint of steel among them, and harsh shouts. Bows sang against the flat crack of heavy whips; voices yelled. There was a rush of rattling scree that brought a chill to his heart, a frenzied shriek that fell away into emptiness. Women howling, children screeching. He struggled to raise himself.

  The doorway darkened. A tall figure ducked under it, a man, and in his hand flashed a short, broad-bladed spear. He was all too familiar. His breastplate of thick pressed leather was black and metal-studded, like the straps covering his kilt. The white markings that curled across it matched the painted patterns on his flat harsh face. The spear darted at Alya, and thudded into the log as he fell back helpless. The man looked closer, kicked Alya’s thigh with his steel-toed sandal, and laughed contemptuously. He grabbed Alya’s hair and tried to haul him to his feet, but Alya fell clumsily, agonisingly once again, and the raider laughed louder, baring jagged teeth. There was no pleasure in the sound, not even cruel relish. He laughed as he would rape without great lust, because it was another victory, another humiliation. And there was a nervous edge in it, like the fears of a drunken man.

  ‘You! You broken spear, hah? You no fight. You cut man!’ He spoke Alya’s tongue carelessly, harshly, as if it were much like his own, yet still beneath contempt. Alya flailed at him, but his wrists were caught and pinioned in iron-hard arms. The raider, still laughing, swung him about and slammed his head against the hut’s crumbling clay wall. It was old and loose. The clay surface split and fell away, the loosened stones beyond slid outward. ‘Hah!’ panted the raider, as Alya slumped down, dazed and bleeding. ‘We show you fun, uh?’

  With a great heave he swung Alya’s head against the bared stones, sending a mass of them spilling down out of the wall. Alya’s head was thrust right out through the gap, and the raider pulled him up by his hair. ‘There! No squat in dark! Now you see!’

  Dazed and sick as he was, Alya saw only too clearly. The Citadel was in chaos. The raiders had found it at last.

  They must have surprised an unwary night watch, and come rushing down in force. Along the narrow paths little groups of black-armoured men pursued fleeing villagers, or strove fiercely with a few who turned to fight, some at bay, others to let others escape. He saw some go tumbling down into the valley, friend and foe together in fierce embrace. Along the scree slope where he himself had fallen ran a deep gouge now, and the rock that had both saved and destroyed him bore a great slathered smear of blood.

  Another horse, perhaps. The raiders were not having it all their own way, and they had been foolish to trust to horses along such paths. Now they were hastily dismounting, some seized and beaten down by villagers’ staves as they did so. But others pressed recklessly on towards the square before the Great House, against the little knot of villagers there. Some of the folk had weapons, rusty swords, hunting bows and spears, others poles and hoes, and a few had even won themselves the enemy’s own broad thrusting spears. Men and women alike, they barred the narrow way while others were hurried away into the sheltered chambers and granaries towards the rear of the vale.

  There was no sign of the chieftain, but Alya m
ade out Vansha among them, loosing his great bow and plucking a rider right out of his rope stirrups, to fall kicking under the feet of his fellows and send two more sliding out to their deaths. Vansha, his open face distorted to a raging mask, felled another man with the bowstave, wrenched away his spear as he staggered and slashed him face to throat, then gutted the man behind as he fell. Others were no less valiant, and for a moment, though his eyes were blurred, Alya thought he saw Savi, wielding an enemy’s short sword. But the press of raiders came against them then, and the defenders were forced slowly back.

  Some raiders, though, had turned away from the fight, and when Alya saw why, he cried out and fought still harder to free himself. ‘Yes!’ laughed his captor, forcing him back down. ‘Slaves! We keep, work, fuck, hah? But best, the beauty – we give to Them!’

  The man put a great shiver of deep feeling into the word, that might have been awe or worship or terror. ‘Them! Them! Always the best we offer up to Them!’ He shook Alya with the same cold laughter, and hissed in his ear. ‘No honour like that for you, boy, huh? You young, we eat young – mmh mmh!’ He made a play of smacking his lips. ‘Maybe you!’

  A tall warrior cantered his black horse very carefully round the turn of the path, shouting urgent orders at a group of foot-men. They were chivvying a wailing train of village women up the path, hurrying them on with kicks and blows and light jabs with their spears. Suddenly the mounted man saw Alya and his tormentor, called out and spurred his horse over to them. Long robes, brightly patterned, trailed over his crude saddle; he wore leather breeches and boots beneath. A wide-brimmed hat, painted with strange beast-shapes, shadowed his eyes as he leaned down to inspect Alya. The raider laughed. ‘This? Cut man. Half man! No walk. No come! I show him real man’s fun! We roast, huh? Kidneys first!’

  The chieftain did not laugh. He reached down and plucked Alya’s head back by his bloodsoaked hair. ‘This? Young meat, yes.’ He too spoke so Alya could understand, but with no trace of accent at all. His eyes weighed up the bleeding boy, terrible eyes like none Alya had ever seen. They were eyes that could gaze upon horrors, and find them no more than tedious. ‘But crippled, is unlucky. We will not eat his bad fortune.’

  ‘Kill, uh?’ Alya’s throat poised against the stone.

  The chief’s expression did not change. ‘No. Leave this bad fortune to those that remain, as a sign and a punishment for defying us. Let them keep him alive if they will. They still have a few women, back there, that they were so keen to defend. Well, let them breed from this!’

  The raider grinned and shook Alya. ‘So! Make babes! She-boy make she-babes, so worth we come back some day!’ He heaved Alya back into the room and flung him into the corner, like dead meat.

  Alya sprawled there, helpless and stunned, while the voices passed on the outward path, shouting, weeping, pleading, quelled by occasional angry shouts and the hissing crack of whips. The clamour passed swiftly, as it seemed. The silence that followed it was almost more terrible.

  Alya lay, and did not move. What he had seen at the last, he could not be sure, not with those blows to his head, the blood in his eyes. He might have been mistaken. Any man might, after such treatment. But a great dread welled up in his heart, and slowly, painfully, he forced himself to crawl forward again, nails clawing at the shattered clay, the unsteady stones, hauling himself up to the gap in the wall. He could not stand; he fell half through it, paining his head terribly. The vale seemed empty; but at its far end, beyond the Great House, he could see shapes just beginning to stir. His head reeled with the effort, then. He vomited violently, and hung there half conscious on the shattered wall.

  It was long before anyone came to him. But at last he heard footsteps, an exclamation, and found himself being lifted back through the wall and sat down on his log. Someone poured him water from the cracked bowl and pitcher in the corner, and he drank it down in desperate need, and another bowlful, before he saw who was helping him.

  It was Vansha; but it was not the Seer’s son he knew. The handsome face was dusty, haggard, disfigured by a great bruise across one cheek, his hair dishevelled and spattered with what looked like caked blood. He had cuts and weals across his broad chest and shoulders, and more blood on the breech-cloth he wore. But the true wound was in his eyes, dark-rimmed and more haunted than Alya could imagine them. ‘They left you for dead, no doubt,’ Vansha said dully. ‘As I did, almost. There are so many.’

  ‘Saquavan?’

  ‘Into the valley, at the stirrup of a raider, horse and all. The cliff-edge gave. My father was clubbed witless, though he may recover. Shachuwa, Seequan, so many strong men – speared at their hut doors. So many …’

  ‘And they took Savi.’

  Vansha seized his shoulders. ‘They? You saw? Oh, Powers, I’ve been searching for her! There are still … still some on the cliff or in the river, some I could not recognise.’

  ‘No,’ said Alya grimly. ‘My mind was blurred by blows, but I am sure now. I saw her taken, even as you led the fight, over there. I saw her taken. And I couldn’t so much as stir these putrefying limbs!’

  ‘I did not even see,’ said Vansha, through lips bloodless and quivering. ‘When they came crowding in on us, it must have been then. And we were forced back up the vale – but I could not have helped her then, hale as I am. No more could you.’

  His voice became almost a wail. ‘If we could only follow!’ He struck fist to palm, hard.

  Alya closed his eyes. ‘How many live?’ he asked, at last.

  ‘In all, maybe a hundred and seventy. Sixty men fit to fight – though perhaps we should count the women also, after the struggle they put up!’ He grinned savagely. ‘We held them off well enough, at the end, you know that? We would have turned the fight against them, if they’d only dared to linger, with the Fortress to help us. We even took three or four of their horses.’

  ‘They seemed in haste to go, right enough. And there were not so many of them, Vansha! How many warriors could you—’

  ‘None.’ The Seer’s son laughed bitterly. ‘You think I didn’t try? We found their tracks, headed westward and northward a little – towards those Great Roads I’ve heard tell of, maybe. Some forty horse in all, with a few wagons. We have more, though on foot. But nobody would go on. They cower like whipped curs. Their spirit is broken. They won’t stir.’

  Alya groaned. ‘But even a few of us, if we could only fall on those devils unlooked-for – they would never expect that! I would do it, even if there were no hope.’

  ‘I know! I also. Because what more is life worth? Powers! If we only had you hale, with your spirit …’ The two young men looked at one another, a long while. Then Vansha sagged back against the wall, and closed his eyes. ‘You’re wounded. Do you need anything?’

  ‘More water,’ said Alya thickly. His tongue seemed to be swelling. ‘My pitcher …’

  Vansha quickly filled it at the well outside, poured him cup after cup, trickled some over his face. ‘I must go tend to my poor old father. He foresaw nothing of this, nothing. I’ll send someone over later with food, when we have fires lit and the worse wounded in care. Maybe we can still think of something, you and I.’

  It was twilight before one of the women came to bring Alya a bowl of beans and parched corn. She took time to tend his head, washing the worst blood away and binding his forehead with rags; but she said little, her face pale and vacant. All along the valley voices echoed, weeping and bewailing so much loss. She slipped away, and misery closed its fist about him once again.

  All day long, his body aching and his head reeling, he had sat there in his grief, while from every shadow his mother and father and sister and the folk of the farm called out to him. Terrible as the thought was, he had sought Savi among them, but she was never there. She was nowhere he could see her, it seemed; and she would never come back again, now, to comfort and console him. He would never see her graceful shadow slip in the door, never hear her voice, soft yet strong, never catch the delicate scent of
her beside him, feel the touch of her in the blackness that bore the name of life.

  More powerfully even than those pallid faces with their voiceless cries, still clearer now in the growing dark, the valley called out to him. A crawl, a fall, and what had been begun would be completed. He could sleep, then, and forget his own brief, meaningless existence.

  Of all the struggles of Alya’s life, perhaps the greatest was the one he won that night in the half-ruined hut, with the moon shining skull-white on the narrow path outside, and the gulf beyond whispering words of painless rest and quiet. Two thoughts alone stopped the valley claiming him. One was the restless power within him, the Sight that he had promised to use wisely. Had it sought to give him some kind of warning? Maybe. Maybe it could do more yet. And the other was the thought that somewhere in the infinite, unkind, unbearable world, Savi yet lived.

  So long as her shade did not join the rest at his shoulder, pleading and cajoling with soundless gaping mouths, he would go on believing. But that only brought home his misery and helplessness more keenly. And a horrible idea came building up to haunt him. What had provoked that attack? It had followed so closely upon his happiness, his rediscovery of the Trail – even as the attack on his home had come so close upon his first steps along it.

  A shaman in the spirit’s flight could latch on to other minds, to help him, even over the Wall; so his father had said, back then. What if, in the undirected, leaf-blown whirling to and fro of his thoughts – what if some other mind had latched on to his? What if they had seen the Citadel, seen where it lay, seen its secrets, seen its women …