CHAPTER III
Signal fires—beacons of danger—flared on the Needle of Lahar, and horns trumpeted alarm from the watch- towers. From around the sharp turn upriver of the House of Lahar, Qreq warships swung ponderously into view. Kenlahar watched the mustering of the Axe-Kith from a small balcony on the roof of the docks. The flimsy structure was perched on thick piles set in the river, and concealed beneath it a labyrinth of canals and piers. The boats of the House of Lahar disembarked below him, struggling against the rising tide of the River Danjar.
The muddy and sluggish river continually overflowed its banks and covered the surrounding land with a thick, grasping mud. During the rainy season, which was most of the year, the mud turned the countryside into an impassable swamp. Very little grew in the land called the Tream, and all life was eventually buried beneath a thick layer of bog. Only an intricate system of canals had tamed the River Danjar enough to save the island from the fate suffering by the rest of the Tream. Once the river had been the highway of the House of Lahar. Lahar and his followers had even adopted the swamp- men’s name for the river—for “danjar” meant north, in their language. But now that path led nowhere. Now, the Qreq dominated the river, and few of Kenlahar’s generation had ventured far from the Island Laharhann. Now, the House of Lahar was the single valuable prize of a war for survival.
The opposing forces maneuvered for position all morning long, with constant probing and testing, feint within feint within feint. Kenlahar, who had never seen war, thought these first brief skirmishes to be the battle itself, and started to relax at the ease with which the Qreq invaders were being repulsed. He knew that soon he would be needed in the Hospice, but he lingered a while longer on the docks. The gigantic fortress warships of the Qreq continued to tack back and forth across the wide river, searching for an opening. The smaller fighting boats of Lahar stretched in front of them and darted downriver to fire volleys from longbows whenever one of the Qreq ships came close.
Suddenly, a shift in the wind filled the giant black sails of the raider ships. As one, the thirteen huge vessels turned toward the line of defense drawn by the fleet of Lahar. They drove downriver, sweeping aside everything before them. Sails flapped in the wind. The beat of the Qreq war-drums quickened and became louder with each passing second, and the hundreds of oars dipped in accord, bending under the force of thousands of galley slaves. The black warships, already larger than anything Kenlahar had ever seen afloat, loomed as even more awesome. As the wave of ships approached where he was standing, it seemed to Kenlahar that nothing could stop them, and for the first time he could hear the inhuman war chants of “Qreq! Qreq!” from which the fearsome warriors derived their name.
But the closer the Qreq came, the stronger the resistance grew. The cresting wave began to dissolve into violent spurts, and the more numerous boats of Lahar regrouped, their yellow sails swarming beneath the larger ships. In desperation, the warriors of Lahar boarded the enemy ships and as they did the wind died.
Yet one of the Qreq ships kept plunging forward toward the pier where Kenlahar watched, as if propelled by some invisible force. It did not turn aside to assail the more populous, vulnerable parts of the island—but drove onward to Kenlahar’s lonely spot.
The huge vessel skirted the low balcony and its bulwarks loomed over him, grinding into the wood structure of the docks. A Qreq warrior jumped down onto the balcony and confronted Kenlahar, moving with manic speed. “Kenlahar!” he heard, and he threw himself onto the floor of the platform.
Though the naked, emaciated Qreq arm looked incapable of wielding the curved sword held in long fingers, the weapon sliced only inches over Kenlahar’s head. But Kenlahar would not have escaped a second time. He felt a surge of relief as he caught a swirl of blue, which he recognized as Balor’s cape. Then Balor was moving between the ill-matched opponents, stabbing upward and forward. The balcony’s railing stopped the Qreq’s desperate retreat abruptly and the blade pierced his chest. The abnormally large, hairless head of the Qreq jerked to emit his death cry.
Though it was his enemy who had died—an enemy who had tried to kill him—Kenlahar had to turn his face from the bloodshed. The scream of the dying man still pounded into his mind. For a moment, he imagined that the scream was directed at him; it was as though it formed words, imploring him for help, demanding help—accusing him!
“Are you all right, Kenlahar?” Balor was shaking him. “Get inside, you don’t belong here!” By the time he forced himself to once more look on the battle, Balor had already disappeared from view, lost in the melee of war.
It was raining hard. But Kenlahar could not dislodge himself from the balcony, despite Balor’s warning. Hands grasping the railing and turning white under the pressure, he was only vaguely aware of the rain that ran down his stringy black hair and turned his dark brown cloak an even darker shade. Below him the docks were in flames, where flung torches had reached their target.
Already men were clambering up and down the ramshackle lower roof, throwing buckets of water from the river onto the fires. The dusk grew even darker as the last of the blue sky was surrounded and conquered by gray skies, and his shadow—cast by the jagged light of the burning ships—danced against the wall at his back.
Suddenly, the giant bell within the dome of the Great Hall shook the balcony with peals of victory, and the cheers of many warriors reached him from the river below. The nearest warship was in flames, and drifting slowly downriver past the balcony. Other giant fortress ships were turning and retreating ponderously upriver, triple banks of oars dipping to the beat of the pace- drums, still dignified, even in defeat. The smaller, faster boats of the House of Lahar continued to harass them, darting in and out of their wakes. Between, dismembered bodies bobbed in the current, staining the river red in circles around them.
Three of the huge raider ships had been left behind- burning quickly, sinking slowly. Mingled with the smoke drifting across the river was the smell of burning wood and canvas, a stench of roasted flesh. Kenlahar gagged—the smell almost seemed good to him.
With a shock, Kenlahar realized that the wounded were already being unloaded onto the docks, and had been unloading for some time. He released his grip on the railing of the balcony and rubbed the flow of blood back into his hands. With a guilty haste, he left the balcony and hurried toward the Hospice.
He had to concentrate on finding his way, for he had seldom visited the docks. But at last he stood before the wide Hospice doors. As Coron’s only apprentice, Kenlahar had already learned much of what the old man could teach. But his real talent would be the next few hours—soon he would discover if he truly possessed the Atima. With a deep sigh, he heaved open the heavy doors.
A flood of light revealed pandemonium. The cots and tables and even the floor were quickly being filled by the writhing, moaning wounded. Kenlahar gave the room a quick survey, was satisfied that Balor was not among the wounded. With a swift urgency, young women moved among them, bringing some order to the chaos. The air in the Hospice was filled with the overpowering odor of herbs covering the smells of sickness. In the middle of the room was a low table piled high with clean rags. The women surrounded the table, tearing the cloth into neat strips of bandages. Sanra approached him, and blushed under his stare, “The Healer Coron said that I could help you, Kenlahar.”
Coron barely acknowledged Kenlahar’s arrival, simply throwing him a helpless look, and shouting, “Hurry, we have need of healers!” The old man had already begun to supervise the tending of the wounded. “Shield the barbs before you pull out that arrow!” he roared at one of the hapless women. The old man’s major problem though, Kenlahar quickly observed, seemed to be holding back the Lashitu, who was chanting his incantations over the healer’s shoulder as he worked. The Healer Coron did not approve of the Lashitu and was trying his best to ignore the shaman’s presence. But the Lashitu had not yet been finished chanting his powers, his greatness, or the invocation of his protectors’ names—which appeared
to include all the High Gods and most of the minor spirits. They made an impressive list, Kenlahar thought, and only wished that the spells had some healing effect.
The family still believed in the two worlds of the real and the supernatural, and this was reflected in the Hospice. The healer dealt with the undeniable need for the binding of wounds, while the Lashitu called upon the spirits to help, and claimed responsibility for all recoveries. Each thought the other was unnecessary.
The Lashitu contemptuously drew a sign in the air before Kenlahar and muttered, “Wraith-taint…” The young apprentice found it hard to turn from the shaman. Yet, he had heard it before, and the wounded were still waiting to be cared for. He shrugged and stooped over a bleeding warrior, grasping his hands almost violently over the wound, his fingers pinching the artery. Behind him, the Lashitu began to chant with hypnotic repetition: “The River flows / Flowing free/Bind the flow!/Bind the flow! The River flows/ Red river flowing free/ Bind the flow!/ Bind the flow!…”
Kenlahar was swiftly immersed in trying to heal the battle wounds and soon forgot his irritation with the Lashitu. Even the endless chanting began to fade into the background. Eventually, the Hospice settled into a purposeful quiet, disturbed only by the moans of the wounded. Throughout that day, Kenlahar was aware that Sanra did not leave his side as he moved among the wounded. Her smock was caked with blood, yet she still seemed to remain somehow unruffled by it all. None of her blond hair managed to escape the confines of a bun. Her face stayed placid and unmoving, with a single streak of blood across her forehead. Kenlahar found himself admiring her more and more as the nightmarish night wore on.
Much of the next day had passed before the wounded ceased coming and the Hospice began to empty out. Late in the afternoon, as Kenlahar worked bent over in the dim light of the torches, what Kenlahar had feared, happened. Balor was brought into the room, dazed by a wound to his forehead.
Lashitu, his face now bloodied, swooped down on him, howling his spells in a hoarse voice. Balor quailed and shouted, “Qreq!” Moving quickly to the uproar, Kenlahar found himself with a fist raised over the scrawny back of the Lashitu. The Healer Coron cried out his name in horror, but he had already stopped himself from striking. Instead, he jerked the shaman from Balor harshly. A dangerous gleam in the Lashitu’s eyes changed his angry words into a wary question. “What are you doing to him?”
“He is possessed!” the Lashitu screeched, moving away from the young healer. “The wraith-taint must not be allowed to fester and grow!” The beaked nose of the shaman pointed in the air like a finger. Kenlahar noted the accusation with weary anger.
“There is no demon in him,” the apprentice retorted, “but the infection of poison. Balor needs rest—not the fearful pesterings of a sorcerer. If I possessed the authority I would banish you from this room. But authority or not, if you come near this man again you will regret it!”
But the Lashitu was enraged, and the crooked figure descended again on Balor. Kenlahar tried to hold him back, realizing that the Lashitu looked like a Qreq with his tall, skinny frame and sparse wispy hair. But the weary apprentice was unable to keep the wiry shaman back, and they stumbled struggling against Balor. “What is happening here!” The shout reverberated through the Hospice and the Lashitu fell silent at last. They turned to see a Captain of the Watch glaring at them from the doorway. The Watch were the elite warriors of the Axe-Kith and their commander was an old grizzled veteran. The green uniform of the Watch could not quite conceal his disfigured body. The legendary Captain Jonla had been wounded many times in his battles with the Qreq, but as long as he still walked and could still carry a weapon, he would continue to lead his men. The Elders had learned to rely on his knowledge and craftiness—and his loyalty. For the Watch also served as the police of the House of Lahar.
Now it appeared that Captain Jonla had been wounded once more. One arm crossed his chest to clutch the ripped muscles of his other arm. His face was drawn and Kenlahar saw that his armor was chipped and encrusted with dried blood. “What is your name?” he roared.
With a start, Kenlahar realized that he was speaking to him. “Forgive me, Captain Jonla. My name is Kenlahar.”
Captain Jonla started at this name, and stared at Kenlahar strangely. Then Healer Coron had reached the door, greeting the wounded warrior, and casting a warning look at his apprentice. But Captain Jonla would not be put off. “Why are you not tending that man?” he demanded, angrily shaking off the Healer Coron and pointing into the corner where Balor laid shaking and sweating. “Must a man be mortally wounded before you tend to him?”
Kenlahar felt his face flush at the unfair accusation but said nothing in defense, instead turned to calm his friend. The Lashitu, he noticed bitterly, seemed to have faded inconspicuously into the background. Balor was slowly regaining his senses.
“Kenlahar? Where am I?”
“It is all right, Balor. You are in the Hospice. You are safe now.” There were a few minutes of quiet as Balor laid back, with his eyes closed. Soon he was sleeping soundly, while Kenlahar cleaned the festering wound. By morning, Balor would be completely recovered, he thought.
Into this hush the Healer Coron spoke softly to Kenlahar and Sanra, without using their names. “Go! Rest. I can take care of any emergencies. You must sleep before there is another battle.” The old man also dropped his eyes significantly to the reclining Captain of the Watch, who was dozing while the healer worked on his arm. It seemed that Kenlahar had made yet another enemy.
With one last warning glance at the Lashitu, and a wary look at Captain Jonla, they left the Hospice for the first time in over a day. They did not know it, but they were to never see the Hospice again.
CHAPTER IV
The sounds of splintering wood woke them. Kenlahar sat up with the light in his eyes. Beyond the light he glimpsed two figures through the smashed shards of the door. He glanced quickly at Sanra, who stared back, and he realized foolishly that both of their mouths had dropped wide open.
“What!” he gasped. “Who—?”
“Stand up, Kenlahar!” one of the intruders demanded, stepping into the room. The green uniforms of the Watch, now that he could see them, the insolent tone of voice, but most of all, the timing of the encroachment, sparked the smoldering resentment and rebellion within Kenlahar.
“You have no right to break into my room!” he shouted and lunged for the nearest warrior. Too late, he recognized the bent shape of Captain Jonla, with his arm now in a sling. The old warrior easily grabbed Kenlahar with his good arm. The apprentice was pinned helplessly against the wall, and his cheek flattened against the wood. His breath was forced from his body by the impact.
When Kenlahar said nothing more, and ceased struggling, Captain Jonla relented and released him. Kenlahar sat heavily onto the bed next to Sanra. She was staring at him with frightened and pleading eyes. Touching his face softly, she said, “Please, Kenlahar. You mustn’t fight him.”
Captain Jonla was standing threateningly over them. He waved his free hand at Sanra. “You should listen to her,” he said harshly. “At least she seems to have some sense!”
Once again Kenlahar felt the shame of not being able to defend her. “What do you want,” he managed to whisper.
“The Elders wish to see you. I was warned that you might be a spy for Warlord.” He said this last with more than a touch of scorn, obviously not believing that Kenlahar could be dangerous. “All I want now is your word that you will not try to escape me. It shouldn’t be necessary to bind or carry you.”
There was no choice, Kenlahar saw. “I will do as you ask,” he said wearily.
Captain Jonla relaxed slightly and motioned for him to follow. The party set off for the Great Hall at a brisk pace. Sanra was left behind without another word, and with only a last bitter glance from Kenlahar. She stood at the shattered doorway, wondering and uncertain whether she should follow. As she watched them recede, Kenlahar appearing as a small, helpless, dark shape bounded by the gi
ant warriors of the Watch, Sanra remembered her vow to abide by Kenlahar no matter what happened. She set off inconspicuously after the small party.
The Chambre of the Great Hall was the center of life in the House of Lahar, the largest of its many enclosures. It was crudely, but magnificently built. Its huge logs were said to have been hewn by the Star Axe itself, and the beams crisscrossed high above, their shadows casting intricate patterns on the dome. Kenlahar had never seen it so empty. His steps and those of his guards echoed in the vast hall as he approached through semi-darkness on a smooth stone floor. Only the raised podium at the end of the hall was lit.
On the dais sat the Council of Elders in their dark ceremonial robes. The long dais served as a barrier between the Elders and the rest of the Chambre. Legend said that it too was carved from a single tree of the old forest and not from the many low swamp trees whose wood was used throughout most of the House of Lahar. As always, the Star Axe was set in display before the Elders, with its blade buried in the flattened log.
At first, there did not seem to be anyone else in the hall, except the two warriors who had brought him. Sanra melted unnoticed into the shadows at the rear of the hall. But when Kenlahar was finally ordered to stop, he saw Coron and Balor off to one side, surrounded by soldiers. Balor looked at Kenlahar with a defiantly supportive expression. His head was heavily bandaged but otherwise he looked well. The Healer Coron, on the other hand, looked away from his questioning glance. The Lashitu was there as well, glaring at him, having apparently claimed his lawful place on the Council.
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