by Jane Baskin
I have no choice.
The arrow should not have found its mark. Too far. Too much movement, on gantha-back. An idiot shot. A fool’s shot.
But Nayan: seeing the arrow piercing the giant’s eye. Seeing it, as if it had already happened.
And then it did. Kept seeing it, guiding the arrow with pure thought. Watched trance-like, as the arrow pierced the giant’s left eye and emerged through the back of his head.
Did you do that?
No. He did it.
Impossible. They can’t be that advanced … yet.
Your problem is rigid thinking. You suppose that because their technology is simple, so are they.
If he can do that …
Exactly. We have no choice but to interfere, eventually.
He’s a dangerous creature, that one.
Thank God Itself he doesn’t know it.
Yet.
Impossible. Way too far away. Nayan: a good shot. But no one … could be that good. How – ?”
Getting closer now. His gantha, still running at top speed. Suddenly: there. Having no choice but to jump over the fallen man. Then Nayan, turning the animal on a dime, back toward his brother.
Noar, on his feet now. Nayan, hauling him up behind him. Pausing only to grab the reins of Noar’s hysterical gantha, then charging back into the brush.
Somewhere in the tangle of weeds and low bushes, Noar, leaping onto the back of his own mount. Both brothers, driving their ganthas through nearly impassable thick growth. Nayan, pulling out from his saddle pack: a rifle. A few screams, a few men dropped.
Noar, doing the same. These new weapons: inaccurate overall, but nice scatter pattern for firing at a mob. And then: Nayan, having a knowing right there in the middle of madness: we will make more of these. As if making a physically impossible shot had not been enough.
Now the pursuers’ ganthas: stumbling in the dense brush. Refusing to jump.
The brothers’ ganthas, too well trained for that. Leaping where they could not run; running where they could not leap.
The gap: widening.
Then, there. Look. The river. Open running now.
Of course, having to stop. Their mounts, exhausted. Hiding as best they could around a river bend.
Nayan: “They won’t stop. They’re too close.”
“I know. But these animals are too spent to outrun them in open country.”
“Right. So I’m going to lead them off, while you cross the river and head west. I’ll cover your tracks. On your way home, see if you can take out some of Lord Vel’s cache.”
“Lord Vel?! He has more guards than all the gods! And where in all the hells are you going?”
“South.”
“South!? Are you crazy, Nayan?”
“Maybe. But the enemy is way too close. We have to split up. And if I go south, they may think they have me trapped.”
“They will have you trapped!”
“Enough, Noar! Do as I ask! And take your time getting home. Do some roundabouts, hide, you know what to do.”
“This is crazy!”
“The whole idea was crazy! Now go! I’ll be right behind you.”
Shouts from a distance.
Remounting, quick. Off again. Nayan, staring at the evidence of Noar’s river crossing. Staring at the tracks … until they were no longer there. Then leaving a clear trail in the soft mud of the riverbank, heading south.
Turning his head once in that mad gallop. To the west, watching Noar head into the thick woods bordering the other side of the river. Watching him disappear. Feeling the rock in his gut settle, then dissipate.
Nayan’s mind, beset with torment as he rode on. Knowing from the outset that this mission was foolhardy. Way too dangerous. Crazy. But young men: often believing that they can go crazy and get away with it. The brothers: talking themselves into a delicious fantasy of success for days before setting out.
This: how crazy begins to look possible.
And of course, the “thing.” His knowing.
Sometimes in dreams, sometimes in waking. Just sliding into something like a trance, but not quite. A micro-trance. Just suddenly knowing something, almost invariably something in the future. But. Never wrong.
Never.
Should be scared? Keep your mouth shut. Like Mother had told him, that time she caught him at the age of six, playing with candles in his room. Moving them about, this way and that, up and down, giggling. Oh, that memory. How Mother saw from the doorway. How her breath caught in her throat. How she stormed into the room. Then glanced at the candles … and snuffed them out … with her mind.
A hard slap to his bottom. “Never do that, Nayan! Never let anyone see you do such a thing!”
He, cowering, ashamed, fighting tears. “But why not, Mama? It’s fun.”
“It’s not fun! It’s the work of devils! If anyone were to catch you … all gods, Nayan! Just stop. Forget this sort of play. Tell no one. Keep your mouth shut. Shut, I tell you!”
So Nayan did. Only his best friend, Che, had any inkling. Che … maybe similar. But no one else. Not even Noar. No one, not a soul.
But. However much he wanted to obey his mother … could not stop his peculiarity. This time: had seen the future, before they left. Knew they would be all right. Knew they would wound the South, badly enough to stop the spring raids. Saw a dark thing, too. No clue what it was. But not death, for either of them. Maybe far in the future. Just dark. But not yet. Cast it out. On with the plan.
Now, swimming in danger, Nayan’s only thought: Noar’s getting away. Thank all the gods.
Behind him, the thunder of pursuers. Pay attention, you idiot. They’re getting closer. Knowing … his gantha’s exhaustion. Knowing … the distance between him and them would soon close.
But I saw it! I saw that we’d make it! I’ve never … been wrong before. What’s happening?
Answered only by the pounding hooves of ganthas, the whoops of Gansmen, feeling the kill coming to them.
I may not make it. His gut, feeling full of heavy stones.
The lead Gansman, now close. So close. Getting closer.
Somehow feeling his gantha’s dying muscles, the poor beast struggling to pump blood from a failing heart. All gods. I’m inside my gantha. I feel as he feels.
The Gansman, a rifle shot sounding like it was coming from inside his own head. A bullet, whizzing by his ear.
I’m not going to make it.
Another bullet. That guy’s a lousy shot. But he’s getting closer.
Now a bullet ripping a small piece of his right ear off.
Forget forget forget … No! I refuse to die!
Nayan, suddenly pulling up his exhausted mount. Using the last of its energy to wheel, face the pursuers. The near Gansman, almost riding into him. Suddenly flying off his mount, into a nearby tree. The crack of his back as it hit the massive trunk, like some weird cry from hell. The Gansman, on the ground now, twitching weirdly.
Nayan, just staring at the riders now bearing down on him. Staring at their ganthas’ forward legs. Thinking, Down.
Watching, as the startled animals front legs folded. As they nosed down into the soft dirt and grasses of the riverbank. As their riders became airborne, arms and legs akimbo … flying further than they should have. Landing heavily. Some cracks, as bones broke. Some wild exhalations as their breaths deserted them. The ganthas, quickly rising, unhurt. (Nayan loved ganthas) But the riders, gasping for breath … as Nayan squeezed their windpipes. Then … silent.
I could have killed them. I didn’t, but I could have.
Nayan, turning his gantha again. Mentally sending strength to the animal’s muscles, its heart and lungs. Seeing in his mind’s eye, the blood pumping, the lungs filling with precious air, the beautiful animal growing stronger …
Collapsing over the saddle, hanging onto the gantha’s neck, as it galloped away west across the river. Riding that way – how long? – until the moment when he felt his mind snap to attention. Until he s
at up in the saddle, took the reins, found cover in a massive willow thicket. Slid off his mount, yanked off the saddle, watered them both. Fed the animal the last of his gell; let them both fall into desperate rest.
Southwest then, in circles, clutching difficult terrain as if his life depended on it (which it did). Then northwesterly. Moving mostly at night. Finding – at last – the old lava bed from the eons ago eruption of the Nona-gesh volcano. Salvation.
Open country, but no way to track him over rock. Hoping against all hope, that he had enough of a head start. Nayan, now backtracking eastward across the field.
Hope, justified. Had ridden over the westward ridge of the lava field and sunk down into its northeasterly ravine, well before he could be spotted. Kept to the ravine for days, until the vast lava field gave way to meadow; then woods. Then headed due north.
Not stopping to rest until sure, very sure, that he was away from pursuers. Had been over a week. Stopped by a stream, fell off his gantha into the mud. Lay there without moving for the rest of the day.
When the moons rose two nights later … Nayan and his gantha, refreshed enough to get going again. The cool stream water, almost magical in its succor. Began the full northward trek. This, the hardest part of the journey. Would have to cross the equator, penetrate the deep jungle, survive somehow, and emerge on the other side. Then more hard riding to the northern border, some distance from the equator. Then more still, to Cha-Ning. Weeks, maybe a month.
But now, feeling uplifted. Knowing he would make it. His dream … had been right. The dark part … almost forgtotten now. Knew he – and Noar – would make it.
“Nayan, are you on this planet or not?” Father’s roar, followed by a powerful thump on the table.
Nayan, jumping back to his surroundings. “Sorry.”
Father, about to level a stream of invective, stopped by Mother. Who asked him with that smile and in that voice: “Day dreaming, son? As usual?”
Embarrassed, of course. Again: “Sorry.”
Mother, unperturbed. Other clan leaders: smiling. “I know all this talk of political possibilities must be tiresome for you, Nayan. But as the eldest … you understand.”
Nayan, coughing, straightening.. “Yes, Mother, I do. I’m present.”
Now, Lord Augan: “Nayan, you and your brother’s … uh, visit … to our Southern brothers was insane, of course, but here you are. Good for you, praise for your daring. But sadly, your brother may have complicated things in his … um, haste. What do you think we should do, now?”
Nayan, remembering his brother’s back, racing into the woods out of sight. The huge relief, knowing he would be safe. The abject terror before, seeing him so close to death.
My brother.
Cleared his throat. “I think we should kill the hostage.”
3. Murder is Best
The hysteria: spent quickly. Then, silence.
Nayan: “Look, Noar told me he grabbed her just as Lord Vel’s first weapons dump blew up. He said she was running toward it. So it’s very possible that Lord Vel doesn’t even know she was kidnapped. He may think she died in the explosion.”
Father: “There would have been a body. Or parts of one.”
“Or not.”
More silence. Thoughts like boulders.
Lady Jiren-te of Aurast: “Can you think of any other way, Nayan?”
Shaking his head. The silky black hair, seeming to wave in protest, on its own. “Not really. If we admit we have her, Lord Vel will come at us like vengeance from hell itself. If we try to return her, the same; he will have vengeance. So I don’t see how we can threaten him. Lord Vel … no one threatens him. And – he knows our numbers are down this year. I have no doubt this fever that’s put us down like dogs was his doing. He and his allies. He means to get the gell this year, and even for all that Noar and I did, he’ll still come. It may take him longer, but he’ll come. If he knows for certain we have his daughter, he’ll come if he’s the last man in creation. He’d even try winter. The only solution is to kill her quietly.”
Father to Mother: “I thought you said he couldn’t think.”
“I only said he was still young, and didn’t like to.”
“Hmn.”
“In his defense, he likes to read.”
“So he’s not the moron he seems to be, with this crazy caper.”
“Well … this caper aside, beloved. He’s no moron.”
“His daring borders on foolhardy.” Then to Nayan: “Why did you and your idiot brother decide to raid in the South, all by yourselves, in the first place?”
“We hadn’t heard from you. We didn’t even know where you were or what you were doing. We – had to do something.”
“You and he were both sick when we left. We decided not to bother you.”
“We got well.”
Silence. One minute. A minute and a half. Two minutes.
Suddenly Dar-agan, erupting into laughter so loud the heavy stone walls shook. In seconds, everyone following suit. Nayan staring at his hands.
Took a while for the tension – that had been building all night – to subside. Finally, when people had to wipe their eyes on their sleeves, quiet again.
Lady Jiren-te, again, softly: “I see the young lord’s point. But … who will do this awful thing?”
Dar-agan: “He will, of course.”
I should kill Noar, not the girl. Nayan, lying back in his big bed, wondering how he had come to be in such a miserable position. Instantly ashamed of his ire against his brother. It’s not Noar’s fault he’s impulsive. I might have done the same.
Of course, knowing he would not have done any such thing. If he had been in Noar’s position: would probably have ducked behind a tree to remain out of sight of the girl.
But this: just how it was. Nayan, the older brother. Frequently covering for Noar. Knew he shouldn’t … but loved his little brother. A sudden wash of memories of their boyhood, oh. Close in age, inseparable. As often in trouble as not. Once, into the forbidden Cha-ning Forest, where even grown men did not go except in force. Chased by a lion – an adult male. Barely made it out alive. Climbing a tree – lions could not climb – screaming at the top of their lungs. A futile thing; just a reaction to terror. Could not be heard at such a distance.
But Nayan, of course: thinking. Thinking his terror to his mother. Seeing her coming to save him. Showing her himself, stuck in a tree with his brother.
Of course, she heard. His secret; her own. He knew. Punishment: certain. But knew she could hear him.
And there, look. Their parents, tearing across the field between the castle and the wood on gantha-back. Trailed by a force of castle residents, also mounted. Father, firing his crossbow, aiming at a spot just before the lion’s feet. Mother, firing a rifle over its head. The lion turning with a roar, running away.
Riding back to the castle, seated in front of their parents on their saddles. Wrapped in their parents warm fur cloaks. Almost falling asleep in the luxurious safety of his mother’s arms.
Of course later: punishment. Hearty swats on their behinds. Lectures (worse). Sent to bed early with only the barest of suppers. Hugging each other in bed. Way too excited to sleep. High on adventure. High on rescue.
So, never hearing Father question Mother in his most serious tone: “Why didn’t you kill the beast? That weapon is very powerful.”
Mother answering: “Don’t be silly, love. No one kills the lions.”
“Not usually, no. But when one corners your child … ”
“The boys weren’t really in danger. They were up a tree. And the lions are glorious beasts, you know. A local treasure, everyone knows that. And … they work for us.”
“Work for us?”
“Yes. Indeed. We never have to worry about raiders approaching from the west, through the wood.”
Much later, the worst punishment of all. A serious lecture from Mother. Quietly, in her rooms.
“Yes, Nayan. We are … different. But you must never
speak of this.”
“Why, Mama?”
His first conversation without spoken words: Because it will be regarded as devil’s work.
By whom?
By everyone. Listen to me, my little son. Others in our line … in the North … have this ability. And have died for it. Tell no one.
Not even Noar?
Especially Noar. He … he doesn’t have the … gift.
Are we in danger, Mama?
Always.
An unreserved knock at the door. Nayan, out of his reverie. If that’s the maid, that Seren-ye, I’m going to kill her. Just for the practice.
Got up with a sigh. Relieved, when he opened the door. Not the pest of a maid. His best friend, son of the head chefs at the castle.
“Come on in, Che. I’m glad you came.”
Che, a brotherly hug. His quick grin. He, his brother Colwen, and the young lords: a pack of youngsters growing up together in the great old stone house. Partners in crime, often. Only chance, that Che and Colwen had not been chased by the same lion that had treed the brothers when they were so young.
Nayan, stoking the fire in the iron box. The two young men, seating themselves in big chairs before it. Nayan, getting some ale out of his small kitchen. Clinked mugs together, in friendship and … defiance?
Che: “So … you going to do it?”
Nayan, sighing. “I have to, don’t I?”
“Looks like it.”
“Gods alive, Che. I’ve never killed a woman.”
“Not even in battle? The South cloisters its women; but now and then they breed one of those peasant she-warriors. They’re some of the wildest raiders.”
Nayan, shaking his head slowly. His hair again, adding the emphasis, seeming to move on its own. Che: watching. But not perturbed. Used to it. His friend was odd. That’s all. Sometimes … felt a little odd, himself.
Nayan: “Once I faced a woman raider. I knocked her off her gantha, then jumped off mine to go at her. Her headgear fell off and that’s when I saw she was a woman.”
“What happened?” The grin.
Nayan, grinning back. “She knocked me out.”