by Ru Emerson
Silence. With concentration, she and the old Swordmaster could hear celebration within Koderra's high walls as night drew in, bringing with it ragged clouds and a few stars.
“The luck's with us,” Marhan whispered. “Moon's no more than a splinter, and it won't rise until near dawn.” He gazed out across the Plain himself, though his own eyes were weak and it was unlikely he'd see anything unless it were on top of him. “Time, girl. Go waken Malaeth, get ready. We'll leave as soon as we're all together.”
“Good.” Ylia scrabbled down the dark ravine wall. The burden of waiting, at least that was over.
Darkness was near total as they started toward the River, keeping in file behind Levren, who knew the path well enough even though he could not see. Marhan and Golsat brought up the rear.
The Torth was deep, fast with runoff. Marhan held up a hand and went forward alone at the water's edge, vanished into thick reeds. Nisana, curled into the travel pouch at Ylia's back, nudged her. ‘Join.’ Dubiously, considering her faint reserves of strength, Ylia added her own thought to Nisana's. The cat began an intense, rapid mind-search of the area around them.
In the space of forty cautious breaths, the Swordmaster was back. The others crowded close so he could speak. “Not guarded. Water's high and treacherous though.”
“The fords?” Levren asked. Marhan shook his head.
“No. They're held. Dangerous. Can't risk it.”
“Well, then, how do we cross?” Brendan demanded in a low voice. Impatience in his stance, in the turn of his mouth—so much Ylia could see with the second level of Sight. ‘Trouble, cat; he'll be trouble every step of the way.’ ‘Perhaps, girl. He's upset; give him a chance to sort himself out.’ “We are not much burdened, but the women cannot manage that river alone.”
Marhan rubbed his moustache with a thick forefinger, frowned at his boots. He glanced back at the water, nodded to himself, turned back and began to speak. But the mind-search Nisana had loosed closed at that moment about strangers—near! She clawed free of her pouch, pulled onto Ylia's shoulder and flung herself growling to the ground. Dark shapes—they would not have been visible with straight vision—loped down the ravine toward the River.
“Golsat!” Ylia hissed; her right hand gripped her sword, tore it from its sheath; the dagger was already in her left. Brelian leaped to push Malaeth and Lisabetha flat into the brush as Golsat whirled. The first of the Tehlatt fell with a gasping little cry. Golsat ran back up the trail as another threw himself forward; his sword crashed against Ylia's and she found herself fighting in truth.
But the sudden ferocity of the attack drove fear from her mind; instinct long honed took over. One clash of blades that numbed her arm, a second. He was all strength, no skill, and her blade slipped easily under his guard. She turned away as he fell, but there was no further need for her aid. Brendan, who had held two at bay, slew the first with a clean thrust, dropped the other with a blow from his dagger hilts and pushed the barbarian into the Torth. Marhan knelt over a dark huddle near the water's edge, and Brelian was already aiding Malaeth to her feet. Levren, arrow fitted loosely to the string, was moving silently back up the trail. Golsat materialized at her side.
“My thanks, friend,” he began with his usual grave formality. “He would have killed me before I was even aware.” He wiped his dagger against his breeches, peered into the dark at her feet. “Well. The Swordmaster cannot fault your sword now, can he?” He laughed rather grimly, and knelt. His dark face was void of expression as he looked up. “He is not dead.” Spoken so matter-of-factly, Ylia stared down at him blankly until she saw the gleam of starlight on his blade.
“No.” She dropped to one knee. “Equally I said, and so I meant.” If I think what I mean to do. She forced aside thought of any kind, brought her gaze to the fallen Tehlatt, swiftly dragged his head back by the hair and buried the dagger in his throat. He jerked once, lay still. Golsat took the knife from her limp fingers, wiped it on the brush and restored it to its sheath, then pulled her to her feet. A few paces from the others, he stopped. His grip stayed hard and reassuring around her shoulders until she could stop shaking.
“That was bravely done.” He spoke quietly. “To slay in battle, to slay before another kills you, that is far different from what you have just had to do. Remember, lest it seem easy to take lives. But never forget you have killed an enemy this night, one who would have killed you had your places been exchanged!” Ylia could not speak, could only nod. He patted her arm.
When they moved back to join the others, Marhan and Levren were again discussing the crossing. “We had better leave now, as quickly as we can.” The Bowmaster might have been discussing a summer picnic.
“I cannot fault that,” Marhan growled. “What we must do is—spread out, all the way across. Pass cloaks, weapons, whatever else need stay dry. Pass Malaeth and the girl.”
Brelian and Brendan had dragged the bodies down into the water, and they now returned, Brelian's young face unnaturally pale. The older brother listened impassively. “I see no better way myself. Let us go, now.” He turned, waded out into the River.
The rest followed. The water was bone-chillingly icy as it slid past knees, nearly to the waist. Though it fortunately went no deeper than that, it was difficult to keep balance against the current. Ylia, on whom the water came nearly breast high, had been given the place nearest the west bank. Even so, she would have been hard put to hold had it not been for the boulders down-River.
Once in position, they were little more than arms width apart and reached nearly shore to shore. Packs, weapons, bundles of cloaks and food, Brendan's mail, all came across in such a fashion. Then Malaeth grasped Lisabetha's hand and led her into the shallows. Three steps allowed her to put the girl into Brelian's arms and slowly, cautiously, she was passed across. Ylia waded ashore long enough to lay her among the packs and unwillingly waded back out to help bring Malaeth over.
Malaeth caused considerable difficulty: though shorter and much lighter than Lord Corry's daughter, she was awake and terrified, while Lisabetha had been limp as a child's doll. Malaeth fought to keep her body above water and nearly caused Marhan a complete dunking. For a wonder, though, she held a tight-lipped silence throughout, and was finally across. The rest followed, pausing only long enough to wring out wet clothing, and empty boots. The steep Hunter's Trail loomed before them, a faint pale line against dark brush and rock.
For as long as Nedao had dwelt on the Plain, the Trail had been there, cutting through the foothills, across the eastern edge of the Yls Pass and then to an end a league or so beyond the Pass. It was Marhan's hope to reach the trail's end by dawn.
He fought impatience and anger as they paused for breath, more frequently than he'd hoped, but the way was steeper than he'd recalled. At least there were no sounds of pursuit, no sound but nightbirds and the Torth far below. Fire burned high as night came on, turning the City walls and the Tower ruddy. Their mood lightened when they topped a ridge and began the descent, for then Koderra was hidden from view.
But the going was still slow, even after the ascent lessened, for clouds filled the sky and darkness became absolute. Marhan and Levren took turns at first to lead, much to Ylia's and Nisana's impatience, for the cat could see quite clearly, and Ylia, with the second level of Sight, could see much better than any of the rest of them.
Finally the Swordmaster relented and Ylia took the lead, Nisana on her shoulder, aiding her even in this simplest of all uses of the AEldra power, using her own cat-vision to assist. They traveled faster for some time after that, for even though those behind could see no more of the trail than before, Ylia called out changes in direction to those who followed, warned of rocks and holes.
The only mishap occurred when Golsat missed one of the sudden turnings and tumbled off the trail. Although the drop was steep, the area was thick with the previous year's grasses, so he took no real hurt. But he was in a foul mood for the rest of the night. The others could hear him mumbling to himself as he combed pr
ickly seeds from his hair and beard with his fingers, and he was still pulling long-tailed barbs from his mail shirt the next afternoon.
By middle night, a longer rest had become absolute necessity. It was well over a league, mostly uphill, from the Torth. Just over a low rise, Ylia found a dell near the path with a deep-cut brook running down one side. It was sheltered from the chill little wind that had risen. They lit no fire, for not even Marhan could guess how near the Pass they were, and it was possible, if not very likely, that the Tehlatt had sent a party up the ancient road. They huddled close together, shared a little of what food there was, mostly biscuit and dried meat. Poor fare, but at least filling.
“Beyond the Pass road, we'll be able to hunt, to properly cook what we catch, without fear of the Tehlatt,” Levren assured them.
“Not the Tehlatt, anyway,” Brendan said. Ylia glared at him, indicating the old nurse with a swift motion of her head. Brelian whispered something against his brother's ear. Brendan rolled his eyes but made no further remark.
Ylia spared him one black look, then went back to her study of her companions. Malaeth and Lisabetha, of course, had brought nothing at all with them; Malaeth had barely retained sufficient wit in her terror to get both of them winter cloaks. But they had already been dressed for the journey to Yls and so wore travel skirts, thick but divided for ease in walking, shorter than the traditional robes. Lisabetha even wore sturdy boots. For so much she could give silent thanks, though Malaeth's beaded slippers could not possibly last an entire five-day.
The armsmen were clad for warmth and against rough usage, as she was. And armed. Levren was a good hunter, perhaps the brothers were. Or Golsat. If there was meat in the Foessa, they'd not starve. Those dressed for battle were also unlikely to freeze.
She spared no concern for Nisana: of all the company, she was the most self-sufficient.
Well. She sighed. Pointless to worry the matter any more, they still knew nothing of how the mountains would receive them and she was suddenly very tired indeed.
'You used nothing, it was mostly my strength you drew upon, girl.’
'Mostly! I still used my own, cat!’
'Huh. Anyone, even Malaeth, can still use the second level of Sight. It's the first thing any of us learn.’
'The first thing pureblooded learn,’ Ylia retorted, and closed her eyes. The whispers around her slowly faded.
Nisana gazed at her, affection and irritation balancing in her thought. Humans. They take notions, and no sense, no rational argument will dissuade them.
The cat's head came around; Ylia sat up, abruptly awake. Marhan was attempting vainly to separate Brendan and Golsat. Brelian, who had apparently already tried, was picking himself up from a pile of dry brush and rubbing his bruised chin. At the same moment, Levren, his face white with repressed emotion, eyes and hands clenched tight, turned away and strode off to the creek, where he knelt with his back to them all.
The two men had not spoken all afternoon; Brendan had sworn dagger-oath, but reluctantly, and he clearly had in full the Northern prejudices. Golsat, usually immune to such things, had been in a temper after his fall, and Brendan, for some reason, had gotten under his skin. The younger man had baited him since their halt until, with a cry of fury, Golsat leaped upon him. They now rolled about the floor of the dell, and though neither had yet drawn a knife, it was clear that things had gone far enough.
Try, something has to work, and fast. Ylia rolled to her knees, spoke under her breath. A red spark of Baelfyr jumped from her outstretched fingers to the two; they sprang apart, one rubbing a shoulder, the other his neck. Both stared, wide-eyed.
“Fools!” she hissed, putting all the anger in her into speech. “Do we not have enough enemies that we must make enemies of each other?” Golsat opened his mouth to speak, shut it firmly and turned his gaze to a point beyond her. Brendan's eyes met hers defiantly. “What caused this?” she demanded.
“He is Tehlatt, we cannot trust him.” Brendan's face was white in the light of the newly risen moon. “He will murder us all in our sleep, his kind killed my mother and sisters in Teshmor.” He spun away, drove his fist savagely into the damp ground. Brelian moved swiftly to his side, wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Brendan drew a deep, shuddering breath. Another. He turned back then. His eyes were wet.
“Golsat is part Tehlatt,” Marhan said mildly enough, but his own expression was hard. The half-caste's face was unreadable. “He is also ours. He fought with us against Tehlatt. He was raised in Nedao, not in the skin tents of the Tehlatta. He has no cause to love his mother's kin any more than we. They would have killed her for taking a Nedaoan as mate. What part would they have of him, save his death and that worse than any we would face? As you well know, young swordsman,” the Swordmaster added pointedly.
“I understand your pain.” Ylia's voice, low in the ensuing silence, caught at her throat. “I have lost—” She could not finish the thought. “They were killed by our common enemy, the Tehlatt. Not by my friend and arms-mate Golsat.” Deeper silence. “He lost friends and family this day also, or do you conveniently forget that, Brendan?” Brendan scowled at her; the two men then eyed each other warily.
“Come!” Marhan said. “Join hands, both of you. Now!” he snapped as neither made a move. Golsat held out a tentative hand; Brendan reluctantly took it. “And swear at least, if you cannot be friends, that you will not fight each other!”
“All—all right,” Brendan mumbled. Golsat made some reply too low to catch. No sign of giving on the part of either, but truce. For the moment, it would have to do.
They moved out moments later; Nisana and Ylia again led, the others followed as best they could. But now, when they needed it most, the trail occasionally leveled out, now and again went downhill for short distances, and the climbs were no longer so strenuous. The men passed Lisabetha from one to another. Malaeth somehow held out on her own for long, thought she had seldom in her life and certainly not of late walked any distances.
An hour's travel brought them to the Pass. The road, dusted with recent snow, gleamed as a long, pale gash between black tree shadows. Marhan allowed a rest for the others while the brothers scouted the road in both directions. Nisana made a search of her own. But there were none to hinder, nothing human within leagues. They crossed quickly all the same, were swallowed up in shadow on the other side.
The trail was fainter than it had been south of the Pass. It wound among huge boulders and the dry beds of ancient streams. Now it was lost in a slide, again it ran smoothly over pine needles under tall trees where every gap between trunks appeared a trail. Sometimes it disappeared completely on ground boggy with runoff, and twice it vanished beneath still melting tracts of snow. At one point, Levren and Golsat, the best trackers they had, had to cast about for some distance before locating it again.
Only the brighter stars shone as the thin moon rode higher. Grey edged the mountains and a faint pink to the east marked where the sun would rise. The trail stretched clearly before them all of a sudden, up a short slope above the water and down a gentle descent beneath thick trees. Brendan and Brelian took in turns to carry Malaeth, whose strength had suddenly given out; Levren and Marhan led Lisabetha. Golsat, more taciturn than ever, dropped back to keep rearguard.
Another hour—two. They were walking slowly, all of them, practically staggering, exhausted beyond bearing. The land took on the semblance of illusion as minds dulled, legs and feet ached, each step drove pain stabbing upward. No one spoke, but it was clear none of them wished to stop before the end of the trail. Only so much further, Ylia whispered to herself. So much—good. Again. And now—that grove of trees, you can make that? Good. Through this open dell... Nisana lay in the travel pouch, sound asleep.
And then, as the company topped a long rise, the sun's first rays crept over the mountains, casting light and warmth over a long green valley: the Hunter's Meadow. They had reached the end of the known ways into the Foessa.
They were not our long
kin, who made the Hunter's Meadow home. True beings, but of our own myths, as real to our kind as the horrors of the Foessa to Nedao. Sensibly so: when last did any of our blood see a Guardian, speak with one of the Folk, touch the green jewel of the Yderra to know his future?— They dwelt there for long and so I knew at once, when my feet first touched the soil. The land alone remembers them, but it remembers long and well.
5
They stood for some time as though not believing the clear evidence of their eyes. Finally, Marhan roused himself, shook Ylia's arm as he passed her, and led them down the final hill.
The sun touched on a waterfall, gave back glittering light as they limped slowly down the trail. A stream meandered through the scattered groves of trees, swirled in deep, clear green pools. Cold—water that color came fresh from the snow. But it invited: Ylia felt suddenly as though she hadn't bathed in a year and the heavy woolen shirt was unpleasantly damp between her shoulders.
The meadow lay shining and clear as the sun rose higher, and a light breeze brought the pervasive smell of apple blossom. They stopped short in amazement. Clearly, the meadow had been planted as a garden, though also clearly it had long since grown wild. Who had lived here and set groves of fruit trees so and there, who had planted the little purple crocus and snow drop, the snow roses that lay in red and dark-pink puddles on the crisp, half-melted snow in the shade of a clutch of stately fir?
The air was wonderfully warm, even at that hour.
Marhan and Levren were already beginning to lay out a camp and clear a space for the fire. Malaeth lay with Lisabetha in the sun, eyes closed, her face drawn and white.
The Swordmaster portioned out tasks, sending the brothers to gather wood and build the fire, to fill what water flasks there were, to fill his battered kettle. Levren was given the remaining arrows. He alone could be trusted to waste none of them. He went in search of meat. Golsat took to himself the task of circling the valley, to search for sign of beasts or other men. Marhan drew forth a precious packet from his jerkin—a fishing line, one of the two hooks he always carried—and set out toward the head of the valley. Ylia bit back a smile as he vanished. It faded, then. No, not so amusing. The Swordmaster had taken terrible teasing for his insistence on always carrying such basics of survival. Time and the Tehlatt had vindicated him.