It might be prey. It might be human.
It sounded human.
A second scream carried through the forest. Indeed, human. Male. Someone in extremity, in agony. Someone possibly dying.
Was it Da? Could it be Da? Might it be Gillan?
Ellica breathed audibly through clenched teeth. Fingertips curled hard against her head. Every portion of her body shuddered, stiff as it was. As tears cut through the grime on her face, she pulled her hands slowly down the sides of her head, was tempted to dig fingernails into her cheeks and jaw. Anything to turn her attention from the screams, and the fear. Human. A human had screamed.
“Stop.” It issued unexpectedly, breathily, from her mouth. “Stop this.” Ellica drew in a very deep breath, exhaled sharply, then inhaled again. She tamed the trembling in her body in very small increments. “Think.” Her parents had taught her that years before. She fastened upon it, slowly quashing the panic that made her want to cry, to wail, to give up everything in her queasy belly. She was not a child. She was not Torvic or Megritte. She was nearly a woman grown. Her parents would expect better of her. She expected better.
Think: she was in Alisanos. Demons dwelled here, demons and devils, all manner of beasts and creatures, so the tales told. She believed it now. She believed all she had heard. And she was alone, completely alone, wholly dependent on herself. There could be no rescue, not here. No discovery of her by father, mother, siblings. But she could not spend her days perched upon the crown of a boulder, starving to death, or, worse, waiting to be eaten. She must gather her wits and do something.
Upon the boulder’s crown, no grass grew. No vines quivered. No branches reached for her. Ellica looked at each carefully: at grass, vines, trees. At the shadows of the forest. And, looking upward, squinting through the interstices of tangled tree canopies, at the double suns of Alisanos, one white, one yellow, against a sepia sky.
Ellica nodded. Once. Then stepped off the stone.
THE FOREST DREW closer, larger. Davyn, with a stitch in his side and breath ragged, slowed from a jog to a walk, pushing himself to keep going. He was wet again, but not from rain; sweat sheathed his flesh. It ran down his temples, stung his eyes, dripped from his jaw. He thought longingly of the waterskin, but had decided to save what was left. His family might need it. They might have spent many hours without water, and might be thirsty.
He wished he had the wagon. He wished he had a horse. Even an ox would do; he could place Torvic and Megritte atop the beast as they turned back toward the wagon. But he had none of those things, only himself, and now, so close to the forest, it became imperative to keep going just as he was, trotting and striding, never stopping.
Almost… almost. He nodded as he walked with long strides, waterskin slapping against his thigh.
His heart was full. The nightmare was nearly over. Renewed energy coursed through his body. He broke once again into a jog, wiping a forearm swiftly across his brow to clear the sweat away, so he could see clearly. Much of his hair, which had dried in the sun, was wet again, sticking to his skull. His chest hurt. His side ached. He kept jogging.
The guide had made certain his family was safe. Davyn remembered that, recalled the man riding out of the midst of storm to arrive at their wagon, to warn them, to see them to safety. Davyn remembered, too, that he had not wished the guide to accompany them. It had pricked at his pride, then, that the guide felt he, the husband, the father, could not protect his family. But in the midst of chaos, with the wagon canopy shredded and carried away, dust and dirt so thick no one could see a hand in front of his face, he had welcomed the guide with so profound a relief that he realized the soul inside him had feared that he, husband and father, was not enough. Yes, he had brought his family safely to the settlement, but doubts had risen, doubts and pride, as he measured himself against the Shoia guide. Memory recalled the man’s efficient expertise with throwing knives, with the willingness and ability to kill Hecari the instant threat arose.
He coughed a laugh at that thought; one of the guide’s throwing knives had ended up in Davyn’s shoulder. But considering how swiftly the guide had reacted, how unerring his aim had been in sending blades into Hecari eyes and throats, the lone knife in his shoulder was a small price, Davyn felt. And by then the guide had a Hecari dart in his forearm, was dying of its poison. Still he had tended Davyn. Still he had thought of the children as death overtook him, to tell them not to fear. That he would revive.
And in that storm he had carried the youngest of them to safety, turning back for Gillan and Ellica, turning back for them all. With Alisanos on the move, the Shoia guide had put himself in harm’s way to save a family of strangers.
I owe him much, Davyn thought. More than I can repay.
And then the thought left him, all thoughts left him. As he came upon the outer perimeter of the forest, he saw how the land changed. No grass existed beyond a certain point. It was charred, burned to ash. The area appeared to have melted. It was—nothingness. Blackened. Consumed. Beyond it stood the forest, but Davyn had never before seen its like. Twisted, oddcolored tree trunks, boughs knotted one upon the other, multi-hued leaves glossy as glass. The colors were wrong. Everything was wrong.
He fell out of his jog into an ungainly, broken transition. Then even walking was impossible. Panting, Davyn stumbled to a halt. For a moment he hung there on his feet, leaning toward the forest. But between his feet and the forest ran fissures in the earth, carved into the blackened, grassless surface.
The guide had taken his children into Alisanos.
A garbled cry fell from his mouth. He dropped heavily to his knees. “O Mother, O Mother of Moons, please, please … no …”
But Davyn knew the answer was incontrovertibly yes.
Chapter 8
HUNTING HAD BEEN successful. Brodhi, astride his chestnut gelding with the carcass of a small, field-dressed grasslands deer draped across the horse’s withers, rode through the grove that had once hosted karavans gathering to depart, then those who had been wounded in the Hecari attack. It was empty now, branches stripped of leaves, boughs cracked and twisted, younger trees uprooted and thrown down in disarray. Empty, save for a handful of bodies. Two men and three women, clearly dead; three too weak, perhaps, to flee the settlement when the storm came down, while two had been burned by lightning. The latter were sprawled on the ground, faces muddied, hair and clothing charred.
Brodhi rode farther, leaving the bodies behind, then reined in beside a massive elderling oak. Most of its branches were stripped of leaves, but the grand old tree had withstood the rain and wind. Bare branches clove the sky. He heaved the deer over the left shoulder of his horse to drop it to the ground. Then he dismounted, took from the saddle the length of torn oilcloth he’d fashioned into a rope, tied the cloven front hooves together, then flipped the end of the makeshift rope over a heavy branch. Brodhi hauled the open carcass up until there was a foot of distance between the ground and the deer’s tail, then tied off the rope. The delicate deer swung slightly; Brodhi stopped it with a hand on one front leg as he unsheathed his long-bladed knife.
Then, even with his back to her, he said, “What is it, Bethid?”
He heard the gust of air exhaled in something akin to a laugh. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“I listen,” he said. “I know your walk. Your scent.”
Her tone was dry as she approached. “How utterly romantic.” She stopped beside his horse, running an experienced hand down the gleaming neck. “Did you find the rest? Churri, and Timmon’s and Alorn’s mounts?”
“I did.”
“Are they well?”
Brodhi made a circular cut around the deer’s neck, then sliced downward to the cavity prepared by the field-dressing. “My mount is fine, as you can see. The other three have some welts, some scrapes, but all are sound. They came when I whistled. I’ve hobbled them so they can forage. The grass is wet, but the sun will dry it soon.”
“Poor Churri,” she murmured. “I�
��m neglecting him. I’ll have to take him down to the river and let him soak.”
He gripped the deer’s hide at the cut on either side of the neck, then began to strip it downward, occasionally using his knife to slice with precision between skin and flesh. When Bethid made no further comment, he glanced over his shoulder at her. Her short-cropped fair hair, as usual, stood up in tousled spikes. Ear-hoops glinted. In the onset of the storm she had not had time to grab her scroll-case and other courier accoutrements; she wore a mud-caked, indigo-dyed homespun tunic belted at the waist, and baggy trews, gaitered in cross-gartered leather from knee to ankle over her boots. Her face bore the remnants of mud, dust, and grime, smeared by the applications of tunic sleeve and the back of her hand.
“What?” she asked, pale brows arching up beneath his steady gaze.
Brodhi hitched a shoulder in a slight, elegant shrug. “You came to me.”
She frowned a little, eyeing the deer. A doe, young and small. “I don’t think that’s enough to feed the survivors.”
“No,” Brodhi agreed, pulling and cutting steadily, “but then none of us has any idea of how many survivors there are.”
“We should take a head count,” Bethid murmured absently, thoughts clearly active. “We need to gather everyone, find out who is injured. There are wagons in the grove across the settlement; we can gather there. The trees will provide a little shelter, even if most of them lack leaves.” She scratched at her neck, wincing as her fingernails found a welt. “So cursed much to do …”
“And you have decided this is your responsibility?”
She scowled at him. “This is everyone’s responsibility. Even yours.”
Brodhi indicated the half-skinned deer, making it obvious that he had contributed. “In the meantime, at your gathering divide the people into groups. Give them tasks. Some to assemble the dead. Some to bring water from the river. Some to fish. We’ll need cookfires, if sufficient kindling can be found—”
“And will you bleed all over each pile of wood to set it afire? The wood’s still damp, Brodhi.”
His smile was slight. “Do we want people still in shock to witness such a thing? I think not. But then, you have a fire already, outside the hand-reader’s wagon. It only requires one; others may be lighted from it.”
Bethid nodded, gesturing the suggestion aside. “Yes, so it does. Well enough. But there’s something more. Something you can do that might keep us safe. Something to buy us time to build again, so we’ve shelter when the rains come.” She wiped the back of her right forearm across her forehead. “As a courier, it’s your duty to advise the Hecari warlord of what’s happened.”
He stopped the skinning process to turn to her, to give her all his wary attention. “A courier’s duty, yes.”
“Yours,” she said steadily. “Ride to Cardatha, Brodhi. Do that duty and tell the warlord what happened here. Tell him all about Alisanos, about all of its horrors—and how it moved. How it swallowed mile upon mile. How it destroyed settlements, took over roads, killed many, many people. Tell him this area is dangerous to all, even to Hecari warriors. That old roads no longer exist. That no man, coming near, can escape the deepwood. I can’t go; he won’t listen to a woman. Timmon and Alorn haven’t your edge, your arrogance. Make the warlord believe, Brodhi. Make him understand that nothing remains … nothing worth his attention. You’ve scouted it, you see. You know what remains, and what lies now in Alisanos.” She grimaced. “And for all we know, it may be exactly as I have described.”
As he listened to her words, he realized precisely where she was heading. By the time she finished, he was nodding.
Her eyebrows quirked slightly. “I may be only a human, as you are constantly reminding me, but yes, I can think now and again.”
He studied her a moment. This was the Bethid who’d come to the Guildhall in Cardatha years before, determined to take the trials to become a courier. She knew what she proposed was unlikely to be accepted. The courier service traditionally was made up of men. Other girls, he knew, had grown up wishing to become couriers. Other girls had even come to the Guildhall. But all had been sent away.
Bethid refused to leave. Bethid insisted. Eventually, Brodhi suggested to the Guildmasters that they permit the slight, small girl to undertake the trials. Horses, he told them, didn’t care which gender rode them. And if she were to fail—he granted her that if—it gave the Guildmasters an example to present to any other young women who came sniffing about the Guildhall.
That Bethid, confident, determined, stubborn, willing to do whatever was asked of her to prove her worth—and had—stood before him now. And he knew very well that no amount of argument, no matter how persuasive his words, would sway her.
“Jorda told me that Rhuan is sensitive to Alisanos,” she went on. “That he knows where its borders lie before they’re visible, and when it’s preparing to move. Is it a Shoia thing? Can you sense it also?”
He found that an amusing question, though she wouldn’t understand why. Unless he told her what he was. “I have that land-sense, yes.”
“Then you are ideal.” She spread her hands. “A Shoia with land-sense, a courier who knows Sancorra better than any Hecari, who knows also where the deepwood lies. Who can draw a map for the warlord. Who can instruct that warlord, in precise, minute detail, as to how much of the province Alisanos has eaten.”
“And so the warlord sends no culling parties when there is nothing to cull. Time is bought to recover. To begin your rebellion.”
“But when he does send culling parties—because at some point he will—perhaps we can lure his warriors into Alisanos. And out of Sancorra.” She smiled. “A fitting fate for them, yes?”
“A few would be trapped,” Brodhi agreed, “and thus could no longer trouble Sancorra. But not enough. Not nearly enough. The Hecari will learn, just as Sancorrans did, to avoid the deepwood.”
Bethid nodded, stroking the gelding again. “But perhaps by that time we’ll be better prepared to withstand them.”
“Then you are proposing to rebuild here permanently. To encourage people to stay, and others to come.”
Her blue eyes were bright, determined. “I am. Only this time it won’t be just a place to pass through, to meet the karavans. It will be a staging area for the reclamation of Sancorra.”
TORVIC ROUSED AT the sound of a human-sounding voice that was not his sister’s. “You can come out now. It’s safe, for the moment.”
He jerked awake and felt Meggie do the same beside him. They were both squeezed into the back of the crevice as far as they could go, with blankets and oilcloth wadded around them. His eyes were sundazzled; waving branches and leaves caused the light to flash on and off, directly into his eyes. He squinted.
A woman knelt before them. She was poised on the border between stone and soil, hands clasped loosely in her lap. She had brown hair braided back neatly and pinned against her head; in the blinding flicker of sunlight, he couldn’t be sure of her eye color. Dark, he thought.
Meggie said, “Mam?”
That brought him to full wakefulness. “No, Meggie.” And as she made to move he grabbed a handful of her tunic. “Wait.”
“Wise boy,” the woman remarked, “here in the deepwood. No, I’m not your mam. Just one who would be your friend.” She wore a tunic and skirt of rough, rustcolored homespun, a dark rope belt wrapped twice around her waist. Slowly she lifted her hands and displayed her palms to them. “I won’t harm you.”
Meggie’s natural curiosity reasserted itself. “Are you a demon?”
The woman laughed again, teeth showing. Human teeth. “No. I’m like you. A human trapped in Alisanos.” The laughter and smile died out as she lowered her hands. “I’m sorry. I know it’s frightening. It’s—very frightening.” Brown eyes, Torvic saw now. Not a girl, or a young woman like Ellica. He thought she was perhaps the same age as Mam. “The deepwood took me three years ago. My husband and I were on the shortcut to Atalanda. We got—too close.”
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sp; Meggie sat up straight. “We’re going to Atalanda. Mam needs to have the baby there. The diviners said so.”
The woman sighed. “I wish the diviners might have warned my husband and me.”
“Where is he?” Torvic asked.
“My husband? Oh, he’s dead. Something—took him.” That struck them both into shocked silence. After a moment the woman managed a flickering smile. “It was in the first year. I’ve made my way alone since then.” She rose, shaking out her skirts. “My name is Lirra. I have shelter. More room than a hole in a rock.” She stilled, lifted her face into the air. She appeared to scent it, almost as if she were a dog. Relief brought a smile to her face again. “There. I smell the woodsmoke. It will lead us to my home. Remember, nothing in Alisanos remains the same. If you wish to find your way to a place more than once, you must do something to bring you back again. Tie rags on trees and bushes, burn stinkwood, something.”
Now Torvic could smell it. “It does stink.”
“I’m afraid so. But it grows aplenty here, and it’s easy for me.” Lirra looked up at the tree canopy overhead, shielding her eyes against the flickering light. “The suns are setting. It will be dark soon, and the nightbeasts will be out. Best we go now.” She watched as Torvic and Meggie crawled from the crevice. Something akin to grief shone in her eyes. “You poor children. I know you’re terrified and exhausted. Best to feed you something, then let you sleep. I’ll tell you more in the morning. Here, I’ll help roll up the blankets and oilcloth.”
“Is it far?” Meggie asked as they worked. “Your home?”
“Sometimes,” Lirra answered. And again, rising, “Best we go now.”
AUDRUN FELL HEADLONG, right foot caught beneath a gnarled root. In midair, the world all in pieces, she twisted to land on hip and elbow, not facedown. The impact snapped her head on her neck, sending a fizzing thrum of pain from her skull through her shoulders. She rolled over onto her back, hands grasping her skull.
Deepwood: Karavans # 2 Page 8