“Then you had better prepare your excuses now,” Darrissea said, and she fell silent.
Fava sat, trying to envision how she would excuse herself. She imagined looking at an officer’s codpiece. If the man was small in size or average, she would pretend that he could not satisfy her. If the man was well hung, she would tell him, “Go mate with a cow!”
Fava stifled the urge to laugh. The woods had fallen silent again except for the occasional plop of melting show dropping from branches.
Darrissea looked around cautiously and said, “Let’s go.”
They headed north alongside the Blade Kin’s trail. By mid-afternoon they found the Blade Kin’s camp by the great wall that encircled Smilodon Bay. The basalt wall seemed much taller than forty feet. Shaped by the power of the ancient Starfarers, the black stone appeared to be one piece, without a single handhold. They were only able to cross it by finding a place where poplars grew beside the wall in soggy ground. Beavers had chewed through a tree, and it had fallen so that it leaned against the wall. They climbed to the top of the wall, then walked along it west, looking for a place to drop down on the other side. The path on top of the rock was covered with detritus, the scattered redwood needles of a thousand years, layer upon layer of moss.
The woods were still and quiet, the unnatural silence one sometimes hears before a storm.
Fava kept glancing at the sky. Last night’s clouds had broken, but far away, to the north and west, she saw dragons circling, dozens of great-horned dragons. It set her teeth on edge, and she walked softly, cautiously, watching the forest on both sides of the wall.
The forest floor was a mess—great massive roots pulled in odd directions, the twisted remains of dead redwoods, a vast carpet laid down in layers—vine maples towering to forty feet, ferns and laurel below that, so that there were an endless number of obstructions to her view.
At any moment, Fava imagined that a Blade Kin scouting party would step out from behind a redwood, take aim with their guns and fire. There would be practically no way for Fava to defend herself, yet nowhere that she looked could she seem to find a way down.
If only they had a rope.
No jays called anywhere, no squirrels. Not even a sparrow chirped among the endless ferns and vine maples at the forest floor.
After nearly an hour, they came to a glade where the carcass of a giant sloth lay, surrounded by a camp of Mastodon Men.
The huge apelike men howled at the women and tossed stones and branches up at the wall. They formed a circle around their women and children, and a silver back male rushed to the wall grunting and baring his fangs, shaking his head in consternation when Fava and Darrissea would not answer his challenge.
Darrissea remained unconcerned, for the Mastodon Men had fed on the giant sloth.
The women passed the camp of the Mastodon Men, left them a mile behind and nearly reached the Gate of the Gods, and could not find a way down.
The woods remained quiet, an unnatural stillness, and then they crested a small hill and suddenly both of them heard it at once—a sound that made air tremble like distant thunder, that echoed through the black rock under their feet.
A mile away, through a small clearing in the trees, they could discern a moving wall of green, an army of Blade Kin marching through the Gate of the Gods toward the lands to the south.
Darrissea motioned for Fava to stop, to kneel behind in the shadow of ivy and some vine maples. They waited for four hours, and still the army continued to march past. Four columns of imperial mastodons went by, each followed by an army of more men than Fava had ever dreamed.
At nightfall, the army stopped to camp, and as the river of campfires appeared, Darrissea whispered,
“Ah how the humbling darkness
bends the knees of men
and stifles the cries of mundane beasts.
The pigeon whirls to its roost,
I to my bed,
The humbling darkness covers us all
So that living men sleep with dead.”
“I have not heard that poem before,” Fava said. “Whose is it?”
“Mine,” Darrissea admitted. “I just made it up. It is a habit. I am beginning to think in poems.”
“It’s a strange sickness,” Fava said. “I believe ten thousand men passed us this afternoon—more warriors than we have in all the Rough. I wouldn’t think that they need so many.”
“They don’t,” Darrissea answered. “The Blade Kin in town were the warriors of the Black Cyclops—troops under the command of Lord Tantos of Bashevgo. You can tell by the black eye sewn on their chests. Of the seven houses of lords, Lord Tantos’ has long been most powerful, and it is the first legion of the Black Cyclops that has battled the Hukm and the Okanjara to the west for the past eighty years.
“So these armies come from Bashevgo. None of these armies come from Craal.
“Under the forces of the Black Cyclops, I think that Lord Tantos hopes to tame the Rough in a summer, take control of the whole of it and set up a third empire, to vie with Craal and Bashevgo.”
“Do you think he will go to war with the others?” Fava asked.
High and clear they heard the sound of a man laughing hysterically, the voice of a Blade Kin. Darrissea cocked her head, listening for the source, until both women realized that the man was faraway, the sound only carried by a trick of acoustics.
“I don’t know. The Lords of Bashevgo fear Tantos. He owns a third of all the Blade Kin, two full legions. The other lords would enjoy seeing him scatter his forces by trying to hold the Rough. It will make them feel secure.
“As for Craal? The five lords there have more land than they know what to do with. They are so concerned with balancing their forces that none would want to risk a war with Tantos.
“My father used to warn me to never be fooled. He said it is not the Pwi’s valiant efforts, nor those of the Hukm or Okanjara that have kept the Rough free for so many centuries. The Slave Lords have long been so concerned with fighting among themselves that none dared turn his face our way—till now.”
***
Chapter 28: Moccasins of Fire
Tull watched a small mud house and surrounding orchard from a thicket of tall marsh grass, almost like the cattails of his home. Behind him a wide brown river flowed lazily.
The night was warm, almost as warm as summers in Smilodon Bay, and Tull had eaten little for days. Weariness wore at him, and he could feel his nerves shredding.
He didn’t know how much longer he could take the hunger, the running. His stomach was so tight, he knew he’d have to risk going into the open orchard to pick from a tree.
He had not seen a Blade Kin, not seen another person, for two nights now, yet in the past week of hiding near house after empty house, he’d come to realize that when he didn’t see the Blade Kin, he was in the most danger. In the week since he had jumped ship, he had not gotten ten miles from South Port.
He climbed the muddy riverbank, resisted the urge to crawl, and made his way to an orange tree. There he blacked out for a moment.
He woke to the sound of cicadas buzzing in the trees, and overhead a flock of geese honked, flying north in the moonlight. Thor was nearly full, and its cinnamon light basked the orchard, the empty mud house, and the fields of sweet potatoes beyond.
Tull gathered some fallen oranges, ate one. It was soft, rotting, and he looked to the window of the house, seeking better food. The windows were of stretched hide, ample to let in light, but not to see out of.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Probably waiting for its owner to return, Tull thought.
The towns here had been cleaned out. No one left. Just a few animals.
Tull went to the door, walked through the rooms. There was a single cot with blankets thrown on it in a heap, yet otherwise the house was well kept, with worn furniture and the musky odor of an old woman—soured flesh, hair, dust.
In a pantry he found food—oats, dates, raisins, wine—he sat on the pantry f
loor to eat, yet even the act of sitting was too much for him and he fell in the attempt, sat for several moments, dazed.
“Hello?” an ancient voice crooned in Pwi, an old woman. “Is someone here?”
Tull sat for a moment, embarrassed. He had not thought to find anyone in this house, had imagined that the Blade Kin would have culled the owner.
“You there in the pantry, who do you think you’re hiding from?”
“I … no one, Mother,” Tull answered using the ancient Pwi term of respect.
“You should be hiding, Spirit Walker,” the woman said. “Atherkula seeks you.”
A chill ran down Tull’s spine, and he sat for a moment, dazed, wondering if this were some kind of trick. The door to the pantry opened, and an old woman stood in the faint moonlight. She was obviously Pwi, with a round face and deep, deep eyes. She walked carefully, as the frail will do.
“Come out of there, and I will make you some dinner.” She left the pantry door, went into the kitchen and started a fire in the oven.
As she struck a match, silver gleamed from the tops of her black moccasins. “You are a Spirit Walker,” Tull said. “What is your name, Mother?”
She lit a small twig in the fire, and it caught, burned brighter and brighter, and within a moment a small pile of twigs blazed.
Tull saw that her black moccasins did not bear the image of the crow, but of a dagger in front of a moon. The image shocked him, so that he stepped back, suddenly afraid, but for reasons he could not immediately recall.
The old woman laughed, and turned her head toward him, and Tull suddenly recognized her. “Yes,” she said, “you have met me before, in your dreams.”
“I saw you near the Worm Tower with Phylomon!”
“Yes, I rescued some women from their evil dreams.”
Tull was staring at her, puzzling at her moccasins. He closed his eyes, and he felt her there before him, like a burning light, ravaging and powerful.
“You are becoming wise, trying to see me with your spirit eyes. These moccasins on my feet are not those of a Spirit Walker—” the old woman said, “but of a Spirit Warrior.”
The old woman set a white ceramic kettle by the fire, then put a loaf of bread on the table with butter and honey, cheese and wine. “The butter and cheese will go bad soon,” she apologized. “We should eat them now.”
He drank from the wine—weak, fruity, a hint of vinegar. He sat and looked at the house of mud, nothing like the cabins in Smilodon Bay. He imagined that the mud would stay cooler than wood, an advantage here in the hot south.
Hunching, he closed his eyes, dizzy. Hot, hot south. Yet there was a cool night breeze stirring through the room, a breeze filled with freezing fingers. They stroked him, caressed his body, and the fingers were everywhere, tiny pinpricks of ice. They felt soothing.
“I know you are tired,” the old woman said, “but look at me.” The old woman pointed her finger, and Tull’s head was wrenched toward her. “I must speak to your spirit. Have you heard of the Okansharai, The Freer of All?”
“I have heard that in Craal and Bashevgo they dream of such a person and tell children tales. They hope he will free the slaves.”
“Not just the slaves, but their masters also,” the old woman said. “That is why he is called ‘The Freer of All.’”
“But the masters are already free,” Tull argued.
“Not free of ignorance, or fear, or cruelty,” the old woman said. “You’ve been bound by chains of fear. You know that chains that are invisible can be hardest to break. How could the Slave Lords be free when bound by such mighty chains?”
Tull did not answer. He sat remembering his father, Jenks. When Tull was a child, Jenks would go into a rage and so terrify Tull he could not move. Jenks would then beat Tull or chain him at will. Those had been mighty bonds indeed.
“Yes,” the old woman said. “You understand. Because the Okansharai himself is truly free, only he can free mankind.”
“Where is this Okansharai?” Tull asked.
The old woman knelt down, slipped off her moccasins. “Perhaps if you open your spirit eyes,” she said, “you will see him.”
She tossed the moccasins toward Tull, and they seemed to leap onto his feet, where they glowed like fire.
Tull knelt over, tried to pry them from his feet, staring into the symbols of moons and daggers.
He came awake with a start, still sitting in the pantry floor, food scattered around. He realized he had been dreaming, and he was so tired he could not rouse.
Tull closed his eyes, listened to his own labored breathing. His chest felt constricted. He forced himself to breathe deeply, slowly.
The room was becoming hotter, as if a wind blew from out of the desert, yet icy fingers fluttered at Tull’s back, lightly tickling, hinting that he would feel better outside.
He munched on some raisins, picked up the wine, wandered to the doorway, and looked out. Moonlight drowned out most of the stars.
A red drone had risen. The wind was blowing south, a strong and sudden gale, all blowing south.
South, Tull thought. South is good. The icy fingers nudged his back, and he began walking south, heedless of whether there might by any Blade Kin. He closed his eyes, and saw the world even from behind his lids.
Tull raised his hand. It had turned to a pale gelatin the color of ivory, and within the ivory clot of his soul, lightning danced, yet otherwise the world seemed much the same. Only colors had changed—the orange trees and grass shone faintly purple, the night sky was deeper black.
Resisting the urge to walk south, Tull stopped. The wind whipped at him viciously, hissing through the orchard. Oranges plopped to the ground and rolled past, and Tull hunched down, put his hands over his face.
The howling wind carried words, “Come. Come!”
A voice, strange and compelling, drew him south as the storm whistled in his hair. Tull tried to stop, but the wind blew fiercer, colder, and he grudgingly took one step south, then another, and another, only hoping to escape the cold.
With hands shielding his face, Tull stopped and concentrated on opening his spirit eyes. Suddenly the world turned to stone, cracking and breaking, an infinite number of possibilities.
He stood in the shelter of his wall, a small fortress among the red sandstone, as if he were in Smilodon Bay, while whipping tentacles of light tore at the wall, pulling it down stone by stone.
“My future,” Tull thought, “they are demolishing my future.”
He suddenly realized that he was under attack.
He raised himself above the wall to see who would do this and found that he was still in South Bay.
He could see the faint purple shadows of the orange trees, and marveled, for he’d never seen the spirits of trees before. The oranges themselves were white and glowing, nebulous orbs. A tentacle whipped out of the distance and snatched a stone from his shelter.
A cat hunting among the fields shone like a blazing star. Everywhere, everywhere, on the edge of his vision, the spirits of men shone like a river of stars.
Dozens of tentacles stretched forward across the miles, grabbing for the stones of his sanctuary, pulling them down. And at last Tull grasped a stone, tried to hold it.
Across the fields and river, as if blown by the wind, hundreds of flaming spirits rushed toward him.
They were blinding white, without color, as if they had no clots to their souls, and Tull knew they were not living beings.
They circled his little fortress of stone so that he stood in the center of a blinding tornado, and all about him the lights whipped around madly, and the cold wind blew.
There are evil things in the Land of Shapes, Tull remembered, ancient powers without name.
Tull wanted to run or hide, but his spirit stayed put.
It knows its own powers, its own limitations, Chaa had told him. Tull realized he was trapped. Something in him cried out for Fava, and a single thread of the lightning of his soul whipped away far to the north,
and he touched Fava, felt her.
She was dreaming, and Tull knew she was heading to Bashevgo in the hopes of rescuing him.
Tull looked to the south where colored lights glimmered on the horizon like smoldering gems. Tull would not have noticed them at all, but one among them was powerful, a brilliant black flame.
It discerned his gaze, and came striding through the air—Atherkula.
The dead gathered around Tull, whipping faster and faster. Tull tried to shield himself from Atherkula’s probing tendrils, tendrils of darkness, but it was hard.
Tull’s strength was failing him, his will. He concentrated upon a distant time, a distant place, so Atherkula, free from the dimensions of time or space, would follow the false trail.
Tull closed his eyes and tried to recall the meadow where he had played as a child, alive with golden buttercups and wild garlic. Black-and-yellow bumble bees clumsily touched from flower to flower, and badgers snuffled in their dens.
Yet the overwhelming force behind Atherkula’s attack made it difficult. A tendril of icy darkness shot from Atherkula as the sorcerer probed, and Tull watched in fascination as the black tendril grasped one squiggling light within him, held the lightning of his soul and pulled straight.
Then dozens of Atherkula’s tendrils reached for him, probing.
Tull tried to flee, and the lightning of his soul danced madly, evading the tendrils that sought him, held him.
The battle was long and gruesome, the light of his soul flickering far faster than he could see, yet each time Atherkula snagged a frond of lightning, Tull found that he could not pull it back, could not retrieve it, for the dead would grasp it too, so that hundreds of tentacles would take him.
Tull viewed the whole scene with a growing dispassion, knowing that he was watching some form of spiritual rape, that whatever happened, he would not escape this whole.
The air thrummed around him as the dead gathered, held him, and at last Atherkula pulled all twenty-two tendrils of light out straight, and matched them in pairs. They cinched tight, and Tull felt his feet rise from the ground, knew he hovered in the air, and then the dead fluttered around and beneath him, carrying him.
Blade Kin Page 21