Seeking the Dream

by Marcia J. Bennett

  “Let one of the younger men watch them, Zojac! I want to be in on the kill!”

  “You’re too late,” the big man rumbled. “Our men have already broken into the great house, and it’s just a matter now of cleaning out the dead and wounded. When it gets light, we’ll take a closer look at what’s inside. I’m curious to know what the diseased ones have been guarding so carefully all these years.”

  “Probably nothing worth all our effort!” Sola grumbled.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Zojac answered, turning away. “Stay alert. I’ll send someone back to relieve you in a little while.”

  Bhaldavin breathed in sharply as fear for his own safety was suddenly submerged by fear for Lil-el and their two sons… and Thura, wherever she was. At that moment he would have gladly given up his own life to know they were all safely away. He pulled against his ropes, testing them. If only he could get his arm free.

  Sola watched Zojac disappear into the darkness. Once assured that his leader was out of earshot, he turned back to the fire, muttering to himself, not at all pleased to have been left behind. He fed several large branches into the fire, then passed among the prisoners, checking ropes to make sure no one had wiggled free. He paused when he reached Bhaldavin.

  Bhaldavin’s eyes reflected the yellow-red firelight and gave him a feral, animallike appearance. Sola leaned down and, after a moment’s hesitation, spat in Bhaldavin’s face.

  Bhaldavin turned his face aside, not offering so accessible a target a second time. Waves of anger churned in his stomach, swamping the fear he had felt just moments earlier.

  Sola grinned wickedly and went to a knee beside Bhaldavin. “You don’t like that?” He carefully set his lance to one side and grabbed a handful of Bhaldavin’s hair, pulling his head around. He spat again.

  “Filth! Devil-spawned! When Zojac returns, you’ll be judged, every last one of you. Those who pass we castrate and use as servants. Those who don’t pass—are put to death quickly.”

  His open hand struck Bhaldavin across the face. “Look at me! Open your eyes, damn you!”

  Bhaldavin obeyed. The sound of madness in the man’s voice carried the icy threat of death.

  Sola’s dark eyes glittered in an insane face as he pulled Bhaldavin to a sitting position. Without warning, he backhanded the Ni, knocking him to the ground. He then drove a fist deep into Bhaldavin’s stomach.

  Bhaldavin groaned in pain as Sola dropped onto him. One hand pushed his head back, exposing his throat, the other hand reached for the knife at his belt.

  Bhaldavin felt the cold touch of steel at his throat and believed he was about to die. Thoughts of Lil-el, Gringers, and his children flitted through his mind; then he was seeing the worried look on his father’s face just a few moments before the Sarissa attacked. There was grief in that look. No matter how hard he had tried to save his family, it had not been enough. In that moment, Bhaldavin knew how his father must have felt when he had turned to stand before Sarissan blades, giving his family one last chance by offering himself as a target. Now it was his turn; his only regret was that he could do nothing more to help his own family.

  Sola pushed his face down close to Bhaldavin’s. “One sound—just one sound!—and you die!” he snarled. “I can kill you now and no one would ever know or care. But I won’t kill you unless you force me to.”

  He slipped his knife back in its sheath and released Bhaldavin’s head; he then sat back, straddling Bhaldavin’s legs. “Remember,” he said softly, his voice tinged with malevolence. “Cry out just once, and I’ll kill you!”

  Sola was a good-sized man and he drew Bhaldavin to his feet with one hand. He glanced around quickly, then hit Bhaldavin in the face with his fist. Intuitively Bhaldavin knew what was coming and rolled with the first blow, but he could not protect himself for very long, and soon Sola had him down on the ground, pommeling him with both fists. Bhaldavin clenched his jaws tightly together, determined not to give Sola an excuse to kill. The pain grew, peaked, then his body began to grow numb and the man’s blows lost their power.

  By the time Sola had fully vented his anger, the body beneath him was still. He rested a moment, his arms braced to either side of Bhaldavin’s body. He leaned down and peered into the Ni’s battered face; he listened to the ragged breathing, then checked Bhaldavin’s pulse. Content with his findings, he pushed to his feet and stood looking down at his victim, his flare of anger sated, his need to hurt fully satisfied.

  It was always like this with him; it had always been so. He wiped the sheen of perspiration from his face and looked around, once more ensuring himself that his actions hadn’t been witnessed by anyone who mattered. He was a man who knew his worst fault and had found a way to minimize its danger to his standing in the tribe. He had learned long ago how to turn his anger into physical action by running or wrestling with some of the young men of the tribe, using the pose of a training lesson as an excuse to vent his frustrations on the unsuspecting. At age thirty-two, he was well versed in the art of hurting without killing.

  Sola chose his enemies carefully and made sure that he revealed himself only to those he could control. He enjoyed the respect of many of the tribesmen because he was a fierce fighter and a good hunter. Those few who saw beneath the façade he presented to the world feared him for they had felt his strength and savagery and knew that one word spoken out of turn would be their last.

  He knelt down and wiped the blood from his fists on Bhaldavin’s tunic; then he retrieved his lance and returned to the fire, his face devoid of emotion.

  A short time later several men approached out of the darkness. “Zojac said we were to relieve you,” one said, moving around the fire.

  Sola nodded. “Any more prisoners?”

  “Only two. The rest seemed to have disappeared,” the other man replied. “It’s a big building. They could be hiding anywhere.”

  Bhaldavin was still unconscious when two new prisoners were added to those gathered near the fire. One was Birdfoot. The other was Gringers.

  Chapter 9

  BHALDAVIN WOKE TO pain and the glare of sunlight full in his eyes. The metallic taste of blood was in his mouth, and when he licked at his lips he found them split and puffy. He squinted out of swollen eyes and watched a line of Wastelanders carry large cloth bundles down the path from the mansion. They deposited their burdens in a large pile not too far from where he lay. Zojac and two other Wastelanders oversaw the growing pile of goods. One of the men seemed to be making some kind of a tally on what was being taken from the building.

  Bhaldavin’s glance dropped to the dark bundles of cloth he had seen the night before; he could now discern heads, arms, and legs. There was no movement among the bodies, and he realized that they were the Barl-ganians who had died the night before. There was another line of bodies a short distance beyond, all clothed in the loose-fitting pants and tunics typical of Wastelanders. There were not as many of those as he had hoped, unless there were other enemy bodies still unaccounted for. At that moment, it seemed that the Wastelanders were more concerned with looting than with how many of their number had been lost to the burning death of the light guns.

  He finally forced himself to roll over onto his back; he bit back a cry of pain as the ropes around his upper body pulled cruelly on the bruises he had sustained the night before.

  He heard a soft gasp of surprise. “Davin!”

  “Gringers?” he mumbled through bruised lips, sure that he recognized the voice. It took him a moment to focus on the man sitting a few feet away. His heart sank when he saw that he had guessed right. If they had captured Gringers, it probably meant that they had gotten everyone.

  “You’re alive!” Gringers cried softly, tears glistening in his eyes. “When I saw your hair, I knew it was you, but—you were so still. I thought that…” He swallowed and released a shaky breath. “Gods! What did they do to you?”

  Judging from the grimace on Gringers’s face, Bhaldavin could well imagine what he looked lik
e. “The man’s name is Sola,” he got out, trying to speak clearly. “I made him mad.” He took a deep breath and dared to ask, “Lil-el?”

  Gringers glanced around to make sure none of the Wastelanders were listening. “She and the children were the first ones out the tunnel. Theon’s with them.”

  “Where will they go?”

  “I sent them to the lake caves. They’ll be safe there for a little while. If necessary they can get on the rafts at night and paddle to the center of the lake. There’s no way for the Wastelanders to bother them there.”

  Bhaldavin looked beyond Gringers and saw several other Barl-ganians either sitting or lying down; all were tied, and from what he could see, most bore wounds that had been hastily tended, if at all.

  “How many captured?” Bhaldavin asked.

  “Twelve still alive, counting you and me. They’re still collecting bodies from both sides of the stockade wall. We lost at least seventeen last night. We should’ve pulled back sooner. We might have saved a few more.”

  Gringers nodded toward Gils, who sat nearby, his head and right side bloodied; but for all his wounds, Gils looked alert, his eyes darting back and forth as his gaze followed the Wastelanders moving around the circle of prisoners.

  “Gils and I were caught in the cellar,” Gringers continued. “We stayed behind to make sure the others had time enough to get out. Our light guns finally gave out just as we were getting ready to leave. Gils was wounded in the side. I escaped with nothing but a cut on my hand, from when I tried to wrestle a knife away from one of the Wastelanders.”

  Bhaldavin suddenly remembered his daughter. “Gringers! Is Thura here? I lost her last night in all the confusion!”

  Gringers nodded. “She’s here. She’s sleeping over there beyond Gils. I think she’s all right. She doesn’t look like she’s been hurt. Gils tried to reach her a little while ago to check on her and got a knock in the head for his trouble.”

  Facing Bhaldavin, Gringers missed Gils’s glance of warning. The flat of a sword caught him on the side of the head, knocking him half senseless to the ground.

  “Silence! No talking!” Sola moved around in front of Gringers; his swordpoint touched Gringers’s chest. His glance moved to Bhaldavin. A flicker of satisfaction could be seen in his eyes as he beheld the Ni’s face. His swordpoint moved to rest above Bhaldavin’s heart.

  “I would’ve thought you’d learned your lesson last night,” he said. “Perhaps you need another reminder?” He pushed down slightly. Bhaldavin flinched as the sharp point punctured his skin.

  “Sola!”

  Sola’s head snapped around. Zojac stood there, hands on hips, an impatient look on his face.

  “Untie the prisoners, line them up, and strip them. We’ll look them over now.”

  Sola beckoned to several of the Wastelanders to give him a hand, and within minutes all twelve prisoners were on their feet and stripped of their clothing. Bhaldavin touched the leather pouch at his neck, wondering why they had not taken it from him.

  Thura had looked for her father from the moment she had wakened. Tears sprang to her eyes when she finally saw him, and the moment her bonds and clothes were removed, she ran to him and flung her small arms around his waist, burying her face against his chest.

  “Are you all right, Thura?” Bhaldavin asked, as he stroked her shoulder-length, light-green hair.

  Her head went back and she looked up at him, crystal-blue eyes large with fear. “I’m afraid, Adda. What’s going to happen to us?”

  Bhaldavin had never lied to his children; it was not the Ni way. He tried to smile, but with his face so swollen, it came out as a grimace. “I don’t know, Thura, but whatever happens, you must be brave. Don’t cry before them. Don’t let them know you’re afraid. Do you understand?”

  Thura nodded. “Your face, Adda.”

  “I know. Never mind.”

  The Wastelanders used swords and lances to prod the prisoners into a tight circle. Zojac made a motion with a hand. “Bring one.”

  Sola stepped close to the prisoners and grabbed a Barl-ganian called Aldi by an arm. He pulled Aldi from the circle and walked him over to stand before Zojac and three other Wastelanders, all of whom showed glints of gray in their hair. Elders? Bhaldavin wondered. Or only pack leaders?

  Aldi was twenty-seven years old, and unlike most of the other Barl-ganians, he was not physically deformed. He was a bit slow mentally, but he could function with a minimum of orders.

  Zojac ran his hands over Aldi’s body without regard for the prisoner’s pride. He hesitated when he came to the sword wound on Aldi’s left shoulder. He turned to one of the other men and nodded for him to take a look. The man inspected the wound, then shook his head. “It’ll leave a scar, but should cause him no trouble.”

  Zojac nodded to Sola. “This one we’ll keep. Bring the next.”

  The next man to be taken from the circle was Gavi, an older, dark-haired man with blotchy skin and the three-toed splayed feet that was the most common deformity among the citizens of Barl-gan.

  Zojac carefully kept his hands to himself as he gave Gavi a quick once-over. He looked at the other three Wastelanders, who seemed to be acting as judges. All three shook their heads.

  Zojac signaled to Sola. “Kill it and bring the next.”

  Gringers and the others were shocked by the coldblooded order and watched in horror as Sola caught Gavi in a armlock, forced him to his knees, and calmly slit his throat.

  “No!” Gringers screamed, lunging forward.

  In that same moment, Gils Watcher and another Barl-ganian named Enar, both splay ed-footed, realized that escape was their only chance to live. As Gringers drew the attention of the guards, they spun around, knocked two of the Wastelanders aside, and sprinted for the stockade wall. Three of the guards went after them.

  Bhaldavin glanced around in those few moments of confusion. It was in his mind that he and Thura might never have a better chance to escape. His arm tightened on Thura’s shoulder, but before he could take a step, the point of a sword stuck into his back. He fought the impulse to run and stood still, watching as Sola and three others subdued Gringers and two other Barl-ganians who had not moved as quickly as Gils and Enar. The other four prisoners were too wounded to even think about escape.

  Gils and Enar reached the stockade wall. Gils caught the top of the walkway in a mighty leap and hooked a foot over the top, pulling himself up. Enar was right behind him, but as he was drawing himself up, a knife flew through the air and caught him square in the back. Gils tried to catch Enar’s arm, but missed and almost lost his own balance. He cast a quick glance at the men racing toward him, ducked another thrown knife, and quickly turned and threw himself up and over the stockade wall. Two of the Wastelanders followed him up onto the walkway. The other one carried Enar back and deposited him at Zojac’s feet. Blood bubbled at Enar’s lips with every breath.

  At a sign from Zojac, Sola quickly dispatched him.

  Bhaldavin was appalled by the Wastelanders’ disregard for life. He and Thura stood close together and watched as Gringers and the other six Barl-ganians were brought out of the circle and judged.

  One was the old woman named Patra. She had been wounded in the leg. Bhaldavin was not sure whether it was her age or her blotchy skin that was the deciding factor, but as with the others, she was killed with a modicum of effort, her scream of terror cut off in midtremor by Sola’s knife. Thura cried softly as her body was pulled off to one side.

  Another man named Jon passed Zojac’s judges, as did one of the young boys named Karl. Three others were put to death. Then it was Gringers’s turn. He was let up from the ground and brought before the Wastelanders’ tribunal. Because of the trouble he had caused, the guards held onto his arms as Zojac looked him over.

  One look at his face was enough to tell Bhaldavin that Gringers could have gladly killed every one of the Wastelanders at that moment, had he had a weapon. Something in his eyes must have warned Zojac to be careful, bec
ause the Wastelander did not offer to touch Gringers; he just looked him over carefully by walking a full circle around him.

  One of the gray-haired Wastelanders caught Zojac’s arm. “I know this one. If I’m not mistaken, he’s their leader and claims to come from some other place across the mountains.”

  “He hasn’t the look of the others,” Zojac agreed, “but that doesn’t mean he’s not one of them. No one’s ever crossed those mountains!”

  The man shrugged. “That’s what he told us.”

  Zojac looked Gringers in the eyes and shook his head. “He’s healthy looking, but I’ve a feeling he’d never make an obedient servant. I can see the hate in his eyes. I think I’d sooner have a lizard laired in my valley than this one!”

  He turned to the two other men standing nearby. “Oman? Carl? What do you think?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  Bhaldavin’s heart lurched as Zojac made the killing sign. Gringers saw it, too, and turned to look at Bhaldavin, as if saying good-bye.

  Not Gringers! Bhaldavin cried silently. His mind filled with scenes of the past when he and Gringers had been enemies, then master and slave, and finally friends. There was good in Gringers, and a wellspring of curiosity that continually inspired those around him. If born a Ni, he most probably would have become a Seeker and earned the respect of the People. Bhaldavin did not always agree with Gringers, but he did trust and respect him, and in his own way he loved him as he would have loved the brother he had left behind so many years ago.

  Sola stepped forward as Gringers began to struggle between the two men who held him. It was plain that he was not going to give up life without a fight.

  The look of anticipation on Sola’s face turned Bhaldavin’s stomach. “Fools!” he yelled. “Kill Gringers and you kill the knowledge behind the light guns that have killed all your men!”

  Though the words came through battered lips, they were clear enough to make Zojac turn to look in Bhaldavin’s direction. He stopped Sola with an upraised hand.