Cinnabar Shadows

by Lynn Abbey

Pavek set down the sword he'd held ready since the ambush began. He dug out his bit of ensorcelled hair and let it spin freely, as much to give the halfling elders additional time to consider their folly—they might be superb fighters for their size, but they didn't stand a chance against Javed's maniples. For the first time, the hair pointed in a different direction, almost perpendicular to the path they'd been following since Khelo. The halflings who'd watched this subtle bit of Tablelands magic seemed impressed, but did not recant.

  Their elders repeated that there was no antidote for the poison the halflings smeared on their arrowheads. The templar woman would die without awakening. And there was no blond-haired halfling with Urikite slave-scars on his cheeks in this village or anywhere else. Didn't the templars know that halflings would sooner die than surrender their freedom?

  Faced with such intransigence, there was nothing Pavek could do to save them or their village. He met the commandant's eyes and nodded. Javed barked orders to his maniples:

  The first were to stand with swords drawn, guarding the armed adults and venerable elders already gathered in the clearing. The second would collect flaming brands from the halfling hearths and set fire to the tree homes—and be prepared to snare the halfling children as they fled their burning shelters.

  When a human templar seized the first halfling child as it bolted, hair and clothes aflame, toward its parents, the armed halflings surged against their enemies in a desperate attempt to save their children.

  But the templars had their orders; the carnage was proceeding to its inevitable, one-sided conclusion, but just as blood began to flow:

  STOP!

  It was a frantic, mind-bending assault against them all, templar and halfling alike, and the Unseen, unheard shout was, in its way, louder than the shrill halfling screams or the crackling flames. It echoed in Pavek's mind, and was enough to make him retreat from the dirty work of slaying halflings. He was not alone in his retreat: though most of the templars brought their swords down toward their victims without hesitation, some did not, and even the halflings' resistance seemed to falter.

  Paddock! Another Unseen shout, accompanied this time by an image Pavek recognized as his own face. Make them stop, Paddock. I'll give you what you want!

  A second face loomed in Pavek's mind, a face covered with shiny, weblike scars, a face surrounded by tangled wisps of dark brown hair, a face he didn't recognize until its eyes absorbed his attention.

  Eyes like black, bottomless pits, eyes of infinite hate and madness.

  Kakzim's eyes. "Stand down!" Pavek shouted. "Javed! Commandant! Give the order to stand down. Now!"

  A halfling came out of the underbrush bordering the village—from the direction the ensorcelled hair had foretold. His hair was blond and his face dark, but he wasn't Kakzim, and the marks covering his face were not slave-scars, but bloody bruises.

  Leaning on a crutch, favoring a bandaged leg and an arm that was bound up beneath his ribs, he made slow progress toward the cautiously waiting templars. As he approached, Pavek realized the bruises, while not fresh, were a long way from being healed. His right eye was swollen completely shut; the left was crowned with a festering scab.

  Whoever had beaten the halfling—and in Pavek's experienced opinion, several fists and clubs had been involved— they'd known what they were doing. Though he wasn't near dying, it would be a long time before the man could move easily again, if he ever did.

  "Paddock," the battered halfling said through puffy lips once he reached the edge of the clearing.

  "Pavek," Pavek corrected and waited without saying anything more.

  "My name is Cerk," the halfling said, then added something in Halfling. "I've told them this is my fault. They were protecting me. I am to blame; this is the BlackTree's judgment. They've told you the truth: there is no antidote for our poison, and they know no one whose hair is blond and whose cheeks bear the scars of Urik's slaves. If you'd asked them about Kakzim—"

  Heads came up among the village halflings, even among the four they'd held captive since the ambush. Kakzim's name was known here, and to judge by the expressions on the halfling faces when they heard the name, both feared and hated. A flurry of clicks, whistles and musical syllables passed among the halflings.

  "They're cursing a black tree, my lord, Commandant," said the templar who'd translated the conversations earlier. "I don't think it's a place."

  "It is a place and a brotherhood," Cerk explained. "They were my home, but they belong to Kakzim now. He is mad."

  "We know that," Pavek said impatiently, when Cerk seemed to consider madness a sufficient explanation. "Where can we find him? Where's this black tree? You said you'd give us what we want."

  "What you want, Pavek. He fears you as he fears nothing else; he knew you would come. You are the only one who can stop him—"

  There was another outburst of Halfling. Their templar began to translate, but Cerk held up his hand and the man fell silent.

  "The BlackTree has been the center of my people's lives since we came to this forest many, many generations ago. It holds the knowledge of our past in its roots. We would sooner die than deliver it to outsiders—dragon-spawned templars, especially. But Kakzim has already taken the BlackTree from us. You, Pavek, are our last hope."

  Pavek thought hard and fast before speaking. "This knowledge it holds in its roots—you mean the knowledge to make poisons like Laq and that sludge Kakzim was going to pour into our water? Our king said if those bowls had been emptied, everyone in Urik and beyond would die. Is that the knowledge you're trying to protect?"

  "It is only a very small part of the knowledge the Black-Tree has preserved," Cerk countered, then added softly and sadly: "But it is the knowledge Brother Kakzim absorbed and seeks to expand, now that he's usurped the Brethren to his own purposes."

  "You helped him," Pavek voiced the conclusion as it formed in his mind. "You helped him in Urik, helped him return to the forest. Then he turned on you—"

  Cerk nodded, a movement that made him stiffen with pain. "We came back to the Brethren. I recanted my vows; I denounced what we had done. I called on the elders to do what must be done—but while they sought a consensus, Kakzim split the Brethren and turned one half against the other. Brother Kakzim has a mighty voice; no one can resist it now. There is no one left but you, Pavek. Your friends said you were dead in Codesh, but they hadn't seen your corpse. I should have known that you weren't dead, were coming. That you weren't far behind, Pavek."

  "Lord Pavek," Commandant Javed corrected. His sword remained unsheathed as he approached. "Speaking of a mighty voice, this one's spinning a pretty tale. The hair points to him. I think we've found our halfling, don't you, my lord? Let's settle this now." He raised his sword for a decapitating strike.

  Pavek restrained Javed's arm. "He's not Kakzim, Commandant. We'll let him take us to this tree—"

  "Only you, Pavek—" "See!" the commandant sputtered. "What did I tell you?"

  It had the sound of an unpleasant death worthy of Hamanu himself, and an equally worthy, unpleasant ambition. For those reasons alone, although there were others, Pavek was inclined to believe the battered little man—but not to agree to his terms.

  "We'll take our chances together. You'll lead us there. And, Cerk, what others? What friends of mine have you been talking to?"

  "Hamanu's mercy!" Javed erupted before Cerk could answer. "With him leading us, we'll need two days to get anywhere."

  "Then we'll still be there in time, Commandant," Pavek snarled, surprising himself and Javed with his vehemence. "Now, Cerk, again—what others?"

  "The others—I don't know their names. The ones that were with you on the killing ground. They followed us— same as you did—we assumed you were with them, but obviously we were wrong. Kakzim was waiting for them when they crossed the mountains. He brought them to the BlackTree. I don't know what time you're thinking of, Pavek, but there's no time for your friends. I'm certain Kakzim will sacrifice them tonight when the mo
ons converge: the blood of Urik to atone for his failures in Urik. I heard him say so many, many times. He'd hoped it would be your blood, of course, but he still needs to make a sacrifice and the best time will be tonight."

  "Tomorrow night!" Pavek protested. "The thirteenth night. I have the Lion-King's word—"

  "Tonight," Cerk insisted. "Halflings have forgotten more than the dragons will ever know. Hamanu's calculations are founded in myth; ours in fact: The convergence will be tonight. We're too late for them, but Kakzim will be drunk and bloated. Tomorrow will be a good time to confront him—"

  "Tonight! We'll get there tonight, if I have to carry you. Start walking!"

  Chapter Fifteen

  Another night, another day in shades of darkness beneath the black tree. Orekel's ankle had swelled up to the size of a cabra fruit. It was hot—not warm—to the touch; Mahtra had heard Zvain say so more than once. And painful. The dwarf couldn't move without moaning, couldn't move much at all. Zvain took Orekel's share of the slops the halflings dumped into their pit and carried it to him in his hands. The boy collected water from the ground seeps the same way.

  His behavior made no sense to Mahtra. The dwarf didn't need food or water; he needed relief from his suffering. She didn't understand suffering. Father and Mika had died, but they'd died quickly. They hadn't suffered. Pavek had taken longer to die, but not as long as Orekel was taking. She'd asked Zvain, "What is wrong with the dwarf that he hasn't died?"

  Zvain had gotten angry at her. He'd called her the names the street children had shouted when she'd walked from the templar quarter to the cavern in what seemed, now, to have been another life. Mahtra was hurt by the names, but not the way Orekel was hurt. She didn't die; she just crouched in the little place she'd claimed as her own.

  Darkness thickened again; another night was coming. Mahtra thought it was the fourth night. She'd lost track of days and nights while she sat outside House Escrissar because they were the same while she lived them and fell one on top of the other in her memory. She didn't want to lose track of days again; it seemed somehow important to know how long she stayed in a particular place, even if the only events to remember were Orekel's groans and the slops falling from above.

  Still thinking about time, Mahtra tried to make four marks that would help her keep the days and nights in order. The roots that intruded into their prison seemed an ideal place to carve her counting lines, but they were too tough for her fingernails; she broke two trying. Her nails were the color of cinnabar and tasted faintly of the bright red stone. She scratched along the dirt floor, searching for the broken-off pieces and had found one when she heard scratching sounds through the dirt beside her.

  "Zvain—?" she whispered.

  "Shsssh!" came the whispered reply. "I can hear it."

  An animal digging through the dirt, drawn, perhaps, by the sounds she'd made? A large animal? An animal like the one Ruari had freed on the other side of the mountains? Fear tremors shook Mahtra's hands, nothing more. No warmth rising from the burnished marks on her skin, no heaviness in her arms, her legs, or her eyes. She'd chewed and swallowed all her cinnabar, but that wasn't enough. She didn't know what was missing, but cinnabar wasn't enough. If Ruari's beast burst into their prison, she'd have no protection.

  "You can't go boom, can you?" he asked.

  "No—I chewed up all my cinnabar, but something's missing."

  "Damn!" the boy swore softly, and said other things besides. Father wouldn't have approved, or Pavek, but they were the words Mahtra would have used herself, if she'd remembered them.

  Then there was light, so bright and painful that she couldn't see. Closing her eyes was no improvement. Her eyelids couldn't keep out the light after so much time in darkness. Mahtra warded the light with her hands, finally restoring the darkness with the pressure of her forearm against her closed eyes.

  But she wanted desperately to see.

  There were halfling voices, halfling words, halfling hands all around her, pulling her away from the wall, pushing her toward the agonizing light. She stumbled and needed her hands to catch herself as she fell. Her eyes opened—no choice of hers—and the light was less painful.

  Halflings had scratched sideways into their prison!

  For a heartbeat, Mahtra held the hope that they'd been rescued. Then she heard Kakzim's voice.

  "Hurry up! The convergence begins before sundown! Hurry!"

  Mahtra didn't know what a convergence was, but she didn't think she'd like it.

  With halflings pushing and shoving, she crawled through the sideways hole, emerging into a tunnel that was high enough for the halflings to stand comfortably, but nowhere near high enough for Mahtra. Crawling was demeaning and not fast enough to satisfy the halflings, who harried her with sharpened sticks. She walked stooped over, like the old slave-woman at House Escrissar, and stopped when they thrust their sticks toward her face.

  Zvain came out of the prison after her. Being not much bigger than the halflings themselves, the human youth could, and did, put up a fight that got him nowhere except beaten with sharp sticks and bound with ropes around his wrists and neck. Mahtra saw these things because the tunnel where she sat waiting had its own light: countless bright and flickering specks. The specks moved, gathering themselves into little worms that streaked up one side of the tunnel, across, and down the other where they broke apart and disappeared. The specks were white, but the little worms could be any color, or several colors and changing colors.

  There'd been worms in the reservoir cavern, even worms that glowed faintly in the dark, but nothing like these fast-moving, fast-changing creatures that seemed to be made from light itself. Watching them, Mahtra forgot the prison she'd just left, forgot Zvain, forgot the halflings with their sticks—nothing mattered except touching a worm....

  "Ack!" a halfling shouted in its own language, and struck Mahtra's knuckles with its stick.

  She pulled her hand back to her hard-lipped mouth.

  "Behave yourself! The halfling knowledge isn't to be touched by corrupt mongrels like you." Kakzim sneered. "Your protection doesn't work in the dark, does it, Mahtra?"

  With her stinging hand still pressed against her mouth, Mahtra gave a wide-eyed nod, which was a lie—one of the very few that she'd ever told, but one for which she thought Father would forgive her. Pavek certainly would, or Ruari or Zvain. She could almost hear the three of them telling her not to let Kakzim know that she'd felt a spark inside when the halfling struck her hand.

  Or that Kakzim himself had told her something she hadn't known before: darkness did stifle her protection, but she needed only a very little light to make it work again. A daily walk between the templar quarter and the elven market had been enough, so that she'd never suspected light was as important as cinnabar, but the little worms she mustn't touch were almost bright enough themselves.

  The halflings were sealing their prison, leaving Orekel alone inside it, and that made Zvain frantic. He fought again, screaming that he and the dwarf couldn't be separated, and got beaten again. The two humans Mahtra knew best, Zvain and Pavek, were each inclined to risk themselves for others, regardless of the consequences. It was very brave, she supposed, but also very foolish. Wherever they were going—now that the halflings were making them move forward again—the dwarf was better off where he was.

  As for Ruari—Mahtra hoped, as the halflings prodded her through another tight passage, that Ruari was with Pavek and Father in the place where people went after they died.

  But Ruari was still alive.

  They came out into another prison chamber, similar to the one they'd left, except it was open to the sky and afternoon bright, and the first thing she saw was Ruari's long, lean body hanging down from rope tied around his wrists. The second was the shallow movements of his ribs.

  Mahtra called his name. His head, which had fallen forward against his chest, didn't move. Zvain did more than call; he bolted away from his guards and threw himself at Ruari's legs. He either had not
remembered or didn't care that his own hands were tied and the slightest jostle would upset Ruari's delicate balance atop the stump.

  Ruari swung free. He made a sound that should have been a scream but was a hoarse gasp instead. The muscles of his upper body knotted in spasms Mahtra could feel in her own back and shoulders.

  "Go ahead. Cut him down," Kakzim said, handing a knife to another halfling who attacked the knots at the end of Ruari's rope.

  Mahtra had last seen the knife the halfling used when it was attached to Ruari's belt and first seen it attached to Pavek's. Now it belonged to Kakzim, who reclaimed it once Ruari's weight was sufficient to fray through the rope. Mahtra had a half-heartbeat to remind herself that no good came from owning things, before Ruari landed in the bottom of the pit: a twitching, groaning collection of arms and legs that couldn't hope to stand on its own.

  A second halfling untied Zvain's wrists.

  "Get him up, you two," Kakzim barked at Mahtra and Zvain.

  It seemed unspeakably cruel to seize Ruari by the wrists and ankles, to drag him to the opening where they'd entered the pit and manhandle him through the tight passage, but Zvain and Mahtra had no choice in the matter. The halflings were eager to put their sharp sticks to use and, no matter what they did to him, it would have been worse if they'd forced the barely conscious Ruari to move on his own. Like Orekel, the half-elf was oblivious to everything that wasn't pain. He didn't recognize them by sight or sound, though he knew Kakzim's voice and cringed whenever he heard it.

  Mahtra had guessed where they were headed and what Ruari's part in the "convergence" would be when the passage through which they were dragging Ruari began to slope upward to the surface. The thought that he would hang from the black tree until he died and rotted disturbed her, although she saw no alternatives. She'd seen people slay other people—the nightmare image of Father's crushed skull was never out of memory's reach—but she didn't know how to kill, didn't want to learn, not even to end Ruari's suffering.