The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

  Fellirian stopped and let the rest gather to her side as they caught up, one by one; Morlenden shepherding Schaeszendur, Cannialin and Kaldherman, Krisshantem bringing up the rear. Schaeszendur they brought into their midst, closing their bodies tightly about the girl, shielding her from the sudden chill of their stopping in the cold air. They were all breathing hard, and Morlenden could see, in the sky-scatter from the city lights, that there was a fine sheen of sweat glazed over Fellirian’s face. Her eyes were alert, but heavy-lidded and tired; she had been in no better shape for this than he.

  She said, between breaths, “Now we can assume . . . that the agents have made . . . their reports . . . and that they have located . . . the Commnet Interconnect. Probably . . . seen some . . . witnesses in the city.”

  Morlenden suggested, “The group at the hot-drink kiosk.”

  “There, yes. Maybe others; we did walk openly. With what they know, they can easily anticipate that we will be coming this way, to the reservation boundary. And they will certainly be bringing tracking equipment.”

  Krisshantem asked, “Could we not now take another course, to throw them off?”

  Fellirian, recovering her breath, answered kindly, “No, that would not work except to our disadvantage. Attend: we cannot push Schaeszen, which we must if we turn now. And we would lengthen our exposure in the forerunner world; it is not like your woods out here, Kris—away from this area, close upon the reservation fence, there is nowhere we could survive for very long. None of us, not me, not you, know their ways well enough to pass unseen and uncaught in their midst for long. No, no, we cannot; we must go as straight as we can and hope that they have difficulty in picking up our trail.”

  She stopped, suddenly attentive, listening. In the far distance, a change had come in the humming sound, and the throbbing increased; they looked back, to see a group of lights detach itself from the others and move upward, slowly. It continued to move about, without apparent purpose or goal, but they could also see that it was quartering over the fields about the place where they had rested.

  Krisshantem observed, “That, at least, is no mystery. I know that: it is an aircraft, looking for tracks.”

  Fellirian said, “Yes, so it must be. We’ll soon know whether to rest a bit more, or make the last run to the fence.”

  The random, quartering motion of the lights continued for a time, but apparently the aircraft did not sense any obvious tracks within its sensor search pattern, for after several sweeps over the search area, it returned to the cluster of lights on the ground, merged with them, and as it did, the humming noise faded. The sense of activity around the cluster of lights in the distance continued, and if anything, increased in motion.

  Fellirian watched the activity closely, and when the aircraft had landed, she did not seem any more optimistic by that which she had seen. She sighed deeply, and said, “For now they have missed us on the first cast. From the sound and movement of it, it’s a hovercraft, a platform on ducted fans. . . . They know the general direction we must come, though, so they will try again. And once they pick up a good trail, they’ll let shock troops down on ropes.... We had better move on now. We have much less of a lead on them.”

  Fellirian now turned away from the group, facing the direction they must go; she saw only pine trees, densely packed together, an uphill slope, a suggestion of higher forest farther up the slope, a darker sky that had no lights under it. It was not physically far as distances went: no more than the same distance back to the place where they had rested. But the aircraft was very close now; on a good trail, the troops could be upon them in minutes, and they were all past their best now.

  Krisshantem laid his hand on Fellirian’s arm. “Wait. I have an idea; you say that I am not wise in the way of cities, and that is so . . . but are they not equally unwise in the open country? And you say that they track by body-heat? So would not a brighter target capture their attention better than a muted one?”

  They had no flares with them, and it was too damp for fire . . . Fellirian’s mind leaped ahead. “Krisshantem, I forbid . . .”.

  “Now let us not speak of forbiddings and permissions. Were I blind and deaf, I could evade such as those; I have watched the clouds change, measured the color of the sky, seen the green of the winter sky. I have watched day-shadow move. And they will see where I have been, they will hear echoes, but where they look, there I will not be.”

  The humming in the background increased again, as if to emphasize Kris’s point. He also listened, and then continued, “Now, listen. You start—you, Morlenden, Schaeszendur, Kaldherman and Cannialin will come with me. When you get to the fence, you will be near my old territory, and I can catch you there, never fear. But you are better at this than I would have imagined most townsmen to be, so you may get a bit ahead . . . but you cannot lose me. I will always know where you are. And we will lead them on a merry chase.”

  Fellirian stood still, saying nothing. Morlenden thought on it, considered. It would have to be that way. They could not now hope to get Schaeszendur across the fence to safety, back inside, unless someone decoyed the forces now arraying themselves against them, and distracted them away from the one moment they needed. He moved the girl, nudging her gently, to let her know that the rest was at an end. She moved sluggishly, as if under water, turning her face to Morlenden’s, a blank, blind gaze of exhaustion.

  Morlenden said, “Schaeszen can’t run any more. I’ll have to carry her. I agree with Kris’s proposal.” Close by, Kaldherman set his face into a grim expression and nodded assent. Cannialin looked upward, at the sky-glow, and let her mouth fall into a weird, beatific smile.

  Morlenden thought, Just such an abstracted smile I have seen on her pretty face when she was slaughtering a chicken, slitting its throat with that long knife of hers. . . .

  Reluctantly, Fellirian agreed. “Yes, I see. Very well, Mor, I’ll find the best way for you; follow my sound, and I’ll help you at the fence.” She listened to the sound. Then she turned to look at the wood once more, and back for a moment, calculating, indecisive . . . then started off at a lope into the piny brushwood, resolutely negotiating a passage. Morlenden, helping the girl along, half carrying her, set out behind. Kris and the others remained where they were, staring after them.

  Kris called out, as they disappeared into the dense and prickly underbrush, “Don’t crash so, you dray-horse! They will hear you even over the motor noises!”

  Deep in the brush, Morlenden paused and looked back. Through a small gap he could see the boy removing his felt boots, while Kal and Cannialin did the same: to leave heated footprints in the cold ground, while he and Fellirian and Schaeszen left less obvious marks. And farther back, behind them all, on the edge of the city, a cluster of lights was moving, not exactly toward them, but close enough. Then the lights went out, but the humming and throbbing did not change. And after a moment, Morlenden thought he could sense, at the edge of perception, a darker spot, vague in shape, moving against the background sky-scatter. He turned and looked back up the hill: there the sky was darker, and there was no sound, save the passing of Fellirian through the pines, making as much noise as she could now. In that direction, there were no moving shapes in the sky.

  Now he started out, helping the girl along as best he could, partially supporting her, as she walked now only a little under her own power. He discovered that he could keep up with Fellirian, ahead, as she moved back and forth, searching out the easiest way for them. He hardly ever had sight of her, but he could follow her by sound almost as easily, listening carefully. And behind them, the humming grew louder. Morlenden looked back, over his shoulder, and saw the dark patch moving, against the sky again, more clearly now, but still not distinctly enough to make its shape truly. It had covered most of the distance to the beginning of the woods, but seemed to be drifting a bit to the south of his present position. There was no indication that they who flew in the craft had actually seen anything, not yet. Morlenden increased his pace, moving deep
er into the woods.

  Schaeszendur sobbed, and Morlenden felt her full weight sag against his left arm; further progress had become impossible for her, even with assistance. She had reached the end of her physical resources. Morlenden bent, and let her fall across his shoulders, taking her full weight. She was lighter than he expected her to be . . . Maellenkleth had been well-formed, comely and strong, but this Schaeszendur was made of fluff and bubbles, her flesh soft and stringy. She had, after her long confinement, retained her basic build, but much reduced . . . and despite her weight, he made better progress, because he did not have to half-drag her along.

  Now he did not turn to watch the aircraft; he listened. He heard the hum and throb of the motors change tone abruptly. He tried to ignore it, but could not; swinging the load of the girl slowly around on his shoulders, Morlenden turned clumsily about, to see. The darkness in the sky was almost abreast of them now to the south, and it was falling, as an autumn leaf might glide downward, but without the sudden turns and swoops of the leaf. Lower, it stopped as if running into a wall of feathers, the motors surging mightily, then falling in tone again. The craft hovered, now stopped dead-still in the air, and the lights came on again. Other lights came on with them, searchlights directed against the ground. In their glare he could see rope ladders falling, unrolling out of the craft, and immediately, on them, figures climbing down, many with bulky backpacks. Morlenden struggled with his burden and lurched off in the direction he imagined Fellirian to be, trying to move faster and more quietly. And behind him, he now heard voices, faintly, muffled by the trees and the air, ghostly, unsubstantial. The hovercraft powered up, rose sharply, turning as it did and withdrawing a little back toward the city. He stopped, listening for Fellirian. Over the pounding of his heart and the throb of the hovercraft motors, he could not hear her. Morlenden listened again, carefully, all senses tense and strained. The motor noise was fading. Otherwise, nothing.

  And the voices faded also, fell silent. He now began to feel a touch of fear . . . he half expected to hear, as he continued slogging up the hill along what seemed to be the best way, a sharp, peremptory command. Or perhaps nothing, a sudden pain. His skin crawled. Where the hell was Fellirian?

  There was no actual sign that he was being pursued. Everything seemed quiet nearby. Morlenden continued walking, and noticed that the upward slope was beginning to level off a little, and that the trees were larger, more mature; he knew instinctively that they had to be near the fence, but as yet he could not see it.

  Behind him, now far down the gentle slope, Morlenden heard a curious, half-muffled sound, more a prolonged puff or whooshing than a report, of gunshot. He had never heard anything like it before. After the sound died away, he also heard calls, cries, hoarse exhortations, also distorted by distance and the intervening trees. Kris, Kal, Ayali. . . . He heard more sounds, faraway crashing and tearing in the brush, more calls, so it seemed, all in Modanglic. How many? Three? Four? He had seen five or six men climb down from the hovercraft. But from the noise they made, it sounded like a small army. All the same, the continuing racket reassured him; they would not be so loud, if they had caught any of the decoy party. No, Kris would be teasing them, drawing them off. That would be Kris’s way; and then he’d just vanish among the trees. The crashing and shouting moved farther off, more southerly, became fainter.

  Morlenden stopped now, his head reeling, feeling the full weight of fatigue. He stooped over, and, as gently as he could, laid Schaeszendur down, resting her head on a pile of pine needles he had hastily scraped together. Kneeling beside her, he examined her closely; she seemed conscious, but she made no attempt to speak. Her eyes remained, open, but the expression in them was glassy, unfocused. Morlenden looked around himself. He saw nothing save darkness, the ever-present sky-scatter, the shapes of trees, black trunks looming. It was dense here, like the forests inside. He knew they were close, they had to be, but now the ground was level and he could not determine in which direction the fence lay. He could guess one way, for there was some thinning in the trees, a sense of openness. From that direction he heard faint scuffling in the carpet of fallen needles underfoot, glimpsed a suggestion of movement, a dark shape, becoming a gray whiter overcloak; it was Fellirian. She was coming at a half-run.

  Fellirian saw him, the girl on the ground, and called out, “It’s not far now, just over there, where I came from. It’s more open near the fence. Can you make it?”

  Morlenden was still short of breath. “Have to. They drew them off to the south, I think. It’s quiet again. But there are too many ifs. They know there is more than one of us, so they might catch on to the trick. And we are more visible here.” He looked upward as he spoke, nodding toward the throbbing that now never faded entirely from hearing.

  Fellirian reached them, knelt beside the girl, held the girl’s eye open and looked closely. Then she looked in the same direction he had indicated, and nodded. Breath-steam wreathed her face and the overhanging cowl of her overshirt. She said, “I’ll help you with her. Come on.”

  Together, they lifted the girl between them, and began moving forward again, supporting, half dragging Schaeszen between them, dodging around tree trunks, stumbling over fallen branches in their way, abandoning the pretense of stealth and quiet. They crossed a low rise, a swell in the ground, and stopped. Just ahead of them, Morlenden could see an old-fashioned chain-link fence, about twice his height. They stumbled forward to it in a last rush, reaching the fence and stopping, leaning against the links and mesh of cold metal. There were thin flakes of ice on some of the links.

  Fellirian asked, “How do we get her over? I was counting on her climbing herself. Now, I don’t know; I don’t think she can climb it on her own.”

  “I don’t know. Let her rest a bit more; let me think.” They tenderly laid the girl down again, propped against the fence, Morlenden kneeling partially supporting her. Fellirian stood over them, legs slightly apart, panting. Suddenly she turned her head, back, the way they had come up the hill.

  She said urgently, softly, “Olede! Voices, there, speaking Modanglic! They’re coming!”

  “Sh! I hear them. Lights, too; see them? It has to be now, doesn’t it, Eliya? Give me a hand with her, here.”

  Morlenden now leaned over Schaeszendur, shook her roughly, sharply, “Schaeszendur!” There was no response. She looked at him, but did nothing else. Her eyes were dull, lifeless. He shook her again. “Schaeszendur! Maellenkleth!” Some luster reappeared in her eyes.

  “Aezedu! Aelekle! Wake up! Listen to me!” The girl seemed to listen to him now. “Can you hold to me if I carry your weight?”

  “Yes.” The voice was flat and unaccented, but it was clear, steady.

  “Then you must do this: hold to me, no matter what. Rest, and sleep are not far now. Just one more effort and you’re safe. Use all your strength and hold to me! We have to climb a fence!”

  The same calm, distant measured voice answered him. “Yes, I understand, I must hold to you. I can. I will do it.”

  He stood and helped the girl to her feet, while Fellirian steadied her. She was very shaky on her feet, although she did now stand on her own. Her eyes were clear also, but somehow she did not seem to be aware of her surroundings. Morlenden turned to the fence, getting into position, reaching for and feeling the cold metal strands, experimentally feeling with his toe for a foothold. Fellirian helped the girl onto Morlenden’s back, arranging her arms about his neck, placing the girl’s hands so she would be steady, locked in position however Morlenden had to move on the fence.

  She whispered in Shaeszendur-Maellenkleth’s ear, “That’s a good girl. Yes, just like this now, hold on, whatever happens; hold on to Morlenden.”

  Then to Morlenden, “Well have to hurry, Olede, the lights are close now. I’ll try to get them away from you.” Her presence suddenly withdrew.

  It was true. He could clearly hear the sounds of crashing in the brush back in the woods, not so far at all now. He took a deep breath, looked a
t the fence, tensed his muscles. One more obstacle, and we’re over. They won’t dare touch us inside the fence. He drew another deep breath, tightened his grasp on the cold metal, thrust. He could not look upward without moving the girl. He took his first step up, feeling the full weight of the girl settling on his back, shifting through his arms down to his hands, his fingers, pressing on the wire strands.

  And behind him he heard footfalls in the ground-cover, sharp scufflings off to the left, in the direction Fellirian had taken. Then there were more from the same direction, but farther off. And now directly behind him, sudden crashing of brush, footfalls on the hard ground pounding, and an actinic light cast its glare upon his hands on the fence.

  He heard a voice shouting in Modanglic, “There they are, two, on the fence!”

  Another shouted hoarsely, “You! You, stop! Get down from there, now!”

  Morlenden shook his head slightly, to himself, and took another step up. There was more commotion behind him, scuffling, hoarse exclamations, oaths, curses, and as someone cried out some unintelligible word, he heard at close hand the same odd sound he had heard earlier. A whooshing, a hiss, very close, especially loud. He felt Schaeszendur tense her whole supple body, sharply, heard her emit a short grunt, as with great effort. Her grip around his neck tightened convulsively, strongly, and she was choking him. She coughed, wetly, and the intense grip began to weaken. She was going to let go, she would fall; Morlenden let himself back down, and as he felt solid ground under his boots and bent to cushion her fall, she let go, relaxing completely, sliding off and slumping against the fence in much the same posture she had rested in only moments before. Morlenden turned around.