Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  But even now the council might be meeting …

  Khith stared at the dark, viscous liquid, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature control that still prevailed, deep in the bowels of the ancient city. It had worked for two days to decoct this mixture. But … would it work for anyone but an Ancient—whatever they had been like?

  What if it poisons me? Khith thought. I could die down here and no one would ever know. The thought caused the silky fur on its arms and back to stir and rise up in reaction to danger. Its tail lashed back and forth.

  And yet, to have the power to see things happening far away, or possibly even the future …

  The mixture was a distillation of lian roots and vilneg leaves. The Hthras had combined them, adding a dollop of its own blood to give the spell strength and focus. But if I haven’t the courage to use what I’ve learned, I might as well go back to my village, give up sorcery, the scholar thought.

  There is no gain without risk.

  Khith stared at the potion for another moment, then resolutely picked up the bowl, balancing it on its slender, four-digited hands. Cautiously, it sniffed the brew, its nostril-flaps quivering at the sharp, bitter odor. It hesitated for only a second. I must know!

  The liquid tasted every bit as vile as Khith had expected.

  The scholar’s throat tightened, and for a moment it feared its stomach would revolt. Putting down the bowl, it clapped both hands over its narrow-lipped mouth, fighting the urge to retch.

  Now to say the words …

  Khith stared down at the text, and the letters tilted strangely. It blinked, trying to read the words, but its eyes would no longer track.

  The Hthras looked up, and slowly, the room swung, rippled, and elongated. It was now long and narrow, like a burial net. Then it contracted, rotated, and widened, extending farther, farther …

  With some small, still unaffected portion of its mind, Khith remembered that the potion was a powerful hallucinogen. Must focus … speak the spell …

  Fumbling atop the table, the Hthras managed to close one narrow-fingered hand around the rune-pieces carved from jagowa bone. Shaking the pieces, it mumbled:

  “Forest-juice, help me see,

  Bones of hunter, let me hear,

  Show me those who wish me harm,

  Let me farsee, so to warn …”

  As Khith spoke the final words of the charm, it opened its fingers and the bone pieces thudded down onto the tabletop.

  Khith peered at the pattern. The rune-sign for danger … the sign for the present or the near future, the jagowa itself …

  As it peered down, its vision blurred, swam, then darkness gathered around the Hthras … grew … enfolded …

  Khith sighed and closed its eyes, letting the darkness take it.

  It opened its eyes and was in a different place, seeing with eyes that were … strange. Eyes that did not perceive most shades of color, eyes that were faceted, so that each view was repeated a hundred or more times. Khith tried to blink, tried to focus, but the eyes it was seeing through were so alien, it was several minutes before it could force itself to see through only one of the multiple eye-lenses and make out what lay before it.

  The Council of Elders sat hunched around a high table.

  Their voices sounded odd through the insectoid ears, but Khith could hear them. “… cannot allow this to go on,” the Eldest was saying. “Who knows what young Khith has found there, in those ruins? Foolish one! We warned it. In this very chamber, we told it what would happen!”

  Third Eldest spoke up. “Shall I summon the Peacekeepers?”

  First Elder Nkotha considered, then signaled assent. “Yes, do so. And tell them to bring their Trackers. We cannot have Khith roaming loose after we have angered it. It was a Sorcerer before living amidst the remains of the Ancients. What vile spells may it have learned from them?”

  Third Elder made a quick gesture of assent and respect, then stood to leave the chamber.

  “Go with the Peacekeepers, Drahnik, Vleth.” Nkotha motioned to two of the youngest Elders. “See that no one is harmed. The Trackers can be dangerous when loosed.”

  The Elders rose and the three of them left the Council Chamber.

  Khith made an effort to withdraw its mind from the creature that was hosting it, but the spell still held it in thrall.

  First Elder glanced around the chamber, then lowered her voice. “The first thing we must do when Khith is back among us is to force the Change upon it. Once safely wedded, it will no longer have these yearnings after dangerous knowledge.”

  Second Elder Sthaal blinked in surprise and distress.

  “Force the Change, First One? That is forbidden!”

  “We are the Elders,” Nkotha said. “Who is to judge what we do? But we shall be discreet.”

  Sthaal still seemed taken aback. “You know how it can be done, Eldest?”

  Nkotha leaned back in her tall chair. “There are ways, Sthaal … a tea brewed from uinto berries should accomplish what we want.”

  Sthaal sat straight up. “But that can be dangerous. Uinto berries can be poisonous if consumed in quantity!”

  “Certainly they can. But we have shahmans who know the proportions. Khith will not be harmed, only Changed.”

  “And who will volunteer to become Khith’s mate, First One?”

  Nkotha examined her long, double-digited fingers as though she had never seen them before. “That hardly matters, Second One. I am sure one of the unwed laborers can be persuaded. After all, young Khith inherited wealth, did it not?”

  “Indeed,” the Second said. “Most wise of you, First Elder.”

  “But first we must capture our young scholar. And that may prove no easy task. We must—”

  With a massive effort born of encroaching panic, Khith managed to separate its mind from that of the host-insect. The farseeing spell was still in force, though. Khith discovered that it could, with little effort, “see” the band assembling on one of the massive limbs, ready to step into the powered lift-basket.

  The Tracker-handlers stood by, a safe distance away, bracing themselves against the lunges of the snarling jagowas. There were four, three with mottled russet and cream coats, their spotted hides bright against the green backdrop of leaves, and one black one that seemed no more than a sinuous shadow.

  Khith struggled against the drug’s effect. Must … think …

  Khith’s former village was at least a half-hour journey away. Time enough to escape, to hide any betraying sign, if it did not dawdle.

  Khith swung around on its high stool, then slid down. The room tilted and rocked like a boat in a storm, and it had to catch the edge of the table to steady itself. The Hthras shook its head, fighting to throw off the effect of the potion. Staggering, Khith headed toward its living quarters. Must pack … must escape.

  Swaying, weaving, Khith made an unsteady way through the underground warren. It seemed as though hours had passed when it reached its own rooms, but the Hthras knew that blurred time-sense was typical of the hallucinogenic potions.

  The scholar grabbed a pack and began stuffing things into it, trying desperately to concentrate. Scrolls, herbals, the herbs themselves, the Ancient redes I copied, gold to pay my way …

  Hthras usually went naked in their own forests, but that would not do for the outside world. Khith grabbed a hooded robe from a shelf. Soft blue-gray, with red borders: the traditional garb of a physician. Stuffing the robe into the pack, the Hthras spared a moment to “see” its pursuers, calling them up with an ancient Hthras farseeing chant.

  “Find the center of the self

  Hear the heartbeat, feel the breathing

  Feed the air and blood to mind

  Feel the thought-flow sparking, seething.

  Sense the Forest ’round us all

  Sense its slow and frantic bustle

  Sense the Forest and its mind

  Sense its bone and vein and muscle.”

  This time the Hthras was s
eeing the hunting party through the eyes of some small animal crouched frozen only a few feet from the trail, its every instinct insisting that safety lay in non-movement. Khith watched the Elders with the Peacekeepers walk by, following the faint trail it had forged all those months ago. The Trackers snarled and lunged on their leashes. Thinking about what jagowa teeth could do to its softly furred hide brought Khith up out of the trance, panting with fear.

  Calm, stay calm. You’ll only escape them if you can out-think them.

  Food and a flask of water went into the now bulging pack.

  Khith stood looking down at the stacks of scrolls it could not carry. Best hide them. If they find them, they’d likely destroy them.

  The unsteadiness caused by the potion was waning now.

  Khith stacked the scrolls, balancing them in a high, tottery stack across its long, furred arms, then the scholar headed out of the room, moving quickly. The alchemy laboratory— that would be the safest place. I’ll bar the door, then get out through the back.

  Minutes later the scrolls were concealed as much as possible, and the main door off the corridor was barred from the inside.

  Khith hurried back toward its quarters and the waiting pack. As the Hthras trotted along, it chanted another verse of the farseeing song.

  “See with eyes of hunting birds

  See the world with eyes of raptors

  See that they may not see me

  See so they won’t become my captors.”

  The scholar stumbled as another vision unfolded. Again it was seeing through the eyes of another. It was a strange overlay. “Behind” the vision, Khith could still make out the Ancients’ corridor, the diffuse lighting following it along as it moved.

  But the vision was as close and immediate as if the scholar were standing beside its would-be captors. The hunters were having problems fording a sluggish stream.

  Tiny, savage swimmers waited there, ready to attack any warm flesh unwary enough to be placed close to their fanged jaws. The hunters tested the water, then wandered off downstream to look for a better, safer place to ford.

  I’ve gained a few more moments … must hurry!

  When the Hthras reached its quarters, it quickly assembled the makings for yet another spell—this one for confus-ing Trackers. This spell was an old one it had learned from one of its own kind, not from the Ancients. But the Hthras who had taught this rede to the youngster had died long ago, leaving behind no apprentice. The old magics were being lost. The Hthras Wise Ones these days practiced only healing spells, and few of them.

  Khith glanced over the ingredients, mentally checking them off.

  Thread, spun from a corpse’s hair. Beetle carcasses, and a large, wax-dipped fringe-leaf. And a special distillation of a powerful herb that was as subtle as it was intoxicating.

  Quickly, Khith stuffed the ingredients into the belt it wore around its slender waist. Then it grabbed the overloaded pack, swung it up into place, and fastened the harness across its narrow, soft-furred torso.

  Out, into the hallway, turn right, two lefts, up a stairway, then left again. Another stairway, and another. Khith raced up the Ancients’ wide-flagged stairs, up and up, until it reached ground level. The Hthras paused once again to farsee. This time it was difficult to gain any images. The spell was waning quickly.

  Another insect was the best “view” the scholar could find.

  They had crossed the stream and were making good time, moving nearly as fast as the lunging jagowas that led the procession. Khith’s heart pounded. Now they were only minutes from the Ancients’ city.

  Khith’s hastily formed plan called for it to travel west, then north, crossing the Sarsithe, then heading up out of the rainforest into the Steppes that lay southwest of Severez.

  There were settlements aplenty on both the mainland colony of Kata or on the island kingdom of Pela.

  Turning south, it plunged into the jungle, deliberately picking a path along a muddy trail, and making only a cursory effort to smooth out its trail behind it. Even if the Hthras were fooled by this ruse, the jagowas would not be.

  Straining its rounded, upstanding ears, Khith listened with every sense for the sounds of pursuit.

  When it had gone far enough to reach the banks of the wide stream that its pursuers had crossed upstream, Khith paused to check that there were no killer swimmers there, then stepped delicately into the cool water. The Hthras stood there for a moment, allowing the liquid to flow around its spindly, furred legs.

  Quickly it took out the materials from its belt-pouch, arranging them in the middle of the leaf it spread across its hand. Hair, herb, dried husks of beetles, and finally …

  Khith took a deep breath and sank its sharp teeth ruthlessly into the skin covering its palm. When it drew back,

  two half-circles of red welled up. Khith held its palm over the leaf, letting the blood drip down until the silver-green was splashed with deep red.

  Quietly, it whispered the first few verses of the Chant for Confusing Trackers, tapping time with its wounded hand against its furry belly.

  “Searchers < beat, beat >

  Seek to find me

  Hunters < beat, beat >

  On my trail

  Forest < beat, beat >

  Help to hide me

  Help me with the Forest’s veil

  Help me help themselves to fail.

  Slow them < beat, beat >

  Glide me farther

  Shake them < beat, beat >

  While I run

  Lose them < beat, beat >

  Walk through water

  Let this prey their hunt outrun

  Slow their searching … or I’m done.

  Footprints < beat, beat >

  Can confuse them

  Backward < beat, beat >

  Walking false

  Streambeds < beat, beat >

  Can refuse them

  Draw them where the forest calls

  Block them with your living walls.”

  Then the Hthras bent and placed the leaf on the water, releasing it to the sluggish current, watching for a moment as it went bobbing downstream.

  Glancing back over its shoulder, Khith took a slow, cautious step backward—then froze, ears alert.

  Those sounds! The swish of vegetation, the hushed sounds of voices, the low snarls of the jagowas— They’re right behind me!

  Khith forced back panic and took another step back, careful to ease its foot down into the same footprint it had made minutes ago when it had first walked up the muddy path.

  Another careful backward step, echoing the existing footprint, then another, and another …

  Khith’s heart was hammering so hard now that it was increasingly difficult to track the progress of its pursuers. It tried to control its breathing, listening so hard it seemed like a physical effort.

  And always, those slow backward steps, setting its feet precisely into its prints.

  Softly, under its breath, it chanted the next verse.

  “Wild pigs < beat, beat >

  Root in pathway

  Insects < beat, beat >

  Buzz and bite

  Birds fly < beat, beat >

  Up from cover

  Spread unease with dying light

  Let them dread the coming night …”

  Khith paused for a moment, feeling the mud squish beneath its bare feet. When it donned clothing to walk the land of men, it would also put on sandals to shield its feet from their hard roadways, but Hthras in their homeland were tree people, climbers, and they never went shod.

  All around it the Hthras sensed the forest. Closing its eyes, it concentrated, and was finally rewarded by a blurry image of the searchers amidst the ruins. They had not found the vine-shielded entrance to Khith’s lair, or, if they had, they had not entered. Instead they were casting about, plainly searching for a trail.

  One of the jagowas snarled, its cry rising into a roar as it surged forward, dragging the handler.

  Time to
disappear, Khith realized. They’ll be here in moments.

  Slowly, balancing on one foot, the Hthras thrust its right foot backward, full into the blade-brush that encroached onto the narrow trail. Smooth, sharp-pointed leaves raked along its hide, but its fur provided some protection. Then, awkward with its heavy pack, the scholar gave a little hop, leaving the path and crashing back into the blade-brush. It stifled a whimper as the leaves drew blood.

  Hastily, trying to ignore the stinging of its palms from the leaves, Khith pushed the screen of brush back into place.

  Then the Hthras wiped the edges of the leaves to remove the narrow blood-trails. Sprinkling herbs to hide its scent, the scholar arranged the branches as it would a living sculpture.

  When the brush was back in place, Khith ducked its head to protect its eyes, then backed away on hands and knees, ignoring more stinging little slashes from the leaves.

  Finally, when it was at least three body lengths off the trail, it subsided into a little huddle, trying to repress its shivers.

  This was a calculated risk. The blade-brush might discourage a jagowa, but it would also make flight nearly impossible.

  Voices …

  Khith’s ears twitched. They’re here!

  It stiffened with fear as its pursuers came swiftly up the trail, with the jagowas bounding in the lead.

  Khith whispered another verse of the chant, its voice so soft that it could barely hear itself.

  “Briars < beat, beat >

  Tear their clothing

  Roots catch < beat, beat >

  At their feet

  Swamp ground < beat, beat >

  Stirs their loathing

  Hold them until I can retreat

  Hold them so we will not meet.”

  The Hthras heard the hunting party go past, headed for the stream, then heard the irritated snarls and yowls of the jagowas. The big hunters hated water. Still, from the sounds of it, they splashed right into the stream. Khith heard the hunters exclaim excitedly, and dared to hope that its spell was working and they would be lured downstream.