by Don McQuinn
Slipping ashore, Emso and Domel kept to shadows, followed the arc of the small harbor. They stopped simultaneously to draw weapons. Emso draped his saddlebags over his head, creating a semblance of protection for his upper chest and back. Domel stripped off his outer wear from the waist up, exposing a gallery of red-and-black geometrical tattoos. When the crowd parted to make way for Tears of Jade, Domel snarled, started forward into brighter light. Emso fell in beside him, swinging the splinted leg, refusing the pain of it.
For several paces, no one noticed. The first man to see them literally screamed Domel’s name. Some who heard him shouted or pointed. Others stared, dumbstruck. After the initial consternation, silence blanketed the entire gathering. Fear was a palpable surround.
Domel stepped forward. He shouted over the fire’s roar, “Old woman! Look on me. You told the Skan your god destroyed me. Here I am. You told the Skan your god would send them to victory in their sharkers. There they are, burning by my hand. I, Domel, challenged your god. Defeated him. Look on me, and admit your lies.”
Emso moved up beside him. “Only Domel knows my name. No other man here has enough honor to speak it.”
An arrow whistled out of the crowd, flew past the two men. The sound was still in the air when Lorso’s voice boomed, “No! Take them alive. They insult us, our god. I want them alive. Take them!”
Maddened Skan warriors screamed release at Lorso’s orders. They charged down the beach.
Emso reached inside the front saddlebag. On his left Domel was pale, a picture of dread. He turned his sword to his throat. Emso yelled to make himself heard. “We won’t be captured. I made sure.” When Domel looked, Emso handed him one of a pair of things that looked like dull green metallic slingstones. Domel stared confusion.
“Grenade, Tate called them.” There was no more time. Demonstrating, Emso pulled the pin, holding down the spoon. Domel did the same. Emso said, “When I tell you, let that little metal thing go. Don’t fail. I’ll see you in the Land Beyond.”
Emso’s calm assurance impressed Domel. He held the grenade in his left fist. The right readied his sword. Emso crouched a few feet away, in the same attitude. Domel couldn’t know that Emso’s quiet smile reflected the irony that the witchery of the aliens who’d come to Ola now deserved his eternal gratitude for one last kindness. If the strange metal thing worked.
Like surf, the Skan poured around their quarry. They parried and dodged, forbidden to kill. Emso and Domel, unconstrained, did terrible damage. A plaited leather line flowed up from the crowd, settled a loop around both men. It tightened immediately. Domel’s sword fell to the ground. Emso raised his murdat to hack free. A warrior leaped forward, grabbed the arm, screamed for help.
Emso and Domel disappeared, inundated.
Tears of Jade exulted at the sight. “We have them. Now Domel will see what Sosolassa…”
The thrashing pile of humanity lifted, mounded. Explosions cracked, steel-sharp, second reinforcing first. Bodies flew, rising on searing red-yellow flashes that illuminated some men, silhouetted others. Concussion staggered Tears of Jade. She stepped back, tripped into Jaleeta’s arms. An instant later the uncomprehending screams reached her. Calls—names, mother, the god.
The able backed away, leaving the dead and the squirming, moaning wounded. Many ran, shrieking. Some dropped to their knees in supplication. Lorso ran toward the slaughter, bellowing orders, calling for aid to the casualties.
Tears of Jade leaned into the arms of the woman holding her, forgetting her as Jaleeta, thinking only of needed help. Jaleeta disabused her quickly. She whispered softly, “Now is woman’s work the most important. Now is the god most needed. The Skan are hurt. The minds of the people are dulled by pain, shaken by fear. The sanctity of the god is challenged. The strength of the mightiest leader is suspect. Now is a time for beginning, for building anew.”
Bracing her walking staff, hauling herself erect, Tears of Jade turned to face Jaleeta. Bathed in the light of flames, high moon glittering in slitted, sunken eyes, the old woman exhaled heavily. The gusting breath sounded of ice crystalled wind, of the chill mist that steals the mind, making the unwary sag into the easing sleep that never ends. Furor and devastation were dismissed. Each woman looked deep inside the other. Tears of Jade smiled and said, “Yes. My Jaleeta. Indeed we shall begin again. Build anew. Oh, yes.”
Chapter 19
Except for the black-robed Sylah and Lanta, the group inspecting the defensive preparations dressed as if for a fair. No fair required polished chain mail, however, and weapons, however brightly shining, are never particularly festive. Still, there was color in plenty. Tate, as usual, set the pace. She dressed in green trousers, bloused above moccasins of leather so light it was almost yellow. Her leather jacket was cut full, but tucked at the waist, where a wide belt separated it from the trousers. The buckle was polished copper, chased with a stylized bear’s head. She wore her long hair tucked inside a rakishly tilted fur cap. Over the entire ensemble, she wore a thick wool cape, as black as Church robes, emblazoned on the back with a white appliquéd wolf visage. Two jade disks were the eyes.
Even Kate Bernhardt managed to introduce some variety into her semi-Church robes. More constrained than the always-flamboyant Tate, her arrangements seemed more to symbolize the spring struggling to break over the countryside. The sleeves of her woolen outer robe were a buttery yellow, the inset panels of the lower half a rich purple. Her heavy scarf matched the latter. Looking at her, letting his eye stray to the meadow beyond the battlewalk, Leclerc smiled to think how closely her colors matched the crocus and daffodils declaring spring.
The small bandage marking his almost-healed head wound was his own most obvious fashion statement. He was dressed well, though. Kate was responsible for the new leather trousers, warm woolen shirt, and ankle-length swash of a new leather overcoat. He secretly fondled the horn buttons, wondering how she’d had the coat made up in such a short time. He turned away, unable to hide a smile. She was right beside him; she’d ask what he was smiling about. This wasn’t the time or place to confess that he was just being happy because she gave him a gift. And he certainly didn’t want to botch telling her again. Not after the way he stammered and waffled earlier.
He was such a jerk.
When he tried to tell himself he messed up because he was exhausted, a small voice murmured a name—her name—in the back of his mind. Another confession, then; he wasn’t exhausted when he let Jaleeta fry his brains. Alert but stupid. That covered it pretty well.
Conway drew his murdat pointing at the cleared field outside the city. He squinted into a strong south wind. A black-and-white striped sleeve added force to the glint of bared metal, as well as striking contrast to the bright scarlet of his cloak. The hood was back, leaving his head bare. “Wherever Moonpriest sites his wallkiller, the catapults can reach it.”
Tate sighed. So much for a quiet stroll to impress the troops and boost morale. A quick glance showed the nearest Wolves looking thoughtfully at the now-threatening terrain. She could almost hear them thinking about boulders tumbling through the air at them.
Nalatan said, “The one I saw was bigger than the one in Kos. Would it throw farther?” His speech still had a thick quality, carryover from the crushing impact of Lorso’s shield. The side of his face remained swollen, discolored in vivid blues, purples and a particularly ghastly green.
Tate wanted to ignore his question, throw this whole morning out the window, and tell him how much she enjoyed just looking at him, damaged face and all. His wildcowhide jacket with that bristly copper-red body and sueded sleeves, was handsome. So were the polished black half boots, and the rich brown homespun trousers. She almost frowned at the hat. Ola wasn’t so sunny a man needed a wide-brimmed thing like that. Especially one that looked like the illegitimate get of a Mexican sombrero and a cowboy’s Stetson. On the other hand, no one from this world knew what either of those things was.
Brows knitted, Nalatan said, “Where are you, Don
nacee? I asked if Moonpriest could bring the wallkiller I saw here?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, down her throat. She stumbled through the answer. “Sure. I mean, yes, I suppose he could.”
“Then we have to plan for it.”
“Exactly,” Conway agreed. His murdat indicated the castle roof. “Up there, catapults will command its supply route.”
“They’ll resupply at night,” Tate said, “but maybe Louis can come up with black-powder warheads. That’ll certainly interfere, if it doesn’t stop them.”
Leclerc was curt. “We don’t have an unlimited supply of powder. The boop rounds may be much more effective.” His own voice surprised him. He didn’t mean to sound so unpleasant.
Conway continued. “Speaking of supply, we haven’t seen you here since the night of the Skan raid. It’s been almost two weeks. How’s reconstruction? Kate says you sleep in that bunker of yours, won’t let anyone else inside. Any more secret weapons for us?”
Leclerc heard his last response echoing in his head, asked himself why he was so angry. Belatedly, he said, “We’re getting there.”
Tate asked, “You were making larger generators; how are they coming?”
“Four weeks. Three, minimum.” Mean voice. Petty.
Leaning against the wall, Nalatan addressed the group. “When Tate and I rode south, right after the raid, our lead units were already engaged with Windband well north of the river. Those were scouts, but Windband is cavalry; they move fast.”
Sylah entered the discussion. “Not with a wallkiller. Not with Moonpriest’s obscene altar. He can’t move them at horse pace.”
Tate said, “Fast or slow, their objective is to pin us inside the walls, isolate us. Until the Skan make it difficult, we’ll bring in what we need from the sea. Wal’s got boats, and the Whale Coast has food supplies we can draw on.”
They all followed as Sylah walked on. When she stopped again, there was wariness in her manner. A gesture brought her friends closer. Drawn, worried, she seemed to have lost strength. “Tactics isn’t what concerns us. It’s survival. It’s the destruction of our mutual friend, Gan. What are we to do about him? Not even Neela can bring him out of the foul darkness claiming him since Emso’s betrayal. How do we make him understand we need him?”
Lanta said, “He understands. He doesn’t care. His heart’s broken.”
There was a force—a knowing—in her voice that ripped at Conway. Nevertheless, she looked him full in the eye, and there was nothing there but confidence and trust. It was a small thing, but he knew she made it a point to star his life with those moments. She appreciated his necessity to confront the demons of their mutual past, and his need to know she was beside him while he did so.
Sylah was saying, “Gan’s never known betrayal, not of that nature.”
Grim, almost forbidding, Nalatan said, “The Wolves are willing—eager—to understand. They want to share his anger. They’re less willing to accept his failure to fight through pain. They’re expected to take inhuman abuse and win; they believe their leader should be able to withstand human frailty. Remember, Emso betrayed them, too. They’ve accepted it. For warriors, treason can only affect the timing or the certainty of their dying. It won’t have any bearing on the manner of it.”
Sylah said, “Surely they’ll fight as well as ever? What if Gan doesn’t recover completely, what if he’s changed?”
Tate answered, “A military unit reflects its leader’s personality. Properly trained, it’ll perform almost by reflex. For a while.”
Defensive now, Sylah argued, “The peoples west of the Enemy Mountains, from the near shore of the Mother River all the way north beyond the mountain called The Destroyer, are one. We can’t lose that. We mustn’t.”
“We won’t.” Conway’s declaration was a low growl.
No one disagreed.
Sylah and Lanta exchanged covert glances. To them, the hidden doubts were blatantly revealed, the fear of one companion for another achingly clear. Sylah wanted no more of it. She said, “I’ve been with Gan and Neela since he was forced to flee his own tribe, since before Emso. I’ll speak to him.”
Conway said, “Bring the old Gan back to us.”
The women embraced each other before Sylah left. After some desultory conversation, the couples drifted off, each one sure of the heart of every companion. They parted company almost shyly.
Tate remarked on it to Nalatan. “It’s as if we shared thoughts sometimes, you know? Like those Smalls I told you about.”
“I think you’re right.” She cocked her head, suspecting ridicule. He was quite serious. “You know how my brotherhood shares knowledge of the Dry, how we chant the knowing song and dream of what we know. I don’t know how a man sees places where the other chanters have been and he never has, but I did it. Somehow, the Smalls must mix field skills and concentration. They confuse the minds of men and animals. They’re not invisible. They make themselves overlooked.”
“You’ve thought about that more than I realized.”
“Because of the cleansing you told about, the dance the Smalls do. How many times have I wished to scour my mind? If I can’t forget, why can’t I at least be at peace with what had to be done?”
“It’s our curse. For us, there’s no pride without sadness, without horror. Maybe even regret.”
He put a hand to her chin, turned her so she faced him directly. “We can’t live without it. It’s what drove us apart. We can’t let that happen again. I love you. I’ll never again let myself send you away. I won’t let you send me away.”
Tate took his wrist in her hands, raised the palm, kissed it. Her gaze never left his. She said, “And I love you. No jokes. No tough lady. Just a woman. I’ll love you till always.”
They’d wandered to a point in the chill shadow of the castle wall. Deserted for the moment, it was a mute, massive backdrop. Its very existence was an ominous message. Beyond the smiles and pledges, both were suddenly aware that “always” and “never” were frighteningly fragile conceits.
In the small waterfall garden, Kate Bernhardt pointed at a bench, feeling much as she did when facing a recalcitrant Chosen. The pupil seating himself, however, was Louis Leclerc. “We have to talk, Louis,” she said, hating the prim banality. She pulled back her shoulders. “First, I want you to know how proud I am of you. Since the attack, you’ve been a whirlwind. But you’ve got to slow down. You can’t work all day with the artisans and me, then hide in that suffocating bunker and work all night. You’re ruining your health.”
Behind her, the little waterfall’s laughter mocked her. It seemed to captivate Louis. He stared at it, just past her elbow, the faintest line of a frown scarring his forehead.
She waited for a response as long as she could, then, “At least tell me what you’re doing in there. We care about you. Let us help.” Her voice lowered, turned in on itself. “Let me help.”
Still, he failed to speak. She tried a last time. “Please. We need you. You’re no good to us sick.”
He stirred like a man waking. Indeed, when he looked up at her, he appeared as she saw him every morning when he emerged from the hole in the ground she’d come to detest. They shared the day’s first meal then, in his kitchen. She suffered through every one of them, trying to bring some life into him. Those same eroded features and sunken eyes called to her now. She hated that look, always touched by it, distressed that she couldn’t make it go away. It made her feel useless.
Breaking off, he looked around, spoke very deliberately. “Reality; I’m working on reality. I’ll rest when I believe I’ve earned it, Kate. You say ‘No good to us sick?’ Sweet Kate. I’m trying to prove to you, to our friends, to myself, that I can be good to us at all.”
She tried to protest. He held up a preventing hand, resumed staring into the mystery of the falling water, searching. Then, blindly, he reached for her. Kate linked her fingers with his.
Conway trailed Lanta and Sylah into the great hall. The cacophony of constructi
on—hammering, sawing, shouts, the chop of mallet on chisel and the chink of steel on stone—resounded in the arching chamber. Ducking past workers into the passageway leading to Gan’s informal meeting chambers, the trio made their way to that room. With Neela beside him, he waited. A wan smile, meant to be welcoming, was an obvious social grace.
Sylah was sharp. “This is no longer mourning, Gan. You embarrass. Your Territories need you.”
Lingering spirit flared, brought color to his cheeks. “A wounded man needs time to heal. My wounds are worse than most.”
“Your recuperation becomes indulgence.”
Gan bolted to his feet. Shara and Cho, hitherto dozing beside him, scrambled upright. Gan ignored their confused rumbling. “I was betrayed by a man I trusted second only to your husband. Betrayed by an Abbess of Church, one I fed, housed. And Jaleeta. What can be said of Jaleeta?”
Neela edged away from him until she was closest to Sylah and Lanta.
Sylah said, “Is that reason to abandon yourself? What of the glory you’re to bring the Dog People? The treasure of the Door is at your feet. A new world calls, and you bury yourself in wounded pride.”
Red-faced, Gan broke under her unflinching gaze. He looked away, with the brute incomprehension of a mired animal.
Suddenly, literally a blur, Neela was in front of Sylah, all eyes and fury. “You will not speak to him so. He’s your friend still, and it’s you who embarrass for forgetting. He’s never once turned his face from you, and this is how you speak to him when his heart is torn. Go away.”
Contrite, Sylah made as if to speak. Neela held up a single warning finger. Her expression eloquently underscored her demand. A troubled, silent trio filed out.
Neela went to her husband, guided him to a chair. When he was seated, she curled up on the floor beside him, resting an arm across his knees. She said, “They think they own you.”