The Hounds of Skaith-Volume II of The Book of Skaith

by Leigh Brackett

  Ekmal stopped. His eyes widened. "The Lords Protector? Coming here?"

  Gelmar said, "This off-worlder has pulled down the Citadel, Ekmal. He has burned it, and the Lords Protector are cast out."

  A stillness came over the Hooded Men. They stood stiff and stricken in the wind.

  Ekmal wailed and lifted his hands to the sky. "The Dark Man has fulfilled the prophecy. He has destroyed the Citadel, and there will be no more keeping of the road above Yurunna. He has destroyed us, the hereditary Keepers, the First-Come of Kheb. Our wives and our sacred mothers, our tall sons and blue-eyed daughters, all will die. Our villages will disappear beneath the sands. Even the Fallarin will not remember us."

  All the Hooded Men cried out. And from within the house came a new lamenting in the voices of women.

  There was a shrill scream, and something fell with a clatter onto stone, beyond the open doorway.

  He had a bow, N'Chaka. To send arrows.

  "Wait!" said Gelmar in his strong far-carrying voice. "Do nothing now. The hounds will strike you down. But your day will come. The Lords Protector do not abandon their children. The Citadel will be rebuilt, and there are no more prophecies. Skaith is old and strong. No one man, not even a stranger from the stars, can prevail against her. Let him go now. He will find his death in her arms."

  "May she bury him deep," said Ekmal. "May Old Sun shrivel his bowels. May Runners eat him."

  Stark said, "Give the orders."

  Ekmal gave them, shooting sharp words like darts through the cloth that hid his face. The men obeyed, but their eyes held death, or rather the hope of it, for Stark. There were eleven of them besides the chief. They led out all the animals, to the number of eighteen.

  Ekmal said, "The well is inside."

  Watch, Gerd.

  The stonework of the house was solid and very old. Endless chafing of wind and sand had eroded it in whorls and pits. The edges of the doorway were worn round. On either side of the door, the wall wandered on to enclose a straggle of connected buildings that rose here and there to a second low story. Window places had been blocked up. At one corner was a little tower with many openings, and Stark could hear from within it a dim murmuring, as of birds. The wooden doors that worked on a pivot stone were enormously heavy and sheathed in iron brought by Harsenyi traders from Thyra beyond the mountains. The metal, far more valuable than pure gold, was scratched and scarred by Runner claws.

  Inside, the air was still and warm, with pungent odors of animals and smoke and cooked foods. The stable area was off to the right, beyond a partition. The four Harsenyi beasts were there, standing with their heads down and their flanks heaving. The well had two stone troughs, one for the stable and one for humans.

  The main room was large and neatly kept, with a dung fire smoking on a raised hearth. Weapons were ranged ready to hand. There were hangings and trophies on the walls, along with ornaments, some of them so exotic that they must have been brought up from the south over the Wandsmen's Road. Bags of grain, jars of wine and oil and other stores were kept in walled enclosures. At the back, the large room opened into a series of passageways leading to other quarters. The Wandsmen, Stark was sure, would have apartments fitted with every comfort. All in all, it was a pleasant place to rest from the rigors of travel.

  A group of women, some holding small children to them, was gathered just inside the door. They wore long bright-colored garments of wool, and they did not cover their faces, which were thin-featured and handsome and fiercely hostile. They were clustered about one woman who knelt on the floor comforting a boy of about eleven. He wore a woolen tunic with an orange girdle, and he had not yet hidden his face behind the man's veil. He was trembling, biting back his sobs, and when he saw Stark he reached out for the bow he had dropped on the stones.

  "No!" said Ekmal, and snatched up the bow. He touched the boy's bright head. "This is my son Jofr. I beg you—"

  "Water the hounds," said Stark.

  The women drew aside to let him pass. They bore themselves proudly. Their tawny necks and arms sounded when they moved with the soft clacking together of metal and darkling stones. Jofr rose to his feet and stood staring until his mother pulled him back.

  Halk's litter had been set down close to the fire. Gerrith knelt beside it holding a cup. Ashton stood by her. Both had been watching, taut as bowstrings, to see who came in. They must have known something of what had gone on outside, but they could not be sure until they saw Stark and knew that he had survived the Runners and was somehow still in control.

  Halk was watching, too.

  "Over there," Stark said to Gelmar. "Sit down and be quiet." The hounds were lapping out of the trough. Hate and the death wish were as strong in the air around him as the smoke.

  Watch, Gerd!

  We watch, N'Chaka.

  Stark walked to the fire, and the blue eyes of the women cursed him. Weariness gnawed at him, a corrosion in his bones. "Is there wine?"

  Gerrith poured from a clay jug and handed him the cup. Ashton's gaze moved uneasily from the Wandsmen to the Hooded Men who came and went with gear and provisions.

  "We must go on now," Stark said. "I can't stay awake forever, and I dare not risk the hounds." He bent over the litter. "Halk?"

  Halk looked up at him. A tall man, taller than Stark, he lay under the furs like a withered tree. The bones of his face stuck out through folds of skin where the flesh had dropped away. His huge hands were stiff bunches of twigs bound with purple cords. But his eyes were as hard and bright and contentious as ever, and his bloodless lips still managed the old fleering smile.

  "Dark Man."

  Stark shook his head. "The Citadel is gone, so is the Dark Man. The prophecy is finished, and I am no more fated. This choice is yours, Halk. Will you go with us, or must we leave you here?"

  "I'll go," said Halk. His voice came groaning and whispering out of his hollow chest like wind from a cave. "And I'll not die, neither. I've sworn before Old Sun's face that I'll live to make of you an offering to the shade of Breca."

  Breca had been Halk's shieldmate, struck down in the battle with the Thyrans. Those iron men had given her splendid body to the cannibal Outdwellers, mutton for the spit. Halk might have borne her death, but not that. And he blamed the Dark Man of the prophecy for having led them all to disaster.

  "When do you plan to make this offering?" Stark asked.

  "On the day when you are no longer useful to Irnan. Until then I'll fight beside you, for the city's sake."

  Stark nodded. "I'll remember." To Gerrith and Ashton he said, "Gather your belongings." He called to two of the Hooded Men and told them to carry Halk's litter outside.

  The hounds came dripping and slobbering from the trough.

  Gelmar said, "Stark. They will not follow you below Yurunna. Then you will be two men and a woman with a half-dead burden to bow your backs and only your six hands between you to fight with when the Yur come to take you." He turned suddenly to Gerrith. "Has the wise woman something to say?"

  She stood frozen in the act of pulling up her hood. She had the look of a prophetess once more, her eyes at once seeing and not seeing, fixed on Gelmar, her lips open to form words.

  Stark said her name sharply. She started. Then for a moment she seemed bemused, like one waking suddenly from sleep in a strange place. Stark put his hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the door. He did not answer Gelmar. There was nothing to say, except that what would happen would happen; and that they all knew anyway.

  They passed the women and children. Jofr stood straight, a small thing of prey already shaped for his world.

  Gerrith stopped. "Take the boy," she said.

  The women screamed like eagles. Ekmal came, one hand for the boy and one for his dagger. Gerd growled.

  Stark said, "I will not."

  "No harm will come to him," Gerrith said, and her voice rang like a far-off bell. "Take him, Stark, or Mother Skaith will bury us all."

  Stark hesitated. Then reluctantly he
reached out for the boy.

  Gerd growled louder.

  "You heard the wise woman," Stark said. "No harm will come to him. Do not make me use the hounds."

  The boy's mother spoke, one word, the deadliest one she knew. Ekmal's hand hovered over his knife. The hounds growled.

  Stark said, "Come."

  Jofr looked at his father. "Must I?"

  "It seems so."

  "Very well," said Jofr, and smiled. "I am an Ochar."

  He stepped forward alone to Stark's side.

  They went out into the yard. The animals were ready, linked by leading lines, three of them saddled with the high desert saddles, covered in worked leather with designs of many colors tempered by sun and wind. The litter was suspended between two of the animals, and Halk was once more an inert bundle, his face hidden beneath the hood.

  They mounted. Stark took Jofr before him in the saddle. They rode away from the house, past the heaps of Runner bodies by the pens, past the gnawed and scattered bones of the Harsenyi beasts.

  Ekmal and the Hooded Men stood watching them until they vanished beyond the walls. Then Ekmal went into the house and spoke to Gelmar.

  "Lord, is it true that he and that other are not born of Skaith-Mother?"

  "That is true."

  Ekmal signed the air. "Then they are demons. They have taken my son, Lord. What must I do?"

  Without hesitation Gelmar said, "Bring the Swiftwing."

  Ekmal went along one of the tunnels of the house. The tower of murmuring birds lay to his right, but he did not go to it. They were base creatures, fit only for food. He turned to the left and climbed narrow steps to a high apartment with window slits that let in the light of Old Sun and the wind of the desert. There were hangings of faded crimson on the walls, and trophies of weapons and skulls. Some of the skulls were brittle and yellow with age, crumbling dustily at the rims of the jaws and eyeholes.

  In the center of the room, on an iron perch, sat a creature that seemed itself to be all of iron and bronze, a martial armor of shining feathers. Even with the great wings closed it had a look of speed and power, one sharp clean stroke from the crown of its snaky head to the last of its tapered tail. One of these dwelt in the house of every chief among the Ochar. Fed from the chief's table, with its slender collar of gold, it was the badge and sign and pride of chieftainship, ranking equally with honor and before life, wife, mother or child.

  "Swiftwing," said Ekmal. "Sky-piercer. Wind-rider. Lightning-brother."

  The creature opened eyes like two red stars and looked at Ekmal. It opened its beak and cried out stridently the only word it knew:

  "War!"

  "Of course, war," said Ekmal, holding out his arm.

  9

  The beasts were fresh and strong, striding easily over the sand. The hounds trotted quietly. The wind continued to drop, diminishing the brownness of the air.

  Stark rode like a thundercloud, one arm about the small ferocity of Jofr, who sat straight and unbending, his body yielding only to the motion of the beast.

  Gerrith said, "You are angry about the boy."

  "Yes," said Stark. "I am angry about the boy. And I'm angry about something else—the visions."

  "Let the boy go," Ashton said. "He can find his way back easily enough."

  Gerrith sighed. "Do that if you will. But none of us will ever see Yurunna."

  Ashton turned and studied her face. He had known many peoples on many worlds. He had seen many things that he could neither believe nor disbelieve, and he had acknowledged his ignorance.

  "What did you see," he asked, "before Eric woke you?"

  "I saw Eric . . . Stark . . . in a strange place, a place of rocks. There were Hooded Men there, but their cloaks were of different colors, not the orange of the First-Come. They seemed to be hailing Stark, and someone . . . something . . . was performing a ritual with a knife. I saw blood . . ."

  The boy had stiffened in the circle of Stark's arm.

  "Whose blood?" Stark asked.

  "Yours. But it seemed to be shed in promise, in propitiation." She looked at Jofr. "The boy was there. I saw upon his forehead that he was to be your guide. Without him you would not find the way."

  "You're sure of this?" Ashton said.

  "I'm sure of what I saw. That is all I can be sure of. Has Stark told you? My mother was Gerrith, the wise woman of Irnan. She prophesied in the fullness of power. I do not. My gift is small and fitful. It comes as it will. I see, and I do not see." She turned to Stark. "You are angry about visions! I'm sick of them. I'd prefer to go blundering ahead without sight, as you do, trusting nothing but my own hands and brain. Yet these windows open and I look through them, and I must tell what I see. Otherwise . . ." She shook her head violently. "All that time in the stone house, with those things clawing and screaming to get in at us, I kept seeing you being torn apart and I couldn't tell whether it was the true sight or only my own fear."

  Ashton said, "I had the same vision. It was fear."

  "The hounds passed a miracle," Stark said. He was watching the boy's bright head, which was poised now with a new alertness.

  Gerrith shuddered. "They'll come again."

  "Not in such numbers, and the hounds will watch."

  "If there's another sandstorm," said Ashton, "let's pray there's somewhere to hide. The next wayhouse is a week's journey."

  "You'll not reach it," Jofr said. "My father will send the Swiftwing."

  "Swiftwing?"

  "The bird of war. All the clans of the Ochar will gather. Your demon dogs will kill many, no doubt, but there will be many more." He twisted around and smiled at Stark, his small white teeth showing sharp as a knife-edge.

  "Um," said Stark. "And what of this place of rocks, and the Hooded Men who are not of the First-Come?"

  "Ask the wise woman," said Jofr contemptuously. "It is her vision."

  "Your father mentioned the Fallarin. Who are they?"

  "I am only a child," said Jofr. "These things are not known to me."

  Stark let it go. "Simon?"

  "They're a winged folk," said Gerrith suddenly. Ashton glanced at her. "Yes. Undoubtedly a controlled mutation like the Children of the Sea and the Children of Skaith. They seem to be held in some sort of superstitious awe by the Hooded Men. They are important to tribal life but in what way I was never told. The Ochar are closemouthed with strangers, and the Wandsmen respect their taboos. Anyhow, I had other things to think about. But I do know one thing, Eric."

  "What?"

  "When that boy said I am an Ochar, he was doing more than stating a fact or making an affirmation of courage. He was also saying that an Ochar knows the ways of the desert, sharing its powers; that an Ochar destroys his enemies, never turning aside from sacred feud as long as he has breath. That's a blue-eyed viper you hold there, and never forget it."

  "I've known desert men before," said Stark. "Now let me think."

  The wind dropped. The face of the desert became peaceful. The veils of dust fell away from Old Sun, and the rusty daylight showed the markers of the Wandsmen's Road marching on ahead, never so far apart that if one was buried the next one, or the one beyond that, could not be seen.

  Stark said, "Simon, what lies beyond Yurunna? You spoke of something called the Edge."

  "The plateau we stand on drops away, four thousand feet or so. It's much warmer below, and there are places where springs make cultivation possible. There are cliff villages—"

  "Where the Hooded Men raid?"

  "Not the villages themselves, they're out of reach, but they try to catch people in the fields, or steal their harvest. Beyond that is more desert until you come to the Fertile Belt."

  "The good green land of the Farers."

  "I was brought straight up the road from Skeg, so I didn't see too much of the country. The only city I saw was Ged Darod, the city of the Wandsmen. It was quite a place."

  "A place of pilgrimage," Gerrith said. "Sanctuary, whorehouse, foundling home, spawning ground of more Wa
ndsmen. That's where they're trained and taught, and every scrap of windblown rubbish in the world that drops there is made welcome."

  "The whole of the lower city is crammed with Farers and pilgrims from all over Skaith. There are pleasure gardens—"

  "I've heard of it," Stark said. "But first comes Yurunna."

  Happy as a bird, Jofr's clear voice said, "You will not reach Yurunna."

  He flung his arm skyward, a gesture of triumph. Where he pointed, high up, a winged shape of bronze and iron glinted and was quickly gone.

  "It will go first to the nearest clan chiefs, and then to the farther ones. From its collar they will know that it belongs to my father. They will raise up their men at once, to come to him. You cannot pass through them on the way to Yurunna."

  "Then we must go another way," said Stark. "And if there's no safety for us among the Ochar, we'll have to seek it among their enemies. Perhaps Gerrith's vision has purpose after all."

  Ashton said, "You'll go to the Lesser Hearths?"

  "It seems the only choice."

  Jofr laughed. "The Ochar will still come after you. And the folk of the Lesser Hearths will eat you."

  "Perhaps. What about you?"

  "I am of the blood. I am man, not meat."

  "What will they do to you?"

  "I am a chief's son. My father will buy me back."

  "Then will you guide us to the Lesser Hearths? Or at least to the nearest one."

  "Gladly," said Jofr. "And I myself will share in the feasting."

  Stark said to Gerrith, "This guide you have chosen for me does not inspire trust."

  "I did not choose him," Gerrith snapped. "And I did not say he would guide you out of love."

  "Which way?" asked Stark of Jofr.

  Jofr considered. "The Hearth of Hann is nearest." He indicated a northeasterly direction, frowning. "I must wait for the stars."

  "Does that sound right to you, Simon?"

  Ashton shrugged. "Judging from where the Ochar lands are. They have the best, of course."

  "The Lesser Hearths are weak," said Jofr. "The Runners eat them. When they are gone, we shall have all the land and water."