The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  With a shrieking grind of long bolts, the door burst open and his guards ran inside, shouting at one another as they knelt around him. Dimly Blaise felt a hand grip his arm for an instant.

  “Dilgel m’a-anhr!” exclaimed one of the guards. “He burns with the fire of Anthi. Request the pon!”

  “No!” said another, younger-sounding voice. “It is given us to serve the elders now. Do not seek Tuult.”

  “But—”

  The cold blackness lapped over Blaise as the caverns shook again with low rumblings. Rock cracked nearby, terrifyingly loud, and he opened his eyes just as a strong hand slipped beneath his head and shoulders, lifting him.

  “Drink this and live, my Leiil,” said the young, unfamiliar voice.

  Blaise stiffened. He would not trust a Bban ever again.

  But a cup of warm, spiced wine touched his lips, and despite his fear he could resist no longer. He gulped eagerly until he nearly choked.

  “Gently, Leiil. It is not the Bban way, to permit starvation. I ask thy forgiveness upon these who have mistreated thee.”

  Blaise frowned at the masked face over him. “Who—”

  “I am Oliir. Now drink again.”

  The rest of the wine was tilted down his throat. And as he grew sure it was indeed wholesome and not drugged, he sagged with relief, lifting a trembling hand to rub at his face. “Why?” He clutched at the boy’s wrist as his voice cracked on him, forcing him to swallow and try again. “You are…my enemy. Why…help me?”

  Oliir was silent for a moment. Then he laid his finger gently on Blaise’s cheek. “I am not thy enemy, Leiil. From birth I was pledged to the service of Anthi, and I have counted that service a great honor. But when thy hand destroyed Anthi and her will was lifted, I saw the falsehood and the emptiness of all of Kkanthor’s promises. I have served a lie. I am deeply shamed unto the blood. And now that Anthi is no more, the power of the supreme elders has been freed. It is their wish that we bring thee out unto the keeping of the tribes. We will divide truth.” He removed his hand from Blaise’s tightened grasp. “Now take unto thee courage. Rest. The revered noble shall not harm thee again. He shall harm none of us again.”

  “It pleases us to see thee so well recovered,” said the dark, erect Bban with the silver eyes. He stood far inside the tent that had been Blaise’s prison these past few days, his leathery fingers stretched out over the coals glowing in the brazier. A broad sweep of cloak banded in black and scarlet hung from his bony shoulders, and beneath it he wore a white tunic and a long tabard of supple mail woven from metal threads into a heavy type of cloth. A wide metal belt circled his waist, and from it hung a gold-sheathed jen-knife. Gold armbands, nearly as wide as the length of his forearms, glittered in barbaric splendor from the firelight. Only a certain stiffness in the joints betrayed his age as he turned back to stare at Blaise, his skeletal face containing no expression that Blaise could read. “We understand this is not thy first walk in the land of Merdar, nor thine only return.”

  “No,” said Blaise warily. “I suppose not.” He stood at the entrance of the tent, one hand holding open the flap as he gazed out past the guards. Sunlight streamed down over the camp, golden and pure once again now that the dark clouds had lifted. It glinted off the polished tips of javelins as a group of laughing youths vied with each other in hurling their weapons at a stuffed leather bag set up as a man-size target.

  The encampment of the J’agan-dar had been pitched in a sheltered niche off the wide, lake-bottomed valley below the mountains. Other tribes were camped all through these foothills; he had seen the lightning flashes of hand signals from the ridge-tops. Perhaps fifty broad, low tents stood on the uneven ground, sheltering several families each, as well as the thick-bodied chakas with their narrow heads and woolly black-and-gray striped coats. They were stupid, ill-tempered brutes, and at first he had thought them the only beasts of burden and transportation used by the Bban. But only that morning he had glimpsed the squat, black-metaled machines called porters, which carried one man on swift jets of air. Highly maneuverable and silent, they skimmed the rough terrain as effortlessly as the nhulks wheeled in the sky. And their riders were equally silent, equally efficient. Tall and desert-gaunt of body, they went about booted and mailed, wearing great curved swords in baldrics slung under their cloaks. Blaise rubbed his fingers over the tent material beside him, marveling again at the Bban skill in metallurgy that enabled them to spin lead into tiny threads and weave it into coarse but reasonably flexible fabric that served as an effective, transportable shielding from the deadly rays of the black star. These evidences of advanced technology jarred with the rest of what he had seen of Bban culture. Where had they learned these skills? Where had they got these machines? Not from the Tlar, certainly.

  “What Tlar pride bids thee to this discourtesy?”

  The sharpness of that question broke into Blaise’s thoughts. He turned with a blink, letting the tent flap fall. “Forgive me,” he said, spreading out his hands. “I failed to hear.”

  The glare in the old Bban’s eyes softened a fraction. He raised his head. “Thy thoughts remain in the caverns. It is unwise, Noble Asan, to pay so little attention to thy present situation. We brought thee away from the hand of the Noble Picyt, but not to extend mercy unto thee.”

  Blaise frowned. “The footing will soon be too soft for effective battle,” he said, deciding to see if he could find out what kind of military strategy the Bban’n would employ against the horde of Tlar’jen now camped on the plains of Ddreui to the eastern side of the mountains.

  “Ah, battle.” With an amused click of his long jaw, the elder gestured for Blaise to join him by the fire. As Blaise did so, lowering himself to the ground, which was covered by leather mats that squished softly beneath his weight, the elder said, “Thine age is far beyond our concept, Leiil Asan, and still thou has the impatient vigor of youth. The time is not yet arrived to worry about armies floundering in the mire of thaw.” He struck a narrow tube hanging from the apex of tent poles, producing a thin chiming sound, and at once a veiled female ducked into the tent with a tray in her hands.

  Blaise looked closely at her, then away in disappointment. It was not Giaa. He knew she was in the camp, but he had not seen her since he had been brought here.

  The elder took a steaming cup from the proffered tray and waited until Blaise did the same. As soon as the servant exited, he said, “We have bided the walk of time since the return of the Tlar. We have waited long for the downfall of Anthi and her accursed servants.” Fitting the rim of the cup against the hinge of his jaw, he tipped back his head swiftly, swallowing the contents in one noisy gulp, then unfitted the cup and set it down.

  Averting his eyes, Blaise sipped cautiously at the fiery liquid. “Anthi is no more,” he said. “War is no longer necessary now that Picyt is—”

  “All Tlar must be swept aside!”

  Blaise stiffened. “No, Uxe Ggil,” he said, using the formal Bban title. “We—”

  “All.” Ggil crooked his dark fingers. “Thou cannot comprehend the depth of Bban hatred for Tlar. We put away all things Tlar, even the name. We learned to accept what we became. We learned to take this wasteland into our hearts and make it ours, forgetting the lakes and meadows of home. Such things have been wiped from memory. Our youth are no longer told of them. But the elders remember.” He raised his clenched fist as Blaise started to speak. “Was it not enough, to be on this world? Was it not enough to become Bban? Why did thy hordes descend upon us in the dark time? They took our freedom. They took our minds. They took our gods. And they meant to take our souls. Our souls! Merdar, if our past were known to the Tlar, Kkanthor would die rather than reach for us.”

  Staring at him in bewilderment, Blaise rose to his feet, wincing at the slight catch in his side. “I do not understand,” he said, not quite certain he wanted to.

  “No.” The elder’s gruff voice drooped, became less strident. “The Tlar do not understand us. How could they? But thou,
Asan, thou should remember the prisoners taken in the Duoden Conflict, the prisoners convicted here on this barren planet. That was thousands of years ago, but we, too, have our legends of the mighty Asan and his consort.”

  Blaise’s frown deepened. He did not speak.

  Ggil paused for a moment, his silver eyes glowing. “Thy pride is great. Must I say it all? We were Tlar once! We stood smooth-skinned and proud. We were as thou are now.”

  Blaise stared at him, his mind spinning. “And you have mutated! The radiation—”

  “Yes.”

  Ggil spoke in a growl. For an instant Blaise felt the pressure of Ggil’s enmity rise against him, and his own blood stirred in reply. Controlling himself, he drew back a step. Of course! It answered many questions. It explained the disturbing similarities in Tlar and Bban mindset, in the way both races rose so fiercely to meet the same types of challenges, in the mental abilities…

  “Why did the Tlar return to Ruantl?” asked Ggil, lifting his hand. “Were there no more worlds to conquer, that thou must come back to feed upon thy victims?”

  Blaise turned his palm down. “The Tlar have no place left to go. I—” He frowned. “I no longer have the reason. But no Tlar sleep in the caverns, waiting for souls to feed upon. The eight thousand did not arrive. The Bban are in no danger from that.”

  Ggil crooked a finger in disbelief. “Then why has Picyt pursued us through these centuries?” He turned away. “More Tlar lies.”

  “No! Picyt is insane. Why he hates you so intensely is something I don’t know. But you must believe me.” Blaise spread out his hands. “Why else would I have shut down Anthi?” As he spoke he drew in one ring of secrecy upon himself. He must let no one suspect that he had become Anthi’s guardian, able to reactivate her once it was safe and assign her to new and different purposes.

  “We give thanks for what thou hast done, even if we do not understand why,” said Ggil, hooding his eyes. “My fellow elders find it difficult to trust these unexpected actions of the great Leiil Asan, held in all legends to be our most-feared enemy.” He picked up a long metal rod and used it to stir the coals in the brazier. Fresh flames flared up, and he looked at Blaise through them. “For many years we have dreaded thy awakening, yet now that thou art here thou hast slain the goddess of enslavement and robbed Picyt of his powers. Why?” Ggil stepped forward, suddenly intent. “Why?”

  Blaise hesitated, wondering how he could possibly explain the tangle of his reasons. Finally he tried the truth. “I don’t really know.”

  Ggil growled. “It seems thy kind is born with guile in the mouth and trickery in the blood.”

  “No,” retorted Blaise. “I happen to believe in freedom of choice. And self-sacrifice to satisfy a madman’s refusal to face facts is against anyone’s morality.”

  “Better,” said Ggil coldly. “When thou hast learned to look upon thyself with truth, then the truth of others will come to thee.”

  Blaise stiffened, his hand moving involuntarily for the weapon that was not at his belt.

  Ggil clicked his jaw and flung out his arm, the gold band glinting. “Pan’at cha,” he said with contempt, and moved past Blaise.

  “Wait.” Reining in his temper, Blaise dared block the old man’s way. “Grant me one answer, Uxe Ggil. The girl Giaa—”

  Whipping out his jen-knife, Ggil whirled on Blaise. “Thou speaks of her as thine. What gives thee this right?”

  “She is mine,” said Blaise. “If she desires to be. Release her from slavery, Ggil. You have the power as an elder. Let her—”

  Ggil cut him off with a savage gesture. “Fool!” Without another word he strode out, leaving Blaise tight-lipped with fury.

  His rings jerked in a desire to crush these arrogant savages. But he held himself in check, kicking a cushion out of his way as he strode around the tent. He was strong enough now to seizert to freedom, but he had no intention of doing so without Giaa, or without some means of adequate rations and protection from the X rays. He could not even send forth his senses to Giaa’s mind, for he was close-watched in more ways than just the physical. His fists clenched. If they would just listen to him!

  That night when a servant brought his food, he tried to delay her just for a moment. “Giaa. Do you know her? Will you tell her—”

  With a snarl the female pulled a knife on him and waved it threateningly until he grimaced in frustration and stepped back. Then she fled, ducking out of the tent without a backward glance. Slowly Blaise walked back to the warmth of the fire, pulling his cloak more tightly about his body, and sat down to pick without interest through his food. He could not continue to sit here helplessly until Leiil Hihuan struck. But there seemed to be nothing else he could do without exhausting his captors’ scant patience.

  He was dozing fitfully in the darkness, rolled in his cloak and a fur robe in a not very successful attempt to ward off the cold, when a small sound from the rear of the tent awakened him. His senses snapped out, and he drew a surprised breath.

  “Giaa!” he whispered, sitting up. “What—”

  “Hush, my Leiil. I beg thee.” She was no more than a slim shadow as she pulled back the section of tent wall she had cut and groped her way to him. The smoky fragrance of her skin filled the tent. He grabbed her close and buried his face in her hair, letting his thoughts flow into hers, sharing what words could not. She breathed raggedly, and her heart thundered against his. Then she pulled back and thrust a roll of clothing into his hands. “These are the clothes of a warrior. Dress quickly,” she said, her voice no more than a breath. “Council is held tonight. The warriors of five primary tribes are meeting with the supreme elders. We must move quickly and without sound.”

  Nodding in the darkness, he began to fumble with the clothes, scratching his hands on the mail add dropping the belt before at last he was dressed and booted. The fabric of his tunic was rough enough to chafe his skin beneath the weight of the tabard. Bban musk hung in the cloth, tainting it, but he made no complaint. When he was ready, she gave him a jen-knife to sheath at his belt and a baldric and scabbard.

  He buckled the latter on awkwardly, unused to the weight of a sword. Despite the urgency of the moment he paused to draw the sword, hefting it and finding it needed two hands on the wire-wrapped hilt to balance the curved length. His fingers ran down the blade and felt the large square jewel set in the pommel. He wished he could see it.

  “Where did you get such weapons?” he asked.

  “I stole them as I did these clothes for us,” she whispered impatiently. “Hurry. We cannot walk through camp at this hour unless it is believed we are warriors.”

  He slid the sword back into its scabbard. “We will seizert—”

  “No!” Her hand clamped upon his arm hard with a strength he had not known she possessed. “No. My way. Hurry.”

  He did not argue, for he was unsure if he could really bring her through seizert. Following her through the darkness, he wriggled out through the cut in the tent and stood breathlessly in the shadows, glancing right and left along the row of tents glowing with firelight. The cold air stung his nostrils. Some distance away sentries stood on guard outside a large tent, from which the sound of heated argument could be heard. It was Blaise’s intention to go in the opposite direction, but again Giaa touched his arm.

  “This way,” she whispered, handing him a strip of leaded cloth. “Put this on thus.” As she spoke she fastened a similar strip across her face, covering everything save her glowing eyes, and pulled the hood of her cloak low over her forehead. And when he had done the same, she squinted at him. “Make thine eyes glow as when thou art angry.”

  He frowned, but obediently concentrated on lifting an inner ring of deception. His eyes grew dry and began to burn.

  “Good. Come.” Again she touched his arm and stepped away from the shadow of the tent, carrying herself erect, even managing a swagger as her heavy boots crunched quietly over the frozen mud.

  Blaise followed, matching his pace to her unhurr
ied one. As they drew near the sentries he spread his ring of deception to reform the surface pattern of his thoughts to Bban. The sentries did not stir, and he could not help cast a glance into the open tent as they passed by. Bban warriors crowded inside, jostling each other with rough elbows and growling as the speaker in their midst raised his voice. Blaise stiffened. Tuult! What was he doing here?

  He slowed, gazing inside with open curiosity despite Giaa’s impatient look back. He looked over the assembly, seeing one cloaked, mailed figure after another. Gold belts and armbands glinted in the flaming torchlight; green corybdium sword-blades gleamed in naked splendor, held in the impassioned grasps of their owners. Shouts, angry and fierce, rose up in hoarse chorus, and Tuult snapped back undaunted replies. Blaise glimpsed him at last as a burly warrior turned to harangue someone at his side. The pon stood erect in his black jen uniform and mask, his scarlet eyes glowing intensely as he swept out his gauntleted hand. Blaise took a step toward the tent entrance.

  At once the guards crossed their javelins to block his way, and one growled. A few inside the tent noticed and turned their heads. Realizing his foolishness, Blaise ducked his head with a gesture of apology and backed away, hastening to catch up with Giaa, whose back was ramrod stiff as she walked on. When he joined her once again, she glanced at him without a word, but he read the accusation in her silver eyes.

  By this time they had reached the edge of the camp. The odors of smoke and chaka-droppings mingled in the dense, cold air. Blaise could see his breath as they walked along. He relaxed a fraction, only to stiffen as he felt a peculiar prickling sensation across his skin. He stopped abruptly, not moving even when Giaa tugged at his arm. He lifted his hand to quell her as he frowned and faced north, where the mountains loomed over them. Out in the rocks on the ridge, a sentinel shifted position, stamping his feet against the cold and scraping the barbed tip of his javelin against stone. Only two of the small moons shone this night, pale glimmers that did nothing to illuminate the countryside. Still Blaise stood motionless, questing with his senses as much as he dared so near the camp. He felt the prickling again, more sharply this time, and instinct told him to run.