by Tia Reed
“Will Draykan accept him?” she asked.
The soothsayer seemed to shrivel. Her eyes held the suffering of the tribe. “His addiction corrupts the young. Once he is well, he must leave.”
The group that left the longhouses was silent. Erok led the way into deep, shaded forest, his grim expression clear indication he was unimpressed with his task. She followed with Timak, both of them in clean but worn Ho’akerin garb, a sleeping mat and blanket strapped to their back. Sian trailed with her grandmother, Vila, the lean, wrinkled woman who had cooked breakfast. Her few rusty words of Laanan were music to Kordahla.
Progress was slow. Both Vila and Erok foraged as they went, pulling up white bulbs and green stems and plucking peaches, nuts and early date plums from trees. It made for tasty meals, supplemented with any rabbit, fish or partridge Erok caught. At times he disappeared off trail, returning hours later with his catch. It was then Kordahla understood the steep terrain, the endless climbs and descents that turned her legs to puffer jelly, that left her stiff and miserable was no hindrance to the hunter.
The first night they camped in a valley, wrapping thin blankets tight around themselves as stars winked through gaps in the canopy. So tired was she, the hard ground did little to stop her drifting into restless sleep.
She woke with a start. Disoriented by the blackness, she turned. The fire had died to embers. Spooked by the rustles and whirrs, she listened for a sound out of place in the dark. Her eyelids were drooping when a yowl send shudders down her spine. She disentangled herself from the blanket and went to the children. Timak and Sian were sitting up, and Vila was clucking about them like a mother hen. Erok was standing alert, holding up a wet finger to gauge the wind. A second yowl startled the children into gasps. It sounded no nearer, small comfort that it was. She hesitated as Erok waved them back to sleep.
“Ogre too far. No reach us before morning,” Vila said, and hushed the children down.
Kordahla watched both Erok and Vila tuck themselves in before she was game to return to her blanket. She barely dozed the rest of the night.
Come dawn they were up again. Her feet, blistering in the sturdy pair of moss-stuffed, bark shoes the village had provided, were agony to walk on. Her skin was raw from scratching at insect bites and her mind foggy from lack of sleep. She would have welcomed someone to talk to, but Laanan was a strain for Vila and she limited herself to the bare necessities of communication. As for Timak, he fled into his own world. He and Sian had found their own way to have a one-sided conversation through the tireless genie. She watched Timak reply through gesture to some comment Sian had made. It was more than he had done with her. Kordahla’s isolation began to suffocate. She longed for Karie and Samille’s frivolous banter.
That afternoon, their way was barred by a wall of rock. Kordahla bit her lip. It didn’t matter how many crevices pocked the rock, or how agile the hunter climbed, it was an impossible ask. She had worn slippers all her life, had carpets laid under her feet and gallant hands to escort her up steps.
“I can’t,” she said, when Erok came back down.
Without attempting to understand, he ushered them around the cliff with an urgency that left her not just relieved, but wondering, until a peculiar, musty stink drifted to her. The intensity of it left her in no doubt that more than one ogre inhabited the nooks above. She was not the only one to cast wary looks over her shoulder as the day progressed. Erok urged them to hurry, pushing them on until dusk, dishing out a cold meal before forcing them into tall trees, up and up until they could climb no more without risk of a bough breaking beneath them.
As Dindarin set and crescent Daesoa rose, the yowls drew close. Erok’s snores did little to reassure her. When the snap of branches announced a predator was scaling their haven, she began to panic. One night of evasion was the province of Lady Luck, but two? She clung tight as bough after bough broke, praying to the Vae, listening to the children sob and Vila murmur.
They made it to morning, when the only sign of their ordeal were branches scattered over the ground and foul spoor. Forced to sleep for a few hours at sunrise and a few more before dusk, they covered little ground each day. Every night Erok made them scale a tree. His knack for picking a refuge was uncanny, as was his ability to wend his way through forest and select the faintest of twisting paths. Night after night an ogre attempted to snatch them from their perch, howling at its failure to reach their heights.
“No same,” Vila had said when Kordahla voiced the opinion one ogre might be tracking them. “Male, female, big, small. Is bad. Many, many ogres. Never before.”
Which made Kordahla feel decidedly worse. She scratched at a bite on her face and drew blood. Predictably, Vila clucked.
That night the old woman waded through a nearby stream. She returned with a pair of puffers she deposited in a piece of wood Erok had hollowed, and lugged it up the tree and into a fork near Kordahla, emptying half her water bladder into it. The puffers zapped the buzzing insects, content to fill their podgy faces. Kordahla could not thank her enough. In the morning, she released the critters and suffered the extra burden of the bowl in her sack. Erok laughed when he saw her pack it. She laughed back. It felt so good. There was a time she might have laughed every day, at something Vinsant said or did. That time seemed so distant now.
On the sixth morning, the stench of rotten eggs wove its way onto the ridge they traversed. Uneasy, Kordahla approached Vila.
“Spirit Lake,” Vila said, pointing west, through trees and hills. She called something to Erok. He watched Sian, who was walking on, head down and shook his head. The soothsayer’s name was the only word of his response she caught.
In the afternoon, they reached a flatter valley covered with red and yellow-flowering imperial crowns. Travelling was easier. Silent Sian pointed out objects, naming them for Timak. Glad of the distraction, Kordahla joined in, laughing when Sian giggled at her pronunciation.
“Weegarita?” she tried.
Sian shook her head. “Weege–” An odd look twisted her face, cutting short her repetition. The girl stiffened.
“Sian?”
Sian fell to the ground. Her eyes rolled back and her muscles twitched and convulsed.
“Sian!” The thrashing girl risked knocking her head on a rock.
Kordahla could do nothing but cradle her head. One of the palaces pages suffered such an affliction. Nocrates yelled at anyone who even intimated a djinn possessed him, but how could the physic know the djinn were not making a jest? The froth coming from Sian’s mouth was unnatural, and the shade of the slope was still-wind chill. She thanked the Vae Erok and Vila were close, thought they did naught but hold Sian down and clear the largest of the bruising rocks from the grass beneath her.
A terrifying eternity passed before the fit stopped. It was a blessing Sian fell straight into a deep sleep. Kordahla stepped back as Vila brewed some of the pungent herb tea she gave the girl each morning, and forced it between her lips. When Sian woke, her eyes were clouded. She blinked in confusion as Erok helped her sit, then hung her head. No matter who spoke, she refused to meet their eye. It was an hour before she could stand. It was two before she could walk. Before three hours had elapsed, it happened again.
Helpless, Kordahla pleaded with Vae’oenka to help the child. The goddess took no heed. Perhaps Kordahla had chosen to abandon Her ordained path when she fled Ahkdul. Perhaps this child worshipped her own gods. Either way, Sian was unconscious for a long while, and it was obvious as the sun began to set she would not have the strength to climb a tree, let alone remain in one.
“Wood,” Vila said.
They gathered as much as they could, working well into the hours they should have spent sleeping. The piles grew, and still Erok did not seem content. At last, they set about fashioning a ring of hearths. Vila shook her head, clucking her disapproval.
“What is it?” Kordahla asked.
“Ogre no like fire but ogre know people near fire.”
“They come any
way,” Kordahla said.
“Downwind they smell. But upwind, downwind, left, right of wind, they see fire.”
Her heart sinking, Kordahla looked south, to Myklaan. Safety lay a long, treacherous way away. What had she been thinking, to abandon the safety and love of her home? What had she been thinking? She started as Timak came to stand so close, and look up at her with all his hurt in his eyes. Ahkdul. She swallowed down a surge of bile. That was what she had been thinking.
After dinner, Vila approached. “You sleep first, you watch last.”
And so she understood the incredible danger. Sian had stirred but was not strong enough to sit, let alone stand. Faithful Timak lay near the girl, watching intently until he was unable to keep his eyes open any longer. She unrolled her sleeping mat near him, grateful for his company.
When Erok woke her, green Dindarin was shining above the canopy. The fires were low and few branches remained. She moved the puffers she had caught earlier between the children. Incessant insect bites might help keep her awake.
The last log was on the fire when she heard it. A snuffling like a pig rooting for truffles. She grabbed a branch. Its end was no more than glowing embers. Holding it out, she turned a circle. Vae help them! Flames struggled for life in two of their hearths. The other fires were dead.
The snuffling drew closer. A soft hoot answered it from behind.
“Erok!” she shouted.
The tribesman was up in an instant, the spear he slept with balanced in his hand.
“There’s two of them,” she said, hoping he could see the fingers she held up.
A shadowy form came out from behind a bush.
“Telta,” Erok said, holding up three fingers.
Grass swished to her left. Beyond Erok, something large and heavy smacked the ground. They were surrounded. Five or six ogres yowled. Vila and Timak scrambled for burning logs, waving them at the gaps between the dying fires. Sian remained oblivious. Overhead, the sky showed no sign of lightening.
The largest ogre charged at her, leaping right over the glowing cinders. Erok’s spear flew into it. It stopped only to pull the weapon from its shoulder and snap it in two. She ducked and rolled under its legs and back onto her feet as its club crashed to the ground. Turning she jammed the hot end of the branch between the ogre’s shoulder blades. It arched its back with a roar of pain. Erok attacked from in front. She scooted around, scooping up the broken spear and flinging it at an ogre that was advancing on Vila. The arrow tip caught it in the thigh. As Erok landed a blow on the first creature, she waved the blackening log to ward the others off. Their steady creep was bringing each to the boundary of the fire. The burned ogre fumbled back, stepped onto a hearth, and yowled in pain. Enraged, he loped back into the centre of the circle, slashing wildly at all of them. Then he noticed Sian.
With two ogres in the circle and four more looking for a way in, danger confronted her every way she turned. Erok was jabbing, ducking and turning like a seasoned warrior, managing to keep the other beasts at the boundary while landing more blows on the pained ogre. It kept advancing, batting at Erok’s branch like it were an annoying insect. She came from behind, adding her blows to Erok’s until Vila was not faring so well. The second ogre loomed over her. Cinders fell off the end of her blackened branch, forcing her to back away. Sensing an easy kill, a third ogre approached from behind. Trapped, Vila swung the branch in circles. Both creatures swiped at her. At the last moment, the canny old woman dropped to the ground, leaving the ogres to claw each other. They broke into a vicious fight, their feet booting Vila around. She cowered on the floor between them, hands over head, unable to escape.
As Kordahla broke to help Vila, the first ogre hit Erok, sending him flying into the leg of a fourth beast. He slashed at the ankle tendon with his hunting knife and rolled away.
“No,” she yelled as Timak dived under her arms, toward the first ogre reaching down to snatch Sian. Timak dragged his torch under its legs and rammed it into the creature’s loin. It howled, paralysed with pain. In that moment, Erok got to a knee and threw his hunting knife. It landed in the ogre’s eye. The beast staggered. An immense foot pounded dangerously close to Sian. Kordahla lunged, and pulled the unconscious girl from its path. The ogre managed a few more steps before falling face down.
There was a sickening crunch. Villa screamed. She rocked on the ground, an arm crushed as the two ogres continued their bloody fight above her.
Erok retrieved his knife, and dashed to her aid. One of the pair, ragged wounds over chest and thigh, limped away, its chilling whimpers echoing off the trunks. The other snarled at Erok and grabbed Villa by the middle. Again, Erok slashed for the tendon. The ogre sidestepped him and he managed to inflict no more than a superficial graze. The hunter would need to fend for himself; the fifth ogre, emboldened by the others, was bounding at Sian and Timak. Her branch cold, the fires dead, all she could do was say a desperate prayer to Vae’oeldin and charge. Dindarin, in his first quarter, had long set, leaving the stars to shine bright; daybreak travelled from too far away. The wounded ogre was dragging itself away, the ground trembling as it hopped on its good leg, and the last one, a child by the look of it, fled without setting foot in their circle. Two remained, devilish in their persistence. One grabbed Timak and dragged him away. He cried out as he bounced over rock and root, dropping his branch. For all the boy had rammed ogres with it, the end still burned.
“You can’t have him,” she yelled, picking it up and dropping her own charred branch on the chase. The cumbersome creature was faster than she. She fell to the ground, fumbled for rocks and pelted it in the back. It hung onto the boy as it thumped its way through the forest.
If only the sun would rise.
She looked up. A mahktashaan might have conjured a blaze of yellow. The flame she carried was all they had. It needed to burn high. She clambered into a tree, resting the torch over branches so she could use both hands to climb, setting it as high as she could so it burned between two sprigs.
“Sun,” she yelled, the only thing left to her to do. “Sun.”
The ogre tripped, releasing Timak. It recovered its footing and doubled its pace, glancing at the torch. Kordahla almost fell from branch to branch. She ran to Timak, flat on his back, groaning, and patted him down.
“Are you hurt?” she asked. “Are you hurt?”
He was bruised and shivery, but seemed intact. She gathered him into a hug. To her surprise he burst into sobs and hugged her back. She rocked him for a time, then set him on his feet, and wiped away his tears with her sleeves.
“We must get back to the others,” she said, taking his hand.
In camp, the ogre that had attacked Vila lay with a knife between its ribs. Kordahla walked a wide circle around the hairy, sinewy corpse. Vila was lying with a hand on Sian’s arm. Under the silhouette of leaves, beneath indigo patches of sky, she knelt beside the old woman.
“Clever girl,” Vila said, two words which exhausted her.
“Is there anything, I can do?” Kordahla asked. It was not like Vila to lay still, to moan, to leave Sian tossing and turning.
Behind nearby bushes, an ogre hooted. Kordahla stood, trembling. It was impossible to tell if a shadow lurched or her tired eyes played tricks. She turned a slow circle, peering into the predatory forest, Timak stuck to her hip. A sure-footed figure emerged from darkness. She screamed before she realised it was Erok, carrying a bundle of branches. He selected a few, and kindle a flame in one of the hearths. Kordahla relit the others while he checked on Sian, brushing a lock of hair off her forehead. The girl murmured, and opened her eyes. Erok spoke to her as he picked up Vila’s hand. The Vae grant all they needed was rest. Kordahla sat with them, dozing, and then waking, to find the sky had lightened to violet, to see the full, horrific extent of Vila’s injuries. She fought to keep tears from her eyes.
“Sian?”
The girl had risen and was walking toward the fallen ogre, oblivious to Erok’s call. She knelt by the beast an
d, taking its hairy hand, stared at the knuckles. Her look Erok’s way was quizzical. She said something, a question, and Kordahla caught Ishoa’s name. Erok pulled his knife from the ogre and went to sit next to her, responding with some gentle words. When Sian nodded, she looked confused. With deft hands, Erok skinned the hand and dug out a knuckle bone. Sian cupped it in her hands, like a delicate prize.
“Sian,” Vila called.
The girl crept over. When the old woman could finally part her from the bone, she insisted on crawling to a fire and boiling it clean. Bent double and bleeding, she refused any assistance as she fished the clean bone out and gave it to Sian. The girl tucked it into a leather pouch she wore around her neck.
“Why does she want the bone?” Kordahla asked. Both Vila and Erok were looking at the child with an expression akin to awe.
Vila shook her head but did not answer.
Timak came and slipped his hand into hers. He too had a queer expression on his face as he listened to the air. “She’s going to be a soothsayer,” he whispered, “but she doesn’t know it yet.”
A groan escaped Vila’s lips. Closing her eyes, she lay down. Kordahla looked a plea at Erok, but he shook his head. Sian’s face set into glum stubbornness as, making a demand of the hunter, she took her grandmother’s hand. Erok hugged the girl. Tears trickled down her face and onto her grandmother’s hand, pooling between the wrinkles. The sun reached its zenith, and still Sian refused to move. Vila’s eyes flickered open. Kordahla had learned enough of the language of the Akerin to understand her say, “Listen to Ishoa.”
The old woman’s brow was smooth, her mouth content, when she passed to the spirits.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Jordayne stifled a yawn. The sunbeams streaming through the huge keyhole windows behind the elegant arches and tiered balconies of the Court made concentrating on misery a bore, especially since the petitioners in front of her looked like a dose of sunshine might cure at least a third of their ills. Their solemn gawking did not do justice to the splendid mosaic on the dome. The detail with which the craftsmen of old had fashioned the shiny images of the Vae gave the impression the gods presided over Shah and Court. The honest took comfort in that. As for the deceitful, she’d seen one or two squirm their way out before they ever opened their glib mouths. She waved a peasant with an imagined grievance against his neighbour away, and called for the next petitioner. The picture of misery who shambled before her caused her to sit up straight on the minor throne. The unfortunate man had ruptured pustules over every inch of exposed skin. He was supported by a wife whose clothes were little more than rags.