by Dave Smeds
For once, Elenya was not irreverent.
They continued deeper into the wasteland. Lonal wandered in no specific direction, or so it seemed to them. Eventually they realized he was following a peculiar type of mark in the sand.
He stopped next to a mound of earth pocked with holes, each about the diameter of a human wrist. Motioning them to stay, he tiptoed up to the site. Leaning close to several of the holes, he examined the traces left in the loose soil surrounding each opening. He nodded to himself and reached within his satchel once more. He withdrew a mouse.
The creature tried to scurry between Lonal's fingers, but the war-leader thwarted it. He produced a coil of twine, a metal barb resembling a fish hook at one end. He plunged the point into the mouse's abdomen, made sure it had anchored firmly, and let the rodent free at the lip of the hole he had selected.
The mouse hobbled painfully, but swiftly, out of sight, trailing the twine. Lonal allowed the coil to unravel without resistance; soon it went slack.
They waited. Gradually, Lonal nurtured the strand back into a coil, finger by finger. It grew taut. Lonal jerked.
The twine shuddered, thrashed. The man pulled as fast as he could.
When it emerged, the end of the twine seemed to have grown thicker. Lonal stood, holding up a snake half as long as he, a narrow, delicate specimen with a swollen gullet, the point of the barb protruding entirely through its skin in the middle of the bulge.
He held the snake in front of Alemar. “Cut it in two,” he ordered.
Alemar drew his saber and halved Lonal's catch. The hind section flopped to the ground, where it writhed.
Lonal cut off the end of his twine and flung the head of the snake, mouse and all, past the mound. The blood pouring from the severed end splattered the burrows. They could hear the muffled thrashing of its death throes through the sage for several seconds.
Lonal picked up the tail and held its markings up to the sunlight. “This is an iltrekal-hasha-sor, the moonsnake, the most venomous thing in all Zyraii. If one should bite you, you will die in less than an hour. Only once in our history has a man survived it—Umar, the greatest Hab-no-ken ever to have lived, who healed himself. Fortunately, they prefer to remain in animal burrows such as this hussa mound or other underground tunnels. They only come out at night, and they do not bother creatures as large as men, unless you bother them. Never pitch your tent in open desert without checking for their traces."
He shoved his supply of twine into the satchel. “This is the second lesson—the desert has a thousand ways to kill you, large and small. God did not place us here as a reward, but as a test. If you would challenge this land, know the magnitude of what you do."
As he spoke, Lonal's hands had drifted to his sides, to rest on his waist, just above the sword belt. Before either Alemar or Elenya could move, he had drawn demonblades from duplicate scabbards and flung them simultaneously at their chests. Both landed hard at midtorso level, butt first, and flopped to the ground even as the targets dodged.
Elenya drew her rapier. Lonal folded his arms and smiled. Alemar, winded from the impact to his solar plexus, merely dropped his jaw, literally breathless at the thought that anyone could control two throwing knives with either hand at the same time.
“What was that for?” Elenya demanded.
“May I?” Lonal asked, gesturing toward his knives. Two wary observers allowed him to retrieve them, wipe off the dirt, and slide them into their scabbards. Elenya sheathed her rapier only after he had looped the flaps shut over the handles.
“Lesson three,” the war-leader observed calmly, “is that people must help each other. God gave us challenges, and he gave us the social qualities that bring us together to meet those hurdles. When one is offered help, one should take it. Don't tempt good fortune. I could have killed you just now, but I have hopes that you will be valuable to me, given time. Out there”—he swept his arms across the arid tracts of chaparral and ruptured stone—“are nigh twenty thousand other sons of Cadra, thirsty for foreign blood. We are not a tolerant people. If you are welcomed by us, consider it an advantage not to be wasted. I am the son of Joren, but even my father's fame and my own reputation will not protect you should you stray from the embrace of the T'lil."
Elenya seemed ready to retort, so he held up a hand. “You aren't reconciled to stay. Otherwise you would listen to your teachers, Yetem, and cooperate with them. Be like your brother, with his natural desire to study regardless of the conditions. Perhaps you will succeed in your escape next time, and it could be your ruin. The wights should serve as a warning. Those crypts are old, and they litter our landscape in odd places, away from the common routes. Lost children have been attracted to them from miles away. You were drawn to that particular site because you couldn't recognize the taint in the air. Any adult born in this land would have been in no danger."
“We didn't thank you for our rescue,” Alemar said.
“No, you didn't. I am, in a sense, offering you the chance to show your gratitude. I won't ask how you ran so fast—your bedrolls still held warmth when we discovered you missing. Nor will I ask how you possessed the sorcery to destroy a wight and set its captive souls free. It is enough that we riders saw the aura of your magic and could locate you in time. You are more than you seem. So be it. Remember that you are in my debt."
The first bat of evening whisked overhead, though the sun hung clear of the horizon. Lonal turned and headed back toward camp. He let the twins follow as they might. The war-leader's confidence was overwhelming, Alemar thought. Soon he and his sister were trailing close behind, mulling over the war-leader's advice.
Only once did Lonal stop and speak to them again, just before they entered the camp. He seemed deeply intrigued.
“Do you believe in auguries?” he asked.
* * *
XI
THE SNAKEBACK HILLS HAD EARNED their name. They twisted with serpentine abruptness, jagged S curves as rugged as the Ahrahikte Mountains hanging over them in the west. The T'lil seldom ranged so far, but Joren and his clan needed the pasturage to be found on their slopes. Furthermore, Setan was nearby, and Joren reasoned that it was an auspicious place to be with the child due.
By his calculation, she was in labor already.
Alone, he climbed over a precarious section of scree toward firmer ground near the ridgeline. So far he had crossed the back of the snake three times, though it was early in the day, and would probably continue his destinationless trek until the light failed. Here, it was said, an ordinary man could be closer to God than any spot in all Zyraii. From any high point, God's Peak could be seen challenging the sky, so near that the glow of the moons could be seen on its snowfields in winter.
Would God consider his prayers? Was he worthy?
As he stopped at the crest to view the mountain again, his foot dislodged a large stone, sending it crashing down the grade he had just vanquished, into the scree. It created a small but noisy avalanche.
“Help! Help!"
Joren barely heard the voice as the din of the slide diminished. “Where are you?” he yelled.
“This way! In the hole!"
Joren searched the hilltop. Guided by continuing cries, he finally located an opening in the ground a short way down the other side of the hill.
“Don't get near! It crumbles!"
The warning came just in time. Though the earth appeared to be granite, near the hole it had cracked, and some pieces at the lip were loose. Two chunks fell. Dust billowed up out of the pit.
“Thanks."
“Sorry. How did you get in there?"
“The hole wasn't here until I walked by. The mountain must like to eat holy men."
Joren shifted to a boulder securely attached to one side of the opening, from which he could manage to peer within. The sun's angle favored him. He could see a dusty Zyraii in the grey robes of a hada Zee-no-ken, standing in the center of a near-perfect spherical chamber within the ground. It was hard to imagine what had made
the cavity. Joren could only guess that the upheaval that had built the hills themselves had left a giant bubble within the rock, trapped until the Zee-no-ken's misfortune exposed it to the light of day. It was just a little too deep to allow the man to jump out. Moreover, the geometry of the chamber made scrambling out impossible.
“I don't suppose you have a rope with you?” the Zee-no-ken asked.
Naturally Joren had a rope; he wouldn't have gone wandering in the Snakeback Hills without one. Before long he had anchored it to the boulder and thrown the free end to the trapped man. Soon wiry, middle-aged hands emerged, followed by the gaunt, but obviously strong, figure of the priest.
“Thank you,” the Zee-no-ken said. His robes were torn, exposing a pair of scrapes, but the vigor of his climb out and the ease with which he handed the rope back to Joren belied any serious injury.
“How long were you in there?"
“As of dawn, two days."
“Would you like some water?” Joren asked, noting that the other had none.
The man accepted the goatskin without hesitation, and drank one long, fulfilling swallow. He seemed entirely satisfied with that. As Joren knew, Zee-no-ken had control over their bodies in ways that mystified other human beings. Two days without water in this land often killed.
“I am Esidio. I am in your debt, Po-no-pha."
“I am Joren, war-leader of the T'lil. You're welcome."
Esidio seemed surprised. “I assumed you to be searching for a lost goat, but a man of your station would not do so. God must have designs to send such a rescuer."
“I would have no idea about that,” Joren said. They prudently put a little more distance between themselves and the pit.
“Surely you're here for some reason?” Esidio smiled gently.
Joren paused long enough to coil his rope. Could it be that God had heard him? “I came seeking counsel with myself. My wife will soon give birth."
The priest had probably not seen a baby in decades, but he nodded understandingly. “Your first?"
“Yes, if all goes well. The other three times I have been given girls."
“Ah. Have you considered another wife?"
“She is my other wife."
“I see."
Joren nodded, and they sat down together to view God's Peak. Near midday the currents of the heat in the air made the mountain's contours shimmer, as if it were melting into the heavens.
“You don't seem at all disturbed that you might have starved to death in that hole,” Joren wondered out loud.
“I was disturbed while I was in there. Now that I'm saved, it doesn't make any sense to fray my nerves worrying about what would have happened if you hadn't come along. I don't mean to seem indifferent. In fact, I would feel much better if there were a way I could express my gratitude."
“Well,” Joren began. “I see you wear the grey..."
Esidio smiled paternally. “I know your mind, but your question would no doubt be answered simply by walking back to your camp. My talents can be of better use to you. Ask me a question whose answer means as much to you as my life did to me, then accounts will be squared. But have caution. If the Sight were straightforward, one such as I would not fall into holes in the ground."
“You're right. Give me a little time."
“No hurry. I hadn't planned on going anywhere today."
Joren struggled with opposing moods. On the one hand, he could hardly contain his eagerness. On the other, he worried that he might choose a frivolous query, or one whose reply would be indecipherable. To pass the time, he offered Esidio food from his pack. The Zee-no-ken readily accepted, selecting a modest quantity of dates, which he ate promptly, taking care to collect the seeds and return them to the pack. Rummaging further, he uttered a cry of delight.
“Locusts!” He held the open sack up and poured several of the salt-roasted insects out. “I had forgotten it was the swarm year. They haven't reached the hills yet."
Joren pressed the sack toward his companion. “Enjoy. Not quite the same as getting them hot from the fire, but good nonetheless."
“And coffee!” Esidio cried. Joren had to grin. Zee-no-ken were so different from the phlegmatic Ah-no-ken and Bo-no-ken. Though they were considered highest ranked among the priesthood, he had never yet encountered a Zee-no-ken who sought to conceal his emotions. “Let us take it to my camp. It's not far. I'll heat some water, and we will share a drink while you ponder."
“You seem poorly supplied. How is it that you survive up here?"
Esidio shrugged. “I have lived alone in these hills for twenty years, and it's never seemed hard to me. But I miss the things the land can't provide. I visit Setan so seldom."
They descended, Esidio instinctively selecting a path that taxed their endurance the least. Joren could see no trail. Though unhurried, the pace swallowed the distance. Before long they entered a gorge, steep slopes of rock rising on either side. Joren automatically checked the sky above the Ahrahikte to be sure no clouds hung there. They followed the stream bed deeper into the hills.
Finally Joren heard the trickle of water, a sound he found impossible to ignore. They rounded a bend, and in the shade on the south side in front of them, he saw a rivulet working its way down from far above, filling a tiny pool and diffusing into the cobbles downstream, where all sign of dampness quickly disappeared.
“Fill your waterskin,” Esidio suggested.
Joren did so, cupping a handful and tasting it. He sighed. Unlike that of the oases in the steppes, this water didn't have to be made into coffees, teas, or wines to be palatable. Perhaps the priest was not so deprived after all.
They left the pool and immediately mounted the opposite bank. There, sheltered by steep slabs of granite, and high enough to be safe from flash floods, Esidio had created a living space. Kindling was neatly piled to one side. A grass mat covered a flat spot beneath an overhang, and deeper within the cleft, Joren spotted casks of wine and urns of wheat and other dry goods, with a lattice of sturdy limbs to protect them from foraging animals. The firepit was in the center of the area, under the open sky.
“My home,” Esidio said, “though I am more often out among the hills."
Joren grunted his approval and began to pile sticks to start the fire. Esidio got out the coffee beans and dropped a handful into a stone mortar. While the war-leader coaxed the tinder, the Zee-no-ken ground the beans with the pestle. The flame caught, and Joren nursed it into a true fire.
“How long has it been since you spoke to anyone?” Joren asked.
Esidio chuckled. “I visited Setan only three months ago. But in my younger days, I once spent eight years without seeing another living soul."
“Didn't you miss company?"
“Of course. But the solitude suited my purpose."
“But so long without a woman..."
“I have yet to believe that a man can keep God and a woman in his heart at the same time."
In due time, the water boiled. The priest stretched his coffee cloth over the hoop and poured the grounds onto it. Joren helped pour water through into a clay pot. Esidio filled two mugs and placed the pot on the hearthstones.
“To rope,” Esidio toasted, and they sucked in noisy, sudden swallows in the manner of the Zyraii.
“This is an excellent brew,” the priest continued. “I can't recall that I've ever had a coffee so fine."
“There are some advantages to being a war-leader. This is olom."
“Ah. The traders’ best. My uncles used to speak of it. It used to be more plentiful, before the tributes became so small.” Esidio inhaled another sip. “How is it these days?"
“There is talk again that Azurajen will try to build a fort in Zyraii lands."
“More work for you."
“More than I care for. But at the moment, the tribes still hold the trade routes. I worry most what will occur in the next generation.” His face suddenly became pensive.
“You have found your question,” Esidio said presently.
“Yes,” Joren said firmly. “I have. Are you ready?"
“At your convenience."
Joren chose his words carefully. “What may I do to help this new child of mine deal with the threat of the traders, that I would not ordinarily think to do?"
“Even if it's a girl?"
Joren paused. “Yes. Even then."
Esidio set down his mug. “It is a worthy question. The T'lil's taste in war-leaders is improving. What was the name of that last fellow?"
“Storith."
“Yes. Rash sort. Made me glad to have been of the Alyr.” Standing and dusting himself off, he pointed to Joren's just-emptied mug. “You can use that to masturbate into if you'd like."
“I beg your pardon?!"
Esidio chuckled. “This is no casual procedure. If the topic had concerned yourself, I would have asked for your blood. If about your enemies, your spit. Since it deals with your offspring..."
“I see.” Joren passed the mug from hand to hand. “I don't have to do this in front of you, do I?"
“Of course not. I'll start my preparations here. Come back when you're done. My only requirement is that it be fresh."
“All right.” Joren picked himself up and left before he could doubt the situation too much.
* * * *
When he returned, a bitter taint filled the air. Esidio was leaning over a tiny brazier from which thick, viscous smoke coiled. Tendrils vanished up the priest's nostrils, never seeming to be exhaled. His eyes were half-closed, showing only the whites. Over the fire another pot warmed, a small one filled with green liquid.
Esidio's back straightened as he heard Joren's feet scuffle on the granite. His hand reached for the mug.
“Quickly, before it cools."
Joren gave him the mug. Esidio inverted it over the pot, letting the semen drip out. It dissolved immediately, leaving no trace, though the consistencies of the fluids had seemed so disparate. Soon after the mixture became as transparent as water.
“Good. The question can be answered,” Esidio announced. “This will only take a moment. Please don't speak."