by Dave Smeds
Joren chose a spot a dozen paces away, where his back could rest against stone, and waited. Esidio already acted as if nothing existed but the clear liquid into which he stared, lids drooping again, but this time more naturally. The brazier continued to smoke, surrounding the vicinity with more of its noxious fumes. Esidio was unperturbed, but Joren blew away traces that wandered his way. Soon the coals consumed whatever substance had been placed upon them, and the air began to clear. The priest was still except for the subtle signs of his lung action, and the more obvious, rhythmic tremor each time his heart beat.
Then, abruptly, he picked up the pot and dumped it on the ground.
Joren nearly bit his tongue to keep from asking what was wrong.
Esidio sighed very deeply, and Joren noticed beads of sweat on his forehead. The priest didn't answer, only crawled deep into his storage niche. Joren heard a heavy lid being lifted and set down. Soon Esidio crawled out carrying a scroll, its finely wrought container incongruous among the Zee-no-ken's humble possessions. He opened the roll and searched, all the while ignoring Joren. Finally he stopped at a specific passage and recited from it.
They, of dragonkiller's blood
Will the Eastern Deserts wander
In search of ancient weapons
Against an ancient enemy
“Esidio?” Joren asked softly.
He seemed calmer. He closed the scroll and said solemnly, “I must end my hermitage and return to Setan.” Then, more confidently, he looked at Joren and said, “And you must prepare yourself for a lifetime of challenges. This,” he said as he held up the parchment, “is my copy of the prophecies of Shahera, the greatest master of the Sight ever to have lived. She foretold the waning of the Calinin Empire, for which she was executed."
“What does this have to do with my question?"
“Everything. Yours was that question which I, like all my kind, wait for—in dread or longing, depending on the circumstances. One never knows when it will arrive. Today the Sight reached out and showed me strands of time and chance that may affect the life and history of half the continent. I saw the Zyraii that may be; I saw the Zyraii that would have been had you not asked me to make this augury."
“All in a few moments?"
“Yes. And I will live with it for the rest of my days. I can't reveal more to you. You are too near the crux of events, and the cloth is still in the loom. We both have our parts to play—you will be the one who acts, without knowing the outcome; I will know the outcome, but do nothing. Each with one exception."
“What is my exception?"
“The answer to your question: See that your son is taught the High Speech of the Calinin. He must be ready when the prophecy of Shahera is fulfilled.” His voice lowered. “As must I be."
“The High Speech?” Joren repeated, mystified.
Esidio stood, holding the scroll and gazing in the direction of Setan, turning his back to Joren. “Go, my friend. We will hear of each other again, though we shall not meet. Remember what I have said, but tell no man save your child."
Joren was already far away, the priest's instructions etched absently like an ancient childhood lesson. Your son. Like Esidio, he had been answered more completely than he had anticipated. The journey out of the hills was short.
* * *
XII
AS LONAL AND HIS COMPANION watched, the riders wheeled and charged toward the target again. The westerner, as usual, seized the lead, her cowl flapping wildly, spilling some of her dark tresses. She let go of the reins, guiding the oeikani with her knees, and reached toward her quiver. In one motion she pulled an arrow free, cocked it back, and fired. The bundle of hide jerked on its pole as the arrow struck. The other archers were only a moment behind. The bundle spun and flopped, bristling like a pin cushion from this and previous passes. The ground nearby was littered with spent shafts, both those that had missed and those that had been flung free by subsequent impacts. The target nearly shredded, the riders pulled up, dismounted, and began to sort their arrows from the rest.
“Impressive,” Lonal's companion said, nodding toward the stranger. They watched as she tucked her hair back into her cowl. The clan of T'krt had been joined by the T'lan and the Ena during the past day, and formal wear was necessary. In fact, Lonal and Ulnam, war-leader of the Ena, had never seen each other's faces, though Lonal was betrothed to marry Ulnam's daughter when she came of age. “Is the other one that good?"
“Possibly, but Tebec doesn't show off like that."
“Four hits out of ten,” Ulnam added. “He must have started young."
“No,” Lonal said. “Actually, Yetem tells me that in his country, they only use the long bow. It is forest country. They hunt large animals, which they approach in stealth, and need the extra power to bring them down. Not like us, who have to hit, from oeikani-back, the small creatures that scurry from rock to rock. He neglected to learn the bow until he arrived here; those in his land required too much upper-body strength."
“He does have narrow shoulders for a warrior,” Ulnam admitted.
“Where they come from, it is the men who have teats and nurse the babies after the women give birth,” Lonal said gravely.
Ulnam held his composure for almost the count of five, then the façade cracked. They shared a hearty guffaw. It did Lonal good to joke. Too many within the recently arrived clans had been displeased to hear the story of Tebec and Yetem. Outside of the T'krt clan, loyalty to Lonal was not as entrenched, and a few voices dared to speak of heresy. None, of course, would challenge Toltac's word, for he was opsib over them all, but people muttered all the same. Ulnam and Lonal had always been on good terms; it was gratifying to see that this had not changed.
In some ways, it was easier for Lonal than for the westerners themselves, who were once more the center of attention. All the T'lan and the Ena wanted to view firsthand this man-who-didn't-look-like-a-man.
The contest was over, and the participants left to join their families. The reunion celebrations that had taken up the past day would have to yield to the necessity of movement. The most desolate, most dangerous portion of the migration lay just ahead of them—the journey through the Pass of Hattyre. Lonal and Ulnam surveyed the low, blistered hills to the east.
“When do you expect it? As we enter, or at the fork?"
“I never know what to expect where the Buyul are concerned."
“True."
Grim, they parted, each off to their responsibilities as war-leader, Ulnam looking after his clan, Lonal the authority over all three. Lonal rode back to the rear of the clan. His war-seconds could handle the front well enough; his greatest worry was the stragglers. A dragging end could put the caravan in danger, should the raid happen at the wrong time. They had to make speed over Hattyre.
Things were proceeding well. Soon virtually every member of the clan was under way. The only exceptions were two women, one elderly, the other in late youth, who stood several hundred paces behind the departing end of the caravan. The old one was removing her clothes and handing them to the other. When she was naked, she sat her frail body down in the dirt beside the trail. The younger woman bundled the clothing in her arms and headed back toward the caravan. The old woman bowed her head and did not look up again.
Lonal watched respectfully, as he had done many times. The old woman left behind was Mada's grandmother. He had foreseen this. She had barely kept up in the flat; she couldn't be expected to maintain the pace needed through the pass. He nodded to Mada's wife, the woman carrying the clothes, as she reached his position.
Lonal turned back to his duties, inevitably thinking of the time when he might be in the old woman's place. Of course, as a Po-no-pha, he would keep his garments—his weapons, too, if he were selfish—and would hear the high Ah-no-ken recite the hour-long rite of death, but he would wait in the desert all the same. The fact that he would return one day to the world, and the woman would not, was slight comfort. He couldn't decide which was better—a sudden death in
battle or, like Mada's grandmother, to be able to choose the time and place.
He worked his way gradually through the procession. The broad, amorphous columns of the earlier part of the journey were consolidating toward the gap in the hills ahead. Soon they would be able to travel only two or three abreast. Then they would be vulnerable.
Shigmur joined him.
“The first night's watch has been assigned,” the war-second reported. “What about them?"
He pointed not far ahead. There, Tebec and Yetem walked beside Fumlok, their wives and children following. Having lost their oeikani to Kulam, the twins had to travel on foot. They owned two other animals, but they were of the drelb breed and suitable only as pack animals. Yetem had already returned the mount she had borrowed for the contest.
“I want them to participate, but I want eyes on them. Put Tebec on guard at the pens for the first watch, the same for Yetem, late watch. I'll think of something else tomorrow."
“Yes, war-leader."
Tonight's camp should be secure, Lonal calculated, but there was no certainty. He prepared himself for the first of several sleepless nights. When would the Buyul strike?
* * * *
There was no incident. They reached the first campsite and, unlike previous stopovers, staked out the tents before nightfall. Lonal was pleased. The location was large enough for everyone, and all approaches were plainly visible. He stood beside the firepit, where the ritual flame had yet to be built, and stared farther up into the hills, wondering what threats they held. His first wife brought him some broth.
Tebec soon strolled up.
"Nannon abat se," Lonal said.
The other replied smoothly in Zyraii, then reverted to the High Speech. “Fumlok has explained that we are in danger of attack by another Zyraii tribe."
“Yes. The Buyul."
“Each time he tries to explain why they would want to attack us, I don't understand."
“It's simple. The Buyul don't like us."
“Why not?"
Lonal shrugged. “Before I became war-leader, this pass was Buyul territory."
Tebec nodded slowly. “Then wouldn't another way be safer?"
“This is the best route. I wouldn't have taken it if I didn't intend to keep it."
Lonal began to stir the coals of the long-dead campfire. He frightened a small scorpion from its lair in the shade of one of the hearthstones. Its brood clung to its back. He flipped the creature over with a charred faggot, dumping off the little ones, and swiftly picked it up by the tail, holding it just short of the stinger.
He waved the arthropod in front of Tebec, swaying it so that it would not crawl up his fingers. His free hand indicated the orange markings spotting an otherwise dull yellow body.
“Not poisonous,” he explained, and threw it back onto the charcoal. The offspring, grey as the sand and rock of the area, swiftly crawled back aboard. “It is called dukham, after the greatest sinner of all Zyraii. As punishment for his godless life, Dukham was reincarnated into the first of this particular species of scorpion, a creature so lowly it is denied even the luxury of a powerful venom."
Tebec, however, was not going to let the earlier topic be dropped.
“Why did you take the pass from the Buyul?"
Lonal considered telling him, but that would take far too long, and there were more important tasks for the moment. He settled for the simplest reply.
“Because I don't like them."
* * * *
The apprehension thickened throughout the next day, as the three clans of the T'lil made their slow progress up the hills. The way was not difficult; it was simply impossible to hurry. Each stray noise brought palms to the hilts of demonblades. They stopped only when the heat was fiercest and continued on in spite of the sweat and the taxing climb. They saw a pair of the rare wild sheep of the region, several hawks, many snakes—but no hostile Po-no-pha.
“Do you suppose they've lost their balls?” Ulnam asked Lonal, after one of many patrols had returned with the same news: the Buyul were not to be found, nor were there any fresh traces.
“They haven't forgiven me yet,” Lonal answered, and sent out more scouts.
The war-leader was near the westerners as they travelled through the pass. As they topped the crest, their view of the land suddenly expanded eastward. Ahead, the relatively easy road they had followed up the western slopes transformed into a twisting, double-backed aisle, cutting through a gradually receding series of parched ridges. Somewhere in that desolation the road forked, one way heading south, toward Buyul lands, the other east, to T'lil ground. That was the point of greatest danger. Lonal stared at the peaks that concealed it.
But the twins looked farther, past the hills to the incongruous sight near the horizon.
"Norym," Yetem gasped.
It took Lonal a moment to translate from the High Speech. “Trees,” he corrected. Small wonder that the Ah-no-ken had not yet taught them the Zyraii word. In this land, the term only had true meaning in the valley beyond the hills. They were so far away that any hint of green was distorted by the atmosphere into a kind of blue-grey, but the westerners obviously knew they were viewing a forest. The foliage meandered from north to south, a languorously winding track a league or more wide, occasionally thickening or narrowing, with several islands. Had Lonal not been preoccupied with his duties, he might have shared their awe. They were witnessing the lifeline of Zyraii.
“Ahloorm,” Lonal said.
“How long until we get there?” Tebec asked.
“Five days."
They continued to gaze at the river, transfixed, until their family had left them well behind and they had to hurry to catch up. Lonal remained at the crest, where he could reconnoiter. Soon Shigmur came to report.
“We have been up and down the hills well past the border, and the odor of the Buyul is exceptionally faint. I don't understand it."
“Neither do I,” Lonal answered, checking the low sun in the west. “As soon as camp is made, I will go to Toltac. It is time to undertake the Trance of the Searcher."
* * * *
Toltac's words were a measured drone. Lonal was no longer consciously aware of their content. He breathed deeply, and then more deeply still, the oxygen stimulating the rashemi in his lungs. He relaxed each muscle group, one by one, unsure whether this was at the Bo-no-ken's command or his own idea, and not caring which. His body felt heavy; it was too much effort to move it. He went numb.
And he was out.
Below him, he saw his own body, with Toltac hovering dutifully over it, still uttering his monologue. The haze of smoke from the brazier made the tent hazy and ill-defined. He lifted farther up and found he was outside. The camp lay below him, on a shelf of land a mile east of the pass, dotted with cooking fires and filled with the bustle of early evening activity. Though it was night, he could see the people, tents, and hills as if the sun were still up.
He began to float. Suddenly, the camp was no longer below. In rapid succession, his ethereal eyes sought out and found the places of his concern. He scanned the ridgetops that overlooked the road, checked the woodless dells and nullahs where groups of men might hide. Time meant nothing; it seemed to him as if he arrived at each new spot the instant he left the previous one. He recrossed the ground his scouts had patrolled the past two days and cast deeply into Buyul land. He followed the route the caravan would take out of the hills all the way to its end. And finally, he felt the tug in the small of his back. He had to return. In what seemed to be the next moment, he opened his eyes.
Toltac leaned over him, looking concerned.
“How long?” Lonal asked.
“Four hours,” the high priest stated. “Most of the camp is asleep. You should get some rest. Any luck?"
* * * *
“None,” Lonal said in answer to Ulnam the next morning.
“Where are they? Why are they invisible?"
“I don't know."
“Perhaps they are waiting sim
ply to make us nervous."
Lonal took out his demonblade and applied the whetstone. “The longer they wait, the less advantage they have. We will reach the fork before noon."
“What I wouldn't give to be riding through this pass with nothing but my best Po-no-pha.” Ulnam sighed, glancing at the ranks of women, children, animals, and goods. “We could clear the hills in one forced gallop."
“Under those circumstances, the Buyul wouldn't be interested in attacking."
“That's the trouble with enemies."
The war-leader of the T'lan joined them. He had nothing more to report. Where are they? Lonal thought. He mistrusted the evidence of the trance, though it merely corroborated the physical reconnaissance of his scouts. He knew the unpredictability of travel in the astral form. He might have been viewing some strange parallel world, or perhaps it was the actual Pass of Hattyre he had seen, but in some other time. Perhaps the Buyul had clouded his vision, in the unlikely event that they had found a sorcerer so powerful. He wished they had the services of the Zee-no-ken. Though Toltac was well-schooled, the Zee-no-ken were the only true magicians of Zyraii. But the Zee-no-ken rarely devoted themselves to such mundane matters as military spying.
The Buyul had to be out there.
For the most part, they made good speed. Much of the way was downhill, and at each high place they were spurred to new hope by the tantalizing sight of the Ahloorm. Soon they reached the fork. The road split, passing to either side of an eroded mountain. Massive piles of rocks and three shallow box canyons provided plenty of places for ambush. The caravan took the left fork, continuing east. Each step along that route took them farther from Buyul territory.
Lonal hovered near a T'krt family as they transferred gear from a pack animal that had caught its leg between two rocks and broken it. One of the owners was already honing his butcher knife. Though infrequent, each such small delay rasped on Lonal's nerves. Each time, the war-leader expected to hear the cry of Buyul raiders. This time, as before, he worried for nothing. The animal was cut into large sections, most of the meat bartered to other families, and the caravan crawled onward. They made camp that night well down the fork. Lonal slept poorly for the third night.