by J. C. Staudt
There was no way she could get out of town now. The mulligraw fields dead-ended at a sheer rock wall on the far side. Rotabak doesn’t know I’m in here, she told herself. He doesn’t know if anyone’s in here. He’ll give up and go away.
One of the Marauders, a burly blazed mink, trudged up the rise to speak with Rotabak. For a moment his attentions shifted, and Lizneth relaxed a little.
“They’re all lined up and ready for inspection,” said the mink. “Looks to be too few of them, if you ask me. Should we search the buildings for objectors?”
“Do a full sweep,” said Rotabak. “I want every closet and crawlspace cleared out. We need every able-bodied buck we can find. Don’t worry about the border farms, we’ll cover them on our way out.” The mink nodded and started down the hill, but Rotabak halted him. “Send Odja and Flikz up here. Tell them to pick three others and bring them along.”
Less than a minute later, five of Rotabak’s brutes were standing around him at the top of the rise. Lizneth’s feet were getting sore and her tail was heated, but she put a finger to her lips to signal the little ones to stay quiet. She saw Rotabak point toward Malak as he spoke.
“This little one came out of the fields just now. I scent at least two others in the stalks. Get in there and clear them out.”
The Marauders fanned wide and began to stumble through the foliage. Vines closed in around them, grasping at their armor until they were tangled up like moss-covered stones.
“Cut your way through if you have to,” Rotabak yelled.
The Marauders drew their rusty iron longblades and began to slash at the undergrowth, felling half a dozen mulligraw vines with every swing. Lizneth nearly cried out when she saw the first stalks topple over, but she held her tongue. Before long they were hacking their way through the field like the reapers of death-tiding. That was exactly what they would become if Lizneth’s family didn’t bring in a crop at the end of the long year. The harvest! she thought, her insides screaming out. There was no way to put a stop to it, though; not without revealing herself.
Mulligraws bore continual fruit for months after they matured; getting them to maturity was the painstaking part. Since her return, Lizneth had managed to revive the dying crop her parents had been unable to care for properly in her absence. Now the Marauders were amputating the densest growth and trampling the hollowood shafts she’d staked in the ground to hold them up. Damage this severe might take longer to repair than she had left in the season. Giving a last warning look to her brothers and sisters, she pried Raial’s hands from her legs and told him to stay put. If this went on any longer, the Marauders would find everyone.
“Stop! Stop it!” she called, wringing her hands to be seen as she moved from her hiding place. “I’m here. Stop cutting my vines. There’s no need. Here I am.” She emerged from the greenery and signaled her surrender, making clear to the destroyers of her livelihood that they had won.
A gnarled grin spread over Rotabak’s face. His eye lagged sideways as he tilted his head to study her. “Ah… who’s this? Lizneth, isn’t it? Halak and Kyriah’s girl. The bean farmers.”
You know very well who I am, she wanted to say, but didn’t.
“Sniverlik warned me about you. Why were you hiding? You resisted a direct order.”
Sniverlik mentioned me? she nearly asked. Am I that prevalent on his mind with all that’s going on? “No, I… I wasn’t resisting,” she said. “I was deep in the rows, picking, and I… didn’t hear. I didn’t know you’d come.”
“Picking, eh?” He eyed her, another tremor fluttering through the pink lid and withered lashes. “Where’s your basket? Where’s the fruit of your harvest?”
“I left it and came running when I heard you,” she said quickly.
“Ah, yes. Yes, yes, of course.” He nodded in mock understanding. “You must be tired from all that picking, I imagine. Exhausted, even.”
“No,” she started to say.
“Well, no matter. My keguzpikhehn are starving, you know. These caves are cold and damp, and we’ve a long march ahead of us. They’d love a bowl of mulligraw stew to ward their bones against the chill. I’m sure they’d be happy to help you find your basket.”
“No, please,” she said. “It’s alright, I can get it. I know just where I left it—”
Rotabak lifted a hand to silence her. “Flikz?”
“Here, kradacht.”
“Help Lizneth find her basket. Search the fields until you find it.”
“Certainly, Rotabak.”
“And when you do, Flikz…”
“Yes?”
“Bring to me every little bean you find.”
The mulligraws were several hands taller than the tallest of Rotabak’s soldiers, and heavy with their yields. Flikz and the others had already carved a broad swathe through the vines. Now they widened their arc, cleaving beanstalks to waist level and toppling months of hard labor in the effort. Lizneth begged Rotabak to stop them, but all he did was stand by and watch, smiling, as they made a ruin of her family’s fields. Down the rise, villagers and Marauders alike turned to witness the spectacle.
“Here we are,” said Odja, plucking a tiny squirming shape from the undergrowth and lifting it above his head. “Got one.”
Thrin scritched and clawed at Odja’s hand while he waded back through the trampled vines and tossed her down at Rotabak’s feet. He didn’t even stop to make sure the little doe was alright before he turned back and resumed the search. By the time they’d hacked through the last of the beanstalks, Rotabak’s soldiers had found all twenty of Lizneth’s siblings among them.
“So you did leave a basket in the rushes,” said Rotabak, nudging Hasquol with his foot. “Quite a basket of little beans we have here. What shall we do with them? Cook ourselves a nice stew to feed my keguzpikhehn? They did work so hard to pick them for us. It would be only courteous to thank them.”
Lizneth wanted to scream and chitter; to let her rage boil over. But any outrage she displayed would only make Rotabak go harder on the nestlings, she knew. Her hand twitched at the thought of her dagger. She thought about how easy it would be to drive the point through Rotabak’s gut. How much worse would that make things for her siblings? And what example would that set for them? In a matter of moments, Rotabak and his cretins had destroyed everything her family had left. Rhi and Taznik were no longer the poorest zhehn in town. Now it was her family who wouldn’t last the short year. “Please don’t hurt them. It was my idea to hide. They didn’t do anything wrong. I was only trying to protect them.”
Rotabak looked astonished. “Protect them… from whom? Not from me, surely. Do I frighten you, parikua?”
“We didn’t know it was you, at first. We didn’t know who was coming. We heard noises down the tunnel and thought it was the calaihn.”
“Lies,” said Rotabak. “You know my haick. The calaihn do not scent of iron and rime. They do not make the sounds of steel when they march. Their haick is foul and treacherous, as they are. Sniverlik told me you’re a traitor… a calai-thaligheh.”
“I’m not,” she said.
“Sniverlik does not lie,” said Rotabak.
He probably told you that. “The calaihn helped me get home, but it was only for their selfish reasons. I don’t love them.”
“Show me, then. Show me you don’t love the calaihn.”
“How can I?”
“The dust-dwellers travel close on our tails. When they get here, meet them in the village square. Tell them we have moved on. Tell them your village has displeased Sniverlik, and as punishment he has forsaken you and left you defenseless. Tanley and all its ikzhehn are theirs for the taking.”
“Why would you have me do that?”
“You will understand soon enough.”
“I refuse. Tell me why, or I won’t do it.”
Rotabak brought his snout close to hers. “You will, or I will brand you traitor and advise Sniverlik to treat you accordingly.”
Sniverlik’s pr
omise came back to her then. If I so much as scent you with the calaihn after tonight, I’ll have your family’s tails removed and their longteeth cut out. Sniverlik had done more than scent Lizneth with the calaihn; he had seen her with them. He would follow through on his promise, regardless of whether Lizneth did what Rotabak wanted. Yet if she refused, she was sure to bring Rotabak’s wrath upon her family as well.
“How long will it be until they get here?” she asked.
“We have no more than a few hours, and much to do before then,” said Rotabak. To Odja, he said, “When Vaxis completes his sweep, tell him he is to separate the vilck-zhehn into two groups: those who hid, and those who gave themselves over willingly.”
Odja nodded and went to do as he was bid.
Rotabak turned to Lizneth. “In the meantime, parikua… you are to bring these nestlings to the village and make sure they stay with the group who hid. Except these two.” He snatched Raial and Thrin by the scruffs of their necks, lifting them like caught hares. “These two are mine. Should you fail to show your loyalty, I’ll make a fine stew of these little beans. The rest of your brothers and sisters will follow them into the cauldron when Sniverlik arrives.”
Lizneth gulped. “Sniverlik is coming… here?”
“How else will our brood-father enjoy the destruction of his enemies, if not to partake in their suffering himself?”
Instinct grabbed Lizneth tight around the chest. She wanted to take her family and run from here. She’d escaped to the metropolis easily enough, but taking her whole family to Bolck-Azock would not be so simple. There was no escaping Sniverlik’s reach. The best she could hope for was to do as she was told and hope she might gain the benefit of his mercy… if he had any mercy to offer. “Don’t you hurt them,” she warned.
Rotabak favored her with a sneer. “You do what I say, and maybe I don’t feed these little beans to Sniverlik. Maybe I cook them before he gets here. It’ll be better for them that way.”
“I’m going to do what you told me,” said Lizneth. “Just leave my brothers and sisters alone.”
“We’ll see, parikua.”
The Marauders dragged the last of the villagers from their homes and places of business, dividing them into two groups as Rotabak had instructed. The soldiers then produced several long, heavy canvas bundles, which they unrolled to reveal piles of rough iron shortblades, crude but sharp. These they distributed to every willing buck with sufficient age and strength to hold one. Malak was the largest and tallest of Lizneth’s young brothers, but when he tried to get in line for a blade, the Marauders pushed him away and told him to go stand with the old dams and the nestlings.
While the weapons were being handed out, Lizneth caught wind of a new scent coming down the tunnel. It was similar to the rime-haick of the Marauders, but gloomier, like mud in a turbid puddle. Soon a pair of ikzhehn appeared, black-cloaked and running, silent as the darkness from which they’d emerged. They went straight for Rotabak, whose guards stood in their way and halted them.
“Let them pass,” Rotabak said. “What news?”
“The calaihn are moving fast, kradacht,” said one of the cloaked strangers, a dark brown agouti with a thin, slithering voice.
“How close?”
“An hour, maybe two.”
Rotabak nodded. “Keep your watch over them. If their pace changes, report to me at once.”
“Yes, kradacht.” They bowed and slipped away again.
When they were gone, Rotabak said a few words to his higher-ups, then ascended the rise once more to address the village. “Your attention, everyone.” He waited for the noise to die down. “My scouts have returned with word of the calaihn. There is little time, so listen close and listen well. Today, the calaihn are coming to take you from your homes. If you wish to keep them, you must fight for them. The calaihn are blind in the dark. They do not fit in tight spaces. They have the undeveloped snouts of new-births and can only hear noises if they are loud or close. Fill every bucket you own with sand or water, for without their fire, the calaihn are blind. Through silence and darkness we will have our victory. Never stray from this command: silence and darkness. Most importantly of all, follow my keguzpikhehn. Go where they go, do always as they instruct, and speak only as they require. Now, all inside… everyone.”
There was a flurry of activity as the villagers brought their buckets to the river and the Marauders forced their way into every cottage, hut and hovel alongside its respective owners. The villagers who had hidden from Rotabak’s summons earlier were left on the path to fend for themselves. Lizneth stayed at the head of the crowd, distracting herself from the decimated remains of her fields as she gathered the nestlings around her. Had Rotabak not been watching, she would’ve run her siblings home to Mama and Papa to shelter them from the violence to come. How can they think it’s right for such younglings to witness what’s about to happen?
“When the calaihn get here,” she said, “I want you to run and hide beneath the river bridge. Do you hear me, Hasquol? Pay attention. This is very important.”
The little ones were distracted and unruly at the best of times; now they were a bundle of nervous energy, fed by the frightened villagers around them. It was a long time before Lizneth was satisfied she’d gotten through to them all. Even then, she received too many blank looks to be certain.
She began to feel a distant rumbling in the tunnels. It was a swift sound, with none of the blundering clangor of the armored ikzhehn. As it grew closer, Lizneth discerned it as little more than the slap of a great many leathered feet on earth and stone, and the rising and falling of bodies. When she scented the vinegary tang of sweat and saw the cavern walls blush a dull orange, she knew.
The calaihn were bigger, somehow, than she remembered. Maybe it was the sight of them in the tunnels, which to creatures of her size were broad and spacious. Or perhaps it was the long, wavering shadows thrown by the fiery sticks they held above their heads like ships’ lanterns. That’s a curious thing, she thought, counting upwards of a dozen torches among them. Rotabak was right about how poorly they see in the dark. That must be why the blind-world is so bright… they need all that extra light for their eyes to work.
The hu-mans slowed from a brisk jog to a steady walk as the first rows of their marching column caught sight of the village. Lizneth ushered Malak and Reida forward, motioning them and the others toward the river. “Go, go. Quickly now. Now’s the time.” Malak protested, but the others dragged him along as they went.
Spreading out from their narrow column into a cautious band, the calaihn advanced like poachers stalking some elusive beast. Lizneth had never been good at reading their expressions, but these she read clearly. They were confused. It was as if they had expected to find anything but a silent town with a crowd of ikzhehn waiting for them in the streets. When Lizneth saw the last of her siblings scramble to relative safety beneath the river bridge, she breathed a sigh. There was an anxious stirring among the ikzhehn around her, but their fear of Rotabak was somehow stronger than their fear of the calaihn, and they did not run.
Lizneth sucked in a breath and made the announcement Rotabak had ordered. “Hu-mans… we welcome you to Tanley. We are no longer under the vassalage of Sniverlik. He has forsaken our village, destroyed our crops—” she gestured toward the mulligraws, “—and left us with nothing. We have no choice but to offer ourselves to you, to fulfill whatever purpose you see fit.”
“This stinks of a trap,” said a short calai with black shoulder-length curls and many scars across his chest and arms. He shoved his torch toward Lizneth, so close she had to throw an arm up to shield her eyes.
“Where are Sniverlik’s armies?” asked another calai, muscled and darker of skin. “We have been tracking them for two days. Where have they gone?”
Lizneth’s legs wanted to buckle and her hands wanted to shake, but she kept reminding herself that she had survived an audience with Sniverlik himself; she would survive a meeting with a rabble of savage calaih
n. “Your trackers are skilled,” she said. “They did come this way, but you’re too late if you wanted to find them here.” She turned and pointed down the road toward Bolck-Azock. “They have ransacked our supplies and left our storehouses empty. They’ve gone to the metropolis to gather new recruits. You’re too far behind to stop them now.”
The darker calai seemed to sag a little. “Is this all that are left of you? A whole village and only this handful remains?”
“There are others too afraid to leave their homes. We’ve suffered greatly at Sniverlik’s hand, and they don’t have the spirit to endure another intrusion.”
“And what about the rest of you? What are you doing, standing outside your homes like this? Do you mean to do us violence?”
“We mean only to yield ourselves, in hopes you’ll show us pity.”
The calai gave her a suspicious scowl. He turned and barked an order over his shoulder, something in their strange, lilting tongue. His calaihn entered the village and began to disperse, ducking through doorways and crouching into cave-side hovels to search for those they thought were too afraid. Other calaihn came toward Lizneth and her group bearing manacles—big ones, like those Neacal Griogan had locked her in before the battle in the Brinescales. They stopped short when the first buckets splashed across the window panes.
Inside the buildings, torches began to go out one by one. The villagers in the street dashed forward with their buckets, dousing the calai torches with sand and water. The light in the cavern diminished, then died.
What had begun as an orderly operation devolved quickly into madness. The confused cries of the calaihn rang across the village as they stumbled around like blind new-births, lost and helpless. Lizneth and her fellow villagers could see and scent them well, and they wasted no time taking advantage of that.
With their strength divided and their sight lines dwindling, the calaihn lost all interest in fighting. They began to flee. Few seemed to recall in which direction the tunnels lay; such was the disorder of their scattering.