‘Thatl thatl, I assume,’ Gerens said flatly.
Brann looked at Konall. ‘If you hadn’t fallen at that moment…’
Konall looked at the spear. He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t my time.’
Brann shook his head. ‘Halvekans.’ It took a hard tug to pull the spear from the wood, and he looked at the weapon, and then at Grakk. ‘So, atlatl?’
Grakk looked at the spear, then back at Brann. ‘My apologies to all of you. It slipped my mind that they used such weapons.’
‘And I,’ said Matala-Kitu, equally apologetically. ‘I did not know that you were unaware. You do not have such where you come from?’
‘Not atlatls, whatever they are, not wagons in grooves, not temperature farms in holes in the ground, not a lot of things, I realise.’
Matala-Kitu looked surprised. ‘Really? How do you survive?’
Konall snorted. ‘I am beginning to wonder.’
Brann touched the spear, and raised his eyebrows at Grakk.
‘Ah, indeed, the atlatl,’ the tribesman said. He turned the spear, pointing to a small hollow in the rear end. ‘The atlatl is the short stick you saw the thrower hold. It is hooked at the end, which is fixed into here, and its use gives greater speed to the spear and, as you saw, greater range. The spear itself also helps in this respect, being more similar to an oversized arrow than to the javelins we are used to seeing.’
‘There is much we could learn here,’ Brann mused.
‘Indeed,’ Grakk agreed. ‘But this is not something we could learn, but something we could remember. The records we have tell us that this was a method used in all lands in the distant past. As our larger sized game became more scarce, bows would suffice for the smaller animals remaining. Here, however, the practice has been retained.’
‘And these carts in grooved roads?’ Brann asked.
Grakk peered at the wagons with fascination as a light patch ahead indicated the end of the tunnel. ‘These, I have not seen before.’
Matala-Kitu looked at him. ‘Your knowledge reveals a previous time in our lands. But you have not visited our city before? Or at least, not our mine?’
Grakk shook his head. ‘Neither.’
The man nodded. ‘That makes sense. This track leads from Tucumala to Chula Pexl, the port you seek. The two cities have an agreement – they relish the trade our gold brings, and we need the deep waters of their port to send the gold to Sagia. For centuries, the track has linked the cities.’
They emerged into the morning light, and Brann glanced back along the wagons. He saw the other groups of men and tensed, reaching for his sword. They could not have missed the alarm at the mine, and it would be simple for them now that they could see what they were doing to step along the carriages to reach them.
But the men lay relaxing, their spirits visibly lifting as they reached the light. Matala-Kitu laid his fingers on Brann’s hand and pushed it away from the hilt with a gentle smile. ‘You think we are the only ones leaving the city today?’
Brann nodded at the man at the front of the wagon. ‘And your friend?’
‘My cousin.’
‘He leaves too?’
‘He will have to after the incident at the mine, or he will find himself the subject of another sacrifice, though maybe a more private and instant one.’ He smiled. ‘But fortunately he was leaving also. He has no one in Tucumala – my father moved there from Chula Pexl before I was born and Kunakan-Atik joined us five summers ago to work at the mine.’
‘And your parents?’
‘There was a collapse in the mine not long after I became a father myself. My mother was taking supper to surprise my father when it happened.’
It was said simply but the emotion touched Brann. ‘I’m sorry.’
Matala-Kitu looked over the landscape, the rays of the early sun slipping over the mountain ridges to lay a golden haze over the vegetation below them. ‘Of course I miss them, but I have the responsibility to protect my family now, and there is no protection in sitting with them in the path of a god’s anger when a couple of days’ walk will let you witness the aftermath of what happens when gods become angry. Dead cities contain dead citizens, and if the gods will it, it will happen. I worship my gods but that doesn’t mean I agree with the words of the current priests. If others believe them, that is their choice to make, but I make mine.’ He looked at his cousin. ‘Kunakan-Atik is a skilled steersman, but will have more future practising another craft in Chula Pexl, I fear. And openings for a diligent worker are always available when many of the most zealous have answered the call to arms.’
Brann frowned. ‘There is war among the cities?’
Matala-Kitu shrugged. ‘Not that we have heard, but these are uncertain and fearful times, thanks to the voice of the god within the mountain. Maybe the High Master gathers holy warriors because he feels it prudent to be prepared.’ He shrugged. ‘But I am only a simple workman looking out for his family – who am I to guess at the motives of a lofty priest?’
Brann nodded and looked at Kunakan-Atik, kneeling on a cushion and grasping two vertical poles that extended down outside the front of the wagon to what appeared to be hinges near the base of the cart. Periodically he would gently pull one or both towards him, and as he did so, a corresponding pole attached to each handle and extending vertically with a bright rag at the top – the left one red and the right green – would move in tandem.
‘Steersman?’ Brann said.
‘Indeed. This track moves ever downwards, and on some occasions speed can become too great for the wagons to remain on the track, particularly on corners. Those handles slow the wheels at one side of this wagon or the other. An assistant steersman in the final wagon,’ Brann looked back and wondered how he hadn’t noticed the man before, but realised that with only the handles and not the poles with the flags, the man merged with the group around him, ‘watches the flags at the front and mimics the movement of Kunakan-Atik’s handles. It is the man at the front who must feel the motion and predict the track ahead to ensure the speed is appropriate at all times. It is a skilled job.’
Brann looked at Kunakan-Atik with new appreciation. ‘Lives are in his hands.’
‘They are, but what is valued more is the gold in the sacks. To lose any would be to incur the wrath of the gods and the Empire, and neither is desired. Every trip carries the same number of sacks, and every sack carries the same weight of gold, and every shipment is checked under armed guard as soon as it arrives at Chula Pexl. Should there be a deficit, those armed guards become executioners. Every person on the wagons is held responsible, so all do their utmost to ensure the cargo arrives intact.’
‘Harsh.’
Matala-Kitu shrugged. ‘It is the way. Riding the wagons carries prestige and bestows rewards, so many are encouraged to take the work and bring integrity and diligence with them.’
Brann looked at the heavy gold at the throats and on the arms of Matala-Kitu and his wife and cousin. ‘Gold seems to be plentiful, it seems. Why would anyone be tempted to steal it anyway?’
‘It is an adornment to us, worth less than grain or iron, for gold cannot keep you alive or plough a furrow. But it is worth much to those who visit the port, and so can be traded for much in return. There is the temptation.’
Brann nodded. ‘And when we reach Chula Pexl, the cargo will be handed over and all aboard with us here will enter the city and disappear into its welcome arms.’
Matala-Kitu smiled. ‘Precisely. We are safe now. No one is more skilled than Kunakan-Atik and although others can match him, now that we are clear we cannot be caught. There is a road to Chula Pexl for those who travel normally, on foot or mounted, but this is the quickest route and we will be there before the sun is halfway to its high point.’
Brann glanced at Marlo, still asleep thanks to Grakk’s potion. As well as needing the ship for transport, the medical supplies on board would be invaluable. ‘That is good,’ he said.
Matala-Kitu smiled his gentle smile. ‘
You should take the chance to rest. By all accounts, you have had an eventful night.’
Brann realised he was right. The horror of the basement seemed distant and vivid at the same time, but the rigours had sapped as much energy as had the lack of sleep. As soon as he lay back, he drifted into sleep, though the memories of Marlo’s ordeal saw to it that it was fitful rest at best.
A jolt in their motion jerked him fully awake. He sat up, knife in hand, but saw that Kunakan-Atik was drawing them to a halt in a section that ran between a small group of trees in a more lush area of ground. When they stopped, he pointed ahead, drawing the attention of those around him to what his sharp eye had spotted: a thick branch wedged into one of the track grooves. Should the wheels have been jumped from their secure hold, the consequences would almost certainly have been dire.
Gerens and Konall were already on the ground and quickly levered the branch free, tossing it well to the side. Kunakan-Atik was holding the wagons at a standstill with his handles – presumably aided by his assistant at the rear – and as soon as he let them go, the slope started them rolling once more. The men had dismounted and lent their muscles to the motion, although the steepness of the gradient saw them scramble aboard within a score of paces. Brann’s effort was no more graceful than his last attempt, and Konall’s amusement was just as great.
Brann sat up and looked back to check that everyone in the other wagons had also jumped in successfully, though why he thought anyone would be more clumsy than he in dragging themselves aboard, he wasn’t sure. His eyes drifted further back, following the track winding in shallow curves to adapt to the terrain and marvelling at the level of ingenuity that could maintain a constant downwards slope for the distance they had travelled. His eye caught movement and he straightened.
‘Do you see it also?’ said Grakk.
Gerens sat up. ‘What?’
‘Something behind us,’ Brann said, squinting.
Konall uncoiled himself and stood, one hand shading his eyes and balancing as if the wagon was solid rock rather than a haphazardly bouncing and rocking wooden platform. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Pursuers.’
Matala-Kitu frowned. ‘Are you sure? I know of no one who could travel this route quicker than my cousin.’
‘Perhaps not with five wagons laden with gold, but this is one wagon on its own, laden with men. And a lot of shiny weapons.’
Matala-Kitu paled. ‘How could I not have thought of this?’
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Brann said, his mind already working. ‘Dwelling on what cannot be changed steals time from dealing with what can be.’ He looked forwards. They were closing on an area of dense jungle, as Grakk had called it, with their track and the parallel route for ox-drawn wagons to return to the mine cutting a single tunnel of green shadow as sunlight struggled to pierce the thick foliage. ‘How far to the city?’ he asked.
‘Ten minutes,’ Kunakan-Atik called over his shoulder. ‘The jungle extends for many miles to either side, but it is a narrow stretch ahead to Chula Pexl.’
Matala-Kitu was standing now, in a half crouch as he steadied himself with one hand on Brann’s head. ‘They are lighter and can take the bends faster.’ There was near-panic in his voice, a long way from the calmly courageous outlook they had seen from him until now, and Brann realised the difference was the mortal danger to his wife and son. ‘They will catch us in half that time.’
‘Then,’ Brann said slowly, ‘let them.’ The others looked at him aghast. ‘If we cannot stop them catching us, ensure they do so on our terms, not theirs.’
‘Agreed,’ said Grakk.
Brann lifted Matala-Kitu’s hand from his head, and the man immediately dropped to sit close to his family, a determined look settling over his face and a broad knife, similar to those that had been carried by the thugs who had captured Brann and Marlo, appearing in his hand.
Gerens looked across. ‘So what do we do, chief?’
Brann thought for a moment. ‘I need to check something with Kunakan-Atik.’
He moved beside the man and conferred quietly, wishing to keep his questions quiet until he was sure of what could be achieved. Satisfied, he turned back.
‘Actually, Gerens, you could do something. You are the most nimble of us. Do you think you could make it back to those other wagons and tell the men to join us in this one? Including the steersman.’
Gerens gave a look that indicated his mystification that Brann could hold any doubt over his ability to achieve exactly that, and proceeded without hesitation to prove the fact. The other men took little time to join them, their movement hastened further when Gerens pointed out what followed them.
Brann pointed to the sacks. ‘Try to pile those as much as you can, to give us some form of shelter from their spears. Once under the jungle trees, they won’t be able to get much elevation in their throws and will just have to rely on flat power. A barrier will help shield us from that.’
They rounded a bend at speed, Kunakan-Atik using skill beyond their understanding just to keep the wagons on the track.
‘Why,’ said Konall as his knuckles turned white with gripping the side of the wagon for the length of the bend, ‘do we go so fast if we want them to catch us?’
Brann grinned, the danger of the ride thrilling through him like the feeling of combat. ‘Because we want them to catch us at speed.’
He glanced back, holding tight to the side of the wagon as it bumped and jostled and rattled and shook them as if they were toys in the jaws of the dogs of the gods. The hunters were closing even sooner than he thought. They could have just followed closely, to arrive at the destination where their prey would be caught between them and those waiting, but Brann had wagered that the scent of blood in their nostrils would fuel their zeal. They could have engineered the situation if it hadn’t been the case, but the chasers’ impatience helped.
He shouted to Kunakan-Atik and the man worked his handles gently, slowing them at an almost imperceptible rate. Brann turned to the occupants crammed into the wagon, their faces alight with excitement or fear… or both. ‘When it slows enough, I will give you a shout, and if you want a chance of living, jump. At once.’ He shot a quick look to one side, with the broad stone of the parallel tracks, and the other, with the thick jungle foliage. ‘If I were you, I would leave at the side of the jungle – there may be a tree amongst the softer branches, but there is nothing but a hard landing on the other side. When you see the opportunity, fall on those behind us.’ He glanced at Marlo and the woman and boy beside him. ‘Those of us who can, that is.’ Gerens and Konall already had Marlo sitting up and gripped between them, so he stilled his next instruction – they had anticipated that he would ask them to assist their friend.
The tracks curved to the left, slowing them further. As they exited it, Brann shouted, ‘Jump, now!’
Immediately bodies started throwing themselves over the side, and in moments Brann and the steersman were alone aboard. He let it run a few breaths more, judging that the chasing wagon was entering the bend itself. He clapped Kunakan-Atik on the shoulder and shouted, ‘Now!’
The man hauled on both handles, fighting against the momentum that urged them forward. Brann reached past him and grabbed a handle and they took one each, dragging back with both hands clenched and their entire bodies straining. He could feel the handle jumping in his grasp, but he also felt the change beneath his feet. The wagon jerked and jumped, held back in front and pushed from behind. He twisted, watching the wagons behind and the track beyond. The pursuers came into sight, several men with spears poised to throw and the steersman letting the wagon have its head as it careered onto the straight like a slingshot but surprise turning his head involuntarily as he saw the people lying to the side, some on the short sward cut to keep the trail clear, others having tumbled into bushes, some dazed and others already climbing to their feet. The distraction worked in Brann’s favour, for it delayed the steersman from realising what was happening.
The third and fourth
wagon lifted slightly where they met, and it was enough to jump the wheels from the grooves. The two started to angle to the right as if on a hinge, and Brann worried that they might pull the entire string of wagons free of the tracks, leaving the way clear for the one behind. He heaved at the handle for a last few seconds, sweat stinging his eyes, leaning back into the pull with his feet planted against the front of the wagon. Muscles trained to this action by leagues of rowing gave all they had, and the wagon responded further. He jerked a look back again and, as the third and fourth wagons continued right, the final carriage was pulled from the tracks. It twisted, tumbling on its side and crashing the opposite way from the two before it.
There was no time for words. Grabbing Kunakan-Atik’s tunic, Brann threw himself to the edge of the wagon. As the pair thrust against the lip, the side started to lift beneath them, the wagon being pulled over in the opposite direction. They hurtled away from it, and Brann felt the breath burst from him as he hit the hard ground, rolling and tumbling. He rose to one knee and saw a carriage, or a bit of one, hurtling towards them. He grabbed Kunakan-Atik under the arms as he dived, the other man reacting and pushing away as well. They crashed into the foliage and scrambled further into branches and dirt as they landed, fleeing in panic. The debris tore past without reaching the bushes, however, and they turned to watch.
It was chaos, a turmoil of destruction. Dust and wood twisted and flew and smashed and exploded in a maelstrom of madness, the noise thundering over them and hammering their ears. Wagons rolled and flew, smashing each other into flying shards and piling wreckage while iron-shod wheels and sacks heavy with gold carried even more destructive power, their force crashing into all before them like boulders hurled at a castle wall. It was hell visiting the living.
Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3) Page 35