Lightning Tracks

by A. A. Kinsela

  ‘Jinx, tell him what happened,’ Nick said.

  She relayed the events to the warrior, whose mouth formed a grim line as he listened. More people ambled into the clearing, one with an emu carcass slung across his back. They had an animated conversation then shooed Nick and Jinx away.

  ‘Nick, why aren’t you wearing your shirt?’ David’s sharp accusation rang in his ears.

  Nick gestured to the men by the fire. ‘No one else is.’ Then, noticing that David was dressed in a dusty blue tunic, he added, ‘You look ridiculous.’

  ‘We need to keep our tattoos hidden from the merchant.’

  Judging from the missing weapons and wardrobe change of the entire village, Nick suspected they were trying to hide a lot more than a couple of Arai tattoos. Like a Bandála outpost, whatever that was.

  ‘The merchant? You mean Felix? He’s unconscious.’

  ‘Why? How?’

  ‘I hit him.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Hey! Before you split my eardrums open, maybe you’d like to stop for a second and ask me why?’

  David glared at him with such ferocity that Nick took a step back.

  ‘And I have a really good reason too. He dragged Jinx into the bush. And he would’ve...hurt her if I hadn’t stopped him.’

  ‘Oh, gods. Is she okay?’ David asked, searching for Jinx, who had disappeared.

  ‘Yeah. Plus, he called us savages.’

  David’s eyes hardened. ‘Did he now?’

  Nick inspected his forearms for cuts, but there was no evidence of the attack. He’d escaped injury twice already, first with the assassin’s sword, and now with Felix’s knife.

  ‘David, something strange happened out there.’

  ‘What?’ David asked, still looking for Jinx.

  Nick swallowed and rubbed his forearm, remembering the numbness. ‘Felix had a knife and I sort of...blocked it.’

  Focusing on Nick, David’s expression grew intent. Interested. ‘With your bare arm?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve done it twice now. That Arai assassin couldn’t hurt me either because of...whatever it was.’ Nick sighed. ‘I know it sounds crazy.’

  This drew a mysterious, unexpected smile from David. ‘It’s not crazy. Your maléya protected you.’

  ‘Maléya,’ Nick repeated, then frowned. ‘Wait. You knew I had this maléya thing?’

  ‘All Yándi have maléya.’

  Nick recalled feeling some resistance on his forearm, as if he was pushing a branch aside, but the blade hadn’t pierced his skin.

  ‘Your maléya protects you. It also allows you to see and hear the song gates,’ David said.

  ‘Hang on. If you need maléya to see the gates, and I’ve got maléya, why didn’t I come across that gate in the national park years ago?’

  ‘How often did you go up Striker’s Run?’

  ‘Never. It felt wrong, as if it was a haunted place. It always gave me the shivers. Mía’s stories scared me too.’

  The warriors beckoned to David. Felix had regained consciousness in a fit of swearing, but when David stood over him, he spluttered into wide-eyed silence.

  Nick spun away before the merchant saw his Arai tattoo and headed to the creek.

  Chapter 10: Joining the enemy

  The kookaburras woke Cal at sunrise. They laughed as his eyelids fluttered open, laughed as he groaned and rolled across the dirt, laughed as he rubbed his aching head, laughed as he pounded the ground and wept.

  As he stared, tear-glazed, across the glowing valley, he wondered how it was possible that he was still alive. Roan had brought him here to kill him. Why hadn’t he done that?

  Then a single thought thundered in his head: Roan had murdered his family.

  Roan.

  The captain – his captain – had told Cal to escape, and then punished him for it. No matter what it took, no matter what the cost, Cal vowed to hunt Roan down, string him up, slice him open.

  Burn him.

  Cal scrubbed the tears from his cheeks and swiped leaves out of his hair. To the south, fractured mountains dipped into a deep valley tinged with blue. Cal wanted more than anything right now to escape this calloused, bruised landscape, this place where the people he’d loved would forever remain. Maybe if he got far enough away, the pain wouldn’t be so sharp.

  He trudged along the spur of the ridge with his back to the rising sun. He knew where he had to go – it was the only place he could go – across the western flanks of the Highlands then south through Deadman’s Stretch.

  To Auremos.

  He shuddered. The Korelians had built Auremos many generations ago but the city had fallen under Bandála control several years before Cal was born. Since then the Bandála had been camped out in the ruins, building up their forces and ensuring the Arai remained east of the mountains. Cal had never seen Auremos, but he’d heard that its streets had once been paved with gold. Many Korelians dreamed of one day winning it back from the Bandála. They’d tried a couple of times, but the Bandála were hardened warriors, fuelled by an accumulated hatred of their former slave masters.

  Cal just hoped they wanted the information he had to offer.

  For six days Cal trekked through the wild Highlands. He stole some clothes and weapons from a sleepy village and burnt his Arai uniform, feeling nothing but desolation as he watched the flakes of ash swirl into the night.

  On the seventh day, he entered the north claw of Deadman’s Stretch, the perilous territory that separated Korelios from Yándemar. Many soldiers on both sides had died beneath these ancient eucalypts. Some Yándi believed that the hills running west of Deadman’s Stretch were haunted by a vengeful mountain spirit who fed on fallen soldiers. Others swore they’d seen the ghosts of the dead walking among the grey gums. Cal travelled through these parts swiftly and quietly.

  It wasn’t until dawn on the tenth day that Cal spotted a pair of young Bandála scouts. He crouched behind a fallen tree to study them, and wasn’t surprised to see that one of them was Korelian. The Bandála had always welcomed defectors as long as they had a healthy hatred of the king and his Arai.

  A Yándi girl stoked the campfire, her dusky skin gleaming in the midday sun like polished resin. She and the Korelian boy both wore grey Bandála uniforms with the white five-pointer star stitched into their sleeves. Cal’s skin crawled at the sight of it.

  ‘Make yourself useful, Miles, and get some more firewood,’ the girl said.

  Miles, the Korelian boy, crossed his arms. ‘You ordered me to keep a look-out.’

  ‘Yeah, and now I’m ordering you to collect firewood.’

  Miles bowed low. ‘As you wish, oh great team leader.’

  The girl hurled a waterskin at his head.

  ‘Ow, Pan! That hurt!’

  ‘Go and do your job.’

  ‘I am doing my job.’

  ‘You’re not doing anything.’

  ‘I’m watching for trouble.’

  Pan snorted. ‘Posing for a beauty contest, more like it.’

  Miles stamped off into the bush making so much noise that Cal wondered if he’d had any scout training at all. Pan threw a fistful of yams onto the coals then rolled a charred carcass onto its side and prodded something wrapped in smoking bark. Cal caught a whiff of hot damper and roasting meat. He shut his eyes tight and inhaled. Saliva flooded his mouth. His stomach roared and clenched with hunger. Since leaving the Highlands, he’d been too afraid to stay still for longer than a few hours at a time, and leaving a trail of campfires was not a smart thing to do, so he’d eaten what he could find – bush fruit, wild nuts, roots and berries. It was survival food, enough to keep him alive but not enough to satisfy. He hadn’t tasted meat in two weeks, and the aroma was agony to him now.

  From above his head came the distinctive breathy sound of a sword being drawn. His eyes snapped open.

  ‘A bit hungry, are you, peaker?’ Miles said.

  Cal didn’t reply.

  ‘Hey, Pan! Look what I found!’

>   Cal stayed crouched behind the log. If they thought he was a timid runner, they might not check him for marks, and he might be able to keep his Arai tattoo hidden at least until he got to Auremos.

  Pan straddled the log and smiled down at Cal. ‘You’re a long way from home, kid. What are you doing out here?’

  ‘I’m trying to find Auremos,’ Cal said. His voice was croaky from not being used in several days.

  ‘Stand up. Let’s have a look at you.’

  ‘He’s well-armed for a stray,’ Miles said as Cal rose to his feet.

  Pan shrugged. ‘Good on him. Means he’s resourceful.’

  ‘Hmph. Give us your gear, peaker.’

  Cal’s hands shook as he handed over his hunting knife, bow and quiver. He wasn’t afraid so much as exhausted, ravenous, and relieved to be in the hands of the enemy. All he wanted now was to fill his belly.

  ‘Some look-out you make, Miles,’ Pan said as Miles tossed Cal’s weapons next to the saddlebags. ‘He got within striking distance.’

  Miles grunted. ‘The meat probably attracted him.’

  Cal’s breath hissed through his teeth. Miles narrowed his eyes and rested his sword tip against Cal’s chest.

  ‘Be civil, peaker, or I might have to teach you some manners.’

  Cal forgot his hunger and focused on Miles. His shaking limbs steadied.

  ‘Stop it, Miles,’ Pan said. ‘You’ve scared him. Look. He’s gone rigid.’

  Miles glanced over Cal and smiled. ‘No, he’s not scared. He’s ready to fight.’ He moved closer, sliding the blade across Cal’s shoulder. ‘You think you can beat me, peak—?’

  All of a sudden, he coughed and retreated. ‘God, you stink! When was the last time you washed?’

  ‘Serves you right, Miles,’ Pan said with a chuckle. ‘What’s your name, kid?’

  Cal crossed his arms. He supposed he’d have to tell them sometime, so he answered, ‘Cal.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘The Highlands.’

  ‘Not from Korelios?’

  Cal shook his head.

  ‘You would’ve come down near the site of the solstice massacre.’ Pan tilted her head like a bird eyeing an insect.

  ‘I gave it some space,’ Cal said.

  ‘Good idea. Best not stir up those ghosts.’

  Miles sliced a tree branch clean off. ‘The Arai will pay with much more than their lives for what they did to those Bandála soldiers.’

  Cal brushed his fingers across his collar to check that his tattoo was still hidden.

  ‘So, kid, you want to join the Bandála, eh?’ Pan asked.

  Cal nodded.

  ‘Just what we need,’ Miles muttered, casting Cal a look brimming with contempt. ‘Another useless Highlander.’ He sheathed his sword and trudged to the far side of the campfire.

  ‘You hungry?’ Pan asked.

  Cal nodded again. His limbs grew weak as he reverted to his starving state. He sat by the fire and Pan passed him a serving of steaming vegetables, roasted kangaroo and hot damper. He waited until the others had swallowed a mouthful before he deemed the food safe then he devoured his portion. Once they’d finished, Pan kicked dirt onto the fire and Miles fastened Cal’s weapons behind one of the saddlebags.

  ‘We’ll turn back to Auremos,’ Pan said. ‘The Council will need to clear him.’

  ‘We don’t have a spare horse,’ Miles said. ‘And he’s not riding with me.’

  Pan untethered her stallion and climbed into the saddle. ‘Come on, Cal,’ she said, holding out a hand. In a single fluid movement, he swung up behind her.

  ‘Did you see that, Miles?’ she called. ‘He’s a natural. Doesn’t need a tree stump to help him mount a horse.’

  Miles scowled. ‘Why do you always bring that up? I was ten years old.’

  Cal ran his gaze over Pan’s body. She was fit and strong, and carried a curved sword at her hip, bow and quiver on her back, hunting knife strapped to her thigh and a dagger in her boot. She mustn’t think he was much of a threat, otherwise she would never have put herself in such a vulnerable position. He imagined slipping his hand under her black curls to any number of points on her neck. Miles wouldn’t even notice until she’d hit the ground. By then, Cal would’ve already flicked a knife at the Korelian’s throat. This thought calmed him.

  All day they rode, stopping every hour to stretch their legs or water the horses. Then the bush gave way to a town. Carts and pedestrians cluttered the road, forcing the scouts to slow to a walk, but most people stepped aside as soon as they recognised the Bandála uniforms. The original Korelian houses would’ve had rugs and simple wooden furniture before, but since the Bandála had invaded them, fire pits had been dug into their floors and Yándi people filled the rooms with singing and chatter as if life was a neverending celebration.

  ‘Oi, Bandála!’ A man waved to them from a doorway and held up some sourdough rolls. ‘A fresh loaf for any of you?’

  Miles reined in his horse and accepted the food. ‘Perfect timing. Our rations are low.’

  When the man offered a roll to Cal, he refused it. The Arai never accepted food from street vendors, let alone vendors who gave it away for free. Too many had been poisoned that way.

  ‘What’s the matter, lad? Not hungry?’ The man shrugged. ‘Ah, well. Make sure you feed him when he gets to Auremos. He looks like he needs it.’

  The farther south they travelled, the better maintained the houses, farms and orchards became. As the sun dipped behind the western hills, Auremos reared into view, rising from the earth like a cliff of pressed gold. The fortifications stretched as far as Cal could see, with gates puncturing the sandstone every kilometre or so. The only city he’d ever seen was the Korelian capital, Merosacra, which was wedged between steep escarpments and the ocean. It spread along the coast like an oil smear and was thick with soldiers, slave traders and the king’s decadence.

  Auremos was different. It was imposing, and seemed larger than the capital, though that could’ve been a trick of perspective. Standing in the valley, flanked by roads, orchards and, beyond that, mountains, Auremos had breathing space. And Cal felt its breath like the gentle draught of an arcing blade. He wondered then if he’d made the right choice coming here.

  Streams of people walked, rode on horseback, or drove wagons in and out of the city gates. Watchtowers jutted above the battlements, and Bandála sharpshooters stood all along the walls, the white fletchings of their arrows denoting them for their deadly skill.

  As they drew closer, Cal noticed a giant sundisc engraved above the gate. He imagined it would have once been polished till it shone. Now it was almost erased, chipped away till all that was left was a jagged crescent.

  Either side of the gate were rows of tall spikes with human heads in various stages of decomposition. Nailed to a crossbeam beneath each head was an Arai jacket.

  Cal gasped, and Pan glanced back at him.

  ‘They were the first to die as retribution for the solstice massacre, and they won’t be the last,’ she said.

  His skin prickled with fear, and he ducked his head as they rode past.

  Inside, the city was a ruinous maze. Alleys twisted in all directions, some strewn with splintered barrels, trays, carts and other discarded items. Weeds burst from gutters. Shutters dangled from windows like broken wings, and through the gaps Cal saw whole houses infested with vines. Some buildings were so decrepit that their roofs had caved in. If there had ever been golden pavements in Auremos, they were long gone.

  Not every building was derelict. The Yándi had adapted the surviving sandstone houses to suit their own living style. Doors painted in bright colours were flung open to reveal hallways and atriums full of activity. Entire laneways had canvas sheets strung between high windows, providing shelter for the street merchants. Reed mats covered the cobblestones and dry drains were used as grinding stones, storage areas and hearths.

  No one shied away from the Bandála, and this strange absence of fear
baffled him. He’d expected Auremos to be populated by formidable warriors, not teeming with smiling Yándi who chatted with the soldiers as if they were neighbours.

  It was another half an hour before the scouts reached the city centre, riding through an archway into a bustling plaza. People moved from one shop to the next, some carrying baskets of vegetables or linen, others with sacks of grain hoisted across their shoulders. A sundial stood in the centre of the plaza, but it cast no shadow now that the day had already surrendered itself to twilight.

  ‘That’s the council chamber,’ Pan said, pointing to a basalt building that towered at the crest of the hill.

  The council chamber was much larger and more impressive than the surrounding houses, with thick columns either side of the stairs and wide, glass-panelled windows facing the plaza. Cal wondered if it was the old palace. The sundisc set into the ground at the foot of the entrance stairs was chipped and scratched just like the one at the city gates, and the Bandála five-pointer star was painted on each of the columns like stamps of ownership.

  The scouts tethered their horses and went inside. While Pan spoke to the guard in the antechamber, Cal looked around. Stone friezes covered the walls with various images of Basilias, the Korelian sun god. One had him in his chariot, rising out of the ocean. In another, he was giving fire to two brothers. A third showed him sinking beneath the mountains for the night. All the faces of the god had been chiselled off, leaving behind his sunray halo. The six elemental Yándi gods, including the lightning goddess Rima, had their own statues around the room.

  Beyond the antechamber, at the end of a dark corridor of closed doors, was a room with a round table covered in papers, quills, ink pots and piles of books. An old Korelian man with untidy grey hair beckoned to them. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his trousers were ruffled, as though he’d crawled out of bed and grabbed some clothes off the floor. His posture, however, was upright and strong, and the hard glint in his eye told Cal that this man knew how to break people.

  ‘Sir, this is Cal,’ Pan said. ‘We found him in the north spur of Deadman’s Stretch. Suspected runner. Thought you might want to have a word with him.’