by Col Buchanan
Shard, stumbling along in her weariness, looked up from her feet in something of a daze, knowing that the sergeant spoke of the recent battle near Tume, in which General Creed’s smaller force had slain the Holy Matriarch and stalled the imperial advance.
‘They captured me, after the battle,’ answered Bull without inflection, and Shard listened on, for it was the first time she’d heard the sergeant speaking to anyone with such obvious deference, even with Coya. They said that Bull had once been a famous Khosian pitfighter, one of the most celebrated of all.
‘Kush!’ spat the sergeant. ‘That must have been rough. How did you escape?’
‘You know, I’m still not certain.’
‘Mind telling me about it?’
The big man was silent for a while, long enough for Shard to think he would say no more.
‘They kept us in a pit in the ground,’ he said, ‘where we lived like chained dogs for most of the time. For the rest of it, we were taken by the priests for drugged interrogations. One night during a rainstorm I managed to break free from the pit, and we fled the camp together. The others headed for Juno’s Ferry. I headed for the Windrush instead.’
‘The priests used drugs on you?’ Shard heard herself ask aloud through her own pain, causing the man’s great head to swing around, catching her in the tail of his eye, before he turned away again. She knew she looked rather wild-eyed just then. A rush had been overcoming her body and mind ever since she’d sighted the hill of Council Grove, and at the same time the cramps in her belly had returned with a stabbing agony.
‘They used a kind of white dust, amongst others. Why do you ask?’
She had heard rumours of the methods employed by the Mannian order against its enemies. Their use of drugs and repeated interrogations to scramble the minds of their victims, secretly conditioning them to act as spies or saboteurs or assassins amongst their own people.
Bull certainly carried the harried look of such a person, his eyes red-raw from lack of sleep.
‘You’ve been sleeping poorly since then?’
He faltered and fell into step beside her, interested now. He was huge, this man. He seemed almost as wide as others were tall.
‘Hardly at all,’ he admitted. ‘I’m plagued with nightmares every time I close my eyes. You know something of this?’
‘A little. They were most likely messing with your head when you were their prisoner. Implanting suggestions. Tearing down your identity. Shaping you to their uses.’
Bull was looking directly at her now, hungry for whatever information she might have.
‘Is there a way to set things right again then? These nightmares . . .’ He shook his head again, and Shard could have sworn there was fear in the warrior’s eyes. ‘I would like to be free of them, I tell you.’
‘Perhaps I can look at you later, if there is time?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I would appreciate that.’
They were hiking up the stony path to the ridgeline of the hill now, and Shard put her head down once more in concentration. Reaching the top and gasping for air she saw something entirely unexpected: the hill was actually a great laq-wide crater with inner walls even steeper than the outer ones, cliffs for the most part, surrounding a plateau of small lakes and dense forest echoing with the calls of a great many birds.
Shard felt another rush of lightness entering her head. The air was clear and everything stood out with a fine and solid clarity. She squinted, seeing black and white pica birds wheeling in flocks at the very centre of the crater, soaring above a conical rise of ground upon which a grove of thirteen chimino trees rose like towers above the canopy. A great bonfire burned down there, sparkling in the dull afternoon light beneath a full moon rising from the east. Drums beat out into the evening stillness, figures dancing as silhouettes before the flames.
‘Thank Mercy we made it in time,’ Coya said from Marsh’s back.
‘That mean I can put you down now?’
*
Beneath the light of the full moons, hundreds of pica birds were chattering noisily from the trees of the grove like a host of excited night spirits, watching over the council of humans gathered in the clearing below and listening without comprehension to their words rising in the heat of the great fire.
Never before had the Contrarè of the Windrush seen these black and white birds gathered in such numbers. At ease with reading the signs of their forest lives, the Longalla knew that the creatures had been drawn there by the presence of the Dreamer, this woman who had supposedly shed much of her Contrarè ways along with her name, Walks With Herself, yet who caused the forest to speak to her through the clacks and ragged calls of the pica. Indeed she had clearly begun to soar the moment she set foot in the grove, just like their own sky hermits.
She was still soaring, even now. She swayed with her eyes closed and her face pointed to the sky, her body an anchor in the surface of the world while her spirit flew ever higher.
No telling what she was seeing as the Dreamer swayed almost imperceptibly to the soft beat of the drums, oblivious to the two figures standing beside her facing the circle of Contrarè elders, all gabbling like the birds above.
‘Hear me!’ cried one of the figures by her side, though the Dreamer showed no reaction to his outburst. It was Coya, thrusting aloft the stick he was using as a cane before their gleaming, painted faces. ‘Still your tongues and open your ears!’
Indeed the elders fell to a sudden hush at his words, for they held this man in high regard, just as they did his companion, the Contrarè Dreamer. Coya Zeziké was a name known to them even here, a man who expressed the spirit of his ancestor through his own powerful oratory. Following another hostile incident between the Longalla and the Khosian landowners around their forest, they had heard of the famous fiery speech he’d given in the distant Meeting House of the League, a place fashioned on the egalitarian council circles of the Longalla themselves. Coya had spoken of the tribe’s right to live free as they had always lived, and of their right to defend themselves and the forest with force of arms if needs be.
Heysoo, the Longalla had taken to calling him. Wise Grandfather.
Yet now, standing here before them, he seemed nothing more than a frail youth bent over a stick, his head wrapped in a bleeding bandage.
‘It’s true,’ Coya said, while hushed voices translated for those who spoke no Trade. ‘I come here partly as a delegate of the League. But you know too that I am a friend of the Longalla. Just as my ancestor Zeziké was your friend, he who claimed the democras was inspired by the assemblies of your people in the Windrush. And as your friend, I am here to ask for your aid. The people of Khos, the people of the democras, are calling on you to join this war with us. Let us put aside our animosities and unite against the Empire’s forces here in Khos. Together we can defeat them. Together we can smash them into the dust so they can never return. Alone, though, we will each fall.’
Voices erupted around the fire, but Coya held up his stick again to draw their silence.
‘You doubt they will not come for you here in the Windrush, after they have taken Bar-Khos and Al-Khos? You doubt they will not force their ways upon the tribe and enslave you if you resist? That they will not fell these trees as though they were made of gold until all are gone? You doubt any of this, for even a single heartbeat?’
Next to Coya, a portly figure was shaking his head theatrically and smiling at the foolishness of what he said. Alarum was dressed like some kind of hill bandit rather than a Mannian spymaster, though he bore himself as though he wielded much unspoken power. Already harsh words had been exchanged between the pair. The Mannian was clearly enjoying himself this evening, and finding it difficult to remain silent while Coya had his turn.
Other figures were enjoying it too, this contest of words between the two men. The Longalla elders stared fascinated from their circle around the fire, men and women alike gathered in council. Also there were younger faces amongst them, youths considered as shakota
by their peers, ‘old souls’ mature beyond their years.
A voice spoke up loudly from behind the circle, one of the Red Path warriors with his painted face cast fiercely in the firelight. ‘The Longalla are five thousand fighters strong,’ he shouted in Trade for Coya’s benefit. ‘We will kill them all if they set foot in the forest, as we have been killing their scouts to the east!’
But another older Contrarè shook her head sadly while holding up her withered hand for attention, a tiny figure peering out from a heavy wrapping of blankets. She replied in her native tongue while someone nearby translated aloud, speaking over her thin croaking voice. ‘We are not in the high forests of the Broken Spine, Always Speaks Loudest, where you can travel for a moon without seeing the tracks of another. We are in the Windrush, an island of the great world forest standing alone on an island within the Salt Sea. We are isolated here and with nowhere to run. Wise Grandfather is right in this. It does not matter our numbers or how fiercely we can fight. If the cult of the Red Hand conquers Khos, they will devour the forest around us until there is no more of it, not even this sacred grove we are gathered within. If we declare war on them then it must be by the side of the Khosians, and it must be now while they can still be defeated. Yes, Heysoo speaks truth and I support our friend with all my heart, as should we all.’
The old woman nodded at Coya and Coya nodded in reply, while around the circle some grunted agreement and others shook their heads in denial. Several figures rose and carried the skins upon which they had been kneeling to sit instead behind the old woman who had just spoken so eloquently.
‘I too agree with Wise Grandfather,’ declared a fine-looking fellow with rare eyes of blue, his hair hanging in skinny dreadlocks. It was the same fellow who had guided them here with Bull. ‘We must join the Khosians in this. But Oka is wrong to think the cult of the Red Hand is invincible. Profit is the master of the Empire, no matter their numbers. We can defeat them here in the forest if only we make them pay for every tree and every Contrarè which they fell – if we make them pay enough that they retreat for fear of losing even more.’
‘Well spoken, Sky In His Eyes!’
‘Ayee!’
Even more figures rose from around the fire to settle behind the younger man.
‘Wise words,’ spoke out the Mannian Alarum again. ‘Though before you judge how much blood must be shed in this cause of yours, perhaps you should listen to what my people have to offer? The order of Mann is prepared to promise you this much at least. Should the Longalla take up arms against the Empire here in Khos, should you help the Khosians in their war against us, then we shall bear our full force against you when we finally conquer this island.’
Shouts barked out in anger, and the spymaster held up his hand to ward them off like angry blows. ‘You should all know by now that the cause of the Khosians is a defeated one. That is why the great Coya Zeziké himself is here in the Windrush to beg for your help. It is only in their desperation that the Khosians condescend to speak with the barkbeaters of the Windrush at all, and even then through someone who is not even one of their own. Well I am permitted to tell you this much: if you join with them now you will go down with them. You will turn this forest into a mass grave, even if we have to bomb it from the air and burn the whole lot to the ground to make our point.’
Coya snorted. The circle of Contrarè shook their heads in alarm, feathers bobbing and bone jewellery rattling, while the younger hot-heads gripped their weapons and bared their teeth, restrained only by the banner of truce the Mannian delegation was under and the hands of their companions.
‘You threaten these people with their own destruction?’ Coya muttered to the man, but Alarum ignored him, holding up both hands now beseechingly.
‘I have another promise too which you must consider. If you agree not to side against us in this war, we can sign a treaty here and now promising your autonomy in the forest after we have taken Khos. You will be spared your lives and the Windrush will be protected. We will allow you to live as you have always lived, free and without interference.’
‘And what worth is a treaty from a Mannian dog of the Empire?’ spat one of the Red Path warriors.
‘The Empire may be many things, but we are generous to our friends and allies. Take our hand in friendship now and prosper, or die here with the Khosians.’
Coya Zeziké lowered his head with a frown, one hand kneading the other on top of his walking stick. Some saw him glance to the Dreamer standing by his side, still oblivious to it all it seemed; then he glanced to his bodyguard standing under one of the trees, watching broodingly.
A voice sang across the fire. A narrow face squinted through the glimmer of the coals, his cheekbones like blades.
‘I agree with the Mannian. The Khosians’ fate is sealed in fate. And if we join them now we will only seal our own fates too. Look at Pathia. Look what happened to the Black Hands and the Long Walkers, when they tried to resist the Empire from the scraps of their lowland forests. Consider what is befalling them even now for their defiance.’
Right then the Dreamer stopped swaying to the beat of the drums and snapped her head erect, suddenly returned to the confines of her body and the awful cramps in her belly. She was startled by the talk around the fire and by the many heads turning now towards her, for these Contrarè knew who she was, and that she came from Pathia too.
Black Hands, Shard thought with a roaring return of her senses. They’re talking of my people here.
With an arm pressed against her stomach for relief, Shard held up her other palm so she could see it better, as devoid of tattoos as any white-eye’s. She and her family had fled to the Free Ports before she had been old enough to gain her tattoos as a woman of the Black Hands. Since then, she had never gotten round to having them done, despite her father’s regular protestations.
In the roar of her ears, Coya’s voice rose like a rush of waves breaking upon her mind.
‘If you do nothing and we win here, the Khosians will never forgive you for your betrayal. How long will the peace last between you then?’ The fire spat and sparked in their collective silence. ‘Surely it is better to join with us, your brothers and sisters in spirit, the people of all the democras, rather than with these butchers, these bloody conquerors?’
Shard was panting quickly, her heart racing. Now that her eyes were open again she fought to keep them open, for when they were closed her mind sped through lurching geometric flights that seized her entirely.
The sandworm was too much to handle tonight, no matter what she took to dampen its effects. It was as though this grove of chimino trees held some heightened vibration of the forest and she was resonating with it, conducting its full force through her spine and the pulsing cramps in her stomach, feeling sick from the pain of them.
Only the strongest of will held her now to the ground before the shining faces of the Longalla, her tangled thoughts trying to make sense of it all.
The tribe was caught between two mighty rocks, she could tell, and even though she hadn’t been following most of what had been spoken, Shard sensed the division rising amongst them. Their auras pulsed faster with shades of uncertainty, shades of anger and fear.
‘What is your opinion, Walks With Herself?’ asked the handsome Longalla man with the striking blue gaze, Sky In His Eyes, and for a moment she was struck by how he used her Contrarè name, warmed by the sound of it in her ears. ‘They say you are a mighty Dreamer of our people. What does your heart tell you now? Who will win this fight, truly now – the democras or the Empire?’
She swayed in her boots and felt Coya’s hawk-like gaze watching her intently, this man who was her friend in his own way, and who could well drop dead at any instant despite all she had done for his terrible wound.
Coya had asked her here to add weight to all that he must ask of these Contrarè, but now she had almost forgotten her original purpose, and was instead engorged by the pulse of the forest and the blinking of the stars, all of life and d
eath demanding truth in these moments of decision.
‘If you wish to know the outcome of this war,’ she answered thickly, obliquely, ‘then ask your sky hermits, your seers.’
‘Yet I am asking you,’ insisted Sky In His Eyes softly.
Too much for her just then, these pressing questions of his, those eyes that stared at her like daylight glinting through clouds. Shard’s mind began to spin around the circle of Contrarè, whispers of their thoughts threading with her own until she reeled at their very centre. She staggered back a step, losing her balance. The Contrarè watched her with open mouths.
‘The odds will remain with the Empire even if you come to the aid of the Khosians,’ she heard her own voice saying aloud, and Shard realized the truth of the words even as she heard them. She had been feeling it ever since she’d arrived in Bar-Khos, deep down inside her: the shifting tide of the war. ‘Though the outcome remains uncertain.’
Coya was tugging at her sleeve, muttering, scowling. ‘What are you doing? Why are you telling them this?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, but Shard was having trouble even seeing him clearly, for she was spinning faster now, and her vision was once more smearing into chaos.
She gripped Coya’s arm hard for balance, for something to keep her on the ground, while the Contrarè gabbled all around her.
Suddenly Shard’s head tilted back, and she saw the tops of the trees thrusting into a night sky aswirl with stars and moons and a sudden streaking meteor. And then Coya was looking down at her, and Shard seemed to be lying on her back on the frozen ground, her eyes fluttering and her belly tightening in agony.
The last thing she glimpsed, past Coya’s stricken features, were the hundreds of eyes staring down at her from the high trees, the pica birds silently watching her, ruffling their wing feathers as she took off into flight.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Flight
The forest fell away as Shard rose into the night sky high above the Windrush, spinning slowly to take in the world and the war about her.