Cordimancy

by Hardman, Daniel

  “Get your hands off me!” she gasped, her voice rigid with anger. Memories of being pinned to the floor of the stable flooded her mind, and her struggles became panic-stricken, wild.

  “All right,” Toril said, shocked at her vehemence. “All right. I’ll let you sit up. But don’t try to walk.”

  The pressure was replaced by a lifting at her shoulder blades. She flinched at the touch, intending to manage her own movement, but relented as the searing in her chest robbed her breath. Once upright she grabbed her knees, inflated her lungs gingerly, and fought vertigo until her head cleared.

  “I’m so sorry!” Toril murmured.

  “You’re sorry?” Malena whispered, her tone acid. “Is that supposed to make it all better?”

  “No,” said Toril after a long pause. “It doesn’t make it all better.” He stood, walked to the dimness at the far edge of the room, and returned carrying a wooden dipper. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

  Malena seized the dipper and slurped.

  “I think you’re the only one alive,” Toril offered. “At least, you’re the only one I found. The town is a graveyard. My father is dead.”

  Malena wiped her chin and turned to study her husband’s face. Even in the pre-dawn, she could tell it was tight with emotion. Did he wish his father had survived, and not a wife now damaged beyond repair?

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Toril prompted, when Malena seemed unwilling to comment.

  Malena shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

  “I understand,” Toril said, “but I need to know who’s responsible, when it happened, what their intentions were...”

  “You don’t understand,” Malena contradicted, her voice quivering. “How dare you say you understand! You were off slapping backs with your political buddies while bandits slit the throats of every last person they could find. You didn’t hear the babies cry. You didn’t smell the blood. You felt no eyes or hands on your body. You have no idea what happened here!”

  Toril opened his mouth to respond, but Malena cut him off. “You say you need to know. Why? Are you so arrogant as to believe you can change anything now?”

  Toril smacked his open palm on the floor in anger, opened his mouth to speak, then caught himself. His eyes were narrowed, but after a moment he ducked his head and allowed the silence to stretch out.

  Malena felt the temporary energy from her ire ebb. Her vague notion of walking or crawling away from Toril now seemed ridiculous. She lowered herself morosely back to the blanket, wincing.

  When she caught her breath again, she spoke. “You should have let me die, Toril. Time might take the bruises off my thighs, but it will not give you back your wife. There were no survivors here.”

  11

  riders ~ Toril

  A knock jolted Toril from slumber. He rolled to his knees, blinking in confusion at the morning light streaming through the window.

  “Who is it?” he challenged hoarsely, his heart galloping.

  There was a pause. Behind him, Malena groaned.

  “Name’s Paka,” said a quavery voice. “Came to see if I could help.”

  Toril rubbed his eyes. The name meant nothing to him, but its owner sounded like a frail old man. Was it safe to open the door?

  “Are you alone?” Toril asked.

  “We came...” Paka began, but he was cut off by another voice. This one was a woman’s, and although it also sounded elderly, it was sharp and confident.

  “We’re harmless. It’s just the two of us, plus a dog that I think must belong to you. Black and white sheep dog. Is she yours?”

  “Hika?” Toril said. She’d followed him up to the room yesterday but disappeared again before he blockaded himself in. When he heard an answering yip, he unbarred the door and pushed back the chest he’d jammed against it.

  The couple that waited with the dog between them looked familiar. The man was squat and thick, with a close-cropped white beard and rheumy eyes. His companion was petite—tiny, even. Behind a kerchief that she held over her nose to block the smell of decay, her face was walnut brown and creased, her hair unevenly gray. She wore it long, in a simple braid.

  “Do I know you?” Toril asked.

  “I’m the weaver,” the man answered, looking nervous, “and this is my wife, Shivi. We live down river a ways; you may have seen us in town. Can we come in? There’s a rakshasa around here somewhere, and I’d rather not tangle with it.”

  “Oh, it’s around,” Toril acknowledged. “But you don’t need to worry about it anymore. I put a shaft through its brain and left it to roast in the stable.”

  Paka’s hands stopped fidgeting. “Well,” he said, stepping through the door, “that’s one less thing to worry about.”

  Toril raised his eyebrows.

  Malena moaned again. Her eyes remained closed.

  “Like Paka said, our cottage is outside of town,” Shivi explained, stuffing her kerchief in an apron pocket and walking past Toril toward Malena. “We were out cutting reeds when the bandits rode by. They looted a bit, but we...” As soon as her palm touched Malena’s brow she stiffened, flicked her eyes to Toril, and lifted the blanket.

  “She was a midwife,” Paka explained, noticing Toril’s tension. “She knows about healin’.”

  “I need some boiling water,” the old woman said, tugging open Malena’s shift and leaning over to sniff at the chest wound. “Paka, I saw a kettle when we walked past the kitchen. Will you fill it from the well in the courtyard and bring it back?”

  Her husband nodded and turned to the door.

  “Hand me your knife,” Shivi said, gesturing at Toril’s belt. When Toril hesitated, she pursed her lips, leaned toward him, drew the blade herself, and turned back to cut Malena’s clothes away.

  “Why didn’t you clean her up better?” she asked, as soon as her husband was gone. She laid Toril’s crude, blood-soaked bandage aside.

  “I... I didn’t have much to work with,” Toril answered. “And I guess I was so tired by the time I found her that I wasn’t thinking very clearly. I had a little salve that I put on the bandage, but I didn’t want...”

  Shivi looked up as she finished cutting, noticed his averted eyes, and seemed to consider Malena’s nudity for the first time.

  “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I really do know about healing, and I have to understand her injuries. There’s no room for modesty. That’s why I sent Paka away. You can go help him if you like.”

  “I guess I ought to stay,” Toril said after a pause. “She was alone when I found her.”

  Shivi nodded, guessing at the sentiment behind the cryptic explanation. “It’s a miracle they missed the heart,” she said, “But they may have killed her just as surely. The discharge from the stab wound doesn’t smell right. And if I read these bruises true, there are other injuries I ought to inspect as well.”

  Toril turned his back. After a few moments, he trusted his voice enough to speak.

  “After I found her I brought her here and bandaged her up as best I could. Then I went and built a pyre for my father. By the time that was done I could only think of sleep.”

  “Did you get her to drink anything?”

  “She was up once in the night. She had a little water then, but I put her back to bed. Why isn’t she waking up now?”

  “She’s pale as a ghost,” Shivi said. “Her heart’s racing, and the whole side of her shift is soaked. Anybody gets light-headed when they lose a lot of blood. I don’t suppose she urinated?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Toril walked to the window and looked out. After a while, he felt Hika pad up beside him. The courtyard was still, except for Paka at the well; a breeze reinforced the smell of decay.

  “Can we move her?” he asked. “This place is thick with ghosts and rot. Maybe I should have left yesterday, but I couldn’t just abandon my father to the vultures, and I was exhausted.”

  “Best to keep her here,” Shivi said. “
The well’s nearby, and you have a door, a roof, and a fire. You won’t find anything better out there—at least, not close.”

  Toril considered this assessment glumly. He was not especially superstitious, but the thought of spending another night surrounded by death made his skin crawl. His stomach was empty and growling, but there was no way he could eat with this infernal reek in his nostrils.

  “Yesterday we found a couple kids alive, in a hut way out by the tannery, and took them to their uncle,” Shivi observed, making conversation as she continued her work. “That’s a small mercy, at least. He’s a goatherd—keeps a hut in the high meadows. We thought the walled part of town was empty, till your dog came scratching at our door and got us to follow her.”

  Hika pricked her ears, lifted her paws to the windowsill, and barked.

  “What does she see?” Shivi asked.

  “Men,” Toril responded slowly, his gaze focused on the distance. “A dozen or so, on horseback. They’re just at the outskirts of the town.”

  “Outlaws?” Shivi said, her voice filled with worry.

  “I can’t tell,” Toril answered. “They’re too far away. But I’m going to find out. Have your man help you bar the door.”

  Toril listened as riders worked their way toward him. He was crouched in the shadows of an overturned cart, where he could see part of the road without risking discovery.

  His hands, empty as he charged from bedchambers, now clenched the staff that he’d tugged out of the rakshasa’s smoking corpse. Halfway here, Toril had realized the weapon was missing—not just back in the room, but abandoned in the stable—and he’d been sick at his lapse of judgment. How could he have built a pyre for his father and forgotten the emblem of the clan that Hasha served with such conscientious loyalty? Did he value his heritage so little?

  The rakshasa’s mass had prevented any damage from the heat, but he still smarted with guilt.

  Hooves clopped in the dirt. Whoever these men were, they were making no attempt at stealth—but they weren’t very talkative, either. Were they just weary, or was shock at the town’s condition binding their tongues?

  Several horses rode by, and Toril saw boots in stirrups, but he didn’t dare to crawl out of his cover to study their owners until he had a better idea of intentions.

  Finally he heard quiet murmurs. “Think anyone’s still alive?”

  “Maybe at the tower. It was well guarded, and the stone wouldn’t burn.”

  “Why don’t we just blow a horn or shout or something? That would be faster than searching.”

  “Didn’t you see the rakshasa’s footprints back by the mill? Vasari is keeping us together and quiet till we know if it’s still here.”

  Toril scrambled out of his hiding place, flooded with relief. Vasari was a name he recognized—a man of his own clan who lived half a day’s ride around the mountain.

  In a moment he was surrounded by a grim ring of horsemen. Most were armed with bows and spears, and several carried swords across their backs. The sole exception was an old man in a flowing purple cloak; with a start, Toril recognized the priest who’d officiated at his wedding. The man was a long-time friend of Hasha’s who lived at the temple in Sotalio; apparently he’d ridden for home before the attack, heard the news, and turned back.

  “Toril?” the leader said, eyeing him carefully.

  “Well met, Vasari.” Although he’d discarded his blood-soaked tunic and washed in a bucket of well water, Toril realized that he was covered in ashes. Dirt and dried blood from the rakshasa streaked his forearms, his chin was dark with the beginnings of a beard, and his hair was tousled. Was he even recognizable?

  Vasari dismounted and clasped Toril’s arm in friendship. “We heard about Noemi yesterday,” he said. “I wanted to ride up right away, but Rovin said we should go after the osipi instead. He claimed he knew where they were headed, and that we had to stop them before they did more damage. It took a while to convince him to let a few of us come.”

  Toril felt bitterness well up inside him. “Rovin lied to you,” he growled. “This was no attack by the fast ones.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look around you, Vasari. Do you see a single golden body? Do you see any of their kitars? No. This is brigands’ doing. You’ll see them when you get to the tower. Have you ever heard of osipi ripping out children’s throats and burning towns to the ground, or consorting with rakshasas?”

  The circle of men had been passive observers, but now several stirred. “Rovin seemed very sure of himself,” Vasari said, as if conceding a point only to keep the peace.

  Toril cocked his head. “He was your only source of information? What else did he tell you?”

  Vasari shrugged and studied his boots, and after a moment Toril realized that the question embarrassed him. “What else?” he pressed.

  “Well,” Vasari offered, his ears reddening, “he said you had gone to Bakar, to a war council, claiming to be clan chief.”

  “I am clan chief,” Toril asserted, lifting his staff. “I challenged my father and bested him as the law requires.”

  “Do you have any witnesses?” Vasari asked, without taking his eyes off the staff.

  Toril remembered the Voice’s lifeless body with a sinking feeling. “No,” he said bluntly. “The bandits took care of that. But I know my father reached the other parijan heads by Voice to let them know.”

  Vasari closed his eyes and rubbed his temple with one hand as he sighed. “Rovin claims you used magic to force Hasha to tell that story.”

  Toril was shocked speechless.

  “There’s more,” Vasari continued. “He also says you shamed our clan at the war council by being too cowardly to fight, and that you ran away in disgrace. He told us to take the staff from you if you had it.”

  Toril searched for words to convey the rage that was exploding inside him, and came up short.

  “I have already told you that Rovin lied,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “If he wants the staff, let him come get it himself. I will not deny his challenge. We will see who is a coward.”

  Vasari stroked his mustache. “You will not yield the staff, then?”

  Toril shook his head, his knuckles white on the shaft.

  “Very well. I’ll let Rovin fight that battle. For what it’s worth, I have always considered you a worthy son of a worthy father, Toril. I have no wish to be your enemy. I came to help.”

  “Thank you,” Toril said, relaxing slightly.

  “Does Hasha live?” the priest interjected, sounding anxious.

  Toril looked down. “No,” he said. “He died by the rakshasa’s club.”

  “Then we will avenge him,” Vasari said. “We are over a dozen. If we surround the beast and choose our moment of attack, it will not get away.”

  Toril grunted. “I killed it myself. Let’s see if Rovin’s brave enough to take the staff he wants so much, when he knows it’s tasted rakshasa blood in the hands of this coward.”

  The priest and Vasari exchanged glances.

  “My wife lives,” Toril continued. “She’s in my chambers with a healer. There were a couple children as well. Otherwise, the whole place is dead. What I really need is food. And help burning bodies. Can you collect wood and tar from the kilns up the road? There’s not much left to burn here.”

  12

  White Hair ~ Kinora

  A short while before the bad men reined in their horses, Kinora glimpsed a face of gold in the forest. It flicked in and out of view as she glanced uphill, crossing a gap where moss blanketed the trees and trunks grew close enough to swallow the afternoon sunshine.

  All the men’s faces that she’d seen since the nightmare began were brutal and fierce—and a ghostly apparition might have triggered new terror. But this face was kind. He was a friend. She thought she saw compassion in his eyes, and sadness.

  If she had not been dazed, she might have cried out for mercy. But Kinora was exhausted, miserable, and in shock. Purpling hands throbbed f
rom over-tight rope around her wrists. Her legs tingled; her back ached from an eternity perched in front of a man with long, grimy fingernails who stank of sweat, wine, and bacco. Her bladder protested with every roll of the horse’s withers, and her stomach gnawed with hunger.

  At least she was upright. Most of the young ones sat tandem on horses the bandits had stolen from Noemi, but a few rode head down, trussed behind riders like extra saddlebags. She’d ridden that way briefly; it made breathing difficult, and it had left her with a headache that only now began to clear.

  She stifled a whimper. Several of the children had wailed as they rode out of town on the first night; the black eyes, split lips, and other tokens of reprisal were still fresh a day and a half later. One girl who wouldn’t stop crying had been silenced with an arrow and left on the hillside.

  Now they ventured no questions, begged no food or drink. They just endured in numb misery.

  The bad men were working their way out of the highlands—northward, Kinora had heard one of them say. She had never been this far from home—in fact, she’d never been outside the valley of Noemi at all—but the wildness of the terrain made her think they were far from any town or village. Animals were plentiful. She’d seen a handful of deer, lots of squirrels, and the flash of a fox. A hawk had glided overhead for half an hour, its wings stretched wide to mountain breeze. Once she’d heard a stag bugling. But except for the strange golden face, there were no humans besides her riding companions.

  Grimy Fingernails whistled, bringing the entire group to a halt. They were at the edge of a meadow, and it seemed the location was some sort of a meeting point. Kinora could see men waiting to receive them at a cluster of tents near the far line of trees.

  They looked like soldiers. As the bandit leader nudged the horse forward through the heather, Kinora noticed that they wore a scarlet sash; she recognized it as a token of the Royal Guard. But as a child from a remote backwater, she’d never seen such crisp, matching uniforms. These men wore elbow-length gloves, clean kameez, shalwar with no holes or patches, and new, blacked boots.

  The smartness of the soldiers’ appearance, their confident posture, and the evident nervousness of the bandit leader gave Kinora some hope. Was their ordeal about to end?