Cordimancy

by Hardman, Daniel

  “They’re following,” Oji said. “Hika made noise as I ran through the woods, and Corim and his cart were also loud. I think it distracted them, at first. But the scouts must have found where we met, because I saw them run back to town to report. Maybe they were sending a message by shimsal. That gave you a bit of a lead. Not much, though. When I snuck past them half an hour ago, they were near the stream.”

  Toril felt his heart quicken. He vaguely remembered splashing a while back. Had the moon been out then?

  “We must be getting close,” he said, a yawn slurring the end of his words despite his unease.

  “We’re here,” Oji responded. He gestured.

  Toril realized that the massive boulder beside his friend had contours too straight to be natural. He squinted. Were those glyphs carved on the rock’s face?

  “I don’t know the symbols,” said Oji, “but I guess this marks where the ancient road forked.” He kicked at the ground with his foot. “I think these must be paving stones. They north-run, toward the wall.”

  “Wall?” Malena said.

  Toril swiveled and squinted again. A band of gray stretched between two cliffs, out beyond the trees. The ground between shone barren and lifeless in the moonlight.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Was he actually going to go through with this?

  Without warning, Oji flickered sideways—a movement too fast for the eye to follow. The shaft of an arrow shattered against the rock where he’d been standing.

  “Run!” he shouted, as he blurred toward the trees behind Paka and Shivi’s horse. “I’ll try to slow them.”

  For a moment, Toril sat transfixed, his mind sluggish. Then Shivi and Paka surged past, and he understood. He slapped the horse hard on the rump and dug with his heels. Without spurs, it was the best he could do.

  The horse lurched forward, muscles rolling. Riding bareback, the motion almost unseated both of them—but Malena hunched down and grabbed fistfuls of mane, and Toril tightened his knees and clung to her waist. Somehow, they stayed upright.

  “Go!” he heard Malena gasp in the horse’s flattened ear. “Go!” Her fear was palpable.

  Something hummed overhead. He heard a thunk on the ground between the pounding rhythm of haunches and lungs. Arrows. Were the ahu firing as they ran? How much would that hurt their accuracy?

  They picked up speed. The other horse was a mottle of shadow off Malena’s shoulder. He felt gravel strike his forehead, thrown by flying hooves.

  A blood-curdling cry floated out of the darkness behind them.

  Could an osipi really out-sprint a horse? How about one that was tired, and that carried two riders? Should he prepare to fight?

  More arrows. He longed to look back, but his balance was too fragile. A bush flashed by. Boulders. Shadows.

  Ahead, the wall now stretched into darkness on either side. Instead of standing solid, it seemed to writhe in the moonlight, and he realized with dread that it consisted not of stone or brick, but of billowing haze. He’d half-expected a gate or portal of some kind, but there was nothing—just faceless emptiness. Despite the danger behind, he felt his skin crawl. Were they fleeing into something worse?

  Their horse faltered, then dropped into a canter and arced right, wanting to parallel the unnatural border.

  Toril cursed and yanked on the reins, but the horse continued to shy. Beside them, Shivi and Paka were having similar trouble.

  So close! Another twenty or thirty paces…

  Malena bent to the horse’s ear, but it shook its head and balked.

  Toril threw himself to the ground, stumbling and twisting an ankle as he landed. He hadn’t remembered he was clutching his staff; it clattered out of his hands.

  A handful of shapes sped toward them across the rockscape as he stooped to pick it up. He saw one, moving impossibly fast, swerve to intersect the others.

  Heart pounding, he whirled and prodded the horse. It reared.

  Malena cried out. He caught her as she half-vaulted, half-fell into his arms.

  An arrow slapped into the shoulder of the older couple’s horse. It screamed in pain, then plunged toward the mist, apparently now clear about which danger it preferred.

  Toril felt pain blossom at his ribs. He sensed a shaft impeding the motion of his arm, but there was no time to look.

  He grabbed his wife’s hand and ran.

  Two steps in, the darkness swallowed the moon and muffled the sounds at their backs. In four, Toril could no longer see Malena beside him. In twenty, they stumbled into the horse. It flinched; a hoof whistled past Toril’s ear.

  He reached out a hand and stroked its flank. It was breathing hard, and quivering.

  “That you, Toril?” came Paka’s voice. He sounded far away, distorted.

  “Yes.” Toril felt along the horse until his hand touched a knee. “Malena’s with me.” He inhaled carefully, wincing at the pinch in his side. His lungs worked, although the atmosphere was laden with both the acridness of smoke and the must and moisture of fog; it was like a tangible breath of decay. The arrow was no longer in his wound; perhaps it had broken off or fallen out as he ran. Was that a trickle of blood itching at his waistband?

  A clatter and muffled curse sounded nearby. He felt Malena startle. Without releasing his hand, she grabbed his shoulder as well.

  Shivi coughed.

  The same distortion that gave Paka’s voice such an odd timbre made the noise hard to locate. Toril breathed as much as the fumes permitted.

  “Oji?”

  “I’m here, stonecaster.” He sounded much more distant than the clatter they’d just heard. And the direction seemed wrong.

  “Is there anybody else?” Malena asked.

  “I killed all but two,” Oji said. “And they stopped at the edge. Too afraid to follow.” His disgust was unmistakable despite the distortion of his words. Once again, he seemed to speak from a new direction.

  “Stop moving,” Shivi said. “We might lose you.”

  “I’m not moving,” Oji said. “I boulder-smashed my ankle just now. That taught me. But your voices come from behind me one moment, and in front the next. I entered right where you did, but you sound far away.”

  “This mist is cursed,” said Paka. “Remember the blackness that came after Malena before?”

  Toril felt his wife shiver.

  In the end, they found Oji by feel. Shivi and Paka dismounted, and they made a chain: Paka held the reins with one hand, and Shivi’s hand with his other; Shivi reached out to Malena, who gripped one end of the staff while Toril held the other and stretched into blackness. They swept half a circle before detecting Oji on the far side of the horse, opposite from where they’d expected.

  They heard no human noises as they searched, but they began to notice a pervasive layer of hum and whisper in the haze. It reminded Toril of the echoes left behind by magic wielders when they died. It seemed to swell and fade unpredictably, almost like wind—except that the air was motionless. It hung cloying and thick, with a strong odor of mold, ash, and phosphorous, swallowing the eerie susurrations as fast as they arose.

  There was a brief moment of joy when Toril’s finger brushed an ear, and the human chain pulled back into a circle, amid happy exclamations from Oji. Toril heard Paka clap a shoulder, and felt Malena shift as she leaned into an embrace.

  He smiled.

  Then silence fell.

  “So what do we do now?” Oji said. “How can we cross twenty leagues of this? We can’t even see the ends of our noses.”

  “We could try to find our way back out,” Shivi suggested. “The horse was facing into the mist when we stopped. If we used our chain to make a straight line back, we might hit the edge.”

  “Not sure the horse stayed steady while we searched,” Paka said. “Besides, what would be the point of going back? I bet the ahu are standin’ watch.”

  The thought of two warriors patrolling nearby made Toril queasy. Even if they had no courage for the mist, they might shoot
into it. “The staff said to cut across,” he said.

  “Maybe it will be brighter in the morning,” Malena suggested. “Even a little bit could help. In the meantime, I’m too exhausted to think straight, and we don’t seem to be in any immediate danger. Should we move far enough that the ahu can’t find us, and then rest?”

  Toril prodded his ribs with fingertips, found a tear in cloth, sucked in his breath. The adrenaline seemed to drain from his system, and he felt light-headed and sore.

  “I need Shivi or Oji to take a look at an arrow wound,” he muttered. “Or feel it, I suppose, since we can’t see a thing. Make sure it’s clean and salved up. Then I need to rest; we all do.”

  Malena inhaled sharply. Her hand ran up his arm.

  “Are you okay? Where were you hit?”

  “My ribs. Arrow didn’t stick me deep. Maybe it’s not serious. I can’t tell.”

  “Come on,” said Paka. Toril felt a tug, and the whole group shuffled toward his voice. “A couple hundred steps ought to be safe. Then we check that wound, and the one in our horse’s shoulder. And we rest.”

  42

  barge ~ Kinora

  Kinora stroked hair as she hummed, running fingers across the stem of the skyflower that she’d braided there. The little girl whose head she cradled continued to tremble, but her whimpers had subsided, and her breathing had become slow and regular.

  Behind, the steering oar creaked. Overhead, the moon hung almost full, reflecting pinkly off the silver of the river’s surface as they glided along.

  A couple of the ten-year-olds still blinked sleepily, but most children had collapsed hours ago on the damp barge deck, exhausted from fear and hunger. The golden warriors had disappeared below as soon as they embarked; soldiers had followed when dark fell. At least some of the men were still awake, though; subdued voices emanated from the hatch.

  Far away on the banks, insects chirped; the faint chorus turned her thoughts once again to the toddler she’d named. Had she done right to leave Cricket behind? Was he lying cold and still in the reeds, ants exploring sightless eyes—or had those who chased Gorumim found him, as she’d hoped? The soldiers had been in a hurry to load barges and take to the river, and they’d talked of someone in pursuit.

  Who was following?

  How far behind were they?

  It couldn’t be her tat, she guessed. Kinora wasn’t certain who had survived the razing of Noemi, but her last glimpse of the village had been a jumble of burning thatch and lifeless shadows in the streets. And she’d heard Gorumim complain about a survivor. He made it sound like there had only been one.

  That couldn’t be all, could it? She must not have understood.

  Who might be following—the golden face she’d seen? Or Semya Toril, maybe? She remembered the urgent look on his face as he bartered with Tat to hire an apprentice for his kitchens. She thought of how he’d complimented her voice, how he’d presented her to Cook with elaborate instructions about incorporating song into the daily baking rituals. Cook, who had begged and wept before she died.

  If Hasha’s son had survived, he would come for her, wouldn’t he?

  Yes. He was one who would come. If.

  She stopped humming long enough to sniff and wipe her nose on a sleeve.

  It probably wasn’t Hasha himself; she’d spied him in the courtyard, looking frail as he lifted an axe—even if he was alive, she couldn’t picture the old man worrying these soldiers.

  Was Elesel’s body rotting in the cobbler’s shop where he’d been apprenticed?

  What about Maco? She hadn’t seen her younger brother since the day before the attack, when she’d jogged home to bring Tat her wages. She recalled the circle of his scrawny arms around her waist. She’d been half-hearted in returning his hug. Now she regretted that.

  Shoulders eclipsed the candlelight flickering through the forward hatch. Two dark forms emerged—one unnaturally short, the other tall and slender. They glided to the prow, forming a shadowy dent in the stars along the horizon.

  “You haven’t put your men to the oars,” growled a raspy, accented voice.

  “The barge is too big to make speed that way,” murmured the other shadow. Kinora recognized Gorumim’s cold tone.

  “I thought you wanted to be at the capital for Harvest Festival.”

  “Yes. By then the raja will be panicked with news of violence on the border, and he’ll have read the letter I sent ahead by voice. I’ll ride in with the osipi prisoners to reassure him. The pomp will make him careless.”

  “But how do you propose to get there in only six days? It’s more like ten or twelve to float so far.”

  White Hair grunted. He lifted a hand and held it out over the river.

  A burble sounded in Kinora’s ears. The surface of the river seemed to swell; waves flowed toward their barge. She felt the deck lift beneath her and surge ahead.

  “We will be at the Kirte Fords in four days time,” Gorumim said. “That’s only a day upriver from Kikal Pilar. It’s the nearest I’ve dared approach in the past without re-enchanting myself in a thrall of loyalty to the crown.” He turned; from his posture, Kinora thought he must be gazing at the children sleeping on the deck. “This time will be different.”

  43

  thirst ~ Toril

  Toril cracked his eyes. His back ached. His thighs ached. His side ached, and he could feel half-dried blood stiffening the crude bandage that Shivi had fashioned. Despite the moistness of the noxious fog, his throat was parched, and his arm was numb where he’d used it as a pillow for too long.

  But he felt more clear-headed than he he’d been for days.

  How long had they slept?

  His stomach growled.

  Beside him, Malena breathed. A couple paces beyond, he heard snores from Paka.

  He realized that he was seeing something—a creamy blur with a hook of chestnut. He blinked three times before he recognized the curl of hair around Malena’s ear. Now he caught a dim suggestion of the horse’s bulk off to one side, and a smaller outline that might be Shivi, seated hugging her knees, on the other. The smokiness still hung thickly, and the smell of mold remained, but he could see a few paces, at least.

  Gingerly, he sat.

  “You’re up,” said the old woman’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “How’s the wound?”

  Toril sighed. “Not fatal, I guess.”

  “I couldn’t tell much when I doctored it,” she said. “Felt like maybe a chip in the bone, and a nice long slash. You were lucky. A finger higher or lower, and it might have been your lung.”

  “I think it’s stopped bleeding,” Toril said.

  “Good. I hope the salve keeps infection away.”

  “I can see. A little bit, anyway.”

  Shivi’s silhouette nodded. “I can’t find the sun to tell direction or time, but it’s been that way for two or three hours, now.”

  “You’ve been awake that long?”

  Shivi shrugged. “I’m not much good in a fight, but here at least is one way an old woman can help: I don’t sleep much. You were all tired. I took the first watch. Then Oji spelled me and I had a nap. When I woke up he went back to sleep, and I’ve been watching ever since.”

  Malena’s breathing changed. She rolled over and propped an arm beneath her head.

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “We’re all going to be thirsty, I suspect,” Shivi said. “The bags on our horse have some soldier’s gear in them. Knife, whetstone, tinderbox, hatchet. Soap. Bit of rope. Plus some baati, dried peppers and tomatoes, sunflower seeds. But no water.”

  “You try a fire?” Toril asked.

  “Nothing to burn. And besides, I didn’t want to attract attention.”

  “Attention?”

  “The stories say this land belongs to demons.”

  Toril said nothing. Something had to be making the eerie noises. But whatever it was, it had left them alone so far.

  “Maybe it will rain,” Malena offer
ed.

  “Feel the dirt,” Shivi replied. “It’s dry and hot. No dew. I haven’t seen a blade of green, or even an ant.”

  “We have the potatoes…” Toril started to say. Then he stopped. The provisions Corim had provided were tucked in the saddlebag on the other horse—the one they’d left outside the Rift.

  A queer chittering sound swelled, then faded.

  “I brought a waterskin,” came Oji’s voice, possibly from beyond the horse. “I filled it at the last stream we crossed on the climb last night. But I don’t suppose it can go far, split five ways.”

  Paka stopped snoring. “I hear something about water?” he croaked.

  Shivi snorted.

  Footsteps approached. A small shape knelt. Toril heard gurgling.

  He licked his lips. He felt unusually thirsty himself. Perhaps the blood loss had depleted him.

  “Oji, you told us you have a strong sense of direction,” he said. “Do you know which way is north?”

  There was a pause. When Oji answered, his voice sounded troubled. “Most of the time, I sense it with ease. Now I’m not certain. It might be that way.” An arm pointed into the brume.

  44

  pishachas ~ Malena

  Malena wiped grit from the corner of her eyes and swallowed. The pebble she’d placed in her mouth hours ago had alleviated thirst at first, as she sucked—but now it wasn’t helping.

  She lifted the rag she’d tied around her nose and mouth, and spat out the stone; it faded into haze before landing.

  They’d been walking all day, following the dim silhouette of Oji. Occasionally he paused, consulting an inner compass, and the rest of the group bunched together well enough to see each other, while he adjusted their heading. She was glad for the breaks; her feet and ankles throbbed.

  They’d found a compass in the salvaged gear, but the needle just spun uselessly. Oji worried aloud that he wasn’t much better, but at least they hadn’t gone in circles.

  At first, there’d been a gentle downhill trend. The soil underfoot—about the only terrain they could see—was sandy, flecked with gravel and a smattering of larger stones. Easy going.