by Bill Fawcett
“I go now, Inla.
“Go with me. For otherwise I must be alone.”
MITHMID SAT ON the floor of his kitchen, his knees drawn up and his back against the wall. Above him paced an agitated, animated Jremm, whose constant talking was beginning to grate on the Council-mrem’s ears. He knew he must listen, because Jremm was giving him information the Council would find important, but he wished his young apprentice spy—or so he still wanted to think of him—would abandon the topic he felt so strongly about.
Rennilan. Recently with Jremm, it was always Rennilan.
“I tell you, Mithmid,” the younger mrem said spiritedly as his tail flicked in spastic jumps. “I saw her there, with some thief from the Rest. He was touching her, Mithmid, and she was about to do whatever he wanted.” His voice rose as he paced and stroked his whiskers. “It made me sick, Mithmid,” he almost whined. “It made me want to walk in and kill him.”
“Why didn’t you?” Mithmid asked. It was a cruel thing to say, he knew, but Jremm had barged in well before dawn and awakened him from a much-needed sleep. Important though this was, it could have waited until morning.
Jremm stopped and stared at him. “I couldn’t,” he said softly. “You know that.” He pointed his finger at Mithmid. “You’ve ordered me never to get directly involved.”
Mithmid nodded. Yes, he had told him that. What Jremm didn’t see, though, was that he was already involved. Rennilan had a hold on the younger mrem that Mithmid couldn’t begin to understand. No mrem—male or female—had ever made him feel that obsessed.
For a moment, he thought perhaps he had missed out on something.
“Jremm,” he replied slowly. “Calm down.” When the other did not respond, Mithmid barked, “Stop!” and finally the apprentice spy halted and leaned on the wall, his tail still twitching erratically.
Mithmid waited. “That’s better,” he said at last, as quietly and as calmly as he could. “You’re upset. That’s understandable. But you already knew about Rennilan’s escapades, Jremm. Why not just leave her alone?”
Jremm’s eyes blazed with fury, but only for a moment. Finally he closed them, as Mithmid saw his apprentice’s lack of sleep beginning to show.
“I don’t know,” came the quiet answer. “I keep thinking that—well, we had something once, Mithmid. And I can’t stop wondering why she’s doing all these things.” When he sighed, Mithmid felt a sudden surge of pity.
“She’s free to do as she pleases,” was all he could say. “We change, times change.” It sounded trite even as he said it.
Jremm brightened anyhow. “That’s the problem,” he said. “She’s not doing as she pleases.”
Mithmid cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“She’s not doing as she pleases, she’s doing as Draldren pleases.” His voice was racing again. “That’s what I’ve been saying, Mithmid. Draldren sent her there, to do that.”
“There? With the thief?”
Jremm hesitated. “I don’t actually know if he’s a thief. I saw him come out of the Rest, and he had been with another suspicious character. Two, actually, one of them sand-colored, the other mottled. I had been trying to follow them. But I failed. I never did find out who they were.”
“Never mind that,” Mithmid cut in. “At least, not for now.” He paused, then asked, “Why did you say Draldren sent her there?”
“She said so,” Jremm answered immediately. “She told the thief—I’ll call him that—that her father had sent her. That she was some kind of payment, or reward, or something like that. I was shocked when I heard it, Mithmid. So shocked I could hardly stand up.”
Nodding, Mithmid rose to his feet. “I can understand why,” he told the younger mrem. Then, after a long pause, “Do you believe what she said?”
The other wasted no time. “Yes,” he said quickly, and with that he sank to the floor.
Confused and appalled, Mithmid walked to the door. He had not known Draldren, but after Jremm’s earlier discoveries he had asked the merchants about him. Draldren’s family had been small but important in Ar, and Draldren had fashioned his life after his father’s. The older mrem had been known for his loyalty to the king, and almost equally for his loyalty to his children. From all accounts, and from the testimony of acquaintances and relatives, Draldren had followed his father’s well-admired footsteps. Before Jremm had seen him that night in the Rest, his loyalty to Andelemarian had been without question. And all of Ar knew how he worshiped his only daughter. After the death of his wife, Rennilan had become the focus of his life.
And now Jremm was telling him that Draldren had given her to some thief from Arbunda’s Rest. It was hard to believe.
When he looked behind him, he saw that Jremm had fallen asleep. He wondered how long the mrem had been wandering the streets in search of information, and he smiled down on him and slowly shook his head. He was a good one, this Jremm, tireless and clever, but not overconfident. Mithmid knew that, if the Council had its way, Jremm was destined for better things than spying. Certainly better than being a petty quiet one and watching the streets for the H’satie.
From what he had overheard in the Council Chamber, though, it seemed that Jremm was already on his way. To that Chamber, despite the hour and despite his fatigue, Mithmid now started. He had to find Lorleen or Eronucu, and he had to tell them what Jremm had just learned. They had to tell the king immediately. Whatever Draldren was doing, it was beginning to grow more and more serious. Andelemarian had to be warned!
•
“If you think Crethok is hard, think again. From now on, I expect blood.”
Jarrinon strode back and forth in front of his band of warriors, his face scowling and his voice a constant growl. He made no effort to restrain his tail as it swished behind him. Ever since Crethok had split his small force of twenty raiders from the main band of clansmrem, Jarrinon had been striving to ensure his warriors’ loyalty and respect. This meant, of course, that they had to fear him, and to that end he had begun a series of raids that would destroy all but the best.
Like any leader, he had to build a reputation. Unlike the rest, he knew he could be the best.
“My cousin has given me the worst,” he snarled at them. “The worst of the warriors, and the most dangerous of the raids.” He paused. “Oh, Crethok didn’t tell me that,” he went on, “but I knew it immediately. He wants us to raid further toward Cragsclaw, to hit what villages he has not ruined, and he wants us to find the tiny caravans that the villages send to the towns. There is little to be gained,” he announced, “if that is all we can find.”
He spat toward the ground, taking care not to miss the foot of one of his warriors. When the target drew back, Jarrinon snapped his whip against his knee. The clansmrem knew that he must not cry out.
“But we will do more,” Jarrinon shouted. “We will strip these hills bare, gain more riches than even Crethok has taken. And we will not lose them to another. When we return, he will have no choice but to praise us.” He stared at his mrem and added, “We will do these things, or you will all die.”
The highland raider walked to the edge of the riverbank. Looking to the east, he saw the mountains not far beyond, but what took his attention were the caves scattered all along the far bank. He had heard of liskash in this area, and he wondered if he would find some there. He shuddered at the thought, but if he could kill one he knew these mrem would try nothing against him. Not even Crethok would dare face him in a duel then. Jarrinon smiled to himself. No living member of their clan had ever killed a liskash. Only the great warriors of the past had done that.
“The river is the key,” he announced, turning to face the others. “If there is something worthwhile to be found, we will find it on the river.” He turned again, pausing mostly for effect, then whirled and said loudly, “We will watch this river until something passes by. When it does, it is ours
.” With that he walked down the bank.
The river was fordable here. Further to the south were the waterfalls and the rapids, but here the current was not yet strong. Even this close to the rapids, though, piles of rocks made a crossing possible. All that was necessary was to keep from falling in.
•
For Jarrinon, the river had a special significance. Like most highlanders, he was afraid of it, and he planned to impress his warriors by denying that fear. By braving the rocks, and crossing to the other side, he would easily gain the clansmrem’s respect. And if the caves held a liskash, and he was able to return with it... the thought alone was enough to spur him on.
He stepped into the water. It was cold, as cold as the late autumn air, and his feet were not thankful. Their light brown fur matted as the Targra flowed over them, a sight that always made Jarrinon sick to his stomach. It looked so damned ugly, that wet, waving fur; dark and coiled, it seemed almost alive.
But he went on, and finally it was over. At one point the water had risen to his chest, and as he raised himself onto the far bank he took off his tunic and pants and hastily shook them out. Donning them again, he looked at the caves and sighed. Suddenly, in the shadows of the afternoon sun, they looked extremely unfriendly and extremely dangerous.
He thought for a moment. He had not told his mrem where he was going, so he could easily turn back. A scouting mission, that’s what it was. A scouting mission with him as the chief scout.
Without looking back, he halted and considered. Retreat was tempting, but he had his reputation to worry about. The clansmrem had no reason to respect him yet, no reason to believe he could lead them into a raid, much less into battle. Eventually he would have to do both. For that, he needed their unswerving loyalty.
The caves, then. Onward to the dark, stinking caves. “Skartu!” he muttered. “Is this what you’d have me do?” He looked to the sky, but Skartu did not answer. The gods are useless, he thought, especially at times like this.
The first cave reeked, but he did not know the smell. Something dead, he thought, as he stepped inside. He went only a short way inside, because in his haste he had forgotten a torch and the cave was dark. Damn! he thought. How could he have been such a fool?
The second cave smelled only sweet. As Jarrinon entered he could hear the river rush past, almost as if the cave door were funneling the sound to him. And the smell was of water, and of growing things in the springtime. This time he walked deep inside, because the passage was straight and the light lingered long.
Then came the third cave.
Dark and imposing, the entrance stared at him as he approached. The sun shone straight inside, allowing him a view that he did not like. On the rocks were the remnants of battle, on the floor the stains of blood. And deep inside, along the southern wall, he could swear he saw a shadow move.
Tall and black, the shadow paced. Where it came from he could not tell, but he guessed the caster was in a wide chamber. Like a waving tree, the shadow swayed from side to side, and once he thought he saw an arm. Like the shadow, the arm was dark and huge.
Liskash, he told himself. He turned quietly and looked up the far bank, where his mrem waited and watched. Turning back he smiled, knowing that this was the moment he had waited for. He drew his sword, raised it high to reflect the sun, then shouted in a voice designed to strike fear.
“Liskash!” he yelled, and the cave answered with a rock. It thudded against his chest. Clutching his ribs, Jarrinon crumpled to the ground, rolling from the entrance and down toward the river. Seeing what had happened, his mrem started down the bank. When Jarrinon struggled to his feet, he turned to them and yelled his command.
“Stop!” he cried, gasping for breath. “The liskash is mine.” The mrem obeyed; none were anxious to face their racial enemy. Jarrinon started back to the cave.
This time the rock was less gentle. It struck him on the cheek, jagged and cutting, and for a moment the blood flowed hard. Nor was the rock alone. Unlike the first time, it was followed by a sword, and Jarrinon saw his arm cut through to muscle. Wrenching it back, he howled, and again his mrem came forward.
This time, his commands did not halt them.
He stumbled forward. A hand grabbed his neck. He found himself staring into the eyes of a mrem. His fur was dark and his eyes were gold, and the strength of his grip choked Jarrinon until he could not even cough. But then the mrem looked out toward the approaching warriors, and with a blow to the face he released the gasping clansmrem to the ground. Jarrinon bounced on the rocks as the darkfur raced along the bank to the north.
The warriors reached him. Pointing, Jarrinon ordered them to follow. “But don’t kill him,” he demanded. “He is mine, and mine alone.” The enraged mrem thought he heard a chuckle, but he could not see who had laughed.
For over an hour the chase continued. Jarrinon ordered his mrem over rocks, across the river, and even into caves, in an effort to find the skillful runner. But despite his best attempts the darkfur raced on, half-heartedly it seemed, northward toward the rapids and the falls. If he reached that area, Jarrinon knew, he would be doubly difficult to catch.
Unless....
The clansmrem leader clutched the wrappings on his wounded arm. Stopping five of his fastest mrem, he caught his breath and separated them from the rest. “Cross the river,” he coughed, weak and dizzy with the pain of the cut. “Cross the river and run for the waterfall. Let nothing slow you down.” He spat and gasped for breath. “Get past him, and reach the waterfall before he does. Then hide, and wait for him and for us. If you make it, he will be trapped.”
They were off in an instant, swimming across the Targra. Jarrinon smiled as they obeyed him, impressed at the loyalty they showed in the swim. Hardly fond of water, and even less enamored of the near-freezing water in the mountain streams, the mrem of the highlands rarely immersed themselves in water over their heads. They scarcely even believed the stories of the sailors in the sea. No one, they thought, could ever stand that much water.
Yet here they were, swimming the Targra because he had ordered them.
He was beginning to weaken even more. The slice in his arm burned, and he wondered if the darkfur had coated his sword with mild poison. Then, too, sweat was starting to pour from his face, even though the air was cold and the chilling spray from the rapids kept washing him as he ran. By now, the bulk of his warriors ran many strides in front of him.
Rounding a curve, he saw the waterfall high above the mists of the rapids. He was right about the trap, because the only way north from here was a dangerous climb straight up a cliff beside the falls. Considering how slippery the water-sprayed rocks were, the climb would be as difficult as scaling an ice-coated mountainside. And any mrem on it would be an easy target. If he was here, Jarrinon would catch him.
He was. High above them he stood, on a ledge no wider than the length of his feet. Jarrinon saw him look from side to side, searching for a hold in the wet, slick face of the cliff. His open tunic was soaked through, and Jarrinon knew his pants must be heavy. At his side his sword hung dripping.
Looking to his left, Jarrinon saw the five he had sent separately. They raised their swords over their heads to signal that they saw him, and again a smile came to their leader’s face. Behind them, high on the rocks, a tiny trail led up to the top of the cliff. If they hadn’t reached it, the darkfur would certainly have escaped.
Now, though, he was trapped.
Jarrinon stood below him. “Darkfur!” he shouted. “Come down.” When he received no answer, he shouted again. “We are twenty, darkfur,” he said. “You are only one. And I have archers, who will shoot you if you do not come down.” He stopped, then continued. “Throw down your sword,” he said, “then climb down yourself.”
When the darkfur obeyed, Jarrinon simply nodded. Finally, he said, he had done something that would make him known. This was a story his mrem would no
t forget. So far he had come out less than the victor. Now he must end it so as to increase his prestige.
The darkfur approached, as the clansmrem opened their ranks. Stepping toward him, Jarrinon stopped three paces away and looked into his eyes. They were gold. For a nervous moment he recalled that Cwynid’s eyes contained flecks of gold, but there was no trace of green in his captive’s eyes at all, just glittering gold. They shone with alertness, but Jarrinon saw that they held no life. He had seen the eyes of captives many times before; these were different. An arm’s length away they still gave the impression of being distant. Again he was reminded of Cwynid.
Standing there at the base of the waterfall, the mist wetting the fur on their faces, Jarrinon wondered if these gold eyes could compete with those of Crethok’s magician. They were different, but somehow the same. Though the eyes of that wizard were eyes of illusion; in the eyes of the darkfur he found a more direct strength.
They were beautiful, he suddenly thought, and he felt himself grow weak. Suddenly the ground seemed to give way, as his legs buckled beneath him and he fell to his knees. Those holding the stranger jumped to catch him as he fell. Three more clansmrem raced to his side, but by the time they got there the feeling had passed. Shaking his head, Jarrinon stood up.
“What did you do to me?” he asked the darkfur, his ears bent back suspiciously.
The other did not answer.
“You are a magician!” he accused, his voice a barely disguised snarl.
The gold eyes danced as the captive laughed. “Maybe you are right,” he said in the slow, halting accent of the grasslands. “But you are a fool.” And with that he grabbed the highland leader and leaped with him into the river.
None followed. Whether out of fear of the swirling water, or thinking he could handle this gold-eyed mrem alone, Jarrinon never knew. All he knew, as he tumbled over and over again, fur scraping off his head on rocks deep beneath the surface, was that the darkfur knew the water far better than he.