Into the Raging Mountains

by Caroline Gill

  Chapter Eighteen

  What Moves Wisdom?

  He crept forward, one tiny movement at a time. Then he paused, still and waiting, before creeping forward again. Progress was minute. Little by little, he gained ground, hugging the land, easing his body through and around the natural habitat. His father had trained him well.

  Over the course of a couple of days the village's spy watched the gathered tribe of foreign men as they went about their daily lives. The unwelcomed strangers were unaware that Cethel was watching them exactly as they had spied on his village's ongoings for who knew how long. Most of the men were tattooed, thick of body, covered in mud and dirt, matted clumps of hair sticking in all different directions. There were huge, capable men, relaxed and confident in their dominion of the forested land.

  He could not see the captives from his vantage point but once in a while he could hear a familiar word. The words came from a large tent, shaded by trees. The men took water and food into the tent, and took empty containers away. How many were kept there he could not have said. As many as twenty or as few as two, he couldn't begin to guess. He watched it intently, hopeful of hearing some snatch of conversation, some sign of Laylada.

  There were several lean-tos constructed of found materials, sheltering groups of the strangers. In the center of the site, a tall gray tent was set, its lines sleek and its fabric smooth. Guards were posted outside of its tentflap, but Cethel never saw anyone enter or exit. To the side of the encampment there was one other notable structure. One large tree was shorn of its leaves and extra limbs and became the main tent pole for a mud-splotched, green-painted, cloth construction that seemed to be the focus of all the reporting activities. When the warriors were leaving or entering that space they seemed to bow in obeisance at the entry. Who is in there? Probably their chief. Definitely someone I do not want to meet.

  After the frightened and yet fascinated boy had watched his enemies for a while, he first thought to walk into their campsite and try to talk to them. Maybe something he knew would be worth Laylada's freedom? That idea was ground to dust when he really couldn't think of anything he knew that was valuable enough not to lead to his imprisonment as well. Seeing as how he was the only hope that Laylada had at the edge between captivity and liberty, Cethel didn't want to squander any chance he might have.

  Besides, just as he was plucking up courage to venture forth, to stand up in the middle of all of them and calmly walk in to the center of their group settlement, one of the brown men emerged from the gray tent carrying a decapitated human body, minus most of the legs and one arm. The torso was still bleeding and was unceremoniously dragged to a trap door he had not previously noticed. It was lifted open and the bleeding flesh was dropped in; it was not unlike feeding a bit of butchered pig to caged hunting dogs.

  Cethel's stomach turned in shock. He threw up into his hand: only a little since he hadn't eaten well for days. He quickly wiped the residue on the dirt next to him and with a few gestures, buried it. Mindful that the stink was strong and made him an easy target, still it was almost impossible to hold his nausea against the blatant murder of people the boy was sure he knew.

  Added to that, the sound of frenzied feeding that came from the buried pit terrorized Cethel. He was grateful to be lying down because the cracking of bones, slurping and, crunchings of gorging that emitted from that pit made him weak with fear, his body already collapsing from the distinct results of the possibility of capture.

  Cethel knew then that he was much too young to do any good for anyone. He also saw that he had almost no possibility of escape either, surrounded on all sides by mortal enemies. Thinking back, he realized he should have returned to the village's protection with what he knew. The whole situation is too big! Bigger than anyone knows!

  The dirty men already knew the land and the villagers as any prepared hunter would. We are finished! Everyone will die! He couldn't help but think that these people would only see him as more food for whatever was kept in the deep pit.

  The two-day supply of hunter's tack that he had always kept with him, that hardy food was gone. Thirst was becoming unbearable as well. The well-trained youth knew enough about survival to acknowledge that he would have to act this nightfall if he wanted to retreat. Getting back to his father with what he knew was the only chance the other villagers had, … the only chance Laylada has.

  Waiting for the oncoming darkness was no burden, although his stomach rumbled slightly. No enemy was close enough to hear him, or cared enough to look. Apparently, they thought their location and presence was undiscovered still.

  Tattooed arms and chests, stinking of musk and rancid fat declared blatantly that these men were capable forest hunters, at ease in the wild. Cethel never saw anyone among the Dirtmen, as he had begun to call them in his head, slightly worried or capable of startling. Even when two red-chested grouse wandered into the middle of the encampment, no one seemed to care or take any notice. Indifferent to the intrusion, the low conversations went on, without even a pause for breath.

  Only one man did anything. Raising a thin stick that he had been tapping on a shell covered in animal skin, he reached into a pouch and placed a small bit of something onto the end. Holding it up to his lips, nodding to the continuing conversation of the other four in his immediate area, he puffed his cheeks full, and released a directed force of air through the stick, aimed without thought at the general locale of the birds.

  One grouse fell, dead before its head hit the dirt. The other had a flash of a moment to look confused before the second pellet knocked it over on top of the first. None of the gathered men reacted. The low guttural conversation went on without pause.

  A good while later, the drummer casually ambled over to the fallen birds. Reaching down, he dug the pellets out of the birds' eyes and replaced them in the hunting pouch. Picking up each fowl by the feet, with a sharp and powerful swing, he smashed the heads into a nearby collection of stepping stones. Throwing the decapitated bodies into a woven bin near one of the central fires, he walked back to his fellows and resumed tapping the killstick to the tightly stretched skin of his drum.

  Cethel felt weak and impossibly weary as almost all hope drained out of his tired body. Nightfall could not come fast enough, and yet he dreaded its coming. This was his one chance, his only chance, and the large possibility of failure loomed over his head. Worrying would gain him nothing but trouble, and yet, escaping this pit of vipers daunted him.

  Finally, the darkness that followed the falling of the sun was in full bloom. The stars, obscured by the heavy clouds that had clustered together over the treetops, ushered in the probability of light rain occurring during the length of nightfall. Hopefully, the rain would obliterate any passage of his track that might be left to follow should he be pursued.

  If I survive that long, he thought grimly.

  He began to move away from the enclosure of beasts, the holding pen of captives, the tall, tree-poled tent that loomed over the whole of it, the Dirtmen's death camp. Whoever these intruders were, Cethel knew they moved with a singular, unknown purpose and clearly valued no life at all above it.

  Withdrawing as slowly as he had entered, the young man moved with all of the training he had been given. As his father had taught him, Cethel moved only with the sounds of his enemies. He was not detected by any of the men scattered about the camp, as the terrified boy retreated from the horrors he had witnessed, back into the surrounding shelter of the largest tree trunks. Taking a moment to evaluate all options, searching with ears and eyes for the buried enemy lairs and the posted watching guards, Cethel saw his opportunity.

  Climbing up one small, outlying branch, he reached into the hollowed hole that was obscured from nightfall predators. He withdrew his hand, clenched. Opening his palm on the forest floor, two young birds awakened from their rest, startled.

  Squawking twice, once feebly, once with annoyance, they raced around the trees and ran away from Cethel, directly toward the sleeping Dirtmen.
This time, two pairs of eyes focused on the intrusion and one squawk later, one bird was down. The other followed. Trained hunters listened for any other signs of intrusion, and after no other sounds reached their ears, their eyes returned to their own unknowable thoughts. Secure in their dominating prowess and their formidable mastery of forest life, the Dirtmen turned away from the chance occurrence and resumed their watch.

  The quiet was only interrupted by the occasional hiss from the covered enclosure. It was a sound that immobilized Cethel every time he heard it.

  Backing away from the temporary settlement, the boy knew it would be a long journey home and he was not certain how long he could avoid detection. Bira, save us all! Taking a deep breath, the lone villager said a tiny prayer in his youthful heart and slipped into the darkness of the tree cover. His ears were his only guide. Using every bit of stealth he had, Cethel managed to get almost three hundred paces from the Dirtmen's encampment before he was caught.

  Slipping around the base of a decent-sized tree, his hands traced the bark's whorls. He crept over, around, and through the vegetation, hugging the ground, adopting the Hunting Stillness, as his father had always called it. Outwaiting the prey is a skill. Now he used it to trap other predators.

  When hands grabbed his shoulders firmly, he instantly reacted by flipping over, knife out, slashing. He missed. Only one chance! I have only one chance! Kill this one before he warns the others!

  Bringing his head forward, he attempted to smash his opponent in the nose, a schoolyard trick he had learned from his uncle. The counterattack was avoided, swiftly. He expected painful retribution. Still, he was ready to fight for his life and Laylada's and would not give up easily.

  Cethel, son of Centen, made no noise as he fought one on one because he knew it would only alert any other Dirtmen nearby. Although oddly, neither did his opponent.

  Bringing his fist up forcefully, his hand extending into a cupped-arrow, arm straight as he aimed for the breath-hold of the other; Cethel fought for everything he loved. Grateful to only have to fight one man, still it was all he could do to squirm free from the terrible grip and parry the thrusts that kept landing near his throat and groin.

  Finally, he tripped. Cethel had fought well, but it was over. He knew that he lost the crucial advantage by losing his footing. Still, there was one last trick his Father had taught him.

  First, he stopped moving. He went completely docile and limp, as if he had been knocked unconscious in the impact of the fall. When he did not strike back, the other fighter paused as well, investigating. Two strong hits landed on his ribcage and buttocks.

  Then, he kicked out with all of his force. His opponent fell next to him. For the first time, he felt a long braid whip his arm as he struck with the odd, silver etched dagger.

  The move was unstoppable. A killing strike. Straight at the heart! As the knife's blade struck the skin, it sunk in with a thunk, ending the conflict. I have won! His mouth curled into a silent shout of victory.

  Robbed of all strength the body fell partially over him. The heart wound bled out onto him, covering the victor's clothes. Only then did Cethel hear her whisper words he knew, words he heard every Godsday. As the woman's life poured out onto the forest floor, Cethel moved his face to hear her last words.

  “Azure. My baby. Spare her.”

  He was wordless with shock.

  Her body went limp as she struggled for breath. He easily reached her hand and took the blue stone that he had seen miraculously light a few days past, a light that shone in the darkness when all hope was lost and a mother's love was all that stood between a missing child and utter destruction.

  “T-Tatanya?” he whispered, his voice catching.

  She stopped whispering for a moment, seeming to gather in her thoughts that had trickled out onto the ground along with her blood.

  “Who is it?” she asked with barely a breath. “Who knows my name?”

  *

  The loss of Baby lay heavily on them. It choked all conversation off at the lightest points, casting a pall on an otherwise celebratory feeling of having survived the nightmare of the Corded Family Farm. Alizarin couldn't help berating herself over and over for the carelessness that had led to his disappearance. No matter what she did, she could not figure out how anyone had crept into their tent and stolen the infant.

  But that had to be what happened! Some thief in the dark of nightfall! Some unknown force took the wee one. Someone, anyone else. Not … not me! Which left only her or Ilion. And, though she did not know him intimately, nor know all the details of his well-lived life, she knew she trusted him completely. I must believe him. Otherwise, all else would fail to make any sense.

  Unable to find any trace of the child, to hear any sounds or to smell any stinky clothing, Ilion and Alizarin returned to their camp, with woe-filled hearts. Ilion told Alizarin the course of some of the events that had led to his possession of the Staff of Thenta and she, in turn, related the devastation of the dramatic and untimely death of her mother on their very doorstep. With that story came the reason behind her possession of the cloak and the sapphire.

  With some amount of wonder and confusion, she told him about finding the topaz stone in the depths of the travelers well, as unlikely as that would seem. He spoke of the dismal death of the two priests of Kira and his responsibility under the bounds of Companions Right to find the Fire Maid and deliver the scroll. In short, they pooled their knowledge and tried to make sense of the events which swirled and whirled around them.

  When he spoke of the conversation he had overheard at the inn between two not-donkeys during the darkened quiet of nightfall, she almost screamed. Whatever fell power was after her was clearly not finished! Another attack was sure to come. They would not be able to escape the deceit that reached for them unless they gained more knowledge.

  Just as certainly, her mother had known something of all of this. If only Trellista had confided in her, there might have been a pathway to more answers. Maybe even some way to fight such immense and deadly power?

  “Ilion, I don’t know what to do.”

  Only two days had passed since they had left the desecrated farmhouse. The moment they had calmed Baby, squalling angrily on the kitchen floor, they had packed all the food they could carry, as well as anything that Baby would need. Walking from that ruined land with the sunrise, they left two forlorn graves with simple wooden markers to remember old friends and the consequences of poor choices.

  “As a child, I studied in a temple, a few days walk from here. We should go there. It is a better place than here to make decisions.”

  She nodded, wanting to put distance between herself and the losses of the past few days, and they set off. As they walked, Ver told Alizarin stories of the Thieves Market, the Auction and the nooks and crannies of Dressarna's underground. Most of the time though, they just walked on in companionable silence.

  Alizarin personally grieved for the baby. Though in some ways she felt a guilty sense of relief at not being responsible for a little one while she was being pursued by such mighty and intelligent monsters. He's no doubt safer with whoever has taken him. Surely they did not intend him harm?

  Or else why did the abductors not kill us all in our sleep instead of stealing an infant? Perhaps one day, someone would explain it all to her. Right now the ordinary world that she had grown to womanhood in was turned topsy-turvy into a maze of twisting tunnels with no apparent exit.

  The time she spent with Ver brought her some relief. Around the campfires of the journey they talked, trying to figure out what or who pursued them.

  Ilion told her what he recalled of his childhood, though he didn't remember his parents' names or their faces, only the vague feeling that once he had been well-loved and cherished. For him, that was sufficient. Her mother had been such a foundation for Alizarin's life that the absence of Ilion's childhood family memories seemed particularly bitter and unfair. Every day they learned more of each other. Every dusk they spent comp
anionably, with an ease that surprised them both.

  As Ilion set up their shelter for the last nightfall's slumber, Alizarin gathered kindling and tinder to warm their dinner. Cautiousness anchored every step. Only a short distance away from each other at all times, Ilion and Alizarin were always armed with a gemstone within easy reach of a hand, in case of a surprise attack. Watching each other's back had become second nature.

  For their safety, they had forsaken all the simplicity of the travelers' stations, afraid of leaving too much of a trail if they encountered even one stranger. Skipping off the main roads was slower and they often had to rely on the helpfulness of the scattered country people when they ran short of water or fresh eggs. Still, the journey had been a time of learning for Alizarin as Ilion taught her the various uses of plants and the fundamentals of living out of a knapsack. He had a knack for discovering the most useful items in truly out of the way places.

  After a final nightfall's deep rest, the two travelers collected their few items, washed and stored them easily and then headed to an enormous, imposing, wooden gate. Alizarin never would have found it, grand as it was, without Ilion's previous knowledge. It seemed to her that they had ambled for days through forest and field, with no purpose or destination, and then all of a sudden, turning the bend in a small hill, the simple dirty road they had diligently followed came to an abrupt end.

  The winding road ended at the thick wooden gates that loomed above them. Bound in iron, sunk deep within the heavy wood, the bands of metal made the opening an easily held portal against any unwelcomed guest. Though Alizarin couldn't imagine anyone finding the obscure place let alone trying to force entry into its walls, yet it did seem designed to hold off a massive army with ease.

  “Why the huge doorway?” she couldn't help whispering. “Are they hiding something in there?

  Ilion nodded, saying nothing. Eyes forward, scanning the walls that held the door supports, he beckoned to her. Watch me and do as I do, said his hand gestures. When he walked to the farthest side of the humongous portal and sat, Alizarin did the same although she could not suppose what they would accomplish without knocking or attempting to announce their presence.