by Unknown
Kira shifted restlessly, making her sleeping-sling jiggle and creak. She felt like she was the only thing awake in a forest drowsing in the quiet heat of midday. The journey through the Warens had been longer than the map suggested, and it had certainly taken more time than the journey she’d taken to the Kenclan octad with Kest. She’d slept on the hard floor of the Warens several times, but sleep eluded her now, driven away by her roiling thoughts. Why did the Shargh hunt her? Was it hatred of her, or hatred of healing or of something else? Why would they hate her anyway? They didn’t even know her. Yet Kest believed they hunted her, and he was no fool, and it did fit with what had happened.
Her heart started racing again and she turned over, the sword jabbing her hip. Why had she brought it? Was she turning into some sort of Terak Kutan or was she fooling herself into thinking that she could actually use it, striking them down before they struck her? She’d long outgrown the sword-fighting games she’d once played with Tresen in the Warens, and stabbing at effigies bore no resemblance to plunging a sword into a real flesh-and-blood person.
She rolled onto her back, cupping her hands behind her head and trying to still her panic by watching the lumbering progress of a bark beetle along the bough above. What was Tresen doing now? And Miken? And Tenerini? Would they mourn her passing? Her eyes burned and she swore; instead of fretting over things she couldn’t change, she was now wallowing in self-pity. Not very impressive, Tremen Leader Kiraon! She began to list the herbal requirements of each of the salves, where the herbs grew, their flowering, the manner of their harvest, of their preparation, of their storage, and slowly she began to drift. Then her eyelids flew open again.
Twigs snapped and cracked as something drew near. Voices! They were still a little way off but coming in her direction. It seemed that even the forest held its breath, nothing rustling or creaking or calling. Then the scattered fragments of sound came together, clear, unequivocal. It was Shargh speaking Shargh words!
How close? How many? Two speakers? Three? Eventually they passed somewhere to the left of her, leaving Kira rigid. She was barely halfway to the Third Eight and already there were Shargh! What hope did she have? How was she ever to reach the edge of the trees?
A springleslip fluttered onto the bough above her head, trilling and preening, its eye flashing as it tilted its head at her before darting forward and disappearing into the foliage. The leaves shivered and stilled, then it gave voice again, as springleslips always did. No one knew why they sent this second song. Maybe it sang of its joy in flight, a song which was as much a part of Allogrenia as the song each tree composed with its leaves and twigs and branches. Kira plucked a sprig of foliage, inhaling its sappy breath. The Tremen left no footprints in the green and growing, but the Shargh trampled and crushed, so were easy to hear coming and to track where they’d gone. They were intruders, ignorant and uncaring of the forest’s ways. And though her sword might be useless against them, her knowing wasn’t.
She caressed the sprig of terrawood, determination hardening. Allogrenia was worth fighting for, but she’d fight as a Healer not as a Terak Kutan. Terak Kutan swords she must have to meet the Shargh swords, and she’d give them healing in return, but when it was ended, the Terak Kutan would leave, the paths grow over and the wounds of the Tremen mend, and then they could be as they were before. She unlaced the sword and pushed it deep into her pack, then hauled herself out of the sling and stowed it too. Every one of her senses was shivering, as if she’d lost a layer of skin. Staying here was wasting time; instead she’d travel through the day and the night as well, until exhaustion ensured she did sleep.
The terrawood trunk was rough and warm under her hands as she came down it, pausing on the lower boughs to listen, keeping a layer of leaves between her and the ground. The forest spoke of a breeze and a roosting bird, and the air touched her hands and face with nothing more sinister than pockets of cool and warmth. She dropped to the ground, briefly placing her palms and forehead against the bole.
‘I thank you for your Shelter,’ she whispered, then moved quickly away.
Arkendrin tore a strip of smoked ebis fat and chewed on it as he glowered at the man standing in front of him. It was some nameless kin of Irdodun’s, face shiny with sweat, chest heaving with running, his message punctuated by hoarsely drawn breaths. Arkendrin ground the fat between his teeth, considering the long and illfavoured day they’d endured, trawling through the murk with no sightings of treemen, a day now turning into a stinking, windy night.
But at last the news was good, despite the man’s lowly status. There was a swift movement of treemen towards them, different to their usual aimless wanderings, and that could only mean that there was something or someone here of interest to the treemen. And as the treemen had never spent time in hunting them, it must be something or someone the treemen wanted to protect.
He’d been right to delay, he thought, swallowing the fat and tearing off another strip. The Sky Chiefs had gifted him the foresight to wait, and were now sending the creature to him as a reward for his forbearance. He rose and the air sang as he slashed the surrounding foliage, striding to where Irdodun and his kin took their food in the lee of some bushes.
‘The Sky Chiefs send treemen this way.’
Several of the Voiceless men laughed uneasily, and Orthaken seemed to shrink. ‘Maybe they seek us, Chief Arkendrin,’ he said, peering up, his chin shiny with grease. ‘Some from the lower slope hide themselves as ill as mawkbirds on sorcha roofs.’ He turned the small joint in his hands, nipping at it with nervous bites. ‘Maybe the treemen come to fight us.’
Arkendrin’s legs splayed and his hands came to his hips. ‘Do you fear them?’
Orthaken blinked. ‘I welcome the chance to work my flatsword, Chief Arkendrin, but they’ll be less sport than wolves. At least wolves have teeth.’
Arkendrin grinned. ‘Urpalin, do the treemen have teeth?’
‘They graze like ebis, so it seems likely.’
Arkendrin threw back his head and laughed, leaning on his flatsword as he turned to Irdodun. The older warrior was silent, busy smearing tesat over his dagger.
‘Do your lesser kin speak for you this day, Irdodun?’ asked Arkendrin.
‘The treemen fought last time, Chief Arkendrin, and they’ll fight this time. The creature’s important to them.’
‘And important to us,’ said Arkendrin, ‘or why else would the Sky Chiefs have granted the Last Teller his vision and my blood its guardianship?’ His eyes glittered and he stabbed at the greenery again. ‘The treemen come this way. They mean the creature to see the sun setting; they covet our doom.’
Urpalin sprang to his feet. ‘It’ll not happen while I live, Chief Arkendrin! Not while I’ve a flatsword in my hand!’
Arkendrin’s hand slammed down on his shoulder, all but buckling Urpalin’s legs. ‘It’ll be the Chief’s blade that blinds her, and the Chief’s blade that kills her,’ he said, thrusting his face close to Urpalin’s.
‘I . . . I meant only that I would kill those who aid the creature,’ stammered Urpalin.
The trees thrashed in a sudden squall and Arkendrin’s grip tightened, making Urpalin blanch. ‘There’ll be plenty of killing, even for you of the lower slope,’ he said, his eyes burning into him. Then he dropped his hand and Urpalin staggered backwards.
‘Tesat your flatswords,’ growled Arkendrin to the gathering. ‘Then we go south. We have work to do.’
Kira stopped in the lee of a castella, pulling her cape close against the stinging shower of twigs. The canopy roared and broke, revealing then hiding the faint scud of clouds. Somewhere ahead something crashed to the ground, making her jump. The night was so thick it was impossible to see more than a few paces ahead and the wailing wind and rattling branches blotted out all other sounds. There could be Shargh all around but there was nowhere to shelter: no caves, no dense stands of bitterberry. Not that she had time to crawl into some hole if she were to reach the Fourth Eight by dawn.
&nb
sp; Turning her back on the wind, she took a swig from her waterskin before going on. The wind grew but it didn’t rain, which was unusual; such winds usually brought downpours or even hail. Perhaps it was only the edge of a storm that was shedding its water elsewhere, or maybe it was simply drier here. The ground was hard underfoot and the only annin she’d seen was brown-edged and spare.
The last time she’d been here, she’d been less than ten seasons and it had been spring. The journey had taken her over six days each way, a long trip for a child, and yet she couldn’t remember her father reprimanding her or confining her as punishment; he hadn’t cared where she was until her healing had begun to rival his.
The night had turned before Kira stopped again, settling in a tangle of undergrowth to remove something from her boot. She shook the boot out, then sagged back against the bushes, enjoying the brief hiatus out of the wind. The scrubby growths of bitterberry and lissium provided a surprising amount of shelter and she was tempted to stay there, but she pulled her boot on reluctantly and glanced at the way she must go.
Something wasn’t right, and her skin prickled. She was inexplicably reminded of the Drinkwater, of the leaves floating on its surface. They swirled and eddied where the bank curved in or where stone protruded, but in the end they all went the same way. The shadow she watched was at odds with its fellows. She blinked hard, wondering if it were a trick of the light. The trees bent and thrashed under the wind’s hand, then came upright again, so it made sense that shadows ran both ways, but still she crouched lower, keeping her eyes on the blot of darkness. It was motionless now, and that more than anything kept her frozen and watchful. Then another blot joined it and voices spoke: harsh, disjointed, unmistakable, and coming her way!
Now she could see the glimmer of their eyes! Surely they could see hers? But to drop her gaze would mean not knowing where they were. They moved inexorably closer: twenty paces, fifteen, ten, their swords and knives clearly visible. Memories tore at her mind, clamping her eyes shut in reflex. Suddenly, there was a tearing crash as a branch was wrenched from the canopy and thrown to the forest floor. She saw them drop to the ground, and swords flashed. There was another exchange, the words completely alien to her, and they moved off in the direction she must go.
Kira stayed where she was. Maybe she should spend the rest of the night in the trees. They were tall enough, but there were no terrawoods. Maybe the Shargh wouldn’t think to look up. Then again, the way things were crashing down in the wind, they’d be fools not to. A horrible image came to her of Shargh crowded round a tree staring up at her sleeping-sling, then soundlessly climbing up to slay her. What she really wanted was a dense stand of bitterberry or shelterbush to crawl into, but there was nothing.
Finally she crept from her hiding place and into the next pool of darkness, stopped and scanned, and crept on. Her progress was excruciatingly slow for a time, until her fear lifted enough for her to quicken her pace.
The night wore on but the wind didn’t ease, carrying with it strange, pungent scents that Kira guessed came from the lands beyond the trees: the Dendora Plain. The realisation that she was actually going to leave Allogrenia began to close in with a crushing dread, and she had to force herself to keep going. Her legs were aching and her back cramping from the unaccustomed weight of a pack bulging with not just her Healer’s kit but nutmeat, dried fruit and clothes.
The dark faded and she looked up often, searching for a terrawood to sleep in, but finding only severs and castellas, now silvering in the dawn’s first light. The trees were sparser here, and she peered about as she walked. She must be near the Fourth Eight but could see no darker foliage of an alwaysgreen through the trees. There were plenty of springleslips, though, their shrill calls now filling the canopy. Only a springleslip could compete with the wind, she thought dryly, watching them dart above her. Then she glanced back to the way ahead.
Shargh! And she was a full three paces from the shadow of the last sever. To step back now, or even move, would risk drawing their attention. She remained frozen to the spot. There were two of them, only about twenty paces in front of her, busy with their waterskins. If either glanced round, they’d see her. Neither appeared in a hurry, the taller talking and the other nodding at regular intervals. Sweat trickled down her back and she took a cautious step back. The speaker fell silent and his partner gave a final nod and half turned.
Terror tore the strength from her limbs, but in the same instant a figure burst from the trees in front of them and the Shargh exclaimed and swung back. Kira gasped in horror. It was Tresen, alone, travelling fast and several paces into the open before he sensed the watchers’ eyes and spun, drawing his sword in the same swift action. Then his head lifted fractionally and Kira knew he’d seen her too. For the briefest of moments he hesitated, then he thrust his sword back into its sheath, turned and ran. The air rasped as the Shargh drew their swords and sped after him.
Tresen! Her legs had gone wobbly, so her first few strides of pursuit were more a stagger than a sprint, but then desperation lent her strength and she sped through the tangle of roots and broken boughs, her eyes on the backs of the pursuing Shargh. Branches whipped her face and vines tore at her breeches. The Shargh weren’t going as fast as Tresen, but their pace was relentless. The air burst from Kira’s lungs in grunts and sweat blurred her vision as the steepness of the land increased. She scrambled up the slope, gripping at shelterbushes to haul herself forward and dashing the sweat from her eyes. Suddenly her shoulder clipped a sever and she fell sideways onto her knees. By the time she’d clawed herself upright, only one Shargh was in sight. Where was the other? Running in front or looping round to cut Tresen off?
Something launched at her from her left and she ducked instinctively, then the world disintegrated into shouts and screams and the explosion of metal against metal. A hand fastened on her arm and she was wrenched backward so violently that her shoulder muscles screamed.
‘This way!’
‘Penedrin!’ One hand held her, the other a sword, and he was dragging her back down the slope. She clawed at some passing bitterberry but it was ripped stinging through her fingers. ‘Penedrin, no! Tresen’s ahead.’ She had no air in her lungs, no air to speak. ‘Tresen’s . . .’
‘Stinking heart-rot!’ He thrust her behind him and she landed with a thud on her back, scrabbling her heels in the litter to get clear. Metal clanged as Penedrin’s blade thrust towards Shargh flesh and bone and was turned aside at the last moment. Sweat was acrid in the air and they were both panting, great sobbing breaths drawn in and out of heaving chests as they circled and clashed. Then Penedrin’s blade sliced the Shargh’s arm and a wash of blood sprayed over them both. Penedrin was lighter and more agile, but the Shargh was stronger, his expression murderous. As the fight brought him round, his eyes flicked to hers: black and cold and filled with hatred.
Kira scrambled to her feet and fled back up the slope, reaching the top and scanning wildly. There were two other fights going on, a scatter of Protectors darting through the trees and flashes of movement the way Tresen had gone.
‘Kira!’
She whirled.
Kest was clambering up the slope towards her, his shirt torn, the end of his sword brilliant with blood. Then a scream sounded, low and guttural, and she flung herself down the hill, pelting between trunks and slicing her face and hands in a thicket of sour-ripe. Tresen was on his knees, his sword resting slackly on the ground, his shoulder laid open from blade to breast, and before him a Shargh stood with his sword raised high.
The sword started its descent and Kira launched herself forward. The Shargh half turned, and in a single, smooth action, snatched the dagger from his belt and slammed it into her back. The force of the blow knocked her to the ground and blotches of black distorted her vision. The Shargh was smiling and something warm dripped on her cheek as he raised his sword again. Tresen’s blood. Then his smile flashed to astonishment and his eyes jerked to a point beyond her, as if seeking someone, then
widened in terror. There was the sound of a sword cutting flesh and a crunch as it found bone, then the thump of a body hitting the ground.
The sounds of fighting still rang out, but they were drawing away from her, like the light. With her remaining strength, she crawled to where Tresen lay. He had fallen backwards, his face turned towards the sky. Looking at the trees, she thought, collapsing against him. A good way to die.
40
Tarkenda pushed the vent aside and looked out, a deluge of rain striking her face. The Braghans had been eaten by the layer of cloud lying like dark fleece over the sky, the only sign that the sun had risen a silvery glow in the east. The heaving sides of the sorcha groaned under the force of the gusting wind, and the billowing roof emptied sloshes of water down the side.
The wind had howled like a wolf pack all night, bringing a pounding, soaking deluge. Surely it was a good omen to finally have rain? The slope was awash with rivulets streaming down to the grazing lands. Was it too much to hope that the ebis range would soon be green with new pasture and the river’s red scum flushed away?
She let the flap fall and came back to where Palansa lay with her eyes closed, her hands clenching the cover each time a wave of pain took her. The birthing-woman had gone back to her own sorcha to sleep. Another day, she’d said. Tarkenda remembered well the long agony of Erboran’s birth. She settled back on the edge of the bed, smoothing a tendril of hair from Palansa’s forehead. At least Palansa had stopped vomiting.
‘Do you want to walk again?’ she asked.
Palansa’s head shook imperceptibly. ‘I want it over with.’
‘Erboran took two dawns to birth,’ said Tarkenda, her hand stroking Palansa’s hair gently, ‘and all I wanted was to die. It takes many moons to grow a child, and while he’s in your belly he belongs only to you, and you to him. There’s nothing sweeter than that closeness. I’ve wondered sometimes whether birthing’s painful because neither mother nor babe wants to let go.’ She sighed. ‘Men never know that sweetness. Perhaps that’s why they’re so ready to take their swords to the children of others.’