by Unknown
‘Or in their hands. We don’t know how many Shargh have joined the rabble since the last attack but we do know they’re favouring the octad the Leader’s journeying in. No, she’s better in the trees till the battles on the ground are decided.’
Kest was not much comforted by Brem having left the role of victor open. Perhaps he was right. Just because they’d bested them last time didn’t guarantee they’d win again. He scanned the defensive formation of his men anxiously. The Shargh were raiders, harrying Kasheron and his followers in their journey south, sweeping in across the grasslands and disappearing just as quickly. But that style of fighting hadn’t served them well in the trees, a fact they’d probably realised by now.
What other tactics might they use? A simultaneous attack on all sides? A wedge driven between Nandrin and his men? He dredged his memory for more of Sarkash’s teachings.
‘There’s fire ahead, Commander!’
Stinking heart-rot! That was the answer! He spun, drawing his sword as he did so. ‘Maintain defence pattern,’ he bawled. His men had drawn their swords too, heads swivelling as plumes of yellow smoke sprang up around them. Were the Shargh intending to burn them out or . . .
There was a blur of movement above him, then something struck him heavily on the shoulder sending him sprawling and knocking the sword from his hand. He flung himself over as the clash and grunt of battle erupted behind him and rolled again as the Shargh blade came down, kicking up with all his strength. The man lurched sideways, then there was a crack and a scream as Kest’s heel connected with the Shargh’s kneecap. Kest didn’t wait to see him hit the ground, already sprinting back towards his men.
And then to his right, a Shargh burst from the murk. Leader, thought Kest. It was stamped all over him. Kest glimpsed Jonkesh launch himself forward and be slashed down and Penedrin try to break free from the fight he was engaged in. Then things slowed. He saw the Shargh reach Nandrin, catch him by the throat and drag him upright, and he saw Nandrin’s hood come loose and the Shargh’s face contort in astonished fury. His sword flashed back but the stroke went awry as Penedrin, in a final desperate lunge, broke free of his antagonists and speared his blade into the back of the Shargh’s leg.
The man roared and staggered and the nearest Shargh immediately abandoned their attacks, grabbing him by the arms and, with swords slashing and their comrades forming a shield, half dragged, half carried him back into the pall. The crash of their retreat faded, giving way to the groans of the wounded and the crackle of the burning forest.
Dawn was close but Kira’s pace remained swift, despite having rested little throughout the night. The growing sheen of light revealed more clearly what she had seen in the darkness. The trees were dwindling, severs now mixed with slender-trunked and sparsely canopied fallowoods, and a strange grey woody tree with musty-smelling leaves. Strange vines twined about the sour-ripe, their red-black fruit already crowded with blue-breasted birds. Was the fruit edible? wondered Kira, her belly growling. She was about to pluck one when something exploded from the thicket at her feet and she jumped back. There was a flash of white and it was gone. Silverjack!
The word sprang from childhood stories of the creatures of the north and she remembered the beautifully carved chime hanging in Kest’s rooms.
There was another rush of movement and Kira jumped as a second silverjack started from the bushes. Then the blue-breasted birds darted away, leaving the vine deserted. The hair on the back of her neck stirred and then there was the pound of feet and Shargh voices. She looked around wildly – there was nowhere to hide! Dropping to her knees, she forced a tunnel into the tangle, the thorns clawing at her hands and face and dragging at her cape as she desperately burrowed deeper and deeper. The ground was now vibrating with thumps and she drew into a ball, pulling her cape over, her heart battering against her ribs. Her clothing was brown and green and if she stayed absolutely still they mightn’t see her . . . unless they were searching for her, unless they slashed the thicket with swords, unless . . .
They were making a lot of noise, not just in their travel but in their exchanges. Someone was groaning loudly and shouting and another voice was responding, low and respectful. There were grunts and panting too, as if some of them were straining under a load. Kira kept her head down and the commotion finally faded before more thumpings arrived, this group without the urgency and anger of the first, moving quickly but talking among themselves like the Protectors did on patrol. Their footsteps receded and silence descended but Kira remained motionless, her face smarting with scratches, her muscles cramping.
Chirruping erupted close to her head and twigs rustled and fluttered as birds returned to their feeding. Finally Kira eased back the cape. A jagged row of thorns was dangerously close to her eyes and she squinted up through the mesh, the new sun burnishing the edges of each leaf and lighting the fruit so that they glowed like tree-gems. She began to ease herself out, the thorns no more forgiving than on her inward journey, tearing her cape and raking over her flesh. She was ragged now as well as dirty and she hadn’t even left the forest.
She stared around, straining for sound.
The Shargh had veered east, leaving a trail of beaten and broken plants in their wake. They were going home, Kira thought, remembering the map, then faltered. The Shargh were leaving Allogrenia! Did it mean they knew she’d gone, that the attacks on the Tremen would end? By the ’green! It meant Kest had been attacked again! The Shargh had left Allogrenia carrying the wounded – for surely that was the meaning of the grunting she’d heard – because they’d fought Kest. How many Tremen had been wounded or killed? Nandrin? Tresen? Maybe Kest himself?
They’d need her: there’d be wounds to stitch, fireweed to give, pain to take. She took several quick steps back and jerked to a stop. For a moment she was caught, the need to go on and the need to go back tearing her apart like a storm-blasted tree. The Writings were finished and there were Healers who could heal nearly as well as she could, she’d told Kest so herself. Her task was in the north! She forced herself to turn, tears streaming down her face. She was the Leader; it was her task! She was the Leader! How much nobler it sounded than ‘deserter’!
She stumbled on. If they’d attacked Kest, the Shargh would know she wasn’t with the Protectors anymore. Did that mean they’d guess she’d gone and leave Allogrenia in peace now? At least if the Shargh had wounded, they’d be unlikely to loiter on the edge of the trees waiting for her.
The day grew older, ripe pools of sunlight on the forest floor now larger than tree-shadow. Flutterwings danced in the clearings, not just the usual green, but pale yellow and gold. The birdsong was different too. Springleslips and tippets could be heard, and the occasional flowerthief, but also high pipings and trillings. Kira gazed up at the pale-trunked trees, seeing flashes of blue and red. The red was brilliant against the foliage, reminding her of the ring of leadership in its box of scarlet cloth.
Weariness dragged at her limbs and her thoughts increasingly turned to the morning-bright seeds. And then, as day waned and she felt she could go no further, she smelt the unmistakable scent of an alwaysgreen and the Renclan Sentinel came into view. She broke into a staggering run, throwing off her pack and standing with heaving chest, her forehead pressed against its bole, her arms flung wide around it.
Gradually her breathing steadied as the scent of the spicy foliage calmed and revived her. She walked slowly round the tree, tracing the ridges and runnels of its growth, reading its story with her fingers. On the far side, straggly fallowoods stood in scattered stands, and clearly visible beyond their trunks was a sweep of tussocky grass. So close! The map suggested a greater distance but here it was, scarcely fifty paces away: the Dendora Plain, gateway to the north, to the dealers in death who she would somehow have to bring to her side.
Her sweating palm imprinted the tree and she flinched as a bird winged overhead, dark and heavy, calling with a voice as harsh as the Shargh’s. All she knew of the world beyond the forest were names
on a map, childhood stories of Kasheron’s mighty trek, and what she could see now. Leaving the shelter of the alwaysgreen, she made her way reluctantly through the spidery shadows of the fallowoods, coming to a stop at the last one.
The sides of the world had been devoured by an immense sweep of sky, curving up into unimaginable heights and down again to the skin of the earth itself, the sight so overwhelming that she felt like swooning. Here and there trees grew in ones or twos, spare-limbed and scarcely bigger than shelterbush. Beyond them, in the far distance where the earth met the sky, the land rucked up in mighty ridges, purple against the darkening sky. A wave of dizziness swept over her and she had to grab the fallowood for support.
The Azurcades, she realised, dazed. How would she cross the shelterless expanse of the plain and then find her way over such wild and alien terrain?
‘One day at a time,’ she muttered, that was all she could do, and each day of journeying she survived would take her closer to the north and closer to the day she might turn her feet homeward once more. She pushed the tangle of choppy hair from her eyes and looked westward. The sun was starting to slip from view, an immense orange ball with its lower half already flattened by the earth, the cloud blazing crimson and gold.
She stood transfixed until the last sliver of sun had disappeared into the land, the fire-laced clouds dulling to grey and the vast dome of sky washing pink and finally fading. What she’d seen had been so large and empty and yet so filled with splendour that she felt shaken, almost oppressed by it. The world of the plain had no roof of leaves, no kindly mesh of branches, no Shelter.
She made her way back to the Sentinel to retrieve her pack, sucking in the tree’s spicy scent until the world seemed normal again. She should go, but something held her there, and it came to her abruptly that she was the first Tremen ever to leave Allogrenia. What she was about to do was akin to dying, except there’d be no funeral rites, no one to mourn her, as she’d mourned no one: not her father or Merek or Lern or . . .
Without really knowing why, she took off her pack again and retrieved a narrow bundle, laying it gently on the leaves and then kneeling, she cut a neat patchwork of sods between the roots with her herbing sickle. The soil was rich and dark, and she used the haft to gouge out a narrow grave, then she unwrapped the bundle, and for a long moment simply held it, eyes shut and head bowed, before laying it gently in the hole.
‘The roots have taken you, the tree grown strong from you, the leaves been spun from you, the wind sung songs of you . . .’ She choked to a stop, scooping up the earth and letting it sift through her fingers until the pale wood of Kandor’s pipe had disappeared under the fragrant soil. Then she firmed the sods back into place and rose. Beyond the alwaysgreen, the first stars were glimmering in the sky.
‘Kashclan thanks Renclan,’ she said softly. Then, hefting on her pack, she turned northwards.
45
Tarkenda sat leaning against the sorcha, bathed in the last of the sunlight reflecting off the hide behind her, revelling in the ease its warmth brought to her aching joints. Next to her Palansa sat holding the babe close, making small grunts as he suckled, his tiny fists pummelling her breast. Palansa’s eyes were locked with his, her free hand caressing his pink wrinkled feet and Tarkenda smiled, enjoying the sounds of pleasure he made.
‘You’re missing the sunset,’ she chastised.
‘They’ll be plenty more,’ said Palansa, without looking up.
The clouds blazed red and then, as the earth ate the sun, the warmth began to ebb and a bessel moth fluttered past Tarkenda’s face. She rose and stretched. Soon Palansa rose also, the babe nestled against her shoulder, his face dreamy with milk. She rubbed his back absently, eliciting a bubbly burp, and ducked back into the sorcha.
Tarkenda lingered, her gaze sweeping from the Grounds up to the Braghans, purpling now like the sky, then back to the Cashgars, clustered at the mountains’ feet. There the Sky Chiefs had bequeathed the Last Telling, and the Last Teller had made Ordorin his mouth, seeding the lineage that had given her a join-husband, a Chief-son and Palansa’s suckling. What else would come of it? Only time would tell.
She followed Palansa into the sorcha and the door flap stilled. High above, marwings circled slowly in the last of the dying light.
Read on, as Kira’s adventures continue in
The Song of the Silvercades
1
Kira sprinted the last of the way to the trees, desperate to reach the Azurcade foothills before the storm broke. Thunder boomed then rain pounded and she crawled under a bush, chest heaving. But its shelter was poor and she struggled to her knees to look for somewhere more protected.
By the ’green! There was a man at the edge of the trees. Kira dropped back to the ground, heart thrashing, and watched him closely. He didn’t appear to have seen her, and she hugged herself fearfully. He wasn’t Shargh, she realised with relief, but he might be just as deadly.
She remained still and the thunder finally rumbled away, the rain easing. The stranger moved restlessly around his camp, but seemed in no hurry to depart. Kira could see from the way he held himself that he was injured, and guessed it might be the reason for his delay.
But she couldn’t afford to wait any longer, her journey north urgent. Careful not to make any sudden movements, she rose to her knees again. The man swung toward her in an instant, sword in hand. Kira gasped and fumbled for her sword, even as her wits told her to run. But her cramped legs refused to move.
There was a shout behind her and Kira cringed. Then, out of the night three dark shapes raced towards the stranger. They were Shargh! The squeal of metal against metal filled the night. The stranger’s sword arm flashed, skilled and agile, felling one Shargh. But two remained, and the stranger was tiring.
Conflicting thoughts hammered at Kira, holding her still. She couldn’t aid the stranger by using her sword – she wasn’t a barbaric Terak Kutan who took life as easily as draining a cup. But was she to sneak away and let the stranger die at the Shargh’s hands? Too many of her people had already died at their hands. It had been a long time since she’d played at fighting with Tresen in the Warens, but his instructions came back to her: the point of the neck to aim for; a quick death, a clean death.
Kira gritted her teeth and crept forward, looking for the best angle of attack. The stranger was tiring rapidly. As one of the Shargh leapt backwards, away from a thrusting parry, Kira screwed her eyes shut and brought the blade down with all her strength. The sword sliced through flesh and bit bone. Then her arms were all but yanked from their sockets, and she was wrenched after the rolling body, landing on her back. The remaining Shargh was on her in an instant, flatsword high.
The stranger’s sword struck home and the Shargh’s flatsword clattered off into the bushes. There was a thud as the Shargh’s body hit the ground.
‘Are . . . you . . . hurt?’ said the stranger, leaning over Kira and using Onespeak, low and urgent, interspersed with heaving pants. He repeated the question in a language she didn’t know, then in Tremen, then in another strange tongue, but Kira was shaking too much to comprehend him.
He withdrew, then came back and pulled her to her feet. He brought a metal cup urgently to her mouth. Morning-bright mixed with strange herbs, she realised numbly. Within a few moments heat sprang from her belly to her limbs, bringing a surge of strength. Kira leaned over, spat out the dregs and struggled to control the heave of her stomach. The stranger’s hand came to her arm, steadying her.
‘Where there are three Shargh, there’ll be more,’ he said in Onespeak, his voice still ragged with the effort of the fight. ‘We must leave this place.’ He hauled her upright, but Kira staggered, retched and was violently ill.
Her retching had scarcely stopped before he had her upright again.
‘I must wash,’ she said, dredging up the words in Onespeak.
‘No time,’ he replied, pulling his pack on and cleaning his sword and hers on the grass.
Nearby, the slain
Shargh lay like branches felled by winter storms. Kira averted her eyes, suddenly overcome by the horror of what she’d done. She’d pushed filthy metal through another living being, sliced open his flesh and stopped his heart. She’d killed! She’d betrayed everything Kasheron had fought for, everything the Tremen believed in.
The stranger looked up at the sky, brought the back of his hand to his forehead, and spoke under his breath. Then he turned to her.
‘Come,’ he said.
‘Do you go north?’ asked Kira hoarsely.
‘Yes,’ he replied, handing her back her sword.
Kira hesitated. The stranger had spoken Tremen earlier, but she realised abruptly it couldn’t be Tremen. It must be Terak. Maybe he was Terak Kutan, since the Tremen’s northern kin would have a similar tongue. But the stranger had used other languages too. What did that tell her? That he travelled a good deal? If so, he’d know where he was going. Still, she knew nothing about him except the Shargh hated him, and that he fought well. Perhaps that was reason enough to go with him, besides the fact he was going north.
‘Come,’ he repeated, beckoning her.
Not knowing what else to do, Kira followed.
The land quickly steepened, the bushes giving way to boulders and broken stone among trees that soared to great heights. The ground was slick and the storm had unleashed a thousand scents. The frantic beat of her heart gradually slowed.
They toiled on, the cloud clearing and the fiery blaze of the stars eclipsing the moon’s wan light. Glancing behind, Kira saw the dim outline of the Dendora Plain far below, a pale sweep blotched with trees. Were the Shargh still in the foothills or sliding through the trees behind them, she wondered.
Abruptly, the stranger stopped and turned. ‘We need be careful for the next part,’ he said. ‘Shardos likes to shed his skin and the path changes with every climbing.’