“And now you amaze me, Fhord. Here you are extolling the remarkable virtues of your brother, praising me in a way tantamount to hero-worship, and yet you mention nothing of your own psychic abilities.”
“I was led to believe a person should be god-fearing and modest.”
“And you are – especially god-fearing!” They both laughed. “But tell me, haven’t you received any further images? Had you no premonition about the Baronculer or Scalrin?”
A troubled look flashed in her eyes. “No, and that concerns me. At times unchosen by me my powers have been strange, outstripping any achievements I’d have thought possible, and yet at other times I feel even worse than ungifted mortals. My mind and visions clouded, things obscured.” She shuddered, lifted the little talisman to mountains, Sursor. “Sometimes, I wonder what the gods wish of me, as though they were merely toying with me – and mankind in general.”
“Your headaches–”
“You knew? How could you?”
“You bore the pain well, but your twisted visage betrayed your fortitude.” Ulran shrugged as if to say, No matter, I knew. “Have they left you?”
“But recently, yes – I’m glad to say!”
***
Over the next few days their journey was uneventful. Fhord learned a great deal about the Devastators from a young warrior called Rakcra. He explained that the Kellan-Mesqa were the oldest race in the world, in that they could trace their lineage back to before Hewwa’s Revenge.
Many thousands of years ago in Orthqoma, a land bordered on all sides by mighty oceans, lived the Hewand, which comprised six great nations: Hansenand, the fair people; Baronculer, the swift; Tramaloma, the tranquil; Aquileja, the tree lovers; Mussoreal, the searchers; and Selveleaf, the silent.
The nations lived in peace and harmony with each other but as they prospered they began to neglect Hewwa, the Earth Mother, who had given them the bountiful land that was the source of their wealth. At that time, unknown to the Hewand, there was another land, which later became known as Orthmesqa – the Badland – which was copying their folly and also turning away from Hewwa – who they called Aror. It was at this time that the Earth Mother planned her revenge.
In Orthmesqa the crops mysteriously began to fail. Slowly, over the next few years, more crops failed until starvation affected everyone. It was then decided to abandon the land and take to the sea; thousands of huge ships were constructed and, apart from a handful of Aror devotees, the population put to sea.
They lived off the sea for many years whilst they searched for a new land.
When they finally came to Orthqoma only half their number remained.
On sighting the Orthmesqa ships, the Hewand realised they could not allow them to land for their crops too had begun to fail. War was inevitable.
Although the six nations of the Hewand outnumbered the people from Orthmesqa, they lacked their ferocity and the Hewand were swiftly defeated.
Shortly after the defeat of the poor and now war-ravaged Orthqoma, Hewwa unleashed the final part of her revenge.
The Earth shook, mountains crumbled, the oceans swept over the land and the people perished – all, save for a handful of faithful believers. “When the Earth stopped moving it became what you see today,” Rakcra explained, “and that handful of survivors are now the six tribes of the Kellan-Mesqa.”
***
Gradually, the grasslands sloped to the manderon. Nights, quite chill on their trek so far, now closed in with bitter coldness.
Each night, the Hansenand bivouacked, building roughly twenty-five fires, partly to give warmth, but also to keep prowling plains-dogs at bay.
Apparently, Fhord learned, the Hansenand fire-wagon must burn continuously, should they require a sacrificial fire. And as they feared no-one, they worried not at all about the smoke being seen for great distances. As the fire was always with them, they took advantage of it when making camp – but not to the detriment of their own fire-making ability.
The further they travelled, the wilder and more inhospitable the land became. Gently undulating pastureland gave way to dense bracken, which proved difficult to negotiate in parts where thickets had conspired to obliterate even the rough tracks left by wild horses.
Following Ulran’s advice, Fhord dismounted daily for roughly two orms prior to bivouacking and walked alongside Sarolee. In this way her legs and stamina should improve for the mountains.
The Sonalumes drew ever nearer, now a matter of days away, their peaks seeming to be continually cloaked in dense grey clouds.
At times Fhord jogged along with Rakcra.
Alomar was surprised to discover that the majority of the warriors looked up to Fhord as a kind of precocious sage employed by the mighty Ulran! This disclosure quite unsettled the city-dweller.
Fhord and Rakcra became constant companions, each learning of the other’s way of life. There was nothing sexual in their relationship, as Rakcra was happily linked with a young woman called Woura. Like everyone else in the tribe, Woura was intrigued by the city woman who accompanied the two warriors, and she harboured no feelings of jealousy.
During one evening, after eating, Rakcra and Fhord lounged by the nearest camp fire and recounted some of their childhood, the similarity of their growing pains surprising both. In so many ways they were different, almost alien – yet in basic feelings, they were much the same, and this never ceased to amaze them. It was towards the end of one of these whispered discussions that Fhord confided in the young Devastator.
“I wish in a way I’d been brought up in the wild, nomadic way of life like you.”
“I enjoy my way of life – but yours sounds as interesting to me – I see no reason to envy me.”
“Oh,” Fhord smiled, serious, “I don’t envy you in any sense – it’s well, I think I would have been different – less open to – to – ridicule,” she ended lamely.
“Ridicule – you?”
“The Travellers’ Sage, is that it? You’re surprised?”
“Yes.”
“I have gifts, of course – though often they’re more a curse... But, I’m thinking back, my brother was too old to understand or help – as far as I can remember, I have been bullied and laughed at for my bookishness. In a way, I suppose this made me introverted – I had to become psychic – it was my only outlet.”
“Had to? I don’t follow...”
“Everyone – or so I believe – has latent psychic abilities. But only the sensitive or introverted people seem to grasp hold of them. But I wonder, often, what real good it does me. I cannot accurately read the future – or another person’s mind, even. I have little direct control over the ability, in fact. That’s why I call it a curse. But to be a physical person – like yourself and your Devastator friends – that is useful, of some practical use in this most practical of worlds.”
“But there is a place for psychics such as yourself. Floreskand would be a dull land if we were all alike.”
“True. As I’ve travelled with Ulran and Alomar, I have wondered if perhaps my feelings – the inadequacy, the bullying history–”
“– and your yen for a physical life?”
“Yes – perhaps this has something to do with me leaving Lornwater – apart from the...” She hesitated. No, she could not betray Ulran’s trust. “Apart from the attraction of travelling with someone as renowned as Ulran, of course!”
Every morning, before they broke camp, Ulran trained men not on watch or carrying out duties. Fhord – and Rakcra, when he could – joined in and by the end of a quarter Fhord could actually feel an improvement: she was suppler and could move faster. But the exercise which most interested her was the breathing control: here, she proved a keen and adept pupil.
Alomar showed some pleasure at Fhord’s continued progress and determination, though – naturally – not to the degree of giving open praise. But the simple absence of dissent from Alomar gave Fhord the will to persist.
Into their second quarter together, Fhord
joined Rakcra outriding on the left wing of the forward van. Both carried fur cloaks rolled up and tied to the rear of their saddles.
A great bank of silvery cloud mass loomed ahead, casting a shadow upon the grassland ahead.
“Looks like a thunderstorm,” observed Rakcra.
“It seems to be moving in our direction.”
Sun shone brilliantly everywhere except where they were going. Darkness spanned the horizon; there was no way round it. The sight alone cast an indefinable fear into Fhord’s heart. Knowing that she was being premature and foolish, she nevertheless delved into her side-pouch and withdrew the storm-idols, and prayers traipsed over her lips. In the past, from the safety of her shuttered windows, she had peered through the wooden slats at the startling flashes of forked lightning, hurled down by the jealous Nikkonslor. But she had never actually weathered such a storm in the open. Yes, she realised, she was afraid. Greatly so.
Rakcra reined in his whinnying horse. “Stay as outrider, Fhord, while I seek Solendoral and find out what he plans to do.” He squinted to manderon. “There’s no shelter anywhere – we may have to ride on through it, hoping for the best.”
He swung his mount round and galloped down the crest into a small vale where the main body of the Hansenand montar rode, oblivious of the encroaching anvil-clouds.
Musty, dry breezes gusted through Sarolee’s mane. An unhealthy taste filled the air, oppressive. Her palfrey baulked a couple of times but Fhord kept her cantering up and across the sloping bracken. Occasionally, she glanced back over her shoulder, anxious for word from Rakcra or Solendoral.
At last a rider and horse hurried towards her, the man’s fur cloak billowing in the warm breeze. Fhord was almost wheezing on the close air now as she saw it was Alomar.
“We’re to quicken the pace, lass. Solendoral says these summer hail storms can be deadly. If we stop moving, we’re lost!”
Not for the first time on this expedition, Fhord’s heart sank. “Hail? In summer?”
“Freak weather hereabouts. Some say this is Nikkonslor’s peeving-ground. But I reckon it’s something to do with the weird cluster of mountains – the Sonalumes don’t seem to obey the natural laws as our so-called experts predict them. Give me a tried and tested stioner any time!”
Fhord led her horse down the slope, joining the van with Alomar. “Did Ulran–?”
“Yes – predicted it last night, he did – hence his advice this morn to carry fur cloaks. But what else can we do? There was no shelter at camp, and we’ve come across none since, either. Some of these slopes may shield part of the effects – if the hail falls slantwise. But if it comes down straight, then what?” Alomar grinned, his moustache long and unruly now.
Fhord nodded and released her fur cloak, put it over her shoulders.
“Close up!” came the shout from behind.
Neither Fhord nor Alomar lessened their pace but after a time the rest of the montar, complete with trundling fire- and equipment-wagons, closed up to their rear.
“Keep together!” shouted Solendoral as the horde began to ascend the shallow ridge directly in their path.
Ahead, flat unrelieved ground of hedge and thicket with grass interspersed. Hardly a tree in sight, not a boulder cluster to be seen.
“Keep it tight!”
And so they rode full into the fury of the storm.
The prospect was daunting as Fhord – still one of the front riders – entered into the deep shadow. The surrounding air-temperature abruptly dropped. The sun’s light and warmth were suddenly obliterated. She looked warily upwards and all was black, a great rolling mass of cloud, seething slowly on hidden winds.
Then the torrential hail fell. Alomar’s words had readied her for it, but no preparation could have shown her what it would be like to experience.
Each hailstone must have been the size of an eyeball. As Alomar had feared, the hail sluiced straight down, pounding upon their heads and shoulders and the backs of their necks. Horses whinnied continually and the great pounding persisted, reverberating through their bony frames, almost tearing the clothes from their backs.
At least Ulran’s stionery had forewarned them. Upon entering the black shadow they all donned heavy protective cloaks and, if no helmets were to hand, hoods.
The canvas roofs of the wagons boomed like massive drums, echoing thunder rolls from afar. The fire-wagon hissed and steamed and black smoke billowed around it.
Bruised and slightly stunned by the storm’s vehemence, Fhord shoved a young Devastator by her side: “Use your shield over your head!” she shouted, pointing to others who had already done so. The rataplan of hail on wood and steel and canvas heightened. Some hide shields were rent with the hail’s force, but others held.
Head down, Fhord rode on without a shield, riding blindly, her mind numb and unable to See ahead. Vision was impaired to fractions of marks as the hail fell in thick sheets.
Many times Sarolee was jolted as another rider blindly led his horse off course. As for navigation, it was no real problem. The Hansenand, like all other hordes of the Kellan-Mesqa, had instinctive directional sense and would continue manderon.
A shriek, from a woman just in front, momentarily halted Fhord. She realised that if she tarried, someone would collide with her from behind. But she couldn’t leave the woman to be trodden underfoot or perhaps drown.
Bruised and weak from the constant pummelling, she gasped for air as the hail broke into water and drenched her to the skin. She gripped the reins tighter and peered through slit eyes, bracing herself against the storm’s terrible oppressive fist.
As she concentrated, she found she could perceive that little bit further through the slashing sheet of hail.
Ahead, on a hard piece of ground – a small island midst the mud – where the hailstones bounced off with staccato sounds, she detected a slight movement, the patch of red – possibly a dress.
With almost manic force, Fhord tore at the reins, brought Sarolee round slightly and headed the short distance to the patch of red.
Now the shape was distinct. But there was no movement. It was a girl-child, lying prone. All about her were puddles, splashing. By the– she held back, biting on an imprecation. The child was probably dead already, drowned if not crushed under the horse-hoofs.
She reined in beside the still, pathetic figure, peered behind and could picture nobody about to collide. But she would have to be quick.
Against her better judgement, she dismounted and, whilst restraining Sarolee with one hand, she reached down and grabbed at the belt of the girl’s dress.
Sarolee chose that moment to buck as a stark tongue of lightning flashed overhead, ephemerally illuminating the scene.
Puddles of mud glared whitely and a deep gash of red appeared on the girl’s temple as Fhord pulled her over. Mud covered her eyes, nose and mouth, but she noticed the child’s small pigeon-chest rose irregularly.
Again, Sarolee whinnied and heaved against her rein, jerking Fhord. The cloth belt of the dress snapped and for a brief moment she feared she had lost sight of the girl and would never find her again, her efforts wasted. And time was mounting against them. Above the roar of the storm she could hear the trundle of wagons, getting close.
“Steady, girl,” said a calming voice and Fhord swung round.
Ulran, astride Versayr, was stroking Sarolee. “Quickly, Fhord, while I calm your horse!”
Amazed that the innman’s voice could carry above the storm’s din, Fhord needed no urging. She immediately loped across the squelching mess to the girl.
Her chest still heaved.
Fhord thrust an arm under the girl’s back and legs. Stooping under the weight, she wheeled round, only in time to avoid the heavy hoofs of wagon horses and their groaning load.
Fhord stumbled as the fire-wagon passed no more than a hand-span away, hissing and belching smoke and steam like some infernal monster from Below.
She reached Sarolee a little breathless, but nowhere nearly as exhauste
d as she’d have thought. Her knees trembled, felt weak.
“Throw her over your pommel!”
Fhord hesitated, anxious not to be too rough.
“Quick, Fhord – no time for niceties, the other wagons will be here any–”
The groaning and creaking were close enough to hear even above the storm’s noise. With an almighty heave Fhord slung the girl over her pommel and leapt into the saddle after her.
Ulran threw her the reins and together they galloped forward, just in front of a pair of wagons.
The wagon-loads were becoming heavier and heavier as leakage poured into them. Inside, the women were bailing frantically to lighten the burden for the already beaten and exhausted horses, but everything was so sodden and weighty they must have felt they were fighting a losing battle. And all knew that to stop now in this quagmire would be fatal.
“Keep moving!” barked Solendoral, his port-wine birthmark livid in a ghostly flash of lightning. His brow furrowed. That lightning had exposed a couple of men on foot to his right, off the track of gouged mud and puddles. He brought his horse round and was at that moment joined by Alomar.
“Trouble?” queried the immortal warrior.
“Join me!” Solendoral shouted.
Thunder cracked, hail bounced off the ground, wagons creaked and horses and people shrieked and called.
They were almost upon the two before they knew it.
It was an argument, two Devastators fighting with bloodied fists, no horses in sight.
Solendoral recognised them immediately. “Rakcra! Etor!”
Their leader’s voice penetrated even above the din. Both simultaneously broke their hold and backed off. Defiance shone in their eyes, but there too was respect for Solendoral.
“You’ve lost your horses, I see!” barked Solendoral. As Rakcra made to speak, he added, “No, not now! You, Etor, up behind Courdour Alomar – quickly, man! Rakcra, here–” And he offered his arm and the youth leapt up behind his leader. “Later, we will hear both sides. But not now!” And both doubly laden horses rode on with the now retreating rearguard of Hansenand.
Floreskand_Wings Page 20