Leaping from the waves, he spied three boats clustered together with men busy on their decks, hauling in a vast net. The dolphins' screams stabbed him like knives, filled with all the anguish of the dying. A dark net loomed before him, making him veer and slow. Within the heavy net, a school of dolphins struggled to reach the air above, their cries pitiful. Frantically they lashed their flukes, pushing at the net. In their desperation, some had tried to get through it, then turned upwards when they ran out of air, and their jaws had become caught in the rope. Mouths dragged open by the net, they swam with dying desperation, crying out in despair and fear. In the bottom of the net, a shoal of silver fish lurked in confusion, not yet alarmed by the trap.
Anger burnt in the Mujar's heart. A young dolphin sank, his precious air leaking from his blowhole as he died. The coals of Chanter's anger flared into fury, and he changed his form. The graceful dolphin shimmered and grew. His flukes turned to fins, and his snout flattened into curved jaws armed with razor teeth. The massive shark turned towards the net, speeded by a swinging, powerful tail. As he struck it, he flipped onto his side, tearing through the rope with serrated teeth that cut the tough strands like cobweb. Lashing his tail, he ripped and tore at the net, opening a gaping hole. He entered the rope prison and pushed a struggling dolphin down, trying to free its jaw from the rope, but in its desperation it fought only to rise.
Chanter changed into a man and pulled the dying mammal from the net, pushing it towards the hole. It shot upwards to the sweet air, saved mere moments from death. With a mind lock, he tried to persuade the others to leave through the hole, but most of them were so close to death that they could not obey. Some did escape, but the rest continued to struggle towards the air so close to them, yet out of reach. Chanter grabbed one and pushed it out of the hole, then another. The dolphins weakened as their air ran out, and some sank.
Unable to help them without revealing his presence, he took shark form again and drove upwards through the struggling school with sweeps of his tail. His jaws closed on the ropes and sliced through them as he ripped and tore the net by lashing his head to and fro. Dolphins rose all around him, drawing great lungfuls of air with explosive puffs of vapour. Chanter dived after the ones that sank and nudged them up with his broad snout, pushing them to the surface, where they gasped and floated exhausted amongst their friends.
Shouts of surprise and anger came from the boats. Chanter dived for the last young dolphin that lay in the bottom of the net, but it was dead, drowned in the sea that was its home. Turning in fury, he rammed the boat with his blunt snout, rocking it. The men's shouts became fearful, and they cut their nets to free their vessels. Chanter rammed the boat again, then turned and charged another, almost staving in its timbers. He swam just under the surface, so the men could admire his size and ferocity, his dorsal fin cutting the water. As the Lowmen freed their vessels and moved away with a combination of paddling, rowing and hoisting sails, he charged the boat open-mouthed. His razor teeth cut into the timbers, leaving a crescent-shaped mark and several spare teeth to confirm the fishermen's story and leave no doubt as to the size of the shark that had made it.
The dolphins rested in the cradle of the waves, and Chanter joined them, changing into a dolphin as he moved amongst them. Those that were able sang a mourning song for the one who had died, and their gentle sorrow made Chanter ashamed of his rage. Once again, he had stepped out of the Mujar role and let his anger guide him, yet in doing so he had saved these playful creatures and harmed no one. Rage was a rare emotion for Mujar, and, although he had felt it when he had suffered at the hands of Lowmen torturers, he had never really acted on it. On rare occasions and under extreme torture, Mujar had been known to lash out and harm those who tormented them.
Chanter understood that people hunted animals for meat. Although it was alien to him and his world, it had been accepted, since the Lowman animals did it too. The fishermen had no intention of eating the dolphins, however. They hunted the silver fish that swam below the dolphin school. The Mujar's anger stemmed from the uncaring cruelty of the fishermen who allowed the dolphins to drown when they could so easily release them simply by lowering one side of their net.
The dolphins clustered close and rubbed against him with deep affection. As he had done with previous schools, he used their language of clicks and whistles to ask if they had seen anything fall into the sea. They had not, but they knew of a pod of whales that had sung a song of such a thing many moons ago. The school moved off, and he followed.
On the dry plains of the distant continent where once golden grass had thrived, the dying Ishmak plant gave its last dregs of life to the Mujar child. Though still not fully formed, the boy had reached a state of semi-awareness and independence. The plant should have nurtured him for another four months, but now it had no choice but to release him. The flower's outer petals crumbled, their strength used to feed the Mujar. Only two leaves remained to gather energy from the sun, and these were withered.
Within the cool fortress of the inner petals, now dry and hard, the pod's glass-like substance grew brittle. The liquid within it had dropped dangerously low, forcing the boy to curl up at the bottom. The water, thick with nutrients released by the dying plant, formed a viscous golden fluid in which he lived.
The umbilical stopped pulsing, depriving the boy of its support. For a while, he lay still, puzzled by this new development. His comfortable cradle had become a prison, no longer the source of life, and a new longing took root in his mind. Freedom.
This first thought was the most important a Mujar ever had, and one he would never forget. His movements quickened, stirring the sticky fluid. The pod's joints weakened, and trickles of liquid escaped. The boy pushed at the brittle pod, driven by the growing urge to escape. A kick jarred its fragile walls, and the seams parted with a crack. The four quarters fell apart, spilt thick water and shattered as they struck the hard floor. Washed from his cradle, the boy sprawled on the faded blue floor. He froze in surprise, then groped around. Normally he would have opened his eyes to look at his surroundings, but this Mujar boy could not, for fear of releasing the golden light that swirled in his brain.
The boy crawled around the inner chamber, clattering amongst the pod's shards. He examined these with touch, taste and smell, learning what they were. Losing interest in the odd shapes, he crawled around the chamber again, discovering that he was inside another prison. The boy climbed to his feet and leant against the wall. Again he moved around, running his hands along the wall, searching for a door. He found a hole and crawled through it, falling into a cushion of softness. Once more he felt, smelt and tasted his new environment. Small hard things nestled in the softness that clung to his sticky skin. He became aware of a tugging at his navel, and searched the area with his hands, discovering the slender umbilical cord. Breaking it, he explored the new terrain, stumbling around amongst the soft hairs.
As he moved, his strength grew and his legs became firmer, though still inclined to wobble. For a while he rested, explored his skin and found it covered in hair and burdened with the small hard things. This seemed quite natural, a form of clothing gifted to him by the plant. Stumbling on, he completed two more circuits of his prison before it dawned on him that he was still trapped. Every part of him was now covered with hair, and the sticky fluid had dried to a hard glue, holding it in place. The circular chamber was no longer soft, since the hair had been transferred to his skin. Again he rested, sitting with his back to the wall. He pawed at his eyes, sure that he was missing a sense but unable to open them. The golden light darted in his mind, seeking the release he would not grant it.
Rising, he clawed at the wall, but its seamless surface thwarted him. Changing his tactics, he used his growing strength to punch the hard outer petals. The brittle material cracked, and he ripped off chunks, then battering it again. Gradually he opened a hole through which warmth and air flowed. The scent of freedom galvanised him to rip and smash until the hole was large enough to crawl thr
ough.
No Trueman would have recognised the creature that emerged from the flower's safety and sprawled on the dry ground. The Mujar boy, far smaller than an adult, was not yet fully formed. Soft white hair furred his scalp beneath the long strands of the Ishmak's seed hairs, pasted down with the dried golden fluid. The fluid also lent his dead white skin a golden tint, and protected it from the sun. Since no part of him was clearly visible, he looked like a hairy white caterpillar with four thin limbs.
Satisfied that he had escaped his prison, the Mujar child sat and examined the ground. He sifted soil between hardening palms, felt it, smelt it and finally tasted it, but spat it out. Finding a few dried grass stalks, he examined these the same way and spat them out, too. Two strong urges drove newly born Mujar. The first was to be free of their mother plant, and, having achieved that, a second urge became just as strong. Hunger. In order to reach adult size, a Mujar child had to ingest matter. Once fully grown, this became unnecessary, though enjoyable. There were few things a child at that stage would not eat, but amongst those were soil and dried grass. Normally a Mujar child would have stumbled from his flower onto a mat of digestible leaves and devoured them. For the first time, a Mujar had been born into a desert.
The boy sat and pondered. As yet his thought processes were rudimentary, especially since he was immature. His one wish was to eat, but nothing edible came to hand. Puzzled by this, he rose and groped his way back to the flower, picking at the dried petals. These he spat out too, searching for the food that should have been there. His blind search brought him to the two remaining leaves, withered and shrunken, but still edible. Eagerly he gnawed their sweet flesh with sharp white teeth. Like the caterpillar he so closely resembled, he set about consuming the leaves.
Chanter stood on the edge of a deep canyon on the sea bed and explored its depths with his senses. It had taken half a moon to find the whale pod, and another seven days for them to guide him to this spot. For more than seven days now, he had searched this area. Tuning his senses to the silver streams of Dolana that ran through the ground, he mapped out the terrain upon his inner eye. A vast, steeply sloping canyon, which narrowed to a chasm at its deepest point, lay below him. He stepped off the edge and drifted down, guiding his descent with strokes of his arms and legs. Keeping the map of Earthpower in his mind, he turned to examine the canyon's depths. Curving streams of silver power outlined it, extending as his senses gathered the information and transferred it to his inner eye. In the utter darkness that shimmered with blue Shissar, this was the only way to see the ground. The narrow chasm glowed with Dolana so strong that it looked like a solid silver line to his senses.
The whales had guided him as close to the place where they had seen the object fall as they could, and fortunately, their memories were good. If the staff had fallen into this canyon, it had to be at the bottom of the chasm, but with so much Dolana filling it there was no way to see the staff's emanations. Entering the chasm would be dangerous, the powerful Dolana would drain him and fill him with its biting cold, even though the Shissar muted it. Chanter floated on the frigid currents and pondered. Although he had shied away from similar ravines elsewhere, the whales' story made this the likeliest place for the staff to be.
Drifting down, he settled on the chasm's edge. Mujar were unwilling to command the land unless it was for a good reason, such as stopping earth blood from oozing out and polluting the sea. Perhaps finding the staff was a good enough reason, even though it was useless, but there was also a possibility that it was not here. Even if it was in the chasm, he would be doing this only to satisfy the whim of a Lowman girl. Still, he reminded himself, she was the First Chosen, and maybe the gods had a plan for her to which he was not privy. He could not return empty handed and claim to have searched the sea unless he looked inside this chasm.
His mind made up, he bent and pressed his palms to the ground. The lines of silver Power curved as he drew them to him, and he straightened with them in his grasp, like the reins with which Lowmen guided their horses. Images of the original lines remained on the ground, shadows of the frigid, slippery Power that flowed through his hands. Summoning the immense will that was a Mujar's greatest weapon, he commanded it.
The streams of Earthpower warped and flattened in obedience to his will, and the chasm widened and grew shallower. The intense Dolana within it faded, no longer concentrated by the nearness of the two rock walls. The Earthpower's icy drain sapped his strength, for the nearer to the earth's core he ventured, the more powerful it became. Fighting the creeping weakness that stalked his limbs behind the terrible cold, he held the reins of Dolana for as long as he dared. By the time he was forced to release it, the chasm was little more than a shallow rut.
Floating up, he scanned the depression, where the streams of Earthpower flowed along the ground, easy to see. He swam along the rut, examining the silver streams as they came into view. A point of brightness entered his field of vision, and he swam closer. It could just be a hole in the ground, but he had to be sure. The silver light swelled, an odd shape for a hole, and he allowed himself a vestige of hope. When he was close enough to sense the coldness of it, he reached out and touched a piece of stone.
Chanter ran his hands over the lines of ancient writing carved into it and smiled. The shard was not even two hand spans long, jagged at each end. He picked it up, changed to dolphin form, and caught the stone on his snout as it sank down. Balancing it there, he swam up and away towards the distant beach where Talsy waited.
Kieran mopped Talsy's brow with a damp cloth, muttering under his breath. A week ago, she had complained of a headache and nausea, two days later she could not get out of bed, racked by chills and coughing. Shan and Taff were similarly stricken, and Brin said that it was a jungle fever carried by the tiny insects that had been sucking their blood at night. After the sword's healing had failed, Kieran had urged her to call the Mujar, but she refused, whispering hoarsely that Chanter must find the staff. Kieran had railed against her decision, pointing out that if she died the Mujar would have no reason to find the staff. Still, she had remained adamant, sending him into a fit of fury that had him striding down to the beach to bellow the Mujar's name at the sea and a few surprised gulls.
Today, she tossed and muttered in a delirium, her brow burning with fever. Brin mixed a herbal potion that he ministered to the three, but it only reduced the fever slightly. Thorn, and Taff's horse, Mern, stood outside their riders' tent, whickering their concern. When he was not tending to Talsy, the Prince paced the beach, desperate for the Mujar to return. Chanter had been away almost three months, however, and there was no telling when he would come back.
Kieran laid the cool cloth on her brow and left the tent to find Brin, who tended Shan in the other tent. The boy was not as sick as Talsy, whose lack of appetite had weakened her.
"Brin, can you make some more of that brew of yours? She's getting worse."
The warrior looked up. "Yes, I have some."
Picking up a bowl, he followed the Prince to Talsy's tent, where he knelt and lifted her head to trickle the potion into her mouth. She coughed and gagged, spraying him, but he persevered until he got some down her. Letting her lie back, he laid a hand on her brow and shook his head.
"She's burning up."
"I know." Kieran cursed. "I wish she'd called Chanter! Now it's too late."
Brin rose and pushed the Prince out of the tent, his expression grim. "What happens if she dies?"
"I don't know. Chanter won't find the pieces of the staff, I can promise you that."
"What about them." Brin jerked his chin at the distant city. "Maybe they have medicine."
Kieran shook his head. "I don't trust them. If we reveal our presence we could all end up dead. It's too dangerous."
"She could die."
"He knows when she's in danger." Kieran gazed out to sea. "It just depends on how fast he can get here, I suppose."
"Unless it's soon, he'll be too late. She won't last more than an
other day or so."
Kieran continued to stare seawards, frowning. Brin snorted and turned to go back to the tent. Kieran caught his arm.
"Wait. What's that?" He pointed beyond the breakers.
Brin squinted. "A dolphin, or a shark."
"Or a Mujar."
The approaching fin headed straight for land, but dolphins sometimes played in the surf. Kieran ran down the beach to the edge of the waves. The fin speeded towards the shore, slicing through the water, a slight bulge ahead of it where the dolphin's head thrust through the sea. As the water grew shallower the lashing flukes raised a foaming wake, powering the dolphin to shore. Before it reached the sand, the sleek form shimmered and changed. A Mujar strode through the shallows, water churning at his thighs. He broke into a run as he quit the sea, brushing Kieran's hand aside when the Prince tried to drag him forwards.
"Hurry," Kieran cried, "It's Talsy, she's sick -"
"I know."
Chanter raced up the beach, the men floundering in his wake. Reaching the tent, he ripped aside the flap and swept up the moaning girl. He almost bowled Kieran over as he thrust his way out again, carrying Talsy back to the sea. Within moments he re-entered it and sank to his knees in the shallows, lowering the unconscious girl into the waves. Kieran gaped in stunned disbelief as Chanter bowed his head and muttered strange words, then pushed her underwater.
Chanter held her beneath the waves for what seemed like an eternity, until the Prince was sure that she would drown. Remembering his mistake when Chanter had saved her from the joining staffs, he quelled his wish to run down and haul her out. When Chanter lifted her at last, she gasped and opened her eyes. She stared at the Mujar in confusion, then smiled and slid her arms around him.
Kieran turned to find Brin beside him. "Let's bring the other two." He led the Aggapae up the beach.
Broken World Book Three - A Land Without Law Page 11