by J. A. Comley
“Easy there, little warrior,” a deep voice rumbled against her ear. “We mean you no harm, nor Valana.”
The girl ceased her struggles momentarily, then began yelling again, swearing at him and commanding him to release her.
“Your people burnt my village! Let me go so I can spill your cowardly guts!”
Okano's eyes flashed from the struggling Nightstalker to Mukori. Mukori looked swiftly to the horizon, although they were hopelessly too far to see anything.
“Child,” Mukori said, his voice low and calm, “be still. Did you come from the Kazori village?”
Karicha spat at him, baring her teeth. “A woman who speaks like you attacked us! You Outcasts have no honour!”
Mukori kept his voice level, ignoring her insults. “How many were there? Can you identify them?” The girl finally stopped struggling. The sincere pull of his voice was hypnotic. “I came here today to meet your Chief, to speak with Valana. On the way, we heard of the battle so I changed paths. I came here, but sent some of my friends to the village, just in case.”
She glanced backwards, and he followed her gaze and saw a mirri lying beside what he assumed was the Kazori Chief.
“Why?” she almost sobbed, the flash of rage-fuelled strength abandoning her. “Why would you order an attack on children, elders and the sick? Why would you kill so may innocents?”
Okano's arms tightened reflexively as he swallowed back bile. “That was not us, child,” he said slowly as Mukori's eyes widened in alarm, anger burning in their depths.
“Of course you did,” she half-screeched, half-sobbed. “They also smelled of Hipotarali and had no honour.” She looked down at her blood-aunt, who lay unmoving but for the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She knew that Valana had been poisoned. It was the only explanation that would leave her alive, but unmoving. “You could never have beaten her in a fair fight. Cowardly Outcast!” she spat, aiming one more kick at Okano's shins.
He grunted as her foot connected, but didn't let her go.
“Your antics are wasting time,” Mukori chided, his voice suddenly sharp. “We did not attack your village, but if you don't stop fighting us we may not be able to help it, either.”
Karicha's head snapped up. He didn't look like he was lying, but his voice, the combination of accents. Was it possible that two Cyrali, with Hipotarali tinged accents, had indeed come to the Kazori, one with war, the other with peace?
Karicha shook her head mechanically, fighting the bombardment of images and thoughts. Then everything slid away.
“She's fainted.”
Okano lifted the child up gently. Poor girl. What had she been through this past night? He could smell blood and burning. The burning of wood and flesh alike.
“We have to try and help.”
Tanoril swore, hand still pressed to the bleeding gash in his cheek.
“It is probably too late by now.”
“We still must try.” Mukori looked at the group. None here were warriors, save for himself, Bakoro and Okano. “Take Valana and the girl back to the meeting point. If the village was indeed beyond saving, then Nimori and the others should have returned there by now.”
“My Lord, please,” Tanoril protested as the others stepped forward. The woman took the girl from Okano, while the man scooped Valana from the ground. “What happens when they awaken?”
Mukori paused for a brief moment, then sighed. “There is enough laricori to keep Valana under until you reach the way-house. As for the girl,” he shrugged. “try and keep her calm. Talk to her. Explain what we are doing. Keep her from hurting anyone, including herself. We will be as quick as we can.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Tanoril said, every word heavy with reluctance.
“Quickly, now, Okano. Quickly.” Mukori moved over to the mirri, palms up and eyes locked on the creature's. It snarled softly.
“Will you help us?” he asked.
Although mirri were not able to speak as people did, they had proven themselves many times over to be able to understand the tone in which something was said. He held out a hand and repeated his question.
The sandswimmer gave the corpse beside it a gentle nudge then let out another mournful note as the body did not stir. Slowly, it rose and came to Mukori's side.
Mounting the beast, he looked to Okano, whose silver eyes glowed dimly in the dark of day. They blurred into motion, racing towards the Plateau that had been home to the Kazori for generations.
They were both exhausted but if even one life could still be saved, they had to try.
Okano had seen many things in his 247 years and, since the Breaking, many horrors, too. But the burned village he was looking at was one of the worst atrocities he had ever witnessed, denied first place only by a more personal tragedy. He stepped gingerly around the charred remains of those who had not been able to join their Chief in battle.
Mukori walked between the charred remains, too, his face grim, eyes hard. This was what he fought against. The chaos that drove people to madness and allowed them to commit these crimes. Punishment for this would be harsh.
Okano could almost see the fire burning in Mukori's eyes, almost feel the determination rolling off him.
He had checked the remains of the chief's house, looking for the documents he had hoped to trade for.
“Nothing, but perhaps we are lucky and Nimori took them before leaving. Otherwise, they are ashes.”
They had circled in towards the Ever-Spring, which now gave off a foul odour. Mukori met Okano's eyes and shook his head. Okano had known the man long enough to be able to see the deep sadness that shadowed the fire of anger in his eyes. Then Mukori shut his eyes and took two slow breaths. When he opened them, his face was empty. He pulled out a writing pad and began to scribble. Okano bit his tongue. He reminded himself that Mukori was not being insensitive, he merely kept his mind focused and unbroken by the horrors, knowing how important recording them was. The more evidence they could present to the leaders of Trianon's planets, the more likely that they would listen, even though they had been trying and failing for years. Mukori had always said that if you couldn't save a life, you made the death count towards saving others.
As for himself, Okano began to sing softly. Giving all the innocent dead at his feet a farewell, he called the winds to bear them to a better place.
When he had finished, Mukori put away his notes and sighed. It was time to go.
Okano froze, even as Mukori mounted the mirri again. A thin, frail cry broke the silence, hiccuped, then cried out again. His ears located the sound easily enough and he followed the noise with new energy. In this place of death, a single life still lingered.
Behind the partly charred body of an elderly man, lay a wriggling bundle, covered in soaked hide. Okano pulled the baby free and marvelled at the little survivor. He had fallen beside some boulders, which, along with the man's body, had shielded him from the flames that had torn through the village a few feet away. The soaked hide would have filtered out most of the smoke. Apart from a bruise above his left eye, the baby seemed unharmed.
“We must get him to Lerimo.”
Mukori nodded, also staring at the little bundle in surprise, the grim tightness around his eyes easing a little. Without further instruction, Okano launched himself out of the dead village, the baby held tight to his chest. He hoped that Lerimo was still waiting at the way-house, that Nimori's return there with this news hadn't spurred him off elsewhere. Behind him, he heard the mirri's racing feet fade from hearing and guessed that Mukori had decided to go in search of the others, whose elpion-driven cart would take much longer to reach their destination. He hoped that Mukori was careful about how he spoke of their discovery to the girl. The baby may still die from the after effects of the smoke or even the bump to his head. He didn't want to give her false hope. Cradling the baby with infinite care, he pushed himself to the limit, ignoring the tiredness in his muscles and praying that the ancestors would have mercy and spare the little boy.
/> 4
A Hard Truth
Mukori sighed. The documents held the information he had hoped to attain, but the state of Nimori and the other three he had sent was grim. Even now, he could smell the burning of flesh and tang of blood that had trailed them.
They were all gone, now. Lerimo, too, with orders for another: the one whom Mukori trusted to deal out swift and harsh judgements.
He put the papers away. He had known from very young that sometimes things cost more than you could ever guess. All you could do when the cost became high was to ensure that the end result made up for it, somehow.
Anger flared in him again as he remembered the state of the Kazori village. Needless death like that was exactly what he stood against. Yet he could not save everyone, not alone.
He looked out of the window and felt his anger and sadness turn to resolve. “I vow that your deaths will have meaning. I will use them to bring peace.”
The Kazori Tribe was gone. What members were left were those who had chosen other lives, either in Hipotarali or on one of the other planets. But Valana was here, and with her, he could make all this chaos worth it.
***
Her sense of smell returned first. There were hurik trees somewhere nearby, their gentle, tangy scent clinging to the breeze. Valana noted that the breeze came only from her right, indicating that they were indoors and there was a window or opening of some sort in that direction. The scent of huriks was strong enough that she guessed it was night, when the flowers opened and the leaves unfurled to be able to drink in the bright moonlight. She turned her attention to the scents that were nearer. Linen, umera wool, soap, and leather. As she focused on each, the source of the leathery smell seemed to move, billowing a new, subtler scent her way. Valana concentrated on it. It was the softer smell of skin, bread and lofri spice. She felt the pull of familiarity, a memory just beyond her reach, as the spice tickled her nose.
Ignoring the allure of the memory, she took stock of her immediate situation. She wasn’t dead. That was something. The small aches in her muscles and the involuntary quivering from the laricori poison told her she was alive, somewhere. Somewhere with clean linens, soft beds and a rare grove of hurik trees. She thought of the possibilities as she let her ears pick up as much information as possible while remaining still. Close to her left, a strong heart beat steadily, another set of lungs breathed in and out. Further afield were the long slow breaths of sleeping people. If it was night, it must be early for people to still be sleeping. A few people were moving around nearby. The sounds of idle chatter, cooking and scrubbing came to her as she focused. A moon-wheeler sang outside, in the direction of the grove. Then a baby's thin wail took up its cry and the sounds of beating wings came from the grove. A clock ticked gently, steadily keeping track of time. Somewhere, paper rustled, like someone turning the page of a book. Beyond all this were the general small noises of an Aurelian night, growing ever dimmer before they were too far even for a Nightstalker's hearing.
A way-house. It was the only conclusion that fit all the information.
If I am at a way-house, then I have been unconscious for a lot more than a few hours, or even a whole day. It may have been more than a week.
Focusing on her body, she judged that the poison's effects were mostly gone and that if she exerted herself, she should be able to stand, maybe even fight, if necessary.
Remembering her bloodlust on the battlefield, she stifled a sigh. She had let her loss and anger drive her to attack an unknown group. They had said they meant no harm, and she was not dead, but they had still poisoned her, more than once if she was where she thought, and brought her here without her consent.
Anger flooded back. They would realise their mistake in kidnapping her very soon now.
The presence beside her shifted, and she guessed the change in her heart rate had given away the fact that she was awake. Which meant the person guarding her was likely the Nightstalker from the battlefield.
Slowly, she let her eyes slide open, looking to the right first. Early moonlight streamed in through an open window, but it wasn't as bright as she had expected. The moon had been waxing, near full, on the night of the battle. Now it was clearly waning. Still, an open window might prove useful. The source of the spice and leather scent that tugged at her memory shifted position again, moving closer. She turned her head slowly. Her neck muscles spasmed once from the after-effects of the laricori.
Silver eyes, a perfect match to her own, looked down at her, tight and wary. Yet something like an apology glimmered in their depths.
The cowardly son of a shimbak who poisoned me.
She tried to lunge and the silver eyes sparked with something close to amusement at her pathetic attempt. Dumped on her side by her quivering muscles, she merely glared at the Nightstalker, refusing to speak first or acknowledge the tugging of memory.
“You will hurt yourself.” His deep voice sounded too loud after the effects of the poison. “Lie still. Let it wear off.”
Valana snarled and the Nightsalker chuckled. A memory nearly surfaced at the sound. Something about Moon Lake, but she pushed it away, stilling her body. He was right, after all. The twitching eased as she stopped trying to tense her muscles to attack.
Whoever they were, whatever reasons they had for kidnapping her didn't matter. She had to focus only on one goal now. She had to get back to her village. To the children and elders who must realise by now that no-one was coming back. To the brave Karicha who had agreed to guard them alone so that Valana could go and aid their Chief and her warriors. She had failed Karicha. She had failed everyone.
Stop it! she scolded herself, her mental voice biting. Now was not the time for self-pity. Hard truths needed to be faced and accepted, but now was not the time for that battle. The young and old of the Kazori still lived. As their Protector, she had a duty to return and see them to safety.
But where will we go? Had the elders, realising that no warriors were returning, abandoned the Ever-Spring and made for the Wall?
The series of small cave-dwellings along the northern wall of the Plateau would make a decent shelter and no tribes would hunt them with the Ever-Spring surrendered and no warriors left to seek vengeance.
Yes. The Wall is the most probable option. I will go to the village first then out towards the Wall if they are not there and I cannot find a trail.
She was probably a fair distance from the Ever-Spring and the wall. With no knowledge of how long she had been asleep, she could not guess how far they may have travelled.
Her thigh muscles twitched and pain shot through her. Moving her hand slowly, she lightly pressed her fingers to the bandage on her thigh.
Strange. That should have healed completely by now.
The thought was suddenly overridden by another so obvious that she was surprised it wasn't the first thing she had realised about herself. She was wearing soft linen shorts and a light shirt of the same material. She immediately turned her head and scanned the nondescript room for her weapons and fighting leathers. Nothing.
No surprise, really.
No matter. She was almost as deadly without weapons if anyone was foolish enough to try and stop her.
She focused on the Nightstalker again. The only one with a prayer of stopping her before she was out of the window and on her way. She looked at his face, concentrating until her eyes finally focused on it fully. It was a hard face, covered in a short beard which obscured the bottom half of his face and erased the shape of his jaw line.
He was still watching her, his moustached lips pressed together in a speculative line, as if able to read her every thought and waiting to see if she would make the sensible choice or not.
“So, laricori poison on the sword. Have you always been a coward or was that a one-off?” Valana asked, keeping her voice casual as she tested her muscle functions discreetly. Tense, release, tense, release. She resisted the urge to grit her teeth against the twitching and lingering patches of numbness. Come on.
/> Something flashed through his eyes, too fast to identify and he let out a short laugh. It was a rich, warm sound that didn't seem to fit his hard, care-worn face, or the long lines of thin scars crossing from his torso and over his left shoulder. Yet even as he laughed, his keen eyes took in her feeble attempt to buy time.
He shook his head. “You still don't trust us. I thought you'd at least trust me.”
“Trust you?” Valana's voice raised an octave, incredulity in every note. “Trust those who poisoned me, kidnapped me and are now holding me prisoner somewhere? Sure.”
He grimaced. “Okay, perhaps trust is too big a step. Surely you've realised that Mukori told the truth and we mean you no harm?”
She managed to quirk an eyebrow in disbelief and was pleased when it stayed put. Good. Her body would soon be fully under her control again.
He nodded, as if agreeing with her thought. “We had ample opportunity to kill you or cause you harm. Yet you are whole and, as I'm sure you've noticed, untethered. You are a guest, not a prisoner.”
“Is it usual for you to poison your intended guests?” Valana asked. She had indeed been wondering why they had left her untied.
He huffed another laugh. “No.”
She waited and he grew serious again, the tug on her memory his voice seemed to exert growing more insistent.
“Lord Mukori wanted to speak with you. It was obvious that you were never going to see reason on that battlefield. I knew it and so did he.” He paused and locked eyes with her. “It was almost too easy to lure you into attacking.” His voice held no amusement any more. In fact, he sounded a trifle put out by his leader’s daring action. Or her gullibility.
“Lord?” Valana asked as a memory swam into focus. It was sharp and clear, like all memories formed within the Void. The speaker's smug smile as he had escaped her attack. She had thought it was simply because he had escaped when that should have been impossible, but perhaps it was because she had done exactly what he had expected. He was clearly an Aurelian, but his title made no sense. Aurelia had no nobility. No kings, queens, lords or ladies. Just the Conclave of the Eldest, their Heirs and the Chiefs.