In the Caves of Exile (Tale of the Nedao Book 2)

by Ru Emerson

  “Mongrel bastard,” the old man spat. He said more, but Golsat would never translate it. He hadn't needed to: the look in the old man's eyes said enough. Kaltassa shoved him impatiently aside; the old man staggered.

  “Silence! I speak here!” the young chief shouted. “You, mongrel. Tell my words to the woman. I will fight her for the man we took.”

  “You have already told her,” Golsat replied. “Ylia—? He wants an answer to his challenge.”

  “I will fight for my liegeman,” she said. “Let me see the man first, so that I know he lives!”

  Kaltassa gestured; two men came through the crowd, dragging Faric with them. He was half-conscious, and blood from a long cut ran into his eyes. His arms were bound. If I could just reach him! She took one step forward, Kaltassa shouted another order and they hauled him back.

  “The Tanea-a-Les can see her man lives,” Kaltassa said flatly. “If she tries to touch him, he dies. We have seen how men vanish when she touches them!”

  “I am satisfied.”

  “Then I will fight,” Kaltassa said. One of his advisors was waving his arms, expostulating vainly; Kaltassa sent him staggering back into the crowd. “There is no shame in this, and there will be honor to the tribe when she dies! And we will take the beast, and the mongrel, and burn them all!” This met with loud approval among the younger warriors.

  “You must kill me first,” Ylia shouted after Golsat translated for her. This brought another loud outcry, and heavy jeering.

  “Golsat, I wish you'd—”

  “Don't!”

  “All right, nevermind; I'm sorry, I didn't mean insult.”

  He laughed, but his eyes were flatly black. “I know what you meant. Thanks, but no. You need me, and you know it. Tehlatt don't fight the way you learned, you need a sword at your back that's your own.” He shouted over the noise. “We want Kaltassa's honor, that the man of the Tanea-a-Les is ours, when she wins.”

  “Honor!’ She understood that much Tehlatt, the Mothers knew how often she'd heard the word the year before. “Honor from these?"

  “In their own light,” Golsat replied. “But not for you, that's why I'm staying. And—I can take care of young Faric, if I have a chance.”

  “You won't. Think of yourself, how I'll feel if they burn you after all I went through to get you out of here. Look how they're watching you! Stay close to Nisana. She'll get you out fast if things go wrong.”

  “If things go wrong,” Golsat replied grimly, “they won't have him alive. Or me.”

  'If it goes against you,’ the cat warned flatly, ‘you'll find yourself away from here! Not for your own stupid self, for poor Duke Erken, who must suffer in your place if you desert it! Do you forget you are Queen of Nedao?’ There was no answer she could make to that. And Kaltassa, who had been again consulting with his old men, turned back to them.

  “See! A bargain!” He turned as he spoke, taking in all those who crowded around the fire pit. “If the Tanea-a-Les defeats me, the man is hers! If I defeat her, she is ours, and the man, and that man, who is only half true man! They and that creature!” he pointed at Nisana. A low disapproving murmur: none of the warriors liked the thought of attempting to take the cat-shaped demon prisoner. “There will be no faulting in this bargain, I swear by Chezad, who gave us the victory here!”

  “Golsat—Nisana, keep ready!” she warned, and, as she took a step forward, added: “I will take my family blood and that of all my people from your skin!”

  Kaltassa roared out a laugh, clearly pleased by the response; the warriors sniggered. They moved back as she stepped forward, formed a loose circle around the firepit, away from the still burning compound. Ylia shifted her grip on her blades, stretched the muscles across her neck and shoulders to loosen them and began a slow stalk to the left.

  Nisana's thought suddenly rocked her: ‘Ylia, beware! One of Power comes!’ Her concentration was shattered. But the Tehlatt scrambled aside to make a wide path to the fire. Kaltassa turned abruptly away from her. Whatever came, he feared, and she wondered at that. ‘He has true Power—he was shielded!’ The cat's thought echoed, was abruptly gone as she broke contact.

  Shaman. A man so old, it seemed a wonder he could walk, his hair and beard were sparsely white. But there was a ruddy glow around him, clear to AEldra sight. And there was reason for that, wasn't there? “Mine,” Lyiadd had assured her, “the urgings to the Tehlatt which set them to the conquest of the Plain—” And this ancient, doddering creature in his fine-woven robe, and filthy grey leather leggings: This had been Lyiadd's link between himself and the barbarians?

  The old man moved suddenly, quickly, caught Kaltassa's arm in a hard grip. “Hold!” He spoke in thick Tehlatt, mumbling his words for he was missing most of his teeth. Golsat pulled her back a pace, translated against her ear. “This is not right!” The shaman was shaking with fury and indignation. “We must take these,” he pointed, “and this man we keep! We were told to make sacrifice to Chezad on the night when the moon hid its face. Was it not for this that we kept those misbegotten City folk alive? Did not Chezad himself speak to me when he set his sign upon me and gave his word that the Plain should again be ours? You and your father had victory by those words, Kaltassa, and now you will call Chezad's vengeance upon us with your fool ways!. The day for fighting is past. If you must use your sword, wield it in practice against your own kind! You are old enough for more sense, and you are your father's heir! This female is a peril to you.”

  “She cannot defeat me,” Kaltassa replied angrily.

  “You shame the honor of the tribe to fight a female!” One of the other advisors, heartened by the appearance of the shaman, stepped from the crowd. Kaltassa struck him with the back of his hand, sent him sprawling.

  “She is not female like our women! She is the child of the Nedaoan King Brandt and the Pale Witch, she is warrior and witch! And she has invoked the spilled blood of her ancestors. There is no shame to this fight!”

  “No,” the shaman's voice rose to a shrill, furious pitch. “No shame, only stupidity! And danger! This female despoiled Chezad's very temple! Do you think I do not know her?” Kaltassa eyed him with forebearance. Clearly, he didn't believe much of the gods, and less of this new tale. And the old man was no fool to miss that. “As you will, then. I have warned you, the god himself warns you. If she could wield so against Chezad—!”

  “Then the god has less strength in his sword arm than I,” Kaltassa said loudly, but he suddenly didn't look as certain of himself. The old man paled and caught at a handful of bones, bells, beads and other charms, hanging from his neck, then turned away to mutter over them.

  “No!” Ylia clashed her blades together, brought the attention of the watchers back to her. The old man must not change Kaltassa's mind! “A vow was spoken here! Does Kaltassa hide behind an old man's dirty robes, fearing that the Tanea-a-Les shall slay him as easily as she would a rabbit?” Nisana looked at her dubiously, gave a mental shrug that reverberated through the girl's mind and padded forward stiff-legged, the Power playing openly across her shoulders. The shaman turned to stare at the small cat. “If he wins, Kaltassa has us all, as a true sign his gods smile upon him! Why does he need this old fool's word for the god's pleasure?” Kaltassa eyed them in turn once again, but the shaman's attention was all for Nisana, and still the warrior hesitated. “Shall the Tanea-a-Les then return to her own kind and say that Kaltassa broke his word because he feared to fight her?”

  With a visible effort, the old man turned his attention from the cat: The charms jangled against the shaman's chest as he laid a restraining hand on his chief's arm. Kaltassa shook it off savagely and began a light-footed stalk around the fire. The old man fished a length of feather-wrapped bone from among his ornaments and brought it to his lips. It fell away, unnoticed, as Nisana leaped for him. The air around her shimmered, Baelfyr flared, and a mountain-cat stood snarling where she had been.

  Shape-change! The Tehlatt scrambled frantically out of the way,
the guards abandoned their prisoner and ran. Faric fell heavily to his side and lay still. The shaman wet his lips nervously, but he brought the bone whistle to his lips again, it shattered, the pieces fell smoking about his feet. ‘Kill Kaltassa!’ Nisana snapped? ‘I am worn and the old one is powerful!’

  'I will.’ Ylia shut her mind to Ysian's wordless cry of fear, the power-struggle that suddenly raged between radiant were-cat and Tehlatt shaman. She lunged across the guttering fire, struck Kaltassa's sword up with her own and laughed. The Tehlatt hurtled across the firepit and brought his short broad blade down with murderous intent.

  She flung herself to the side, skittered back out of his reach. Kaltassa pursued her around the fire, backed her in a circle twice before she found any kind of pattern to his fighting. It was unlike any she'd ever encountered: Even Lyiadd had had form similar enough to her own; this man was wild, his blows relied on strength rather than subtlety to break her guard. Caution, she warned herself. The battle over her shoulder blazed into her mind, faded as she shut off her thought once again.

  She jumped back as he leaped at her, knowing he'd win if he once caught her in a clutch, then jumped again as his bare foot snaked out to trip her. Attack: He gave ground, a slow step at a time, as she wove a web of steel around him, but still neither had touched the other. He swore at her as she retreated toward the fire, leaped for her again. She caught her heel on a rock, lost her balance and fell. Kaltassa almost had her then but she rolled even as she hit, regained her feet and pulled a slashing cut as she pivoted. The point sliced up the back of his bare arm.

  Silence, save for the burning compound, the crack and scree of blade on blade. Kaltassa's swings were still wild and heavy. But he was wearing down: blood ran in a steady stream from his elbow.

  She was again, all at once, aware of her surroundings: the battle that raged and flared not far from her, the Tehlatt warriors who watched her and Kaltassa, the gap where none would stand, lest were-cat or shaman strike them dead. And Faric, who had managed, through infinitely cautious movement, to work his way into the open, until he lay not two lengths from her.

  She sidestepped a savage overhand, caught her point in the mail-ringed shirt and for one heart-stopping moment thought she'd lost it. But the shirt was not properly laced; it slid with the sword and she tore a deep furrow along his ribs. Kaltassa hissed, tried again to kick the feet from under her. This time he nearly succeeded: the night's labors were telling on her badly and her legs felt leaden. She dragged the blade free of the barbarian's mail, hauled it back, forced shaking arm muscles to hold it up and steady. He retreated but when she went after him he stopped, dropped his sword and caught her shoulders in a crushing bear-hug.

  The breath was driven from her, her sword and dagger were pinned to her sides. She nearly panicked. But Marhan had driven his lessons in well—too well for her to forget the way out of such a hold. She brought a knee up, dropped onto her back and rolled. Kaltassa was laughing breathily; he had expected struggle only, no such trick as this and nothing so swift: Before he realized he was falling, she was already down, thrusting hard with both feet, throwing the badly overbalanced man over her head. He landed with a thud.

  “A good trick. “He caught up his sword, came up with it at the ready. Air labored into his lungs. “I shall remember it!”

  “No,” she panted. “You won't live to remember it?” Painfully bright, blue-white light flared over them, blinding. A gust of horror—the old shaman's—and a gust of raw power—Nisana's—shook her. There was bedlam among the warriors; many of them simply turned and fled. Kaltassa lunged but his guard was wide and he fell onto her sword. She nearly went down with him; the hilts were torn from her hand.

  Nisana—the cat herself, once again—stood ten paces away, sharing at a ragged, motionless bundle on the ground before her. A dark red haze hung over it, but it was already fading.

  “Take them!” One of the old men shouted. The Tehlatt moved as one, hesitated as they looked from Warrior Witch to Shape-Changing Demon. In that moment, both acted. 'Join!' the thought came from three directions at once. Ylia grabbed Golsat's arm, launched both of them across the intervening distance and fell full length on Faric as the bridging enfolded them and pulled them to safety.

  Poor Ysian. It wasn't fair, no one could have taken such an introduction to Nedao. For such as she, with my fair Scythia's beauty and courage, but with no knowledge of how harsh things can be outside Yslar, it was a horror and a nightmare. And I was sorry I'd done my share to push for her remaining. Though I'd done it from good motive: that she could indeed be of use, and that I always loved her, and wanted her company. And now, I could only hope that what she had learned about Nedao, and herself, she would take away to think upon, and that she would return, some day.

  15

  Light filtered into the sleep chamber from the niches in the rock. Ylia blinked at it sleepily. Same day, or another? No way to tell. She levered herself onto an elbow, pushed to her feet. Ugh. There was a flat taste in her mouth and the smell of smoke to her clothes and hair. Her hands were clean, but she thought she remembered an extremely angry Malaeth sponging blood and soot and mud from them, expostulating with her the while. Her shirt was gone. It had been stiff with the guard's blood. She shuddered.

  Marhan, after he'd finally realized what she'd done, had refused to speak to her at all. At the moment, remembering their return to the Caves, she couldn't think which of them was more irritating. Marhan wouldn't let her, or anyone else, explain what had happened because he wouldn't listen, and Malaeth hadn't let her get a word in the entire time she'd been with her.

  One thing, at least: There wasn't a man, woman or child at Aresada who would look askance at Golsat ever again. Doubtless they were still singing his praises out there. But Golsat—she wiped a sudden tear aside, swallowed others. Golsat's mother and one of his sisters had been among those rescued, and he and they hadn't even seen each other until they reached the safety of the Caves.

  Nisana leaped, to the table as she moved into the conference chamber. ‘You look better,’ the cat observed.

  “I should, I slept like the dead. What hour is it?”

  'Seventh. You woke for evening meal but not by much.’

  “Ah. That explains why I feel so slept out. How is Ysian?” Better. Still sleeping. I think the circumstances were harder on her than the use of so much Power. Malaeth was furious with us, but I convinced her to leave Ysian alone; Ysian couldn't have taken it.’

  “She took it all out on me, anyway, there wasn't anything left over for Ysian. You think she'll be all fight when she wakes?” Ysian had recovered by the time she and Nisana bridged hack to the hill, and she'd held together with grim resolution through the return to Aresada. But by the time they reached the River, Golsat was carrying her. And once she was within the women's quarters and safely flat on her own blankets, once the dark man was gone, she'd burst into tears. Ylia's attempts to soothe her proved useless and she'd left her in Nisana's care.

  The people had been wild for her to come back anyway. By then they'd heard Corlin's story of the rescue, and Golsat's, the gods help her, and they'd wanted her. She'd spoken, tried to tell her own side of it, unvarnished and plain, but she knew it was no good. They'd already chosen what to believe, her people.

  And then she'd let Malaeth, a very angry Malaeth, snatch her from their midst and drag her like a truant child back to her sleeping chamber. In truth, she was too tired by then to care how it looked.

  'Malaeth's not so angry either, now.’ Nisana broke in on her thought. ‘Ysian explained things to her.’

  “Oh. Good. I think.”

  She found Merreven in the hall and sent him in search of warm washing water. Lisabetha pushed through the curtain moments later, a steaming copper bowl in her hands.

  I had them keep this warm, I thought you'd want it soon.” Her eyes were overbright. She set the bowl on the table. ‘"I wanted—I didn't get a chance to say anything last night.”

  “It
's all right, ‘Betha. I know.”

  Lisabetha dipped a cloth in the warm water and set to work on Ylia's face. “It's the best thing anyone over did for me.”

  “I'm just glad we succeeded. But you know it wasn't all me, not by half. Golsat planned it. Without him we'd have gotten nowhere.”

  “I know that. He's wonderful. But you'd have thought of something, Lisabetha added loyally. “We'll have to wash your hair, it's awful. Malaeth has you a change of tings. She's washed the shirt you wore last night three times and it's still not clean. She wants your breeches.”

  “If she has me a dress of Ysian's,” Ylia warned, “I refuse it.”

  “She knows better than to even try,” the girl laughed. “No, the last boatload of things the Narrans brought—there was cloth, remember?”

  “That's for the children!” Ylia said indignantly.

  “Most of it. Some was set aside for you. The people aren't pleased that you must dress as poorly as they. Don't you know that?” Silence. Ylia rolled her eyes. “Well, I do, I spend more time among the women, and they talk to me a way they wouldn't to you. You aren't supposed to look like a peasant. Anyway,” Lisabetha went on cheerfully, “it's too late to complain, you've breeches and a plain shirt to match. It'll keep you decently covered while the rest of this is washed. And,” she added as she redid one of the badly tangled plaits, “Malaeth's working that tabard, and it's waist length. Thought you'd like to know, after all the fuss she made.”

  “You jest—ow!”

  “Don't turn your head like that, I have your hair in my hand.”

  “I noticed!”

  “Frankly, it's more because she couldn't do a proper job on any more length. There wasn't enough of what she thought decent stuff.”

  “Decent stuff,” Ylia repeated. “I'm afraid to ask what that might be.”