The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy

by Abigail Hilton

  “Hunting.” She closed her eyes. “They have to eat.”

  * * * *

  Corry woke hungry and wet. He and the cubs started west in the dreary rain and mist, slogging over the spongy forest floor until the gray sky appeared through the trees. Corry was about to lead the way onto the edge of the cliff when Tolomy hissed and hunkered down. “Something moved out there.”

  “Stop being a kitten,” admonished his sister. “It’s just the rain making everything jump.”

  “No, I saw shelts beyond the trees on the edge of the cliff.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “Shhh!” Corry held his finger to his lips. “Look there.” He was pointing at a silhouette beyond the last of the trees. “Is that a shadow or—”

  Leesha sucked in her breath as the shape rose and walked away. Then, before Corry could grab her, she was gliding forward, belly almost on the ground, long neck craning forward to see through a gap in the trees.

  Corry whispered as loudly as he dared, “Leesha!”

  Her tail gave a brief, hard flick. Tolomy pressed against Corry’s leg, quivering.

  After a long look, Leesha came back to them. Corry caught her by an ear, and she grimaced, twisting away from him and setting a paw against his arm. Claws half the length of his fingers emerged from her creamy paw, and Corry wondered for a moment whether she would flay his arm to the bone.

  She didn’t. They froze like that, him still holding her ear, neither of them making a sound. Corry could hear the tramp of feet now, marching. After a moment, he bent close to her free ear, aware every second of the proximity of her claws to his face.

  “Don’t do that again,” he whispered. “If I go with you, then we’re a team. We consult before we risk our lives. Do you understand?”

  A terrible pause. Leesha’s claws came out a little farther, and Corry was reminded forcefully of Lexis and the fact that he was probably holding the future queen of Filinia by her ear. At last, her claws withdrew, and she dropped her paw. Corry let go of her ear. Leesha shook herself and hissed at him, but her eyes held a new respect.

  Corry opened his mouth to ask what she’d seen, but she shook her head and motioned away from the cliff. Leesha would not speak until she’d brought them out of the trees much farther along the cliff.

  Then they all saw the shapes in the foggy twilight, emerging from the pass in a steady stream. “It’s an army,” breathed Tolomy, “swamp fauns from Kazar.”

  “Yes,” said Leesha, “the fog will cover them completely as they get nearer the river, nearer to Danda-lay.”

  Chapter 13. Another Bargain

  Those who know best how to heal also know best how to kill.

  —Gabalon, Essays

  Fenrah came awake with a start. The gray rain was the same. The earth was still wet. The light was still hazy, but some inner clock insisted it was wrong. She felt Laylan’s eyes on her and turned to glare at him. “It’s been more than an eighth watch.”

  “Has it?” He concentrated on the rope he had almost finished.

  She shook her head. “At least a quarter.”

  “Perhaps. I’ve no timepiece, and rain makes the light lie.”

  “Lie, indeed,” muttered Fenrah. “We need to leave. Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I forgot.” He stood to brush the leaves from his clothes.

  “I don’t need your favors,” growled Fenrah.

  “I know.” Laylan turned and waded back through the stream towards the cave.

  * * * *

  Laylan found Chance huddled where he had left him. The whites of his eyes had turned crimson, strange against the pale blue of his irises. The pupils were dilated. His skin was the color of chalk wherever it wasn’t bruised black and blue. He stank of vomit and blood and death. His voice came husky, like a shelt who had smoked too much pipe weed. “Laylan, I’m dying.”

  “No, you’re not.” Laylan bent to lift him, but Chance pulled away.

  “One of us must get a message to Danda-lay.”

  Laylan was reminded suddenly of Chance’s age—fully ten years his junior. Chance had seemed frequently irksome, but never young until now. Laylan sat back on his haunches, “Chance, I said from the beginning that you should not go hunting alone with me. Do you remember I said that?”

  Chance’s gleaming blue eyes seemed to float in blood. “And I said I trust you.”

  “There are plenty who don’t, and there are plenty more who wish me ill out of jealousy. If you die, no faun will ever be able to vouch for what happened here. They will say that the Raiders bought me, and I led you into a trap. Do you know what they do to Canids who kill princes of Danda-lay?”

  Chance thought for a moment. Then he fumbled with something on his finger—his signet ring. “Give me a scrap of something—cloth, anything—and something to write with.”

  Laylan stared at him. He hadn’t believed it would come to this.

  Chance motioned impatiently. “Take the note and my ring, and get to a garrison. Have a message sent—” He struggled to suppress a spasm in his throat. “—to Danda-lay. They will believe the writing and the ring.”

  Laylan shook his head. “I won’t leave you here for Daren.”

  Chance glared at him. “I don’t want you to leave me here. I want you to finish me.” He caught Laylan’s arm as the fox shelt pulled away. “If Daren gets hold of me, he’ll torture me again. Don’t you understand? I don’t trust myself!”

  “What’s to give away?” asked Laylan in exasperation. “There’s no secret entrance to...” He trailed off.

  “Yes,” rasped Chance, “there is. Kill me. Otherwise I’ll slow you down and get you caught, and I’m a liability if Daren catches me.”

  Laylan shook his head. “That’s not how I operate.”

  “If you won’t do it,” said Chance. “I know there’s someone here who will.” His voice had fallen almost to a whisper.

  Laylan raised his eyes. Chance was looking at Fenrah, standing a few paces away. Laylan became suddenly aware of all the Raiders—watching, coming nearer. He looked for Sham and found him beyond Fenrah, almost invisible against one of the root cages.

  Chance spoke again. “Whatever deal Laylan made with you, I can revoke it. Of my own free will, I can give up its protection. Get Laylan safely to a garrison as quickly as possible, and you can be rid of me.”

  “No.” Laylan stood up, but Xerous pinned him before he could take a step. Laylan fought, but Xerous was armed and easily a head over his height.

  Fenrah sighed and spread her hands. “Alright. Someone give him something to write his note. Then he’s all yours, Sham.”

  * * * *

  Corry, Leesha, and Tolomy waited in the brush until the last of the swamp fauns disappeared into the north. Then there was a brief discussion as to how they should get down the cliff. It now seemed unwise to take Walback pass—the most traveled route, sure to harbor stragglers and messengers from the army. In the end, they decided to continue south in hopes of finding another path. Corry had seen several labeled on maps in Laven-lay’s library. The three skirted a small cliff faun village. Corry entered briefly to buy food and water. The place was almost empty with so many still in Danda-lay for Lupricasia, and he got away without being seen by more than three shelts.

  Near midmorning, they came to a well-marked, though narrow, cliff path. Corry had to step carefully over the wet rock. A cruel wind drove straight through his soaked clothes. As they walked, he had to keep reminding himself that they were making progress, because the view never seemed to change. His thighs and calves began to ache. After a time he gave up raising his eyes and concentrated on his steps.

  Sometime during late afternoon the rain stopped, but the weather remained overcast and cool. Corry was startled and pleased when he finally glanced up and discovered that they were significantly lower. He could hardly see the desert now. Finally the setting sun broke from under a cloudbank. The hot orange light felt like a welcome caress.

  W
hen Corry looked up again, the sun had almost set. What had seemed only a dark strip from the walls of Danda-lay now appeared to be an immense swamp, steaming and hooded even in the light. Its voice had begun to reach them—bird calls that Corry had never heard before, croaking frogs, and whining insects.

  An eighth watch later, they reached the level of the treetops and descended into the humming world beneath. The path ended in a strip of rocky soil, which melted quickly into lush islands surrounded by treacherous mud and water. Gnarled trees grew on the islands, hung with moss, their roots twisting like snakes in the brackish water. Evening shadows painted deformed figures on the razor-edged marsh grass, and Corry noticed a stink of sulfur and decay.

  Tolomy shivered as the weird hunting cry of an animal echoed through the swamp. His whispered words were the unspoken sentiment of all three: “I want to go home.”

  Chapter 14. Sham’s Revenge

  Proponent of vivisection: All who probe the secrets of the body may be called healers. However, some favor looking into a living body and others into a dead one. I understand the ethical dilemma, but I ask: if you were badly injured, which would you rather have for a friend, a healer who studies living bodies or dead ones?

  Proponent of autopsy: The question is not which kind of healer you would rather have for a friend, but which you would rather have for an enemy.

  —Anonymous debate, school for healers in Sardor-de-lor, Case Studies and Notes

  When Xerous pinned Laylan, Sham felt the need to do something. He could feel Talis’s eyes on him, confused, questioning. He could feel Fenrah’s and Danzel’s and Xerous’s—each like a separate voice, a separate question. Sham remembered what Fenrah had said to him when they’d argued about Chance in the prison cell. “He is the way he is because of us, because of what others have sacrificed for us!”

  “And what about us?” Sham had demanded. “Haven’t we suffered? Can you even begin to measure our hurts against the pampered whining of some slighted prince? And yet we don’t use what the fauns have done as an excuse for cruelty.”

  Sham thought, And how will I excuse what I’m about to do now?

  Slowly, he came forward and made a motion that Talis understood. It was wolfling tradition that healers operate in pairs. One dealt with the patient—restraining, anesthetizing, or comforting—while the other worked on the wound or illness. Talis crouched beside Chance. She removed Fenrah’s cape, then maneuvered him away from the tree until she was sitting behind him. She looped one arm through his elbows behind his back, her free arm across his chest. This was a common posture of restraint for an examination that might prove painful.

  But, thought Sham, do I intend to examine him?

  Chance made no resistance when Talis moved him, but he began to tremble. He thinks I’m going to kill him, thought Sham, torture him, even. Stop this.

  The healer in Sham was crying out that he could not kill an unresisting, wounded faun. The wolfling in him insisted that Chance, given healing, would return to murdering wolflings at the first opportunity. To heal him is to hurt others, said the voice of reason. Kill him quickly and cleanly. This is all the mercy you can afford.

  Another voice, however, was stirring in Sham—the voice of neither wolfling nor healer. He looked down at the purple bruise across Chance’s belly and thought, I could put my sword right through him into the ground—just like he did to my paw. His own thought chilled him.

  As if at a distance, he heard Xerous say, “He’ll scream and bring the hounds. Do you want me to cut him quiet?”

  Does it show on my face what I’m thinking? Sham looked at Talis and saw that it did. Her eyes were round and dark. He knew she needed him to say something, to tell her that there was some sense in what he was about to do, that all he’d taught her about mercy had not been hypocrisy. “Talis,” he began, “you may one day need to treat a faun, and you will find their physiology somewhat different from ours. You may as well begin learning now.”

  Talis swallowed. She thinks I mean a live dissection. He glanced at the faces around him and saw Laylan unnaturally pale. They all think so.

  Tell them that’s not what you mean!

  But he felt as though someone had jammed a fist down his throat. He shifted position and pain lanced up through his paw—the pain that might never go away. He had taught himself not to limp—not to betray weakness that might get him killed in a fight, but the pain remained.

  Fenrah, stop me, thought Sham. Be my conscience for once.

  Sham looked at Xerous and saw the eager, predatory expression, the black hole of anger that could never be filled. Xerous pulled out a hunting knife and tossed it. Sham caught the knife over Chance’s body. He noticed without looking closely that the faun’s trembling had gotten worse. You’re only doing this to frighten him. You won’t really do it. You’re being cruel. Stop.

  Sham reached a hand toward the bruise on Chance’s belly. As his fingers brushed the skin, one of the faun’s legs uncurled with blinding swiftness, and Sham felt the impact of the hoof squarely in the center of his chest. The blow sent him backwards, and he landed hard on his rear. Even as his eyes watered with pain, Sham knew the kick for what it was—the reflexive response of a faun barely in control of his terror.

  Before he could open his eyes, Chance had begun to babble almost incoherently. “‘msorry’msorry’msorry—accident—please—Ididn’tmeanto’msorry.” He was shaking violently.

  Sham looked Chance in the eyes for the first time and felt ashamed. “Stop,” he said, but his voice came out in a low croak, his wind gone from the blow. What kind of monster do you think I am? To punish you for not lying still while I—? What kind of monster—?

  Chance was still babbling. “Ididn’tmeantoIdidn’tmeanto—”

  Sham crawled to Talis and tried to put his hand over Chance’s mouth, but the faun flinched away from him. Finally, Sham motioned Talis away, put his arms around Chance and buried the faun’s head against his shoulder. “That was my fault. I won’t punish you for it. I won’t hurt you.” Chance’s hands, now free, grasped compulsively at the fabric of Sham’s tunic. He was sobbing like a child. In the end, Talis did the examination.

  Chapter 15. Two Points on the Tiber-wan

  To consider something worthless, then to lose it and discover that it had value, is hard.

  —Archemais, private reflections

  “The strangulation is bad, but I’ve seen worse.” Sham was all business now, speaking to Laylan as easily as to a concerned relative. “The sickle bone in his throat is probably fractured, but that bone doesn’t solidify until around age thirty. How old is he again?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Yes, I think that will be alright. His belly is something different. I haven’t treated anything quite like it before. I would guess he’s got a pre-existing ulcer in his stomach, and Daren ruptured it, which would account for the amount of blood he’s been vomiting. Did he have stomach complaints before this?”

  Laylan shrugged. “Chance doesn’t speak about his health.” He thought for a moment. “I have seen him taking charcoal tablets.”

  Sham nodded. “His bowel is probably bruised, but he doesn’t smell like a shelt with a ruptured bowel. His spine is definitely bruised. He’s got some numbness and tingling in his legs, but rest should heal that. His kidneys are damaged, and that will want watching. He needs to drink a great deal of water for the next few days. Mix a little salt with it at the beginning. I’ve got Talis giving him some now. If we were in a position to light fires, I’d give him an infusion.”

  “What about willow bark for the pain?”

  “Willow bark causes bleeding, and he can’t afford to lose any more blood. Best medicine for him right now would be to lie quiet in a dry, warm place. He’s suffering from what wolflings call thira—a potentially deadly reaction to stress or injury. Fauns are especially prone to it. He needs cool cloths—ice if it can be had—around his throat.”

  “What about his eyes?” asked Laylan.
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br />   Sham shrugged. “The redness? A common side effect of strangling. He’s ruptured small blood vessels; that’s all. I once treated a wolfling whose eye had popped out of the socket during a hanging. We saved him, but he lost the eye.”

  Laylan was curious. “You’ve treated quite a few hangings, I suppose?”

  “Yes, most of them left for dead. We found a female wolfling a few years ago, hanging on a postern gate. They’d done it in the square and then moved her to the customary display at evening. Whoever strung her up at the gate got one of her arms caught round her head. Somehow, she’d survived the hanging, and that arm took enough pressure off her neck to keep her alive until we found her that night. She lived just long enough to tell us where she’d left her three-year-old son, Danzel.”

  * * * *

  They were moving again in an eighth watch. The wolflings had found enough extra clothing for Chance, and he was no longer shivering. They had given Laylan a sword. We’re going to be alright, thought Laylan. He still wouldn’t allow himself to think of Shyshax.

  The wolves hadn’t been trotting for more than a quarter watch when they froze, listening. Then everyone heard it: high yips and howls from behind. The animals began to run.

  Laylan noticed the rising grade of the road. Harn-beng. I haven’t been this way in a season.

  The wind picked up, lashing the rain across their bodies and driving leaves and small branches in its wake. Thunder rumbled in the distance. At last Laylan heard the rush of water above the beat of the rain. He saw gray sky beyond the trees ahead, and suddenly they burst out onto the brink of a precipice.

  The Tiber-wan flowed through a gorge here—a small mountain that rose gradually all the way to old Canisaria and sank again as one approached the cliff. The river had carved itself a low road, deepening the chasm until it lay like a wound on the landscape. The walls of the canyon were steep. At the bottom the river roiled in its narrow cage.