by Carol Berg
The last remnants of day were fading as we started back to the village after our difficult conversation, and I sent Aleksander ahead, for I needed to relieve myself. A short while later, as I started down the slope, I caught a glimpse of green in the dying light, a hint of fluttering color just up the hill to my right, brilliant color that had no place in the drab surroundings. I scrabbled over rocks and weeds around the side of the hill, and found her waiting.
“My lady, who are you?” I said, scarcely daring to breathe lest she vanish. “What are you trying to tell me?”
Always before, her gaze had been serene, radiant with affection and concern. But on this night, her gaze did not settle, and her hands were in constant motion, rubbing, kneading, and clasping each other. It wrenched my heart to see her so anxious, though I had no reason for such emotion.
Her lips moved, but I could hear only half the words. “... be careful ... beloved child ... the Twelve weaken ... perhaps best not to challenge unknowing . . . worse than I thought . . .” She glanced over her shoulder as if someone were coming up on her from behind. “Come to the gamarand wood. Whatever happens, I beg you come.” And then she was gone.
“Wait!” But she had vanished as completely as the daylight. The gamarand wood ... So I was right to think she came from Kir‘Navarrin. And yet she was not just a being of light as were the rai-kirah I had known in Kir’Vagonoth, nor was she like one of the physical bodies that demons shaped from their memories of true life. Her form was natural and fully human, and the light that shone from her was more like the feadnach I saw in Aleksander than anything of demons. What was stranger yet ... a vague sense from our first encounter now grown to surety ... I knew her. But for my life, I could not say how or why or who she was. Did Denas know her? Was she luring me through the gateway to give him a chance for victory?
I sat on the hillside for an hour, peering into the night, hoping she would come again, afraid of such mystery yet longing to relive it, to understand it, to hear again the words that were already slipping away.... Beloved child . . . Was she speaking of my son? I closed my eyes and prayed Verdonne, the forest mother, to keep him and his foster mother safe and well.
When at last I gave up my vigil, I quickly became aware of other doings stirring the night air. The smoky scent of torches. Burning grass. Faint cries of grief and fear. Gods of night, what was happening? Silently I sped down the path toward Andassar. The wailing grew louder, and soon I saw the fire—a high mound of baskets in the center of the village. Grain—half a year’s harvest—consumed in towering flames.
Marya stood rigid in front of her house, staring at the fire. She had one hand over her mouth and one hand wrapped about her middle. Other women knelt weeping, a few with children clinging to them. Two village men lay dead beside the burning harvest, but no one else was about. No strangers. No living men. No Aleksander.
“Was it thieves, Marya? Raiders? Have the men gone after them?”
She shook her head, and the bleak terror in her eyes told me it was much worse.
“Tell me, Marya. You must tell me everything. Who was it?”
“Derzhi. Gorusch men come for taxes—”
“But your levies weren’t due for ten days yet.”
She wrapped her arms about herself, shivering in the cool, dry night air. “They said they’d heard we were giving grain to bandits and had come to secure the lord’s shares. They made us bring it out, but the count was low. We’d thought to give potatoes and two jars of honey, but they never let us tell it. They said we’d have to send four of us—two men, two women—for hostages until the levy was paid. Kero and Valnar protested that we still had ten days.”
She didn’t have to tell me more. The Derzhi had killed the two who dared speak out, burned the grain, and taken all the men instead of only four hostages.
“My friend ... Kassian ... ?”
Her eyes were wide with shock. “All of them. The soldiers said they would be slaves. Avrel ... oh, holy Dolgar, my Avrel . . .”
I gripped her arms. She was now shaking violently as the truth settled upon her. “Which way have they gone, Marya? And how many? I can help them, but you have to tell me everything.”
Summoning her reserves of strength, Marya gave me every detail of the raid. Two Derzhi warriors and three common soldiers had come, armed with swords and knives, but no spears or axes. Five village men were taken, plus two boys aged twelve and fourteen, and Aleksander. The prisoners had been roped together by hands and neck and herded down the dry streambed toward the Vayapol road.
I ran for the grassy nook where we had hobbled our horses. The beasts were gone, of course. No Derzhi thief would leave a horse behind. But I pulled away a pile of rocks and found Aleksander’s sword and ring still safely hidden. I crammed the ring in my pocket, belted the Prince’s weapons around my waist beside my own sword and dagger, then turned my mind to sorcery. A quarter of an hour later, I took wing.
I found them quickly, not difficult for my falcon’s eyes to spot the yellow flame of octar-soaked torches. Their ankles hobbled, the prisoners could not move fast, though the soldiers lashed and swore at them. The two boys were in the front, the younger one weeping, both completely naked in the cool night as they stumbled down the rocky gully between two mounted Derzhi. Their hands were roped to the warriors’ saddles. Behind the boys came the village men, two by two, barefoot and stripped to their breeches. One man was bleeding severely from a gash over his ribs and being helped along by his terrified brother. Bringing up the rear were Avrel and Aleksander. Aleksander was limping slightly, leaning on Avrel’s broad shoulder, his face equal parts blood and fury. Across the Prince’s shoulders were deep lash marks. How often in those early days in Capharna had I wished to see him thus.
One Derzhi rode on either side of the prisoners, and the two common soldiers followed behind. The third soldier was nowhere in sight. I fluttered low across the column and then again. On my second pass I caught Aleksander’s notice, and when I circled and flew over yet again, he nodded, a fierce grin showing from underneath the blood.
“Look,” said one of the Derzhi, pointing at me. “The Emperor’s bird.”
The true Emperor’s bird, I thought, and streaked down the ravine to find the best terrain for my plan. There. A few hundred paces farther on, the hills to either side of the ravine got steeper and closer together, and the course of the streamlet curved sharply left. That would do. I flew farther down the hill toward the Vayapol road hunting the missing guard, needing to learn if this was a small raiding party or part of some larger sweep and to judge the time I had to carry out the rescue.
Gods have mercy ... I discovered more than I bargained for. The fifth rider had emerged from the mountain path and was racing into the open, toward a blot on the night that made my stomach constrict long before I saw anything but pricks of torchlight against the darkness. You always smelled it first—the stench of fear and filth and desperation. And then you heard the drone of moans and weeping and muffled prayers, punctuated by soul-rending screams. I did not need to see the horror in order to name it. A slave caravan.
The soldier halted beside a sentry, pointing back the way he had come. I flew on past him, out over a broad meadow lit by massive bonfires. Facedown upon the ground lay at least a hundred men and boys roped together. One by one they were being detached from the others and taken to Veshtar smiths who seared the crossed circle into their shoulders with a red-hot iron and sealed steel bands around their wrists and ankles. Veshtar slavers in striped haffai then cut off their hair and chained them to the others newly readied for market. A small detachment of Derzhi in Nyabozzi colors guarded the encampment.
I had to get Aleksander and the others free before they reached the meadow. I flew back up the ravine and settled on the rocks above the path. The prisoners’ column reached the gap between the narrowly spaced rocks. Good. The warriors on the sides had ridden ahead, so that they were separated from the two soldiers at the back. None of the riders could have the
whole column in sight. I would take the two at the back quickly, then cut Aleksander’s bonds and give him his sword. He would be waiting for me. I forced everything out of my mind but my own form...
... Bird ... sleek of body, broad wing, long tail, taloned hands . . . release the form and consider the shape of your desire ... your own body ... the one honed by years of training: fighting ... running . . . the warrior’s body, not that of the bird, save in only one thing ... wings ... wide, thin, strong . . . and hold your barriers no matter the cost, for you need your own wit and soul to do this ...
In one long interval of fire and nausea I made the shift from bird to man, then stood heaving, readying myself to shape wings. But before I could begin that change, a black cloth was dropped over my head, and I was dragged off my rock with someone’s arm uncomfortably tight about my throat and something uncomfortably sharp poking into my ribs.
CHAPTER 21
“Over here! Look what I found sneaking about in the rocks.” The intense whisper was somewhere behind me. Understandable, since my hooded face was smashed firmly into the ground. The attacker’s knife was still threatening my ribs. “What’ll we do with him?”
“If he twitches, kill him. We’ve got to go on. This is too good a chance to miss.”
Lost in my uncomfortable transformation, I’d not heard the footsteps come up behind me, and now precious time was passing while I sorted out my confusion ... and my shape ... and the identity of my captors. All right, no wings. So I had only my human self to work with. My frantic human self. Kill the bastards now, while they’re not expecting it. Quieting my anxiety so that my senses could work, I felt the position of the knife and judged the man’s posture—half straddling me, knee in my back, his left hand twisting my right arm behind me. Holy gods, I wished he wouldn’t do that. Easy enough to dislodge for all that. How many others? The second speaker was a few steps away. And another person behind him. I reached out with my hearing and all my senses. Three. Four ... Damn, there were twenty or more of the newcomers! Twenty caravan sentries? And why were Derzhi sentries whispering?
“Look here. Look at his sword!” My captor was yanking my weapons from their sheaths and tossing them aside. “Derzhi bastard ... who are you?” Oddly enough, he was speaking to me.
While I tried to comprehend, his companions were slipping silently past us. Soon I heard a few muffled blows nearby. More shuffling steps. Hushing noises. A suppressed choking sound. Snuffling, as if someone were weeping. Whinnying horses quickly silenced. A great deal was going on in the dry streambed ... and very stealthily. They were attacking the slave takers.
I was so profoundly astonished and engaged by this turn of events, that it was almost as an afterthought that I managed to cast an illusion on my captor’s knife—something I had been working on since Tanzire. The weapon should soon feel as hot as if it had just been pulled from a blacksmith’s fire. When the man dropped it with a quiet curse, I twisted myself around, and came near breaking his arm as I flipped him onto his back. I did everything by feel, a skill I’d often needed when I fought demons. But when I pounced on top of him, pressed his own knife to his throat and ripped off my stifling hood, I almost started laughing. His face was stained black with coal, and from jaw to brow across each cheek was painted a white dagger. Yvor lukash ... sword of light. My captor was Blaise’s man.
“Go ahead, Derzhi scum,” he whispered bravely, clearly offended at my grin. “The others will see to you, whether I’m dead or no.” The accent told me he was Kuvai. The bravado said he was approximately seventeen.
“My friend, we have some talking to do,” I said, bending low to speak quietly. “If you look carefully, you will notice that I am no Derzhi. In fact, I think we’re here for the same purpose.”
“Not likely,” he said sullenly.
“Who’s commanding? Farrol? Gorrid? Blaise himself? Are they going after the caravan?”
The boy recoiled and clamped his mouth shut. I jumped to my feet, retrieving my own weapons and Aleksander’s before tossing the paralyzed youth his knife. “Go on and join your comrades. Stay healthy, and I’ll be along to help.”
He crept backward slowly, his eyes on me, as if he couldn’t quite decide whether to attack or run. Happily for me, he ran, and I could go back to the business of shifting. Once I had shaped my wings, I drew my sword and took flight, pleased that I’d not have to fight this battle alone.
Strangely enough, the column of prisoners was still moving down the rocky defile. If I’d not seen the four soldiers lying dead in the shadows, I’d have been more worried. The riders flanking the prisoners wore Derzhi cloaks, easily recognizable from a distance, but they had pulled up the hoods to shadow their faces—faces stained black and painted with white daggers. A skilled observer might also have noted that the prisoners were walking more easily than before, their rope hobbles cut, and though their hands still appeared bound and linked to each other, I had no doubt that they could easily pull the knots apart. The prisoners were needed only for the approach, to get the first outlaws past the waiting Veshtar sentries.
The raiders’ plan was obvious. While the larger number of the band held back in the scrubby trees and rocks where the defile opened out onto the road, the four disguised outlaws rode with the men of Andassar into the middle of the encampment hoping to surprise unsuspecting guards and free enough slaves to be of help. The terrain could hardly have been worse for their plan. Once their fellows had revealed themselves, the lurkers would have to charge across a wide expanse of the road and the open meadow, right into the arms of the alerted sentries.
Though the detachment of Derzhi warriors guarding the caravan numbered no more than eight, the common soldiers another eight, and the Veshtar slavers perhaps twenty-five, I had no illusions about the outlaws’ chances. Both Nyabozzi and Veshtar were ruthless and expert at killing, and they were guarding their lord’s property worth thousands of zenars. Blaise’s fighters were devoted and courageous, but woefully unskilled.
Aleksander remained in the prisoner’s column. He would have realized the flaws in the plan immediately, and with his limited movement, he had no business in a fight on foot. But he would know, too, that any hope of success would be dashed if the fifth soldier spied out the ruse too soon. And if any of the prisoners stayed behind, the game was up. I saw the Prince glancing upward, scanning the night sky. He was waiting for me. Foolish. We were all foolish.
The outlaws herded their “prisoners” through the line of Veshtar sentries. Just as the last rider passed, a bearded Veshtar slapped the outlaw’s horse on the rump and called out to another sentry, “Vysstar haddov Derzhina!” The disguised outlaw must have panicked; he drew his sword clumsily and swung at the Veshtar. His inexpert movement cost him his life; the young outlaw slid from the saddle, almost cloven in two by the Veshtar’s curved sword.
Fool! I swore as the alarm was raised. The sentry’s words meant only “good Derzhi rump.” Wings spread, sword raised, I streaked down from the sky as two more of the disguised outlaws fell. Aleksander was shoving the villagers to the ground as they stood gaping at erupting chaos. The outlaws burst from their hiding place across the road, drawing the attention of the guards long enough for me to swoop close and toss Aleksander his sword and Avrel the Prince’s knife. My own dagger I gave to a wide-eyed Dorgan, another village man who was trying to shield the two naked boys with his broad arms. “Stay low and follow me out,” I shouted. “Get any freed prisoners to come with you.” After a short, fierce skirmish, I dispatched a Veshtar who had attacked me, unfazed by my spread wings. The Veshtar believed they lived in close proximity to evil spirits, so the appearance of a winged warrior was no more to them than a realized expectation. They assumed that every man would someday encounter such a being.
Mounted Veshtar rode through the churning mass of slaves, shouting at them to remain facedown on the ground, lashing at them with steel-tipped whips. The smiths waved torches at any unfortunate who tried to get up; two screaming captives were
in flames. But while the main body of Blaise’s men engaged the Derzhi and the Veshtar sentries, other outlaws wielded axes furiously, hacking through ropes and chains, yelling at the dazed prisoners to turn on their captors. One of the Andassar men grabbed up the sword of a fallen Veshtar and joined the outlaws, slicing the ropes that bound the prostrate slaves.
While I ducked a slashing blow and flew up and around to drag a Nyabozzi rider from his saddle, Aleksander dueled with a Veshtar. At first I couldn’t see how the Prince was managing to stay upright, but as my opponent leaped to his feet, I caught a glimpse of Avrel, his broad back steady at the Prince’s left shoulder, supporting Aleksander and protecting his vulnerable side. I could not watch for long, for the unhorsed warrior was a skilled fighter. I battled the Nyabozzi, beating him back again and again until he tripped over a bleeding slave and fell to the ground. Then a swarm of freed prisoners disarmed him, and I was no longer needed.
I shouted to the remaining Andassar men to send their charges after me, and I fought a way through the converging Derzhi and led the stumbling group across the road. Then I took wing, circled, and went back for Aleksander. He refused to budge, drawing the snarling warriors to himself as dead meat draws flies. So I fought on, too, letting the fever of battle mute the pain in my side, indulging myself in blood and death until the night was won.
By the time the moon rose to illuminate the broad meadow, the three surviving Nyabozzi were chained together and had white daggers painted on their chests. The dead prisoners were buried, the dead slavers left lying in the grass. Every Veshtar was dead.
Most of the captives who could travel had already fled. Those too injured or sick to return home were being carried up the hill to Andassar, where they might have a few days to recover. The men of Andassar would return home, too, but they knew their time of safety was only a matter of days. They would have to abandon their village, for the three surviving Derzhi would bring down the wrath of the Empire on their mud hovels. Several of the villagers were injured—the one man who had been wounded back in Andassar had lost a good deal of blood—but they were all alive.