Western Shore ac-3

by Juliet E. McKenna

  Leaning against the cabin door to force it shut, they clung together. As the storm of fire and air and the earth's

  convulsions assailed the ship, they were shaken from side to side, buffeted by bundles of clothing and bedding tossed all around them. Hard-edged objects anonymous in the darkness struck more painful blows. Rocks or other things entirely thumped against the deck and sides of the ship, making the whole hull resound like a drum. The noise was deafening, the fear incapacitating. The ground shook and shook again, unceasing.

  It was some moments after the tremors stopped before Kheda actually realised that the Zaise had come to rest. The planks sloped beneath him at an ominous angle and the loose items that had been thrown around the cabin slid down to the floor. He found he was shaking from head to toe, aching with bruises, the pain of his wrenched shoulders indescribable. All was silent.

  'Kheda?' Risala's whisper was shockingly loud in the darkness.

  'Here.' He held her tight.

  'Where are we?' A spasm of coughing racked her.

  Kheda's own throat was burning in the acrid air. Finally convincing himself that any sensation of movement was no more than an echo in his shocked mind, he forced the stern cabin's door open. He had to push hard against the setting slurry of ash-laden rain still clogging the deck.

  The Zaise was wedged between two sandbanks, the channels all around choked with ash and debris. There was no sign whatsoever of the muddy river's flow.

  Kheda looked over his shoulder at Risala. 'Are they still alive?'

  'I think so,' she said shakily. She was kneeling between the two wizards, bent with her ear over Velindre's mouth and her fingers pressed to the pulse in Naldeth's neck.

  'We won't get out of here without them.' Kheda surveyed the flood plain as best he could in the dim light. While the air was hot and foul and the grasslands were

  ablaze, there was no immediate sign of a torrent of molten rock pouring down the valley to consume them. There was no sign of any other living creature.

  Risala sat back on her heels. 'Then all we can do is wait.'

  Kheda leaned his forehead against the frame of the door. 'Will you ever forgive me for agreeing to come here?'

  'I hardly think you're responsible for this catastrophe.' Risala looked at the comatose mages with fearful awe. 'Do you think they will wake up?'

  'I have no idea,' Kheda said helplessly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The old woman sat in the shade of the swollen-bellied tree on the edge of the plateau and looked down the steep slope towards the river. Only now there was a steadily swelling flood spreading over the burned plain. She looked out towards the sunset shore where the land had raised itself up in broken sharp-edged ridges that now blocked the river's meandering path to the boundless water. But the waters still flowed from the hills inland, and with nowhere to go, the flood was now reaching the nut-tree thickets in the ravine. The trees were dying anyway, smothered by the black mud that had rained down. The open expanse where the swollen-bellied trees stood was strewn with the oddly light stones that had fallen from the sky. Down below, the valley was rank with a smell of decay that grew stronger day by day. The air hummed with the drone of the clouds of biting insects that were hatching in the stilled waters.

  She sat still and quiet, the breath catching in her aching chest. Sharp-tailed red flyers wheeled through the clouds of insects, gorging themselves. Down on the flood's margin, she could see brown and pink waders probing the turgid waters with their long beaks. Closer to hand, she saw a striped lizard nosing among the sodden remnants of the grasses. It had found some carrion, its tail lashing enthusiastically as it gorged.

  Had it found one of the men still missing from the village? So many had gone with the strangers on the day

  the world had changed so utterly. If they hadn't returned by now, surely they must be given up as lost? The old woman looked up at the sky. Where were the beasts? The men who had made their way back to the village had spoken of a fearsome creature of red and flame joining forces with the black beast from across the river. Yet a day for every wrinkled finger on one of her hands had passed now and there had been no sign of any great beast, of any hue, not even one flying overhead.

  She sat in the shade and wondered if they would return in days to come. Would it be safe to stay up here on the high ground? It had been terrifying in the village, in the deafening darkness with the stifling air swirling thick with ash. Great chasms had opened up in the earth. Two of the swollen-bellied trees at the very edge of the high ground had fallen all askew. Yet one was putting out bright new leaves on its twisted, stubby branches, vivid green against the dark bark. A yellow bird with bright-blue wingtips trilled as it perched in the tree's tilted crown.

  The old woman got stiffly to her feet. Even amid all this calamity, she felt content. The villagers had accepted her as one of their own. Every man or woman was valued now, even those weakened by age and infirmity. And she had more status than the men and women from the devastated settlements across the river.

  She was still a little surprised that village spearmen who had gone with the strangers had straggled back with captives, muddy and bruised and as shocked as everyone else. The spearmen were adamant that the painted man who had lived over the river had been utterly defeated by the strangers before the cataclysm struck. Certainly none of those men or women denied this, properly humble as they begged for their lives. Besides, the caves that had sheltered them had shattered and the life-giving springs

  in their depths had dried up overnight. The dry valley had become a lethal confusion of pits and fissures.

  The old woman was relieved that none of the villagers on this side of the valley had raised more than a token objection to the newcomers joining them. And happier still that no one was interested in humiliating the defeated men with meaningless tasks or degrading their women. There was nothing to be gained by it now that there was no painted man anywhere in the whole valley. The painted cave across the river was lost beneath broken rocks, according to the hunters who had been the first to venture across the spreading waters. Did that mean painted men could no longer step out of the pictures on the walls to reach them all? The old woman certainly hoped so.

  There was no one left in the whole river valley who might aspire to the status of a painted man either. She hadn't realised that the scarred hunter had led his men to cull all those suspected of such powers before the ground had broken. Had they truly been afraid one of them might challenge the strangers and bring their astounding powers down to devastate the village?

  She rose stiffly to her feet. Everyone was expected to bring food to the hearth, however slowly in the case of the elders. At least she had an easier task than most. She took a moment to count the swollen-bellied trees as the village woman had shown her and walked towards one of the oldest. This one had grown hollow over the years, hiding a dark void within while the leathery walls still bore a twisted green tangle. She had to duck to get through the split in the trunk, with a twist that set her back aching.

  Her eyes stung with unexpected tears as a different pain assailed her. She had given birth in the safe embrace of a mighty tree, just like the village women. She had come back when the eyes of the sky were closed to bury the tie that had bound the child into her belly. Did any

  of her children still live? How far had this catastrophe reached? Certainly the most distant mountains still burned and smoked. Had the green forest where she had lived for so long been burned to ashes?

  She screwed her eyes shut and refused to give way to weeping. Her daughters, wherever they might be, were grown and might have had some chance to save themselves. There were enough women grieving for their little children lost in the confusion of the calamitous night. Every day some woman broke down, inconsolable when the man who had begotten babies on her wasn't among the latest group to make their way back, battered and dazed.

  And there were still children to be fed, so they might grow to be hunters and mothers in
times to come. The old woman opened her eyes. She could just make out bulbous shapes hanging in the folds of the tree's interior. She tugged at one but it refused to come loose. A crawler ran down her arm and she recoiled, shaking it away. It took a few moments for her heart to stop pounding.

  But it had not bitten her, she realised, so she would not die today. Taking a deep breath, even though her chest still ached from the after-effects of that choking night, she reached up and pulled on one of the dark bulges as hard as she could. The vine snapped and she clutched the precious lump to her bony breast. As she wormed her way out of the hollow tree, the bright sunlight outside prompted fresh tears.

  She looked at her prize. The lizard's stomach had wizened to a hard casing, the sinew tying it tight darkened by the smoke that had first dried it. She examined it carefully for any sign that some curious creature or insect had eaten its way through to the pounded meat and fat and herbs within. No, it looked as secure as the day that the village woman had hidden it, against those hungry

  seasons when such caches might be all that would save the children she had borne there.

  The women of the village had all agreed that food hoarded for an uncertain future was best eaten now. They had need of it, and besides, who knew what might lie ahead? The old woman gazed inland to the distant peaks still belching pale smoke into the soiled skies. Was it her imagination, her old bones and meagre flesh failing and her eyes clouded by age? Or were the days truly darker and cooler since the mountains had caught fire?

  A shout startled her so badly that she nearly dropped her precious burden. She crouched, ready to duck back inside the tree, for all the protection that might afford her. Two figures came closer, close enough for her to recognise them and feel her racing heart slow for a second time.

  It was the white-haired old man from the village. He waved a sturdy stick in greeting. One of the aged sisters was with him, carefully carrying a gourd full of fat white grubs. She congratulated the aged sister and secretly hoped the village woman who had taken her in would share instead some of the wind-dried meat cut from a lizard that one of the hunters had found crushed beneath a fallen tree. And she had heard one of them say the great lizards were returning to the flooded plain, to lurk among the decaying grasses. The hunters had agreed that the waters were too deep and too perilous to wade in now. They were talking of going inland to try to find trees large enough to make boats.

  The white-haired old man was shrill with irritation as he was explaining how he had very nearly stunned an immature stalking bird that the two of them had startled from its hiding place. The old woman commiserated with him as they walked back to the village together. The aged sister was less sympathetic. She was more concerned that

  one such marauder might mean that more and bigger birds had found a way across the flooded valley. How long would it be before some child was taken by their cruel beaks?

  The white-haired old man dismissed such fears. Let the biggest, most ferocious birds come, he scoffed. The village's hunters would slay them with the new weapons the tall stranger had shown them and everyone would go to bed with a belly full of sweet meat.

  The aged sister would not be reassured. How far were the floods going to reach now that the river's path to the sea was blocked by the upthrust broken land? And the hunters who had ventured towards the sunset, to what had been the edge of the cliffs, had found the ground impassable with no water visible beyond. The sands and rocks lay bereft. They would go hungry, she predicted sourly, in the driest season. The fish from the great water and the shells from the rocks had often been all that they had had to eat.

  The white-haired old man shook his head resolutely. If the waters towards the sunset were gone, they must turn their attentions inland. There were still birds and lizards to eat.

  The aged sister wasn't listening, continuing her querulous complaints. Where, she wanted to know, were those strangers who had shown the village hunters how to make those curious weapons that flung sharpened and feathered sticks so hard and so far? They had not returned, had they? Who was going to protect their village now? Strangers they might have been, but the red man and the golden woman had undeniably had the powers of the painted men, even if they used them in such a puzzling fashion.

  The old woman shrugged as both elders looked ques-tioningly at her. She had no idea where the strangers were

  and that saddened her. They had shared the spoils of the hunt instead of fastening on the villagers like leeches, as any other painted man would have done. She struggled not to feel despondent as the three of them trudged on through the clotted ash, past thistly plants defaced by dirty smears and scored with deep burns from the rain of searing embers. The wind had had less chance to scour away the thick carpet of fallen stones here and they crunched through drifts of clinker.

  The aged sister had a point. Who was going to defy any painted man if one did arrive somehow to claim the village for his own? She tried not to think of her likely fate if a beast and a painted man appeared together. She and all the elders would be sacrificed to satisfy the beast's hungers. That would please the painted man, and a contented painted man could summon clean water out of the dry earth and kill birds or lizards and roast them over fire that needed no fuel.

  The upthrust fingers of the spiny thickets were burdened with dried black mud like the nut thickets. A group of children were trying to salvage something from a sprawl of fleshy-leaved plants choked with ash. The hunter with the stooped back was keeping watch. He carried a spear as well as one of the new curved weapons the tallest stranger had made. He grinned at the elders and held up a feathered stick that had skewered a dappled scratching fowl.

  The old man congratulated him and tarried to tell of his own near-capture of a much greater prize. The aged sister and the old woman walked on to the village. Most of the able-bodied men were still busy repairing the thorny barrier that had been ripped asunder by the violent winds on the night of the catastrophe. Arms and legs bloodied from countless scratches, they paused to let the old women pick their way through the gap they were mending.

  They paused to look past the broad fire pit to the charred ruin of the great hut that had belonged to the dead painted man with the skull mask. Falling cinders had set fire to the thickly grassed roof that these villagers had built him with so much time and effort. The hut had blazed with a ferocity to rival one of the distant peaks. The lesser huts had suffered as well. Several had collapsed under the weight of the rain of mud. Others had gaping holes in their roofs where falling rocks had crashed through to terrify those within. But they could be rebuilt, and new huts built beside them.

  Then the old woman realised there were newcomers gathered around the central hearth. She squinted as she drew nearer and felt a tightness in her chest as if the ash-laden winds had returned. The leader of the newcomers was a man wearing strings of coiled seashells, white and gold. He waved a demanding hand at the racks of meat set to dry in the sun. One of his followers seized a gourd of water from a young girl and drank greedily, one hand fending off his two companions who would plainly have snatched it if they could.

  The village women and the spearmen who had returned over the past few days didn't look impressed. The tallest, the scarred warrior who was the white-haired elder's son, stepped forward. Fearful yet desperate to hear what was being said, the old woman edged closer, clutching the stuffed lizard stomach so tight that her swollen knuckles ached.

  The scarred hunter was denying the newcomers any share in the salvaged meat, or in the roots that the children had gathered from the torn earth, or even in the boring beetle grubs that were feasting on the fallen trees. If they were hungry, he told them bluntly, they could forage for themselves.

  The man wearing the strings of shells scowled and

  promised that the scarred hunter would regret such arrogance. Who was there to defy him here? he wanted to know. He turned to the women standing silently around the ring of blackened stones. Didn't they want his protection for their child
ren? he wondered ominously.

  The old woman wondered if she was the only one who saw the tremor in the man's hand. One of the elders, the man with the clouded eyes, spat into the dust with deliberate contempt. Who did these newcomers think they were, to demand food from the village's hearth without offering anything in return? Peering up at the sky, he allowed that he might not have seen a beast flying overhead given the webs blurring his sight, but he had heard their wings often enough in his long life. Why had these people come here? he demanded to know. What could have driven them out of their home if they had a painted man to call on?

  Several of the newcomers spoke up. Their village had been beyond that ridge of high ground. They pointed, their hands shaking. The stream in their valley had run backwards when the land towards the sunset had reared upwards and the day had turned to night. It had disappeared utterly into the sands and dig as they might, they had not been able to find any water.

  Why were they trying to take food and water from the mouths of this village's children, the scarred hunter challenged, when they had a painted man to satisfy their hunger and thirst?

  The youth who had snatched the gourd of water lowered it, drops glistening on his chin, and stared at the man wearing strings of shells. Evidently that question hadn't occurred to him. But the old woman noticed several of those who stayed silent looking at the man with growing disillusion, their eyes dark with sorrow and loss.

  The man with the shells raised a threatening hand

  towards the scarred hunter. The newcomers looked eager, even those who hadn't spoken. The old woman bit her lip and felt the tears that came so easily since the cataclysm prick her eyes. The scarred hunter was the best spearman in the village and the strongest willed. Without him to defend them, for the sake of his white-haired father, surely all the elders were doomed.