by Ru Emerson
Brendan and Brelian gazed out toward the smoke; Malaeth sat hunched against rock, her back to the wind, Lisabetha at her side. “How much further, Brel?” She was tired suddenly. Reaction.
“Perhaps an hour,” Brelian said. “No more. And the way is easy once we come off this height. But I would rest as well as I can now, Dame,” he added to Malaeth. “I fear it is steep and narrow at the first.”
Malaeth fetched a sigh, huddled deeper into her cloak. “Well, at least it is down and not uphill we must go.”
Brendan turned back to watch the mappers. Marhan had returned his precious oil-wrapped packet to an inner pocket, and was now speaking earnestly, gesturing back the way they had come. Verdren paled visibly, stumbled to his feet. “What are they talking about?” Brelian demanded generally. Brendan and Ylia exchanged glances. The three of them started back down the trail. But Verdren drew back a pace, another, and as they approached, sketched a hasty bow in their direction.
“My Lady, I must go, I have not yet found my horse. Perhaps I'll see ye again, northwards of here; fare well, all of ye!” He turned and sped past Marhan at a pace that belied his years and skinny legs, was lost in a clatter of falling stone downhill and to the east.
Marhan turned, his expression blank with surprise. “All I did was to ask the old fool what he knew of that flying thing,” he growled, “and you saw! He would not even give me an answer!”
“Why did you do that?” Brelian demanded irritably. “We could have used his aid. I was so careful, we all were, to mention none of the things we had seen, since he was so skittish—and now you—” He broke off. “What thing? Bren?”
“Oh. A bat. Something large. Unlike the old man's Fear, it could not withstand an honest blade.” Brelian scowled vexedly at his brother.
Marhan chuckled. “Heh. Bat. If a bat flies by day and is two manlengths in wingspan, then it was a bat!” He, too, eyed Brendan sourly, then brushed past to join the women. Brelian regarded his brother another long moment, transferred the appraising look to Ylia. No, no joke. From Bren, anyway; he wouldn't know how to form one. But Ylia's face was pale enough for freckles to show tan across her cheekbones. He glanced across his shoulder cautiously to make certain Lisabetha and Malaeth were still out of hearing. Glanced at the sky. Late.
“Tell me of it tonight. We had better move, we will be long in getting Mistress Malaeth down from here. It is steep, but not beyond us. That old man,” he added defensively, “was a lot of help!”
“Huh.” Marhan had caught that last. “He would have talked us all to death before dark set in tonight. Come on. It is cold here, and I can see there is at least fire!” Ylia moved out to take the lead, and as Brelian and his brother followed, overheard the latter say, “An odd old fellow, wasn't he? Now, did I come upon this Fear, I would at least see what it looked like!”
Brelian laughed. “And wrestle it to the ground!”
Ylia glanced over her shoulder, smothered a grin. Brendan was watching his brother with grave doubt. Brelian clapped an arm across his shoulder.
“No, of course not,” Bren said finally. “I would use my blade on it. What else?” He spoke so seriously, that none of them dared to laugh.
There was little light in the chamber, for no torches had been lit, and the sky had been darkly overcast for much of the day. Even the tall, narrow windows lining the north and west walls could not dispel the gloom. The tiled floor was dark, polished, bare of rug or decoration, save for the winged horror sprawled near the flight of shallow stairs. One wing nearly brushed worn, brown boots. One toe came forward, nudged the thing thoughtfully.
“I told you it would not suffice.” A woman's voice, low and husky. The toe prodded the inert shape again.
“It could have. She had no protection against it.”
“She had the swordsman. Protection enough, my Lord.”
“So it was.” A distortion blurred the floor, the thing was gone. “A test. That is all.”
There is this we have in common, all of us, of whatever kind: we will come to the aid of family and often dare more or chance more for family than we will for others. Though I met one or two, on a time, who did not have this loyalty to kindred; perhaps this is a guide, by which one might begin to gauge them, the good and decent humans from those who are not.
12
Brelian, if anything, had carefully understated the difficulty of the path before them. Hunger drove them all; hunger and the sight of that wisp of smoke rising above the trees, nearer every time any of them looked up. Malaeth, older than any of them, softer, unaccustomed to travel of any sort, let alone to scrambling across wild country, scarcely clad for any journey, held grimly to the way, walking where she could, lips compressed tightly as she must sit on the cold ground to slide until she could again stand. Through it all, she neither complained nor asked help.
Ylia, who had always loved the old woman, developed an awed admiration for her.
The roughest of the trail was, fortunately, a short distance indeed, and they came out of a narrow cut into forest. Thereafter the trail wound around rock and thick stands of trees, was thickly padded with pine needles and dead leaves.
The sun was nearly down before they reached open woods and level ground. They could smell the fire long before they saw it, the odor of burning fir mingled with—Mothers be praised—roasting bird and trout baking in the ashes. It was not long thereafter they passed the last of the trees and Golsat stood to wave them on.
The fire was several lengths from the water, well away from the trees. Levren emerged from the forest as the exhausted company reached camp. “You have timed things rather neatly,” he said pleasantly. “It's not Plains-done but edible.”
“Good,” Brelian grinned and tipped Golsat a wink. “I'd rather not have had to fight the barbarian for the raw stuff.”
Golsat merely smiled, not at all perturbed. He and Brelian had come to a good understanding of each other by the time they'd come within sight of the valley. And he had now an abiding respect for the Bowmaster, who had handled himself well in the circumstances. “Only half barbarian, boy. And if the fish is warm—isn't that cooked?” Brelian hooted; Golsat turned back to the fire to rake several bundles of blackened water-weed from the heat with a branch. “I would wait a few moments, if I were you. This is done, but hot to the bone.” He eyed them, gravely anxious. “If there is not enough, I could catch more—”
Lisabetha giggled weakly. There were twelve bundles, the largest as long as her forearm.
Levren took Marhan's kettle and went for water as Golsat began cutting the grasses away from the fish, dropping them onto scraped lengths of clean bark he had pulled from some of the dry logs. There was a profound silence around the fire for some time after that.
'Ylia—’
'I know, cat.’ The pain in her middle set to rest so she could again think, she followed the cat away from the rest of the company and down to the lake. ‘Search.’ They caught the edge of the warning, faint with distance if no less terrifying; there, a rapidly receding thought which must be Verdren. Nothing else. Here it was quiet, though not unnervingly silent. As full dark covered the sky, night birds cried back and forth across the upper end of the valley, something yelped mournfully from the ridge they had come down earlier. There were soft splashing noises from the lake that promised more fish. A bat—normal size and with no aura of any kind—sailed quietly overhead, was lost in the gloom.
Pretty. Marhan and Levren both had argued that they should halt a full day to build some supply of stores, to rest. Malaeth was white and worn, Lisabetha's face smudged as though she had wept and wiped her cheeks with grubby hands. She had turned her ankle earlier and walked as though it hurt her. But the two women weren't the only tired; even Golsat, when pressed, admitted he was exhausted.
'Well?’ Nisana demanded finally.
Ylia shrugged. “I could weep, I am so weary. My legs ache, I feel as though I haven't slept in days.”
'Well, then,’ the cat urged. ‘Y
ou have searched, we both have. Safe?’
She pressed aside memory of the horror that had fallen upon her earlier in the day. Nodded. ‘Safe.’ It didn't entirely feel that way to her for some reason. But if Nisana could find nothing... Nerves, she told herself sharply... Leave it be.
It was very quiet around the fire. Brendan's eyelids drooped. Marhan was grumpily nursing a blister and had retired to the far side of the fire.
“It is safe,” Ylia announced as she and the cat came back into the light. Nisana sprawled out across Malaeth's lap. She had eaten an astonishing helping of fish; had, in fact, barely been able to hold herself awake to complete the search. Ylia eyed her affectionately, gazed around the fire at her companions. Safe, she reassured herself and hoped she could remember to believe it.
But she followed Levren down to the lake later. “Lev. It's —it's probably foolish, I know—”
“Why? And when have you done anything foolish, girl?” His smile warmed her, as it always did.
“Lisabetha.”
“Mmmm.” He squatted, splashed water over his face, rubbed it on his cloak hem. “I see. No, not so foolish as all that, Ylia. Since dark, she's not looked well at all.”
“No.” She squatted beside him to fill the bucket.
“Just reaction, I expect,” Levren said sympathetically. They looked back toward camp: Lisabetha stared into the fire with an unnatural concentration, hugging herself. “It takes you that way.”
“I know.” She did, too; it had taken her that way.
“And she was doing so well.” He sighed, thought a moment. “I will mention this to Marhan also, Ylia. She trusts him.”
“Good.” She still felt a little foolish. “I—do not know what she might do, or that she would do anything at all. She would not leave us. Where would she go?”
“If she is really that afraid, logic would go to the wall, girl. You know that.”
She didn't, not of experience, anyway. Blind fear—before the bat-creature, she'd never felt it at all. She caught at his arm. “Lev, she would not harm herself, would she?”
“I—no.” He shook his head. “She follows the way of the Chosen. But she is strung tightly, and it is hard to say for certain what she might do. To watch and be prepared, the three of us, that would be best. It is certainly too bad,” he added, “that she saw that thing last night. And this other beast you and Marhan spoke of.” Ylia shivered; he gripped her shoulder. “Frightened you, didn't it? It is all right,” he added blandly, “I won't tell anyone.”
“Pooh.” she laughed weakly. Sobered. “It did frighten me, Lev. Terribly. And it infuriated me, to be so frightened.”
“So it would. But it must have been quite bad,” he added, even more blandly, “to frighten you. Hmmm?”
“Levren, stop it!” It was a genuine laugh this time.
“Quite seriously, girl, you astonished me last night. One thing to train a child to handle weapons and all that entails, another to see the training put so well to use. Your mother,” he added gravely, “must have taught you well at the same time. But as for Lisabetha—”
“I know. She is highly fanciful, Lev; and I think she senses evil almost as though she were AEldra.” He nodded.
“She is Northern, you know.” He shook her easily. “You know who she reminds me of? My Lennet.” Ylia giggled, clapped a hasty hand across her mouth. Levren's volatile eldest daughter was as unlike the brittle Lisabetha as—as Marhan was. “Truly,” Lev insisted. “She is certainly every bit as dramatic and hysterical of mood as my dragon of a daughter.”
“Any of your daughters,” Ylia grinned in reply. Levren shrugged, spread his hands wide.
“Well, they're certainly nothing like me, that way, or Ilderian, their mother.”
“And your sons—”
“Laydik isn't—”
“You spoil them shamelessly; Ilderian rides close herd on them and tries to undo your indulgences, no wonder—”
“But they're good children,” Levren broke in flatly. It was possible to push him too far on the subject of children—particularly his own eleven, though he'd have stood up for any of his small Koderran friends as loyally.
“So they are,” Ylia replied, and was rewarded with a warm smile. “But how did you get Lennet out of Koderra?”
“Not hard at all; she left willingly when she heard you were sailing for Yls also.”
“Ah.”
Levren grinned. “I don't envy you meeting up with her once again, girl. She won't be pleased.”
“Ha. I did not give her the lie, my friend!” He merely chuckled, not in the least concerned. That was part of his strength, of course, that he took nothing seriously unless he must, that his emotional keel remained firmly under him. “But I am getting chilled out here, and they are waiting for that water.”
Only Malaeth slept; everyone else had gathered close around the fire, as much for the companionship as for warmth. Marhan was regaling the brothers with tales of his first years in service, giving weapons-training to the boy Brandt. There was a silence; Golsat then broke his usual reserve and began a tale of his own, telling of his escape from Anasela ten years before.
“I was still a boy,” he began, his voice low, even more expressionless than usual, “and my father and I worked the fields together, for I was eldest. Life was hard but good; in the fall, there was the Harvest-Fest, in spring, folk gathered to aid each other in the planting. We had good neighbors and often I went with my father to Conrasy, the village half a day's ride from our farm. Though I was yet too young for proper sword training, Father trained me himself. And he served under the Duke. Erken.
“It was late in the fall, and we had worked a long morning harvesting the last of the corn when we saw a great smoke to the north and we wondered. The folk of Anasela burnt off the fields in the fall also, but we had never seen such smoke. And we looked at one another then and saw that same fear in each other's eyes. We dropped our bags and cutters and ran back to the house.”
Golsat hesitated. “My—my mother, as you all here know, was Tehlatt. She had been third wife to a minor chieftain, but had fled their camps when he beat her for overcooking his meat. My father found her two days later when he went to get feed for his cattle.” He paused, stirred the coals with a slender branch, threw it into the heart of the fire when it began to smolder and took up the tale once again.
“Father was a good man,” he resumed, even more quietly. “And he took pity on the woman, though many Anaselans would have killed her without thought. But he took her back to his cabin and tended her until she was well. He thought, you see, that she would prefer her own kind. But she would not leave and offered instead to care for his house, to cook his food, and he, wishing to bring no shame upon her, wed her after the fashion of Nedao, though many of his friends protested such foolishness.
“Between them grew affection and friendship, and then more. And she bore first me, then my sisters both together, and my brother, who was little more than a baby when Anasela fell.
“We ran from the fields that afternoon, Father and I, and smoke darkened the northern sky. My mother was within the house, gathering bundles of food and warm clothing, while my sisters readied our three horses. My mother, you see,” he added simply, “had the Sight, and she knew what we feared, that the Tehlatta had invaded Anasela and were firing farms and villages as they came.
“Still she did not falter, nor did she weep as many might have done, for she had great strength and fear for her family drove her. Well she knew the Tehlatta would burn her alive, as an example, did they capture her. More: that they would treat my father the same, for having given her aid. And we children, for we were of her blood as well.
“Within the hour we rode out, the ponies carrying double, and we rode until full dark, pushing the animals until it was clear they could go no further. And all day the smoke followed, but now it seemed to draw nearer as we came down to the Planthe, many leagues east of Teshmor.
“We abandoned the horses wh
en we reached the Planthe. Foolhardy, perhaps, but we had no choice; our sturdy little farm beasts could not outrun Tehlatta war-mounts. We unpadded them, wiped them down, hid the gear so they might be taken for strays, that perhaps, if they were found, it would not be suspected any of Nedao had come so far. We took then to the River.
“For several hours we slogged through the shallows, returning to the bank only when the water became too deep or too swift, reentering always as soon as we dared, so we would leave no trace of our passage. At length we were forced to carry the smaller children, and at daybreak we, too, could go no further. We found a willow thicket near shore where we could hide until dark.
“It was midday when the first war company swept past us, a small one, no greater than ten. Other bands passed thereafter, once so near we feared to be run over, and I covered the mouth of my little brother lest he cry out and betray us. My sisters had evil dreams for many years after, but my mother sat quietly through all those long hours and her face showed nothing.
“It was nearly dark and we readied to go on again, when once more riders came into sight. Perhaps they saw us from the first—” Golsat shrugged, his face darkly somber, “perhaps not. It does not matter. They fired the brush where we had hidden, and as we fell back into the river, they attacked.
“My father pushed my mother and the children into the water before setting himself to my shoulder, that we two might hold rearguard for them. I knew that I would die there, yet my pride in my father's trust was so great, I could not fear.” Brendan's head came up; he stared at the half-caste in astonishment. “And so we stood at the edge of the bank, swords in hand, and we vowed together to kill as many as we could of them, before they slew us.
“My father died beside me, a Tehlatta arrow through his throat, even as I killed the last of those who opposed us on foot. I dragged him back into the water with me, but as the current pulled at my legs, another arrow, guided by whatever gods favor human wolves, pierced my forearm. I fell into the water and knew nothing for a time.