The Hyena and the Hawk (Echoes of the Fall Book 3)

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  Effey’s voice got halfway through her warcry before it became a hyena’s high whickering yelp. She was on four feet when she landed before the Plague warrior. The expression on his pale face was revulsion, as though the very sight of a hyena, of any natural creature perhaps, was a horror to him. The rod in his hands snapped sharply and Effey – the beast that had been Effey – convulsed and died.

  Shyri had no knife and she would not Step until the Terror made her take that shape for the last time, forever. She fought to stare defiance into the hollow face of the Plague Man. I am Hyena; I will crack your bones! But his bones were safe inside his skin and she had no way to get to them.

  She did not see the wolf rush up behind the Plague warrior, but when it Stepped into the Champion of the north, vast enough to blot the stars, that she could not help but see. Maniye’s great jaws closed on the Plague Man, rending his armour and his body with the sureness of iron. The Terror fled, leaving Shyri shaking with the realization that she was still herself and still alive.

  There were more cries from within the Plague compound, and some at least sounded like pursuit. Shyri threw her arms about the reassuring hairy bulk of the Champion, released them from the wolf Maniye shrank down to, and then took to her own hyena paws to flee alongside her.

  For a long time they fled wildly, the threat of wings always overhead, and Shyri was waiting for the Terror to catch up with her. She felt it nipping at her heels more than ever Effey had. She had sought to use the Plague People for her vengeance, and the thought made her sick to her soul. She deserved to have been overwhelmed by that fear. Who knows how many of the pack had been caught by it, or killed by the lethal darts of the Plague weapons?

  But as she ran – with each loping step she took that did not rob her of her mind – she wondered about what Hyena thought. Because Hyena banned no weapons, nor any time for strife. Hyena was not a Riverlander, to build himself a tall chair and proclaim himself above the way of the world. Hyena knew everyone came to bones sooner or later. When the Aurochs had enslaved their mute brothers and brought the wrath of all the Plains down on them, Hyena had not stood back and said, Enough spears are raised against them. Hyena had taken his place at the carcass of that proud tribe and dragged off as much of it as he could to gnaw on. When the Horned Ones had raised their fortresses and built their Rat altars and killed one another, Hyena had not said, We must save them from the vermin. Hyena’s people had gone to those places and faced down the Rat, one picker of ribs to another. When all the rest of the Plains had shrunk from it, Hyena had taken Rat’s body in his jaws and shaken him until he gave up meat from his kills. And if the Rat, why not the Plague People? The world had many curses in it; Hyena survived them all.

  Her mood lightened, and lightened more as they ran. It seemed to her that simply by living to see the dawn she had won Hyena’s approval. Not won his blessing, but then Hyena blessed nobody – just like Maniye’s Wolf god, as far as she could make out. Hyena laughed at everyone, but he smiled on those who survived.

  In the morning, there were none of the Plague People to be seen above them or on their trail, and Shyri found herself grinning as fiercely as her god ever did. For a while Maniye just stared at her with a wolf ’s yellow eyes, but then she shook herself and Stepped, and a little of that Hyena grin crept onto her face as well.

  ‘Why so happy?’

  ‘You’re alive,’ Shyri said, the words surprising her even as she said them. ‘I thought they had you. I told . . .’ And then her words trailed off because a narrow green band was sliding from Maniye’s human shoulders, looping halfway to the ground before it became a dark River girl with a covered head and rainbow scale tattoos. ‘Her. I told her.’

  ‘They had me,’ Maniye confirmed. ‘But I was freed.’

  Shyri’s grin faltered momentarily. ‘I . . . I couldn’t; not me, not into their camp . . .’

  Maniye frowned at her. ‘It’s all right. You sent me Hesprec Essen Skese. Even the Plague People cannot stand against her.’ She grinned wider at the Serpent’s pained look. ‘We live. We all live, all three of us.’ And then a more sober look. ‘What now, though? I fought with the Plains warriors, but the Terror struck them down. Where are my warband now? Did any live?’

  ‘Tecumet’s words are bringing together all the might of the river east of Atahlan,’ Hesprec noted. ‘The Plainsfolk who did not fight, or fought and lived, gather north of them. But when did Plains flow with River or River stand with Plains?’

  ‘I met Asmander,’ Shyri remarked. ‘Asman, I mean. His mate couldn’t stand him any more so she sent him to her brother.’ For a moment Shyri’s smile was braver than it needed to be. ‘So, Many Tracks, how does the blood of Plague People taste to you now?’ She let the question hang there, in her and Hesprec’s expectant silences; saw Maniye understood what she meant. Shyri could not imagine what it was like, to be a prisoner within those white walls. Would anyone draw a knife against the Plague again, if they had been there? No shame in running, surely?

  And Maniye did not leap to any grand declaration of eternal struggle with the enemy. She weighed the words and her own souls carefully. At last, her eyes flicked up to meet Shyri’s.

  ‘I know things of the Plague, now,’ she said slowly. ‘I have seen them live. I know their tribes and their habits, a little. If nothing else, I must speak what I know to someone wiser than me. For the rest . . . let me have time and distance, and the company of those with souls.’

  Hesprec was thoughtful. ‘There is one I would have you speak to. I have been a poor host to her, leaving her behind with Tecumet in my haste.’ My haste to find you needed no saying. ‘But she will interpret what you have seen better than any Serpent divination, I hope. Any knowledge of the Plague is a weapon.’

  ‘So west along the river,’ Maniye decided. ‘Perhaps some of mine are with Tecumet as well.’

  ‘West, and by boat if we can,’ agreed Hesprec.

  They made best time for the river, travelling by dark where they could, Hesprec like a loop of ribbon about Maniye’s shoulders. When they came down towards the banks of the Tsotec they found no shortage of boats heading west, but it was not a sight they could take much joy in. The banks were jostling with warriors and Estuaryfolk of a dozen different tribes, all jumbled together. The water seethed with the backs of crocodiles, of turtles and toads; herons winged overhead. Every boat they saw was crammed, grim-faced men and women hanging from the rails until each vessel seemed on the point of foundering. Maniye, Hesprec and Shyri had no questions for them, no need to ask what it was they fled.

  To the east, the floating ship of the Plague People was a dark shape coasting against the dawn’s brightness. Beneath its lazy course were more boats, the stragglers of Tsokawan’s warmuster. It was not the sunrise on the waters that blazed so brightly there. Where the shadow of the Plague Ship fell, boats burned and their crews turned to ash. The river itself was on fire.

  * * *

  Loud Thunder had wanted to take his fears to Mother, but doing so would mean airing them before Kailovela. And Mother would have no answers for him anyway, not because she didn’t know but because she gave out her wisdom in her own time, and never on request.

  So it was Thunder’s problem to solve, just like everything seemed to be these days. Yellow Claw had gone dropping poison words into this ear or that, about the little monster who was Kailovela’s own shadow these days, and how the thing’s death would be a worthy gift to bring the gods of the Crown of the World south with them. The wise of the tribes had heard his venom, and each seen something there to recommend it.

  So he had spoken long with Two Heads and Quiet When Loud and Empty Skin, the hollow Seal child who was often with Kailovela and the little monster. Then he had declared that the Bear would offer a sacrifice, and let the word spread.

  He had time to plan the place for his grand gesture. He found a rock that was hollowed out by water, a high lip on the side facing his audience, a sloping channel on the side towards himself
. He found another rock, heavy enough that it took his two hands to lift, and a lesser man would barely have been able to roll it along the ground.

  Meanwhile, the two Coyote had been busy.

  That evening Thunder went to the open space he picked out, with the sunset at his back and a good number of warriors gathered to see what new foolishness he was taking up. Of course only Mother could really offer sacrifice to the Bear, and she would have no part of Thunder’s ploy, no point even asking. She was there, though; perhaps Thunder’s actions would be given vicarious power simply by her presence. It would have to be enough.

  He waited until he saw the main voices in this mess were all present: Seven Mending, Aritchaka, Icefoot and a handful of other priests. And Yellow Claw, who should have been looking triumphant but was instead irritable and restless, as though he was missing something. He was not the only one.

  Thunder let them wait there as he fussed with his dogs, scratching them under the jaw and telling them how good they were because he was still trying to get the words in the right order in his head. When he could delay no longer, he went over to the altar stone he had picked out. ‘You want to shout to the gods, to make sure they know we’re down here, then,’ he started. Inauspicious words to begin a sacrifice and he saw the ripple of disquiet that went through them, but the Bear didn’t care about formality and fancy phrasing, and neither did Thunder. He had a voice that carried to the furthest ear, which was all the gods could expect from him.

  His eyes lit on Kailovela. The little monster was pressed close to her, like a near-grown child. Her taut features suggested she knew what demands had been placed on Thunder.

  And Thunder would kill the empty creature in a heartbeat. He cared nothing for it; it was of his enemy, even if it had lifted no blade against him. He would throw it into the teeth of the Wolf, the maw of the Tiger, without hesitation – eagerly even. Except Kailovela valued it, as a pet, as a companion, as another pair of hands that had helped her when she was in need. And Thunder was about to defy every priest and maybe god, rather than take that from her.

  ‘What do the gods hear?’ he asked them all. ‘Not just our voices, then? We’ve all been talking to the gods. I talk to the Bear. He doesn’t listen to me, so it does no good, but I do it.’

  The slightest murmur of laughter, despite everything. Everyone knew the Bear stories. Awake, Bear cared for nobody; asleep, he was so far from hearing that Coyote once removed his balls and replaced them with pine cones.

  ‘So what will call to the gods and let them know what we’re doing? Things that have value, things that are us. What do we give first, of those things?’ Thunder scanned the crowd, terrified for a moment that Empty Skin wasn’t even there. Then the Seal child was stepping forward, oblivious to the leery looks she got from the rest – everyone pitied Empty Skin; nobody liked her.

  Thunder did not dare look down at his wide-planted feet. He felt movement at his ankles, but that part of the plan he must leave to more capable hands.

  Empty Skin was holding something aloft – it was a fish as big as her hands, well worn, fashioned of whalebone and cut with scenes too delicate to make out. A toy, and who would make a fish as a toy save for the Seal? The easy sound of the crowd died to nothing staring at her: Empty Skin and the childhood the Plague People stole from her.

  Wordlessly she held it out to Thunder, who placed it in the bowl of the altar and then, with great ceremony, heaved his big stone from the earth and up to his shoulder.

  ‘Let the Seal know what has happened to his people,’ he told them, no need to thunder now they were so quiet. He let a heartbeat go by, so everything was in readiness, and then lifted the stone above his head with a great cry, every eye on him. When he brought it down, the crash of rock on rock obliterated the sound of bone being crushed.

  Empty Skin stood back, looking properly solemn about the whole business, and some of the others shuffled a bit, thinking it was done. The rest just watched. Enough of them had seen he had a heap of things piled beneath a cloak, half behind the altar rock.

  What he had next was a bronze bowl, small enough to fit in the palm of one hand. It was fine work, the rim chased with beaten designs that suggested flames and smoke. ‘So let the Tiger hear us,’ Thunder called, holding it up and seeing Aritchaka and her people go still. How hard had they looked for this precious trinket, before finding it here in his grasp? Quiet When Loud reckoned from the smell that they kept oil in it, for their sacred smoky fires. ‘Tiger, here is a thing of yours, dear to your heart,’ Thunder thundered, and he placed it within the bowl of the altar and lifted up his hammer stone with a great cry. When he brought it down, he saw in their eyes the flinch as he hammered the thing flat.

  There was a little goatskin bellows next, taken from Icefoot’s own personal tools. The old Wolf priest actually stepped forward as though about to stop the sacrifice, but he bit down on his own protestations, though his eyes promised a reckoning. Then came a carved antler that one of the Deer wise women used for counting days, and then a Boar mask that was almost too big to go into the altar’s bowl and disappear from sight while he held up his rock and roared, the muscles of his arms straining by now to heft its great weight.

  By now every one of them was staring at him as though he was mad, but he was calling the gods to them, after all. It was a thing for madmen to do; these were mad times.

  But he had saved the best to last, and anyone there who was counting must have realized that only the Eyrie had been spared his depredations. Yellow Claw knew, though. He knew what Thunder had taken, because he had been beating his underlings and cursing his women about its absence. Now Thunder kicked aside the cloak to expose the last prize that the Coyote had stolen away so stealthily.

  The warriors of the Hawk went into battle with armour of bones, breastplates of ranked ribs that were about status as much as protection. When Yellow Claw and Loud Thunder had fought one another, Thunder had broken that armour, but Yellow Claw was Champion of the Eyrie. Of course he had a new set made, finer than the last. And it was beautiful indeed. The women of the Hawk had decorated it with beads and amber, painted it with wings and talons and the Hawk’s staring eye. There was gold and copper and bronze worked in amongst the bones, turquoise and cat’s eye and jet. So many hours, so many hands, to fashion such a thing.

  ‘Hear us, Hawk! See where we are, so far from your roost!’ Thunder cried, holding up the armour and enjoying himself just a little. ‘Your sight is keen, but they tell me I must call you down, or else you would lose us in the vastness of the world.’ He rolled the armour up and placed it in the hollow of the altar.

  ‘Right, then,’ he said, and went to lift up the rock, but then his dogs had finally got bored of sitting and wanted to investigate the bones. He had to shoo them away, and a ripple of nervous laughter went through everyone – not laughing at him, but laughing at Yellow Claw, who was tense as a bowstring and obviously about to leap in. It was not that he would lose his armour – his fingers hadn’t made it, after all. It was that Loud Thunder was going to destroy it, right there in front of everyone. It would be shame, and Yellow Claw had already been shamed by Loud Thunder twice.

  Then the dogs had been told off, and Thunder lifted the stone again. Yellow Claw twitched, but he could not say anything. Pride had him by one hand, shame the other and he was pulled tight between the two.

  It was Seven Mending who spoke – the Owl priestess cared less about either emotion than her Champion. ‘Enough,’ she said.

  ‘But, Hawk . . .’ Loud Thunder kept the rock high, despite the burning in his arms.

  ‘Enough. We cannot destroy the things that are of value to us, the things we need.’ She had no expression and her eyes did not touch him, but he heard the concession in her voice. You’ve made your point, she meant.

  ‘This is the gods’ fight.’ Five words and everyone was dead silent, dead still. Mother had spoken, and Thunder could only envy her instant command of them.

  ‘Of course the gods
are with us,’ said she who ruled the Bear. ‘Where else? The Plague People eat our world, wherever they go. You think they will not eat our gods? Of course they watch us. In the Godsland, they are running from the Plague as from a fire. They stand in our shadows even now.’ She shook her head and gave Thunder a familiar look. Why are you wasting everyone’s time with this? ‘Go on then,’ she told him, and he nudged Two Heads Talking where the Coyote priest crouched hidden behind the altar stone. He came up with the Tiger’s bowl in his hands, and Quiet When Loud had the Deer antler. Each treasure, dropped into the altar’s hollow, had been whisked out while all eyes had been on the raised rock, which Thunder now gratefully put down for his dogs to sniff disappointedly.

  ‘Come get your things,’ he said exhaustedly. ‘Keep better hold of them.’

  The priests themselves would not deign to, of course, but

  Eyriewomen came for the armour, a scrawny man of the Tiger for the bowl, and so on and so on until only Empty Skin was left. When she took the fish back she just looked at it curiously, then cast it aside. Whatever it had meant to her once had gone with the soul that had never come to her.

  Thunder stayed there by the altar long after all the rest had gone save the Coyote, obscurely troubled. Quiet When Loud teased his dogs, then fed them scraps, while Two Heads Talking sat on the hollowed stone and looked up at him. ‘You saw how they looked at you, of course,’ he remarked.

  Thunder made a vague noise deep in his throat.

  ‘Bear takes from the tribes, but Coyote tricks Bear. You’re making yourself into a story.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  Two Heads sighed. ‘You’re asking them to travel half the world to fight the enemy of the gods. You’d better be a hero from the stories. Who’d follow a mere man, for that?’

  18

  Maniye’s first sight of Galethea was almost too much. She was ushered into a tent in the midst of the sprawling River Nation camp and came face to face with human features without a soul behind them. Instantly the memories had come back: the reek of the trophy room, the cage, the children at their patient lessons. And the priest with his white eyes and grey face, who knew her and hated her as though it was she who had brought this horror to him.