Warautumn

by Tom Deitz

  “There’s salt in the Flat, too,” Avall retorted. “It could as easily be fed by water that flows through that.”

  “We’ll find out tomorrow—maybe,” Riff broke, in fixing both Avall and Lykkon with a warning glare. “We may reach the top of those cliffs and find a fine bright city of plague refugees on the other side. Something has to have happened to all those folks who went west.”

  “Most of them died,” Lykkon informed him smartly. “There are good records of who left, and most of them were accounted for eventually. Relatively few actually got over the mountains.”

  “Tomorrow,” Riff repeated absently. “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” wound up being a seamless extension of “tonight,” for the simple reason that none of them slept more than sporadically. Long before sunrise, Myx had stoked up the fire and had cauf going—full strength this time, he said, for celebration as much as fortification. There was fish (there always was), fruit, and a few thin-shelled nuts of a type none of them had seen before their arrival on the island. Finally, there was a sort of semi-bread made from Bingg’s pounded tubers mixed with water, salt, and a little of their real bread crumbled, all baked by the fire.

  They dressed carefully, in as many clothes as they could wear and still move effectively, but eschewed items like tabards and cloaks that would encumber a swimmer gone overboard. In the interest of maximum safety, in case of attack either by water-beasts or geens, each of them wore every weapon he possessed, and they were careful to have at least one dagger close to hand.

  Some items were too large and bulky to consider transporting this trip, of course, notably the table and rug; but most of the smaller items fit neatly into the boxes that had been made for them (they had, after all, come from a camp tent), so that packing was fairly simple. Every one of them carried a box or bag slung on his back, and that would be enough for the first trip. Bingg had the distance lens—triple-tied, to make absolutely sure he wouldn’t lose it.

  So it was that the sun was a blue-pink promise in the sky when they set out. “We’ll be back, though,” Avall whispered to Rann. “Even if we return to the war, we’ll be back. I know it.”

  Rann could only smile and slap him on the back—then stagger as the move unbalanced the box on his back, evoking nervous giggles from both of them.

  The raft was still where they had left it, and still intact. Nor—thanks to Lykkon’s careful planning—did it take long to load the boxes around the mast and lash them down with make-do vine webbing. Kylin would sit with them, back to the mast, because that was the safest place for him. For the rest, Bingg was to the fore as lookout; Riff was in the back as steersman; while Avall and Rann manned the oars on one side, and Lykkon and Myx the others.

  That was the plan once they got it into the water, anyway. Unfortunately, that aspect took far longer than expected, because the craft was already heavy, and they hadn’t reckoned on the extra weight of the load. In the end, they had to sling vines around it and drag it in small bursts of effort to the shore—which necessitated them wading out almost waist deep—which was also as far as they could go, before the bottom fell away.

  Happily, the raft floated splendidly, and, once they had all clambered aboard, didn’t appear prone to tipping—if they moved with care. There was no wind to speak of, so there was no point in using the sail, but they were young, strong, healthy, well fed, and optimistic, and that was enough to see them out of the shallows with aplomb. A moment later, they were plying the oars (lengths of thick-cane with the bottom half span split open and folded outward to make blades) as if they were lifelong boatmen.

  They were almost exactly halfway between their departure point and their destination, when something thumped hard against the bottom.

  CHAPTER XVII:

  IN THE DARK

  (SOUTHWEST OF ERON–HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXXXV–MORNING)

  Avall had not been the only one cursed with impatience that morning.

  Merryn, too, had found that she could wait no longer.

  Three days of nonstop rain that had them sitting beneath an increasingly leaky stretch of oiled-canvas roof while the world outside seemed set to wash away had seen to that.

  Three days watching their campsite become an island amid a swirl of muddy needles, twigs, and leaves.

  Three days of listening to Strynn alternately sniff, cough, and sneeze, as she succumbed to what she claimed was the worst cold she’d had in five years. Div was threatening to get it as well, and Merryn herself was coughing more than she ought, though she thought that might be a function of inaction.

  Only Krynneth seemed to be prospering. He had doubled his vocabulary again, but still wasn’t offering up sentences—unless two-word opinions counted. He seemed impervious to the illness, however, and was proving to be an expert healer as well as a decent forager for firewood, though Merryn took pains to assure that his forays took him south and east: away from the cave and toward what she’d been happy to discover was quite a serviceable river.

  The cave …

  She had tried to watch it without appearing to, which was hard without leaving the camp. Mostly she contented herself with sitting as close to the edge of the shelter’s front overhang as she dared, staring out at the woods and the meadow, and hoping a dark shape wouldn’t come skulking out from among the maples.

  At least Div had chosen the campsite well: a slab of stone two spans square, with another behind it; both thrown together as though the earth had shaken them free at some unimaginably ancient age and tried to construct a giant’s throne there; two sturdy trees as anchors, to give their canvas span enough to embrace the horses if the beasts didn’t mind close quarters; and a crevice for the fire they kept going so as to cook, make cauf, and keep their clothes dry. Room for their tents to one side.

  But however secure it was, remaining there was wearing on Merryn, who knew that the resolution of their quest lay—perhaps—no more than a few shots and a few hands away.

  Of course she couldn’t reveal that fact, because she had determined long since that this was her battle—which had manifested in a suspicious calm that both Strynn and Div had noted. Her explanation had been that the geen wouldn’t like the rain any more than humans did, and that the creature was probably holed up somewhere. But that sort of careless rationalization had to sound dubious to anyone who knew her as well as Strynn did.

  If Strynn hadn’t been sick, anyway.

  Then had come yesterday’s sunshine—but that had arrived so late in the day none of them had seen any point in moving on. Strynn had sounded awful, too, so they’d decided to see what improvement a dry night would impart.

  Merryn had already decided how she would spend that night—at least the latter part.

  She had planned it carefully, and had positioned herself and her gear just so—and at that, her plan turned, as she was perfectly aware, on an incredible amount of luck. Still, it was a plan, and that was more than had existed previously.

  It was simple, really, the only complications coming at either end—one of which she was about to undertake.

  She had made a point of sleeping on the slab rather than in the tent she usually shared with Krynneth—she needed fresh air, she said; Krynneth was getting a little ripe. And she had considerately chosen a sleeping place near the stone’s edge, overtly to give the others room, but in actuality so that she could slip away silently. She’d also been careful to feed the horses more than common so that they would be a trifle groggy, and to sleep in the thickest clothes she possessed that could pass for nightwear yet still be worn under armor. All of which she kept in mind as she carefully raised her blanket and eased out and away from Strynn, who slept nearest. It was still a hand before sunrise, but the largest moon was shining, so that she could see well enough without a torch.

  Well enough, anyway—if she moved slowly—to make her way entirely from beneath the tarp and down to the ground beside the rock. The earth was mushy there, and she had to move slowly to avoid making sounds that m
ight betray her. But she was Night Guard, she reminded herself. Night Guardsmen knew their bodies; they knew how to move silently, efficiently, and with absolute stealth.

  She employed all of it, as she eased around to where she could reach up and secure the remaining items she required—all of which she had positioned carefully for just this eventuality. First came her sword: practicality there. That was followed by the helm—back in its nondescript burlap cover. She set it on the ground while she secured the last and clumsiest item: the shield, which she had left propped up at the back of the sleeping area where the floor and wall slabs came together. She had to stretch a bit, and use one hand where two would have been much better, and at that, the hand guard scraped. She froze where she was, heard Div’s breath change cadence, then moderate again. But she had it now, and an instant later, had removed it.

  Now came haste. Silent haste. Moving as carefully as she ever had in her life, she made her way through the forests that lay behind their camp until she reached a small copse of oak trees maybe a quarter shot away and within sight of the glistening river—a place she had marked previously as appropriate for what she was about. And also a place where she had left certain other items on previous foraging ventures. It was amazing how sneaky one could be when no one was expecting it.

  It was all there, too—of course—her mail and the rest of her armor. And there in the moonlight she vested herself quickly—everything but the helm and shield. Those would have to wait until the last possible moment, and even then she wasn’t certain she would actually don them. They were two-thirds of a set and, without the third component, were out of balance. They would try to seek that balance anyway, and in all likelihood unbalance her mind in the process. She might be strong enough—had proven strong enough once—barely. She hoped she was more experienced now, and that experience would be sufficient.

  And that was a powerfully big hope, she acknowledged. The last person to wear the regalia had been Avall, but he had helped make it, and was close kin to the King for whom it had been fashioned. Still, he was no closer kin than Merryn was, so the gems should recognize her.

  Then again, there was poor Rrath, who had also worn the armor and gone messily mad for his pains.

  Unfortunately, it was the only thing that made sense. If the geen had the magic sword, the only way to stand against it was with the shield that matched it while wearing the helm that completed the set. If she were lucky—that word again—she would never find out. But that depended on the other end of her plan going as desired, and that truly was a dubious proposition.

  Ultimately, it all reduced to logic. The geen—Please Eight, let there be only one—had to sleep sometime. Hopefully at that time it would relinquish its hold on the sword long enough for her to retrieve it. That accomplished, she would have the upper hand. Even if the sword were unactivated, she would be in good stead to face a sleepy monster. And she could activate all three gems in a breath if necessary. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Then again, she hoped many things, as she made her way into the night, alert for the sound of pursuit, but hearing nothing save the drip of leaves shedding water and the absent snuffle of a horse.

  And then another thing: one she should have anticipated. A soft, relentless pad, pad, pad.

  The birkit.

  She should have known.

  Hunt. The word appeared in her mind. Not a question as much as an affirmation. And not a challenge.

  Nor did it surprise her; the gems gave one powers, even un-activated, sometimes—and the ones in the helm and shield were perilously close to being activated.

  Her first impulse was to spin about and drive the beast home, but she reconsidered. It could raise a cry and ruin her plan. And it was a hunter. One the geen might not expect. A distraction, if nothing else, when a distraction might be needful.

  Hunt, the birkit “said” again, and that clinched it.

  Half a hand later they had found the cave. Merryn paused by the entrance slit to light the smallest torch she had been able to construct on the sly: a torch she stuffed in a crack in the rock while she donned the shield and helm, taking exaggerated care not to activate them. That accomplished, she returned the torch to her right hand, along with the sword—awkward but necessary—uttered a brief and surprisingly fervent prayer to The Eight, and entered the darkness for an appointment with several of them, notably, she suspected, Death and Fate.

  It was slow going, but it was progress—very slow progress through the dark. The cave narrowed quickly, but was still wide enough for passage; it almost had to be, since geens were roughly the same width as humans and somewhat taller. The walls were scoured smooth in places, she noted, especially at hip and shoulder level. And the thin skim of mud on the floor allowed the expected three-toed footprints to show clearly. They went both ways, too—which prompted a chill, indicative as it was that the beast had been out and about during the rain. Still, the most recent set looked to point inward, which was some relief.

  It was cooler, she likewise observed, which might make the geen lethargic—or might not; there was debate on whether their blood ran hot or cold. In any case, she hoped she would soon meet that blood firsthand. Maybe then she would know once and for all.

  Maybe.

  The shield scraped the wall.

  The noise made her flinch—which brought her head unexpectedly in contact with a dip in the ceiling. Echoes fled up and down the tunnel. She froze in place, abruptly awash with sweat. The birkit growled low in its throat, but stayed where it was: a span behind. At least its location negated ambush from that quarter—though what the source of such an ambush might be, Merryn didn’t want to ponder.

  On and on she went, setting each foot precisely, moving just so, praying for no recurrence of the noise she had generated. She sniffed the air, noting mostly a general, moldlike mustiness, but also a stronger musk, along with a low-level stench like rotting meat, feces, and urine. At least there was no sign of the last two. Like all Eronese, she was fastidious about such things.

  There were sounds as well—beyond her own breath and footsteps and those of the birkit. Most notably, she caught the drip of water from ceiling to floor, and, more distantly, a low, solemn thrum like something distant beating on the earth. War-Hold had sounded like that sometimes—when the tides ran high. Perhaps this place wasn’t as far from the sea as she had assumed; the trees in the most likely direction were too tall to allow more than a cursory reconnoitering.

  On and on, as the tunnel twisted and turned, rose and fell. The torch was starting to burn down now—which alarmed her. If it reached the halfway point, she would have to retreat regardless. Or—

  The birkit growled abruptly: a half pitch higher than heretofore. Prey! The word erupted in her mind, though less a word than an image and a feeling of excitement tinged with fear and caution.

  Merryn went instantly on guard. A breath for calm, as she had been taught, then another, and she checked all her grips, readjusted her helm, and started forward once more.

  The tunnel kinked right, then left, then right again. Unexpectedly, she saw light that did not come from the torch: a thin shaft of moonlight lancing down from some cleft in a ceiling that was suddenly more distant, and which revealed an abrupt expansion of the tunnel into a roughly oval chamber six spans across. The dark slits of more tunnels marked the lesser darkness of the walls, but Merryn barely noticed them.

  She had found it.

  The geen.

  And the Lightning Sword.

  The beast lay curled on its right side along the right-hand wall, with its legs drawn up toward its belly and its right arm folded against its breast. Its neck was thrown back recklessly, so that she could see part of its teeth but not its eyes. But that wasn’t what she was looking for.

  That gleamed red in the fitful firelight: half a span long, lying on the floor. At first Merryn thought the sword was unguarded—but when she dared a second step into the chamber, she saw that the geen’s right hand was stil
l draped casually across the hilt.

  So, what did she do now?

  Speed or stealth: Those seemed to be the choices. The former demanded that she relinquish her sword—either that, or act in a dangerous gloom. The latter—if she moved very slowly—might not. The latter was also less nerve-wracking, and Merryn discovered that she was very, very nervous indeed. What had she been thinking anyway? To dare such a thing alone? She had learned what she had come for. She could retreat, inform her friends of what had transpired, and the lot of them could set an ambush outside the cave and wait for the geen to appear. They might have to sacrifice a horse to lure it forth, but that was a small price to pay to regain the sword that could save a King if not a Kingdom.

  The geen shifted.

  The birkit growled again—louder.

  Merryn discovered that she had advanced a span into the room—far enough to swing a sword with reasonable authority if it came to that. The geen and the sword were scarcely four spans away.

  It twitched.

  Holding her breath, Merryn crouched down and eased another step across the floor, praying she wouldn’t slip, that nothing would scrape, squeak, or rattle.

  Another step. Halfway. If she did this exactly right, she would only be weaponless for an instant. One breath to drop her sword, another to grab the Lightning Sword by the blade, a third to yank it free, a fourth to shift it around so she could grasp the hilt. So little effort, yet such a risk.

  The geen moved again. Not a twitch this time, but a jerk.

  Merryn froze, heart thumping as loud as it ever had. The sour taste of fear poured into her mouth. The birkit bristled; she could hear its low-pitched growl—protracted now—as it eased back and crouched down. Please don’t let it attack, she thought. That would spoil everything.

  The geen’s hand jerked again, tightening on the hilt, and this time it moved indeed: the head slid around; the legs stretched.