Wheel of the Winds

by M J Engh

  As before, white-furred figures crowded near, some with weapons at the ready. At the mouth of the shelter, Repnomar stood over Broz, stooping to hold him back from hasty action. But from where he lay just outside, the Warden could neither see nor hear the Exile. He sat up cautiously (causing two or three Whites to draw back their arms for a swing) and moved his head slowly to take in the scene; then he lunged to his feet, bellowing a shout, for he had caught sight of the Exile already some yards up the slope from them and moving away as fast as his short legs could carry him.

  It would not have surprised Lethgro if another stone had cracked against his skull (and this time likely cracked it open for good). Indeed, he had already lifted his arms to protect his head as he staggered after the Exile, with no better hope than that Repnomar and Broz and the crows might make good use of whatever time his noisiness had bought them. He heard the whistling flight of a flung weapon and jumped aside, clumsily enough; but almost before he could realize that he had not been hit, he saw the flying thongs wrap themselves around the Exile's legs, so that he stumbled and fell heavily. The Warden did not hesitate, but raced on up the slope, getting his hand on the Exile's shoulder before the little man had gotten to his knees. “Are these your friends, too?” he asked sternly.

  The Exile managed a smile of sorts and said nothing, having the breath well knocked out of him by the sudden fall. The Warden untangled the weapon from his legs as quickly as he could, feeling for broken bones and finding none. All the while he shot glances downslope to see what the Whites were doing. But they only stood watching, talking among themselves; while the Captain, with one hand still on Broz, seemed trying to join in their discussion. So the Warden shepherded the Exile back toward them, hefting the weapon in his hand. This was not a single thong but a fan of half a dozen, knotted together at the center and weighted with stones at all the ends; and Lethgro thought somewhat wistfully that if they came through the present trouble it would be a good weapon for hunting.

  He noticed now that several dark bundles lay scattered behind the Whites, and for the first time it occurred to him that these people might be hunters or traders who had chanced upon them, rather than pursuers. Certainly they showed no special interest in Broz, other than to keep well clear of him. They squinted their pale eyes and screwed up their pale faces, so that they looked mildly displeased by everything they saw, and they gabbled incessantly to each other and swung their weapons casually from hand to hand.

  When the Warden and the Exile approached, one White stepped forward with outstretched hands. The Warden took this as a welcoming gesture, and nodded and smiled graciously in response, as he might have done at Sollet Castle. But the White muttered restively and waved one hand up and down, and the Exile whispered that this was the owner of the weapon that had felled him. So the Warden, though it pained him, gave back the weapon with a good grace; for he thought he would rather make friends with these people than fight them.

  “If they want something from us, Lethgro,” the Captain greeted him, “I can't tell what it is.” She had feared at first, when Broz had waked her with an urgent snarl and she had seen Lethgro lying fallen and still and the Whites muttering over him, that what they wanted was Broz at least, and perhaps more. But they had seemed only curious, pointing and snuffling and making questioning noises; and when the Exile, after some quiet conversation with them (and ignoring the Captain's questions) had hurried off, they had watched with interest but with no show of excitement. Now they clustered around him, laughing cheerfully, and the one whose weapon had struck him down patted him on the head like a puppy or a child. Others gestured toward the cleft between the boulders, and soon they had all settled themselves there. The Whites, far from taking up position at the mouth of the cleft where they could keep the others penned within, crowded as far back under the Warden's thatching as they could manage, and the Exile explained that the bright light tired their eyes.

  The Captain was glad to hear this, for in fact the light was very dim, and she thought that if they could once leave this set of Whites behind, they were not likely to encounter more where the light was brighter. “Find out what they're doing here and what they want of us,” she told the Exile peremptorily.

  To this he answered at once that they were gathering fodder for their animals, and that it was the custom of the White People to visit this side of the Mountains for that purpose, since otherwise they would not be able to raise such large flocks; adding that he thought these Whites had not heard of Broz and his killings, whether because they came from a different tribe or because they had been here at their gathering when it happened.

  Meanwhile some of the Whites reached into their furs and brought out chunks of cheese and what seemed to be dried meat, offering this fare very sociably; so that the Warden got out what bits of fish remained from their last meal, and they all shared alike. The Exile, after more gabbling, and considerable merriment from the Whites, reported that this crew of gatherers had been following them for some few watches, curious to see such uncouth strangers on their mountainside; and when they saw the Warden fall, they had naturally come near to learn what was the matter. And he admitted ruefully that he had begged them to look after his friends (meaning the Warden and the Captain) and taken to his heels. This they had let him do without argument. But when the Warden had revived and shown himself so sternly bent on retrieving the Exile, they had obligingly struck him down—and done so, as the Exile himself pointed out, gently enough; for he knew their skill with these weapons, and was certain they could have struck him dead.

  Indeed these Whites seemed a jolly lot and without sign of malice; and though they were shy of Broz, they were content to share their rations with him, so that after a little he ceased to snarl, and lay down peaceably at the Captain's feet. Now the Exile tried (so he said) to learn if these people were from the same city of the Whites where they had been held prisoner; but they could only tell him they were from a place with many fur houses and many beasts on the dark side of the Mountains, and he could not make out from their description of its bearings whether it was the same place or a different one. And after a little more conversation, during which the Whites spoke with some vehemence, the Exile reported that when he asked if there had ever been a double killing in their city they had answered yes, years ago; and the murderer had been first drowned and then beheaded, so as to satisfy the spirits of both victims, who might otherwise have made trouble, so that it was clear that if these folk came from the city where Broz had so nearly suffered the same punishment, they had left beforehand and not yet heard the news.

  “It's too bad we don't know for certain,” the Captain said thoughtfully. “But in case it is the same town, I think we'd better send them a message.”

  “Better not,” the Warden said uneasily. “What we want now is to slip away with no fuss.”

  “Right!” the Captain agreed. “And whichever way we slip, let them think we went a different way. I'll leave it to you, Lethgro; you know the Mountains.”

  Now, the Warden saw the sense of this; and seeing also that the Exile was about to begin gabbling again, he stood up as quickly as he dared move his head, suggesting loudly that Repnomar and Broz and the Exile should go look for fish. At the same time he invited the Whites, with a friendly gesture, to come with him.

  This they did, as soon as they understood; and while Repnomar, with a cheerful whistle, hustled Broz, the Exile, and both crows off toward a stream on their left, the Warden led the White People to the right where the brow of a cliff gave a clear view of the Mountains ahead. Here by much pointing and motions of his hands he tried to show the course they might follow into the light. The Whites squinted and gabbled and pointed in their turn, seeming to suggest other routes, all of which the Warden rejected with vehemence (though in fact he noted them well). But presently they tired of this and turned away, blinking and rubbing their eyes, to pick up their faggots of twigs and leaves and mosses. The Warden walked with them to the stream where the others wer
e splashing with sticks in the cold water, trying to drive fish into the shallows; and after helping with this sport for a little, the Whites headed upslope along the stream, pausing often to pick twigs from the low brush or gather handfuls of moss.

  So the Warden stirred up his fire and they cooked their fish, watching the Whites until they were out of sight among the crags (for even in the dimness their white furs showed for a long distance). Only the crows were inclined to resume their interrupted sleep; all the others were too much aroused by this encounter, and Warden Lethgro in particular had unfinished business. “Now,” he said sternly, licking the last crumbs of fish from his fingers and fixing the Exile with a steady glare; “what message would you send?”

  The Exile's eyes opened wide for a moment at this direct question; but he answered modestly that he only meant to report to his people that he was alive and that all was well here. This struck the Warden as unlikely, and he asked why this message should be so urgently needed to save the world from harm. To which the Exile answered even more meekly and even more earnestly that unless his people received such a report, they would come to investigate. And though he repeated that they would not come in war or in anger, he seemed strangely doleful concerning the consequences of such a visit.

  Here the Captain demanded an explanation, and had to be told of the Exile's plea that he be allowed to send his message. At which she laughed, saying to the Exile, with what the Warden considered unseemly levity, “If you were so eager, what stopped you from sending it under our noses? The Warden and I could no more tell what you were doing with your devices than Broz could read a letter.” And the Exile confessed that he would gladly have done so, but said that it was not so easy as she seemed to think. For since no one could know how long it would take him and his friend to perform their mission, it had been agreed that they would stay in touch with their ship by sending various signals at various times. So long as those signals were sent often enough, the ship would stay away, considering that all was well and the mission proceeding. But if there were no signal for a certain time, the ship would come to search for them, landing at the place where he and his friend had first been set down—unless (and here the Exile's face knotted grimly) he had sent a message naming another time and place of meeting. Such a message, he said, must be in his own voice, not simply a signal that some other might have given. And while it was true that he had already sent off a few of the signals ("I should have known it!” muttered the Warden), yet, being so closely watched, he had not found opportunity to send a message in his own voice. This had not troubled him too much till very recently, when there came back to him one more of the memories that the Quicksilver poison had washed so long ago from his mind.

  “And that was —?” urged the Warden, for the Exile had fallen silent.

  And the Exile raised his eyes with a melancholy look and said that he remembered now that if he did not send a voice message very soon, his ship would come to look for him, no matter how many signals it received. And when the Captain asked what prevented him now from doing so, he answered that he had only one device that could send such a message, and it lay somewhere in the snow at the foot of the cliff where they had crashed. The Captain had listened with such interest that now the Warden stood up hastily, saying, “Come here, Repnomar,” and drew her aside, leaving the Exile crouched by the fire with Broz and the crows. “We're not going back,” he said firmly. “And we're not letting him go.”

  “You're right, Lethgro,” the Captain said. “Though if we were in better shape you'd be wrong. I wouldn't bet a turnip on our chances of coming through another season in the dark alive—even without a tribe of White People looking for Broz's head. But once we've mended our bones and put some meat back on them, we'd be fools if we didn't go back with him to this meeting place of his and see what comes out of the clouds.”

  Now the Warden, who at first had been pleasantly surprised by her ready agreement, was perturbed by her notion of foolishness. But neither of them had strength or inclination for arguments that could be put off till later; and after scanning the upper slopes without catching a glimpse of white fur anywhere, they called the others, bundled up their firewood (for dry wood was scarce in this season) and started down the mountain. They took a far different route from the one the Warden had pointed out to the White People.

  The light grew ever brighter, and the landscape more wholesome to view; but only Broz and the crows took much pleasure in this, for the others were sick with pain and weariness and long hunger, and consumed by their own worries. Only now and again Repnomar tried to speak of what a great thing it would be to talk with people from beyond the clouds, and how they and their giant flying pods might help to rescue the Mouse and her crew from the waterfall of the Dreeg, and of what cargoes might be carried in such pods. But the Warden would not hear such talk; and the Exile, with a sickly smile, told her that such things were never as simple as they seemed—which somewhat ruffled her, for it was like being scolded for ignorance by a child.

  In spite of the light, it was not easy going, with frequent rains that swelled the streams to torrents and built and tore away dams of mud and rubble. More often than not, they could build no fire. Their course was a limping zigzag, down one slope and up another, often turning back to find an easier route. But Broz and the crows fattened on frogs and fish and small game of many sorts, and frolicked in the growing light. And after a time the land eased; and the Warden, his chest heaving in a sigh, pronounced that he knew this country. For they had come to the headwaters of the Sollet.

  23

  Home

  It was (so they told each other afterwards, with grim laughter) a marvel how quickly they could all agree together when the need was on them. What they had to decide, and swiftly, was whether to make themselves known to the people of this country—the loggers and shippers who harvested the forests of the Upper Sollet—or to try to reach Sollet Castle unobserved. In favor of the first was that they were in sad condition bodily, needing food and rest and doctoring; but against it was that they knew nothing of what had been going on in all the time since they had sailed out of Beng harbor with an inspector for the Council of Beng in pursuit, and natural prudence made them uneager to step forward before they knew how the land lay. Besides, now that they were coming into the great woods, living would be easier, for the Warden was no mean forester, and there was plenty of food and fuel and shelter for those who knew how to take them. As for the Exile, he clearly hoped for anything rather than to be returned to the power of the League. So with little argument they determined to keep their distance from the towns and logging camps along the river, and to work their way through the woods and so downstream until they came to Sollet Castle, where they could be assured of a welcome from the Warden's own people.

  The rain fell, the wind blew, and every slope tinkled and gurgled with flowing water; for this was the season of Streamrise, when the melting snows filled and overfilled all the tributary streams that fed into the Sollet. But if the going was no more comfortable, it was far healthier, for with snares and deadfalls and woven wicker fishtraps they caught all the game they could eat, pausing for a few watches at a time to hunt and cook and then moving on at a stiff pace until they needed meat again. The forest was bursting with life, all abloom in the light and the wet. There were lush herbs and bulbs in plenty, and the early fruits, and in the dense woodland the Warden could usually find something dry enough for a fire to kindle on, so that they ate well; but their clothes were no more than wet and filthy rags. The Captain was for filching a few items from some of the logging camps they passed; but this the Warden would not allow. When the rain ceased, they began to be in better temper, all except the Exile, and the Captain spoke longingly of the speed they could have been making on the Sollet with any decent boat and sail. But the Warden told her that at this season the Sollet was too wild for any but the ships built specially for it, and that even they came to grief often enough.

  They no longer allowed the
Exile to take a turn on guard, for he was clearly too restless to trust. He tried privately to tell sometimes the Captain, sometimes the Warden, the alarming things that would happen if his people came; but the Warden did not believe him, and the Captain, far from being alarmed, listened eagerly and said that she would be glad to meet his shipmates. So he gave it up and trudged in silence.

  As storm waves sink slowly into a level calm, so the wooded hills died away to the rolling forest land of the Middle Sollet. The trees and underbrush changed, and with them the birds and beasts and the very feel of the wind; and the Warden, who hour by hour grew easier with the world and walked with a more commanding step, now felt himself so much at home that he threw aside all concealment and led them boldly down a forest path. For, though trees still hid the castle, they had come into its very grounds, and anyone they met here would be of his own household.

  But they met no one till the trail brought them to a thinning of the woods, and they saw the towers of the castle, and the lawns around it, and a sentry strolling along the path that circled the lawns. The Warden strode forward into the open and hailed the sentry, who whipped out an arrow from her quiver as she turned, and had it well nocked to the bowstring before she recognized who it was that had hailed her (and that only by his wardenly bearing, for the people of Sollet Castle were not accustomed to see their Warden disheveled and dirty and in rags). But she lowered her bow and came to him hastily, exclaiming in a low voice that he had best hide himself again among the trees. “For,” she said, “you and that Exile and Captain Repnomar of the Mouse are all declared outlaws, and a reward offered by the Councils of Beng and Rotl for your heads.”