Kelfor- the Orthomancers

by Gillian Andrews

  I don’t know the next component of the group. He is a plump man with a large stomach and no neck. He is walking on his own, surrounded by a pack of skulks. He smiles at me and tells me his name is Ballen.

  He is whistling through his teeth. He seems friendly.

  “I be responsible for providing food for all of you,” he says proudly. “My skulks is trained to find the sand tubers we need. We be able to live for months on just tubers and water if we be having to. They provide all the nutrients necessary, at least for a month or two.”

  Skulks are desert animals, about knee high. They are mammals, but their skin is thickly armored to protect them from their enemies. This skin is partially covered with long tufts of hairy fur, especially around their necks and jowls. The pads of their feet end in large tough nails which make them perfect for digging in soft or loose dirt or desert. Their long noses give them an exquisite sense of smell. They live off sand tubers, but their preferred food is the striped truffle, a delicacy which they can detect in the ground at a distance of around thirty yards.

  Ballen indicates his skulks with an expansive hand. “They be trainable,” he explains, “if you know what you be doing.” Then he feels the need to clarify. “Except when they is in the presence of a striped truffle, of course.”

  All the time he is talking he is staring in a challenging fashion at another man. This worthy is taller than Ballen and clearly feels superior to him. His face is long and his body angular. Now, he breaks into the conversation, speaking with only traces of the outkarth burr Ballen uses.

  “All very well. Skulks is all very well. But how far would we get without water, is what I want to say. How far would this little lot get without my flock of argents?”

  Torch and I peer up into the sky where the man is pointing. Sure enough, high, high above and to the right of us many of the huge birds are circling lazily.

  The taller man points to himself. “Rannyl,” he said. “At your service, young lady and ... err ... gent. Provider of water for this expedition.”

  Ballen snorts. “If you can provide enough through those birds to keep us alive I’ll be for eating my carrick!”

  Rannyl ignores him. “My argents can fly over a thousand miles in a day. They travel to the pools near crests or plumes, and they can collect water in the feathers under their bellies. What do you think of that, young sir and madam?”

  He must see that we were impressed, for he preens and carries on. “Just one of my birds can provide up to a large glass of water per day. There are forty in my flock. Enough to keep you going, eh?”

  Definitely. This almost sounds magical to me. I am very thirsty.

  Rannyl sees me looking at his flask. He hands me a smaller one of my own. “This is yours,” he tells me, flashing a look of great pity at Ballen. “You will need it more than food.”

  Ballen puffs out in outrage. “Food be just as important!” he claims. “Just as important. You wait while we get to Teygar Plains. Then we’ll be seeing who’s who!”

  I am tipping the water down my throat. I already know which is more important to me. I can go for days without food, only hours without water. We Inmuri don’t need much water, but we do need some.

  Torch is given his own flask too, and drinks, but more sparingly. It seems to me that he is used to rationing out everything in his life. He is not quite as uncomfortable about me now.

  One of the skulks seems to have attached itself to him. The boy is walking along with one hand lightly touching the skulk’s fur on the top of its neck. Ballen sees me watching. “Lupo,” he tells me, indicating the skulk. “The strongest of the pack.”

  I smile at Torch. “He seems to have adopted you. Hello, Lupo!”

  I put my own hand down, meaning to stroke the skulk. The animal bares its teeth and hisses at me. I hastily snatch my hand back again. Torch grunts. I think he is quite pleased that Lupo didn’t take to me. I can’t blame him. I don’t suppose he has ever had a pet. None of us have.

  We drop back to the last group. They introduce themselves to us. Jethran and Karith must be about the same age as Furian. They are a married couple, striding comfortably together over the hot earth. Karith is a heavy-set barrel of a woman. A little older than my mother, perhaps. She has a no-nonsense air about her. Her husband is taller. He is a miner, muscled and strong, yet he seems the smaller person sometimes when they are together. He defers to his wife. He doesn’t have much to say.

  I smile at a girl about four years older than me who is walking behind them. Her name is Linnith, she tells me.

  “My mother and I are speakers of the land,” she explains. “It is our job to find the right path across the mountains and plains until we reach the Rift of the Timeworn. Then it will be up to you.”

  I swallow. I am not qualified to lead anybody into any rifts, timeworn or not.

  She smiles. “You cannot get from this side of the Abaloss Rift to the other side of the Great Chasm without a speaker of the land. You would die. You will need us.” Though she is looking rather uncertain, I realize. I think to myself that we are going to need a lot of luck.

  Linnith is not finished. “That is why the Raths never managed it,” she explains. “They sent Scoriats. Scoriats don’t know the signs, and the Inmuri on the expedition were sworn to secrecy. My mother knows when an eruption is near, and how to avoid getting caught in an outsurge. Things like that. She has taught me, too.”

  Again I catch a note of doubt in her voice. Karith, the mother, looks around.

  “Pay attention, Linnith!” she says sharply. “Do you want to be a speaker of the land or not? Stop chattering!”

  Linnith slides me a look and makes up the distance to her mother quickly. Karith turns back to give me a stern gaze. “So this is the reason we are to give up everything.” She seems to find me lacking.

  Her husband looks back at me, but says nothing. He has a nice face, though it is blank of emotion just at the moment.

  They move ahead. I feel even more lonely. More people who would rather be elsewhere, I think. I wish the heavy pain in my heart would go away. It is weighing me down.

  “So the Scoriats will follow us.” I am speaking to myself.

  Ballen hears me. “Be bound to,” he says in his economical way.

  Rannyl agrees. “The Raths will send Scoriat soldiers after us. We are lucky the shuttles are no longer airworthy. If they were, we would have no chance at all. The Raths will never be letting any Inmuri escape. It would make them look bad to the other Rath families. That’s why each karth has an army. To make sure none of us can ever leave. They are already close by. Looking for us. For you.”

  All these people are risking their lives so that I can go on a journey? It makes no sense. Still, at least I won’t have to go through the Triune Genetic Program at the Xenokarth. Or into the Thrall Program. I realize I have told nobody about Graven. I have to tell them soon. Because I know ... simply know ... that the Thrall will follow us.

  My head is a little dizzy. Things are all happening too fast. I just want to lie down and sleep. Maybe all this is just a nightmare. A dreadful nightmare.

  We walk for the rest of the day, taking care to keep to the tall Pallus grass. Only once do we have to hide. Torch is the first of us to hear the sound of a Scoriat scout. He signals to warn us of his approach. It is enough. Thurifer quickly orders us to duck down in the Pallus grass and make no movement. It is thick enough to hide both us and the carricks from view. The scout passes well to the west. He is not tracking us. He is merely a runner, sent ahead in case we are stupid enough to let ourselves be spotted.

  We wait for many minutes, but he has veered away. Furian thinks he is unlikely to come back.

  There are no signs of the soldiers yet. We know that they are behind us, but it seems that we still have the advantage of them. Thurifer tells us that tomorrow will be one of the most difficult days. Although it has taken a while for the alarm to be given, they will make better time than we can over the terrain. And we will be
easy to find. The grass will be trampled underfoot; there will be signs of where we have passed. After all, there are thirteen of us. The Scoriats will have every chance of catching up. He points in the direction of the Abaloss Rift. “We have to be through the pass before the outsurge. That is our only chance.”

  We stop when the sun is still quite high in the sky. Ballen gives us plenty of roots, which we eat raw. Rannyl moves some way off to receive the birds of his flock. They come in flying low across the land so as not to give our position away. He has a small cannula which he presses against a certain spot amongst the breast feathers to withdraw the water they carry. Each argent is praised for bringing water, stroked and petted. Then the large birds are given a precious agrimon berry from a small sack he carries around his waist. This seems to be enough of a reward for them.

  I lie back in my carrick after eating and drinking and rock myself gently. I am almost asleep when Zivan slides unobtrusively into the camp.

  “Did you get it?” I struggle to extricate myself from the carrick.

  She nods, holding out the beaten gold amulet. It flashes in the lowering rays of the suns.

  I stretch out my hand, ready to take it, then stop. It should be close by, but not on me. Something is telling me to let Torch carry it for me. If anyone can keep it safe, I am convinced that it will be the young boy.

  I pass it to him. He clicks his teeth in a contented sort of way and it disappears somewhere beneath his clothes.

  I turn back to Zivan. “Any trouble?”

  She pulls a face. “A little. They still weren’t following us when I left. They had only sent scouts. But they will not be far behind, and they are going to travel faster than we can.” She eyes the two timeworn elders. “Much faster. We will have to move on now, tonight. We cannot wait until morning. We have to cross the Abaloss Rift before the next eruption if we are to have any chance at all. We can only rest for an hour.”

  She moves over to her son. They don’t touch, I notice. She simply sits down beside him. He relaxes immediately. So does she, a few moments later.

  I realize how close they are. “Torch was waiting for you.”

  She is surprised. “Of course.”

  “Why is he not like other people? What made him special?”

  She is silent for a moment. Then she purses her lips, “He was born like that. Special – only in a different way.”

  I am confused. “Why?”

  This time she answers me, her strong face almost softened. “When he was born I held him close to me. I looked down into his eyes and they were dunes of sparkling sand radiating with what seemed to be small flames. It was like looking into a lantern, looking into a soul that could light up the world. I named him for his eyes. That is why he is called Torch. See?”

  For the first time I allow myself to examine the boy’s eyes. He lets me. Sure enough, they are full of fire. Fire and sand, alternating in the irises so that they seem to burn one’s own gaze. His eyes are mesmerizing. The unusual name suddenly seems inevitable; with those eyes he could be called nothing else. He could never lose his way, not with eyes that bring light to the dark. I stare at the flames covering his face, too. They shine like tattoos of fire.

  “Show her,” she tells him.

  The boy unwraps the loose robes around his upper torso. His whole slim, muscled body is covered by marks similar to those I have already seen on his face. These are bigger though. Light brown patches with darker borders are ringed with gold and red, all reaching up and mixing into each other. His skin resembles nothing so much as a blaze of flames. They stretch up to consume his neck, then flicker across his face.

  “He was born to burn the world of the Raths,” Zivan tells me. “They tried to engineer an Istak skin of stars, but inside the womb he rejected them. And he rejected their mind control as well. He is an Inmuri, even though his own people consider him worthy of stoning.”

  “He will not be stoned here,” says Azrial calmly. She has come up as Zivan was speaking. She moves closer to the boy and examines the fire in his eyes with her own tired ones. “We will remember and honor our pact with you.” She is silent for a moment, looking at him. Then she speaks again. “He may even have a critical part to play in the salvation of the Inmuri. I do not deny that I see a strength in him that speaks to me. I sense that he is important. His protection will be a priority.”

  Zivan begins to laugh. “Protection?” she scorns. “He is a thief! He needs only respite from your persecution. He needs only that you do not stone him. That was our pact. If you try to control him, you will be making a huge mistake. Torch was born to be free. Neither he nor I can be enclosed. We walk under the stars. Now. Forever. Nothing is more valuable to us than our independence. Do not interfere with that.” Her lip curls. “You do not have that right. Nobody has that right.”

  I wonder if the circlet around her ankle has something to do with that. ‘NEVER AGAIN’. I sense she decided on those words when being held in that same cell as me, tied to the same wall I was. Would a silver bracelet around my own skin help remind me? Remind me who helped me to escape? This outcast girl and her shunned son.

  “You gave me my freedom,” I say. “Thank you.”

  Zivan looks surprised at my words.

  The quondam inclines her head. “Freedom is a very great thing.”

  Zivan is still looking wary. Angry. “He must never be enclosed. It is ... it is extremely difficult for him. All I have done has been to keep him free.”

  “I shall remember. Those that come after me will remember. Now, get into your carricks. We should all sleep. One hour is little time to rest.”

  Torch, who had stiffened when the old lady approached, relaxes again.

  Zivan goes to receive food and water from Ballen and Rannyl, then eases herself into the carrick Torch had untied from his. She runs her hands over it, kneading it between her fingers, testing its strength.

  “These things make you soft,” she says gruffly, although she obviously likes it. “Wake me in an hour.”

  Torch grunts assent. They go to sleep.

  3.

  I wake up when Torch reaches into my carrick and shakes my arm. I groan. Most of my muscles have seized up in just sixty minutes. It feels like it would take oil and heat to get them moving.

  I shuffle out of my carrick and discover that the rest of the members of the group are doing the same thing. All except Torch, that is. Torch is already ready to go, his carrick strapped to his back, his weight shifting from foot to foot.

  Thurifer makes signs for me to hurry. He comes over to check I am all right.

  “We believe the Scoriats must be very close,” he whispers.

  “How do you know?”

  “Ballen says the skulks are nervous. They can sense movement behind us. He says that there are people close to us, within five miles. We need to be on our way.”

  Five miles! FIVE MILES? That is nothing! We are doomed. I strap on my carrick with much more motivation. We could be overtaken within hours!

  I am not the only one thinking the same thing. Ballen and Rannyl seem to have buried their differences. They are moving quickly away from the rest of us, Rannyl forging ahead. As I watch, they vanish into the tall grass.

  Thurifer watches them go. “The skulks are too easy to see and hear,” he tells me. “As are the argents when they circle. Ballen and Rannyl will try to get them safely out of sight. Karith has told them which general area to head for. We will find them near the rift.”

  The unspoken ‘if we are still here’ rings in my ears. Perhaps in his, too. We stare at each other.

  Zivan speaks. “Torch can sense people coming.”

  It’s true. The boy is clearly extremely worried. He is breathing heavily and his eyes are fixed on a point on the horizon. He is beginning to wail quietly to himself. He sounds like an animal which has been tied up but needs to escape.

  Zivan signs to him. He stops the noise, not without an inward struggle, and turns his back. Then he simply stands
, trembling with the need to be moving. I notice that Jethran and Karith exchange looks. I realize then that, to them, he is special in a different sort of way. Special to them means lacking something. That makes me sad. I think he knows things the rest of us can’t. I think he is remarkable.

  Zivan signals to Torch and they split quickly from the rest of us.

  “Keep going,” the thief says, mainly to the two speakers of the land, who are leading us to the only place where the Abaloss Rift can be crossed, Boulderstone Pass. “Torch and I are doubling back for a moment. There is something ... I am not quite sure, but ...” Her brow is creased.

  Quondam Azrial agrees at once. “Yes. Check it out. You will be able to find us later. Good luck.”

  The thief frowns. “I do not believe in luck.”

  “No, I suppose you don’t.”

  “If I had believed in luck, I might believe that the timeworn would intervene to stop the Triune Program in the Xenokarth. And that would prove to be a mistake ...” the girl’s face is set, “... because they never have intervened, have they?”

  The quondam is aware of a faint mirrored resentment inside her own weakened heart. Who does this girl think she is to so question the timeworn? “You are very harsh.”

  The answer is flat. “Life is very harsh.”

  Zivan and Torch melt into the tall grass behind us.

  The rest of us begin to make our way toward the Abaloss Rift. It is quite clear now, a ridge of about fifty yards high, reaching up in front of us in a long line. We can see no break in the crest either to the left or to the right.

  Linnith increases her pace until she is walking beside me. “We are searching for two landmarks,” she tells me.

  “Why? It doesn’t look high. Surely we can climb it?”

  “It isn’t high, that is not the problem. There is a twenty-yard gap along the top of most of the rift and a sheer drop, miles down to the center of the planet. No way across.”