Kelfor- the Orthomancers

by Gillian Andrews

  I shake my head, which in turn makes Torch stare even more at me. I give a sort of wave back at him, and he looks alarmed, as though I have said I am going to hug him. He steps back hastily.

  “Are you all well?” Quondam Azrial asks, herself looking bedraggled. The normally dry atmosphere of Hethor has become steamy and saturated with water vapor. Her hair is all frizzy and what is not plastered to her face is sticking out. She looks exhausted, but she is still here.

  Eventually all of the others make their way over. Even, I am happy to see, Zivan. Furian is last. He is looking satisfied.

  “Well, none of the Scoriats made it across the Abaloss Rift in time,” he tells us, his face looking lighter than before. “Any of them close to it will have been washed away in the floods, I expect.”

  I catch Ammeline’s expression. She looks stricken. I wonder why. As soon as she catches me staring at her, she adjusts her face quickly, so that I’m no longer sure what I saw. She tosses her head and turns to Vannis, who has managed to stay dry, unlike the rest of us.

  “Trust you to find the best rock to shelter under,” she snaps. “You always were a bit of a cockroach.”

  Vannis’s eyes open wide. He lets his eyes travel up and down Ammeline’s rather damp dress. “Looking a bit the worse for wear, Am. Maybe you should have stayed at Astakarth?”

  Ammeline looks around for Doven. He is helping Karith to retrieve some of her belongings, but he looks up as her eyes fall on him. Ammeline smiles, and runs her hands over the material, ostensibly trying to get rid of the creases.

  Doven almost runs over. “Ammeline! Do you need anything?”

  She gives Vannis a triumphant simper, almost a pout. “Look at my shoes!” She holds up one foot, pointing it daintily and showing a lot of mud-covered leg. “Ruined!”

  Doven picks her up and walks over to firm land, gently depositing her as if she were gossamer. “There! Better?”

  She dimples. “Much. Thank you!”

  He tears his gaze away from her crumpled neckline, which has conveniently slipped slightly downward. “You’re more than welcome.”

  In the background Karith is watching crossly. Linnith has gone rather red. She is trying to wade through the sludge to her mother. Nobody is trying to help her, I notice. I think she does too.

  I stare down at my own foot. How did Ammeline do it? I lift it up and point my toes, slightly twisted out, just like her. I should practice this sort of thing. You never know when it could come in handy, after all. I am pleased. I think I look pretty good, too.

  Something firm hits me in the back. I fall heavily right into all the ooze. I swivel around. Torch is standing behind me, an expression of utter innocence on his stupid face.

  I give a growl and hurl myself at him. He sidesteps at the last moment and I end up head first in the mud. He slips away, moving across the mire as if it were hardened dirt. I could kick him. I wonder if I imagined what seemed to be a twinge of a smirk on the marked face. I must have done; I have never seen him smile.

  Jethran leans over to pull me out of my plight. He is grinning from ear to ear. “Slippery stuff, this,” he says, careful not to touch too much of me in case he gets mud all over himself.

  I sigh. “Very.” Perhaps I should wait until I am older before I try to be like Ammeline.

  Kalyka comes squelching over to me. She has not escaped the rivers of liquefaction that have come after the outsurge. Her short legs are buried over the knees, and she is struggling to walk.

  I pluck her out of the stuff and she puts her arms around my neck. “I am scared, Remeny.”

  I hug the thin body. “It is over now, Kally. All gone!”

  But she won’t let me go. “Carry me!” she instructs, her quavering voice belying the queenly tone she is trying to give it.

  I manage to make my way to slightly higher ground. The mud here is thinner, already draining out. I set Kalyka down. She weighs a lot.

  Fimbrian has appeared, carrying both his own and his granddaughter’s carricks. “Thank you, Remeny. I couldn’t manage her and these.”

  I see he has a cut across his cheek. It is bleeding sluggishly. “You are hurt.”

  “It is nothing.” He bends down, scooping up a handful of the silt, which he then holds against the cut. “Just a few small rocks I wasn’t able to avoid.”

  Furian is now helping Thurifer over to where we are. The praetor is breathing heavily and also has several scratches over his upper body. Fimbrian turns and begins to apply mud to them.

  Thurifer tries to bat him away. “No need for that. It will heal perfectly well on its own.”

  Fimbrian mutters something and the praetor stiffens. “What did you say?”

  “I said: Typical of a timeworn not to want help from anyone.”

  Thurifer glares. “I ... am the gramen. I ... am the person who knows how to cure. I ... am the expert.”

  Fimbrian snorts. “Hardly need to be a gramen to know to put mud on a cut, now do you?”

  Thurifer is now trying to brush the helping hand aside. “Leave me alone, will you!”

  “Trust a timeworn to refuse all help from an ordinary unworn like myself.” Fimbrian turns aside, but I can tell that he is pleased for some reason. Thurifer, on the other hand, is not.

  “Oh, just go away.”

  Azrial has made her way over. She is smiling from one to the other. “You are both more similar than you think.”

  This has the effect of generating instant rejection from both men.

  “I am not!”

  “I am nothing like him!”

  She looks at me and I’m pretty sure she winks. “Well, I suppose it is time to get on?”

  Some sort of an answer is expected from me. I scramble away from the rift, holding Kalyka’s hand. We lead the way south, toward the Karstik Desert. We are in the Plains of Teygar now. We have days of travel before we reach the Great Chasm, then more long days to cross the desert if we are ever to find a way to Kelfor. I spoke to Linnith last night. She told me a little about the journey in front of us. It sounds dangerous.

  I wish I knew why we are here.

  I wish things were different.

  I wish my mother were still alive.

  In the Xenokarth, the Thrall is standing immobile, trying to pick up a scent. It is a scent he liked. It intoxicated him. He frowns, and his smooth face crumples into furrows. He wants the source of the smell. He must have it!

  The Rath is speaking to him, but he doesn’t want to listen. It is telling him of other subjects, other possibilities. But it doesn’t realize. The need is too strong. The smell of it has impregnated his mind. It is his. It belongs to him. There is no separation too big to keep him away from the source. He has to have it. Has to feel his teeth inside that sweet flesh. Has to. Why can’t this Rath understand?

  The large Rath is indicating that they will find other suitable girls. Young ones, it is saying. Ones just like that one.

  Graven has to snarl. There are none just like that one. The smell is unique. How can another smell take its place? Doesn’t the Rath want to understand? That smell has imprinted on him. Until the spell is broken by bloodshed, the obsession will not die. He has to follow the trail.

  He can still hear words buzzing in his ears. He looks around, but the scene is cloudy. All is cloudy except for his olfactory senses. They are sharp. So sharp that they cut through his consciousness. He has no choice. She belongs to him. The Rath promised!

  He feels a great anger at the large being from Maraz. Who is this creature to try to stop him? He takes a step toward his master. There is no attraction to its dull blood, but the flaring anger gives him the will he needs.

  “You promised!” he shouts. The opaque eyes flash.

  The Rath rears its long neck, suddenly aware of danger.

  Graven tears into the flesh in front of him with his massive jaws. He severs the large head from its heavy shoulders with the second slash. The Rath’s squeal dies out as the terrible teeth almost meet and a bu
bble of blood explodes in the Thrall’s mouth.

  He almost gags. The taste is vile. This blood is metallic and tarnished. He retches. Raths are not, then, edible. He spits out a few loose diamonds. The necklaces of honor have broken, showering the precious stones all around them.

  The guard nearest to the Thrall is looking horrified. He is backing away.

  It takes but one bound to finish him off. The other is just as easy. They taste better. Graven pauses to feed on them. He will need his strength.

  He finishes, and his nostrils flare. He is searching for the scent he must find. Even if it is almost unnoticeable, he will find it. No orders will be obeyed until he has reached her. Nothing else matters.

  He pushes his way out through the compound, casting around the outer wall. She must have left traces.

  It takes time, but he has that. It is almost dark when he picks up the faintest of traces of her scent. He vaults over the wall to the compound, out into the freedom of the whole planet. He will find her, however long it takes.

  5.

  The following day dawns bright with sun. Soon the rivers of water which have churned through the landscape give way to dry sand and clay.

  Torch is worried. There has been no sign of the skulks so far. Apparently, they must have sensed the outsurge coming, for they ran. They may not have survived the rushing waters. Even though they can run very fast and possess great stamina, Ballen doesn’t know if they can have traveled far enough away from the Abaloss Rift to escape the floods.

  Torch is straining to the south, his whole body trembling, trying to pick up their scent, trying to find traces of their passing. He has a greater affinity to the skulks than to the people he is travelling with. I move to touch him but he flinches. I see the whites of his eyes as he moves away, and he half raises one arm as if to ward me off. I shrug. He turns to his mother. It is a question. She gives a small nod, answering him. The two of them begin to distance themselves from the rest of us, covering the terrain quickly and economically, leaving us behind within moments, it seems. I wish I was with them. They have a freedom I lack. I wonder if I will ever be like them.

  The rest of us stand up and begin to load up with our carricks and the rest of the equipment. Kalyka is still beside me; I help her with her own small pack. She is shoeless and enjoying squeezing the mud with her toes. The damage to her feet is improved, I’m relieved to see.

  Her grandfather comes up. His face is even darker than usual. He drags Kalyka away. She cries out, reaching back with her free hand to me.

  I frown. “Stop, Fimbrian! Whatever is the matter?”

  “These timeworn will be the end of all of us,” he says shortly. “I should never have brought my granddaughter out here. What was I thinking?”

  I am to blame for this. I can feel myself reddening. I bend my head quickly. Tears that I don’t want him to see have welled up in my eyes.

  Kalyka seems to know how I feel. She squeezes my hand gently. “It is all right, Remeny. It is not your fault.” She fixes her grandparent with a glare. “Now see what you have done!”

  Fimbrian sighs. “I am sorry, Remeny. I did not mean to accuse you of anything. You are a victim.”

  I straighten my shoulders. “I am not a victim!”

  “This is not of your doing.”

  I shake off Kalyka’s small hand and walk on ahead. I am confused and angry. Why does Fimbrian have to bring politics into everything? Why did he have to come? He could just have stayed in Istak, couldn’t he? Nobody asked him to drag Kalyka out here.

  I am making pretty good headway through the mud when there is a sudden flash. Lightning crackles: a huge discharge which makes my hair fly outward. There is a boneshaking thump as it hits one of the mushroom-like rocks right in front of me. The whole thing explodes and I dive for the ground as large chunks of rock rain down over my position.

  “What the ...?”

  Another crackle hisses past my ears and I realize – finally – that we are under fire. Nobody except the Scoriats would have the blasters of the Raths at their disposal. Which means that the Scoriats have found us. They did manage to get across Abaloss Pass. I don’t know how, but they are here.

  I wriggle like a worm to get behind the nearest column of rock. Perhaps I can hide. I try to map a way out of there. The firing has ceased, but there are sobs coming from behind me. I turn around. Kalyka is lying in the mud, her eyes tight shut and her small little body is shaking with terror. One of her knees is bleeding. She has been hit by a rock. Blood is oozing out to mix with the ochre earth. Her grandfather is determinedly pulling his own prone body over to hers.

  I lie flat. I am so scared myself that I just flinch away from the blaster’s fire. Self-preservation blots out my will to do something heroic. The only response I am having is flight. I find I hate this cowardly shadow of myself.

  Nobody is able to retaliate effectively. We are rounded up within minutes. A sorry bunch of mud-covered escapees, slumped in despair.

  The Scoriats have stopped firing. They are in front of us, smiling rather nastily. There are ten of them. Their leader is old, but his second-in-command is tall and young and staring at Ammeline.

  “At last, Ammeline. Come here,” he tells her.

  I see Furian move to stand up, but he is beaten down by another Scoriat, who curls his lip. “Stay down, old man,” he says harshly.

  The younger Scoriat reaches out and puts an arm around Ammeline to pull her to him. Ammeline twists and pouts. “Koban! Stop it!” She giggles.

  There is total silence amongst the rest of us. Then the Scoriat leans down and kisses Ammeline on her full lips. His eyes challenge Furian. The Inmuri looks away, but not before I see hatred glitter in his eyes.

  Koban puts Ammeline down. “You were hard to find.”

  “Did you come all this way to find me?” she asks, clearly quite pleased. The rest of us stare at her. She glowers. “What? I did nothing wrong! I didn’t tell them where we were!”

  Thurifer pulls himself into a sitting position. “Have you been consorting with this Scoriat, Ammeline? Despite the edicts?”

  She huffs. “What if I have? There is nothing else to do in Astakarth! Why shouldn’t I have a good time?”

  “With a Scoriat?” He sounds totally amazed, as if he cannot believe his ears and his eyes.

  “They are Inmuri too. Well, nearly. And Koban is strong. He isn’t a stupid boy like all the Inmuri in the village. And he is not a slave.” Her eyes flicker over the man standing next to her, rather admiringly. My own eyes slide to Doven. He is looking sick. His face is grey.

  I can almost feel Furian’s gall as he bites down on his lip. It is true; this particular Scoriat is lean and muscled and holds himself very proudly. I suppose he might be attractive to some girls, if you could ignore the markings all down his body. He looks arrogant.

  Koban pushes her slightly behind him.

  The elder Scoriat is walking up to us. “You will all be executed as soon as we can arrange it.” He speaks pleasantly. He could be passing the time of day. “I apologize, but as advance decuma we find ourselves cut off from base and without rope, so we are unable to utilize the usual method of hanging. We will be obliged to use the lightning plasmas. I’m afraid I can’t wait until the rest of the First Cohort arrives.”

  Ammeline wails and grabs at the Scoriat arm protecting her. “K-K-Koban?”

  Koban steps toward the leader. “Sir ...”

  “All of them, Subvexil Koban. There can be no exceptions.”

  His eyes fall. He looks away from Ammeline and the rest of us.

  Ammeline gasps. “Koban!”

  Her Scoriat’s eyes are anguished. “Vexil Alopen, I cannot disobey an order. You know I cannot. Please allow me to save this one girl. I beg of you.”

  Ammeline looks up at his dark face, hope lighting her own. She shuffles even closer to the Scoriat, putting her arms around him and fitting her body against his tightly. She has turned away from the rest of the group. She doesn’t
seem to care very much about us.

  The leader of the Scoriats is still shaking his head. “Quite impossible! You know that. You spoke to Legate Belisar. You heard our orders.”

  “Please! Just this one girl!”

  But the elder Scoriat’s lips are thin. He glares. “This is what happens when orders are disobeyed, Koban. There is a reason that we are not allowed to mix with the Inmuri. You knew this. Accept the consequences.”

  “But ...” Koban has no further opportunity to beg. His vexil has nodded to the other Scoriats. It is an instruction. They begin to lift their weapons.

  Ammeline has begun to cry. She suddenly looks quite ugly. “But, Koban, we ... I let you ...”

  There is a sharp laugh from my left. “Losing your touch, are you?” Vannis’s mouth is cruel. “Giving it away, were we?”

  Ammeline stamps her foot. “Shut up, Vannis. You are hardly the one to talk. I have seen you behind the sandshafts with those filthy outcast women often enough ...” I am glad Zivan hasn’t heard that.

  Vannis’s eyes narrow. “Have you indeed? You do seem to have been getting around the village, don’t you? Not very fitting behavior for the next augur of the Inmuri, I would say.”

  “Rich coming from you,” she snaps back. “Like you are going to be the next gramen.”

  “Nor wish to be. I have better things to do with my time.”

  “Yes, well there doesn’t seem to be much left of that, now does there?”

  He gives a wide and rather supercilious grin. “Your flirting is not going to save you, either. It seems we will be executed together.” He makes the last word sound slightly indecent.

  She gives a little moue of disgust. Then her eyes open wide as Doven pushes Vannis back, making him fall heavily onto the mud.

  “Leave her alone! Stop talking to her like that!”

  A flash blinds me. The vexil of the Scoriats has fired, only slightly to the right of Doven. Pieces of flying rock carve small red lines across Doven’s back. They begin to seep blood. I duck out of the way. So does everybody else except Doven. He glares at the Scoriat, almost challenging him. I notice both Ammeline and Linnith staring at him.