“Line up!” barks the Scoriat in charge, ordering the rest of his squad into position at the same time with a jerk of his head. They oblige, lifting their weapons and aiming at us. I wonder if you die straight away when one of the blasts from a lightning gun hits you full on. I guess you do. At least it won’t take long.
Then I hear a snarl from behind the Scoriats. A whirlwind of woman lands on the leader of the small band of armed men and he drops to the floor before he can react, a long thin knife through the upper part of his body.
Everything deteriorates into chaos. A smaller whirlwind has latched onto another soldier’s arms, preventing him from firing the blaster at us. Doven has thrown himself at Koban, whose blaster has fallen harmlessly to the ground. They are wrestling each other, already down in the mud. Thurifer is approaching two of the other Scoriats, his mouth curving in a smile as he soundlessly dares them to shoot. Meanwhile Furian is circling behind them, trying to place himself for an attack.
I am still tempted to run. Part of me is wanting to. But the sight of that blaster lying unclaimed in the mud is calling me too, and I don’t want to feel cowardly for a second time. I wriggle over to it as fast as I can.
I have never fired a weapon of any sorts. But it is really very easy. You just aim at something and your finger pulls back on a small switch.
Two of the rest of the Scoriats fall onto the ground, fatally wounded.
Everybody else stops what they are doing for a few seconds, trying to see what has happened, where the blast has come from.
There are three left. I fire again, but miss this time. I start shaking.
“Here! Give that to me!” Vannis is behind me, taking the firearm away from me. He points it at one of the other Scoriats just as the man retaliates. There is a ferocious crackle of lightning as both guns fire. Then the whole of the area is lit by a flashing bolt. Vannis curses and drops the weapon again.
I pick it up. Another of the soldiers is gone, together with his blaster. I pull the trigger again and the other two run back in the direction of the Abaloss Rift. Koban, who has managed to free himself from Doven, joins them. Two of them still have guns.
The rest of the Scoriats are dead. Zivan has dispatched the man Torch was fighting. The two that Furian was circling have discovered, at the cost of their lives, just how effective a black belt in kappaltu can be. Then there are the two bodies of the men I shot and the one Vannis disintegrated.
But we did not escape completely, either. Ballen’s body is stretched out to one side of Kalyka. He cannot be alive – his upper body is missing. Rannyl, nearby, has a deep gash along his thigh. Then my eyes move further out, and I gasp. Thurifer is lying on the ground, a gaping hole in one side of his body. Quondam Azrial is crouched in the mud close by him. Vannis is looking on, his dark eyes hooded, his stance tense.
“Thurifer!” Azrial is touching the old man’s face. Her fingers are gentle.
He gives a cough. Blood comes out of his mouth. “... To walk the s-s-stars ...” He gasps, his eyes gazing into hers.
Her own eyes have filled with tears. Her fingers smooth the corners of his mouth. It is somehow an intimate gesture.
“Yes, Praetor,” she whispers. “To walk the stars. Soon we shall walk the stars together.”
He clutches at her hand. “Now they are dazzling.”
Her face crumbles. “I am glad, Thurifer. May Kianara and Niyafora take your soul into perpetual rest and safeguard your spirit.”
His face is ashen now. It takes him all his strength to reply. I move closer to hear what he is saying, but can’t. I hear only the word ‘yours’ mixed with a mumble. Then the pulse on his neck stops. One moment it is thrusting blood through a living, breathing body. The next it is quiet. The body is still. The soul is gone.
I cry, and I am not the only one.
Furian helps his mother to her feet. “Quondam.” He uses the more formal title. It is an instruction.
She blinks and gets to her feet, quickly smoothing out her tunics. “Yes Furian,” she says. She looks around blindly at us all. “Yes. Of course. We must move on. Those three Scoriats will not give up. They will be back soon.”
Karith is already kneeling beside Rannyl. Now that Thurifer is dead, Vannis should be the gramen, but none of us expect him to help. He doesn’t. He is standing like a statue and appears paralyzed.
Karith begins to wrap Rannyl’s thigh in layers of crushed everberry leaf from Thurifer’s carrick. Then she binds it with the rough bandages she finds in the same place. Once that is done, she moves to Doven, then Kalyka. Kalyka’s scratches seem minimal in view of the devastation surrounding us now. The little girl obviously agrees. She makes no sound as her wound is cleansed and wrapped. Her eyes are huge in her face. She resembles a spookfish.
Azrial takes one last look at her old friend. Her face is very sad as she watches Furian close the old man’s eyes.
“I do not like to leave him like this.”
Furian gives a heavy sigh. “There is no choice.”
“No.” Her gaze measures us all. It falls on Zivan. “Well done, girl. You upheld your part of the bargain.”
Zivan’s lip curls. “I follow the agreement.” She doesn’t seem particularly excited to be praised.
Nobody tells me how I did. It doesn’t matter. I am not sure how I feel about killing two men. It is not something I want to be congratulated about. I am still shaking.
Then Fimbrian comes over to me. He says nothing, but he puts one of his large hands on my shoulder and grips it firmly. It is reassuring.
He smiles at me. “We would be dead if not.”
He understands. I nod my head as we fall into line behind Quondam Azrial. Jethran picks up Thurifer’s carrick as well as his own, throwing both over his shoulder as if impervious to the extra weight. We move off. I can’t help looking over my shoulder every few steps. I know the three remaining Scoriats will soon be close behind.
Zivan catches my eye. She raises one arm, showing me what she is holding, and I see that she is carrying one of the blasters. I look around for more. We have four. Furian and Karith are each carrying one and Vannis still has the one I used, though it will never work again. Part of the barrel has been blown away. He is following Ammeline docilely, but I get the impression he is not really with us. I don’t think he knows he is still carrying the gun.
There is no conversation as we travel for several miles across the Plains of Teygar. No one seems to want to talk about what has just happened.
At last we see movement in front of us. We have caught up with the skulks.
Torch is the first to see them. He runs toward the pack and tries to call Lupo with a strangled squawk.
His favorite skulk crawls up to him, short stubby tail wagging the whole back part of its torso. Torch kneels and puts his arms around the skulk, letting it lick his face. He looks happy. I glance over at Zivan. Her eyes are crinkled around the edges. She senses my stare and her face is suddenly smooth again. She doesn’t like to show what she is thinking.
Torch frowns as he looks at the rest of the pack. He turns to Rannyl.
Rannyl holds up his hands. “Don’t ask me! I have no idea how he got them to obey him. I only know about argents. Skulks is not my business.” The tall man looks around at the rest of us. He sighs and turns back to Torch. “But if anybody can save this pack, it is you. I guess you be the one who should have this.” He bends to untie a sack from around his person. “I took it off Ballen’s body. I thought we would need it.”
Kalyka, who has been walking directly behind Rannyl, looks up at the man towering above. “What is it?”
“It is the treats those skulks are liking, young lady. What Ballen used to reward them. And if we want to eat from now on we need to know how to set them to finding food.”
The other men exchange a glance. I am not the only one who hasn’t thought of this.
Rannyl chuckles. “You can’t be thinking of everything,” he says calmly. “First thing I thought of. Th
at’s because I’m used to thinking of things like that, what with my argents.”
Torch takes the sack carefully; clearly afraid it might bite him. He opens it in the same manner and pulls out a small piece of some dried food. It looks like leather to me.
His skulk flattens itself on the ground, ears flat back, eyes fixated on the hand holding the morsel of food.
Torch hesitates, then offers it to Lupo.
Lupo almost takes his fingers off in its eagerness to grab at the treat.
Torch snatches his hand back.
The other skulks have crept nearer. They have now surrounded Torch. They do not look friendly.
Furian and Zivan raise their blasters at the pack.
Torch leaps to his feet, babbling incoherent sounds. He is standing in front of the pack with his arms outstretched, protecting them.
His mother lowers her firearm. Furian hesitates, looks across at her, and then does the same in answer to a brief nod.
Torch’s eyes burn with resentment. He is scared too. He looks at us, then the pack of skulks, then back at us again. It is not hard to see which of the groups he prefers.
His mother slots the weapon back over her shoulder, along the carrick. She holds out her empty hands.
Her son twists his head slightly, just like one of the skulks would do. He is unsure of his safety. He is part of the pack and they are all poised for flight.
Zivan takes a step back. After a moment, so does Furian.
Torch moves his head again. He stares at the rest of the skulks, then I notice his shoulders relax. He puts his hand inside the sack and starts to reward all the other skulks, one by one. Their eyes do not leave him.
When they have all eaten he nods to Rannyl, who moves over very slowly. He takes a large bowl from his own carrick and fills it with water. The skulks move over to drink, keeping their bellies close to the ground in the way skulks do.
It takes time for all the animals to slake their thirst, but at length they are done. Torch gives a sigh of pleasure and walks past us all to take the lead. He makes signals with his hands, stretching them out to either side and moving his wrists in circles. The skulks break formation, fanning out and trotting easily in front of the rest of us. Their noses go down and the stubby tails go up. They are now in hunting mode. They are sniffing out the sand tubers, searching for all our suppers.
I hope they find some. I am very hungry.
It takes time to want to talk. Furian is one of the first. He allows his pace to slow until he is level with his daughter.
“How could you, Ammeline?”
Ammeline tilts her chin. I am walking just behind them, so I see it quite clearly.
“I don’t see why we can’t talk to the Scoriats. They are Inmuri, after all.”
He is shocked. “They are not!”
“The only thing the Raths do to them is fiddle with genes or something. Who cares? I really can’t see what all the fuss is about.”
“They are following us now. They will kill us all if they can. Surely you know that?”
“They might now. I was seeing him then.”
“Against all of the Inmuri statutes.”
She looks away, angry. “What do I care about your stupid Inmuri statutes? What do I care about politics?”
Furian blinks. He doesn’t like what he is hearing.
Ammeline hasn’t finished. “Your stupid policies made us all into slaves of the Raths. On top of that I have to bow down to all the petty rules of the Inmuri. Well, know what? I think you are all stupid. And I think your dumb rules and regulations are stupid too. Koban is just a person,” – tears spring into her eyes – “like any of us.”
Azrial’s voice makes me jump. “Don’t speak to your father like that, Ammeline!”
Ammeline glares, and then deliberately plugs her fingers into her ears. I stifle a giggle. The quondam punishes me with one of her looks.
Furian pulls one of those white hands down. “How could you disrespect your grandmother so?”
Fimbrian has moved up. Of course he has. I give an inward sigh.
“Don’t bully her,” he snaps. “Haven’t you timeworn done enough? Your masterly inaction took away any hope of a life that this generation might have had. You should blame yourselves, not her! Of course she wants some freedom. You have given her no hope. Can you blame her if she has looked further afield for some fleeting happiness?”
Azrial blows out her cheeks. I sense that, if she had a gun in her hand, she would probably vaporize Fimbrian herself.
“This is none of your business, old man,” she tells him in her stern, dry voice.
Fimbrian flushes up. “It should be any caring person’s business!” he declares. “Your granddaughter is not a possession; she is alive. She is free to do what she wants. At least, she should be! And the Scoriats are just as much slaves as we are. They didn’t ask to be genetically manipulated.”
Ammeline herself pushes the old man aside. “Quondam Azrial is right; it is none of your business. I have no need of a ... a plebeian unworn to instruct me.”
“Ammeline!” Furian is looking horrified.
“Well, he is. People who are not timeworn are unworn, are they not? And the unworn are plebeians. At least, that is what we were always taught.”
Now Quondam Azrial gives a deep sigh. “Nevertheless, it is undiplomatic to say so.”
Fimbrian is reddening with anger. “No, please, go ahead. What could a mere plebeian say that could influence somebody so far above him, your majesty?” He gives Ammeline a travesty of a bow, a sardonic expression on his face.
Azrial clicks her tongue and mutters something under her breath. Then she looks rather longingly at the sky. I am not sure if she is asking Thurifer to come back or wishing she had gone with him.
Ammeline takes this opportunity to run ahead, like the skulks, who are foraging happily with their tails up in the air. She has decided to bring this conversation to an end.
Furian looks after her, taken aback.
“You should have beaten some sense into her when she was young.” Fimbrian sounds quite sure of his advice.
Furian finds himself so much in agreement with this opinion that I see him physically make an effort to keep his mouth shut. He limits himself to a brief shake of his head, then drops back to where Zivan is bringing up the rear. He wants no more of this conversation.
Azrial too seems to think a change of topic is warranted. She falls into formation beside me. “Are you all right, Remeny?”
“Yes thank you. You? I know you and Praetor Thurifer were very close.”
She nods, but purses her lips. I stare. I have never seen so many wrinkles all in one place. They look like slats lining her mouth.
“Yes, we were close, Remeny. But I shall be joining him shortly.”
I don’t know how to reply to that. She sounds so matter-of-fact about it. Should I wish her many more years of life? When that patently isn’t possible? I make a non-committal sort of grunt.
A flash of amusement crosses the timeworn face. “Having to be the one making the decisions is hard, Remeny. They don’t call us timeworn for nothing.”
I frown. “But Fimbrian says that you haven’t made any decisions for years and years and years.”
Now she isn’t happy with me. “We made some recently.”
That is certainly true. The ones that saved my life. I must be grateful. “Thank you.”
“You are important to us. To the Inmuri people. You are the one chosen to find the way forward.”
If this is so I hope that I won’t end up as lined as she is. But the idea is so far away it makes me dizzy. I smile and nod. I have no idea what she means, and I really don’t care that much either. I am too tired and too hungry. All I really want to do is survive. We walk on in silence.
The Thrall raises his head; he can smell the metallic taint of blood in the wind. He is hungry. Finding a way across the gash in the landscape has not been easy. It has taken him days; he was forced to wait
until the waters receded. Now he needs to break his fast.
He quickens his pace. His mouth is watering; it makes him drool slightly as he forges across the dusty land. He is at one with the terrain. They made him to traverse anything. They made him to survive. And they made him never to forget. She could travel to Maraz itself and he would still follow her. She is imprinted on him. An obsession. He must do this. Until he has found her, no other considerations can possibly be allowed to interrupt.
Softly, surely, he pads on across the plains. The scent is only of dead meat. A pity. He likes his meat fresh. Running blood is always much better. He picks up his pace. He doesn’t want them to spoil before he gets there.
He comes to the place. First, he finds a thin, desiccated old man, dead many long hours. The Thrall’s mouth quivers, but he moves on. This body is shriveled, empty of any succulence. He would have eaten from it all the same, but there is juicier carrion. Younger and fitter blood has been shed close by. A more tempting meal for him.
6.
As the days pass and we trudge across the Plains of Teygar I begin to realize just how difficult our task is going to be.
It is hot. Hot even for Inmuri like us. Our twin suns, Kianara and Niyafora, reinforce each other at these latitudes; we are walking through a furnace. And it is dry. So dry that the air scrapes your throat as you breathe, leaving spiky bits of skin to rattle in its wake.
The beaten earth is hard, almost solid like a rock. After several hours it jars all the body. Muscles start to ache, and feet redden and swell up. It is painful.
Yet we are watching. Waiting. Waiting for the Scoriats to find us. They have no argents on this side of the Abaloss Rift. No skulks to root out food. But we know that they will come anyway. That will not stop them. Even Ammeline is looking over her shoulder all the time. Her relationship with Koban will not save her.
We see Quondam Azrial diminish a little more with each passing day. Her body is shrinking inside her skin. Her nose seems more prominent in a face which has now lost all of its flesh. She may make it to the Great Chasm, the next challenge to be faced after these plains. But, even if we get past that, we will face the Karstik Desert, a region which is even hotter and even drier than these plains. I can’t see her surviving there. Every day that passes diminishes her further. It is hard to see how she can continue, but we may all be dead before we reach Kelfor.
Kelfor- the Orthomancers Page 11