Despite the difficulties, Furian still tries to teach me some small part of kappaltu each evening. I practice resolutely. I have the feeling that the next time I meet a Scoriat it will be without one of their blasters in my hand. I need to do this. We block part of the wind by burying the edges of four carricks upright in the sand, to form a tiny arena. There, we can take the time to practice the moves. He says I am progressing.
Linnith is not enjoying her days here. Ammeline and Doven are inseparable now. Since nobody else wants to talk to her, the girl has allowed Doven to follow her every move. He is obsessed with her to the exclusion of everything else. He has given up his kappaltu practice.
When she sits, he has a cloth to spread on the ground. When she needs to rest, he digs her carrick into a position of safety. When she smiles up at him from under those long lashes of hers, he quivers. Linnith always looks away then. She cannot bear to see it. Her mother Karith and father Jethran stay close by her, trying to comfort her with their presence. It doesn’t work. Linnith’s feet drag over the scorching earth.
Vannis has kept his distance from us all since his grandfather passed on. He limits himself to an ironic observation of his fellow travelers. We amuse him, I realize, although I have no idea what goes on in that arrogant head of his.
Fimbrian carries his granddaughter for much of the day, despite his age. He still has the strength to do it. He doesn’t complain, but I see the way he looks at Quondam Azrial from time to time. His resentment at the timeworn for all of this hasn’t disappeared.
Zivan shows nothing to the rest of us. She walks behind us every day, her eyes always busy scanning the terrain. She shows no sign of discomfort. Her lean legs eat up the ground and her face remains impassive. When I can, I try to walk near her. Perhaps some of that iron resilience will wash off on me. I don’t think she minds my walking so close to her. Even so, she doesn’t talk, only acknowledging my presence with a dip of her head.
Rannyl strides along, mile after mile. His eyes are nearly always turned to the sky, searching for his argents. He keeps his thoughts to himself, if he has any. Perhaps he dare not voice them. Last time the Scoriats attacked, I saw him position himself slightly to one side. He knows that of all of us, he is the one they won’t kill. He is wise enough to keep that to himself. I wonder if the others have figured it out. Furian and Azrial will have, of course. The rest may be too preoccupied with their own worries.
The only one is enjoying this is Torch. He is always ranging out in front of us, Lupo bounding at his side. The skulks are gradually accepting his leadership of their exclusive pack. They bring him the tubers we need to survive. Torch adores the animals. I can tell from the way he runs free with them, almost part of them; he belongs.
Zivan’s eyes follow her son too. She knows how happy he is. He has found his place on this world. Each day he is eager to start. Near the rest of us, he is still awkward, uncomfortable, backward. With the skulks he is in his element: wild and vibrant. I can hardly believe the difference.
Me? I put one foot after the other, but I can’t help being angry. Angry because none of this has been by my choice. Fimbrian may say that all this is Azrial’s fault, but I think he is wrong. The real enemies are the Raths and their experiments in the Xenokarth. I detest them. I promise myself that, if I can, I shall make them leave Hethor. They have ravaged our planet enough. Their time should be over.
It is the fifth day. Karith has told us that we should be able to see the slopes of the Great Chasm by the end of the day. Even Azrial smiled at that; there is water at the bottom of the Great Chasm. We will not be able to reach it ourselves, but with the help of the argents, we will be able to collect more than usual. There should be enough to clean ourselves. And maybe even our clothes. I crunch at some of the encrusted earth on my tunic. It drops off onto the ground leaving the fabric almost recognizable again. I can’t wait to wash the grime off. We are all walking with a lighter step today.
Then I see a flash of blaster fire ahead, close to where Torch is running with the pack of skulks. I freeze, turning automatically to Zivan.
She is already sprinting to the front of the line, followed by Furian and Doven. Furian and Zivan are armed, but too far away to shoot.
Jethran herds the rest of us together. We have little cover on the plains. The mushroom-shaped rocks long ago gave way to flattish land in all directions. There are only some small indentations and gentle rises which break up the monotony of the expanse. He chivvies us to the edge of one of the rises, telling us to form a circle, to place our carricks to the outside of the circle. Once this is done we duck behind them.
“As if the carricks will protect us!” mutters Vannis.
Ammeline glowers at him. “They are better than nothing!”
I am about to answer when I realize that I am in the wrong place. Azrial is too infirm to fight, Ammeline can’t. Vannis doesn’t want to. Rannyl knows it is not in his interests. Jethran is protecting the others. Fimbrian cannot leave Kalyka. I look over at Karith and Linnith.
Karith gives a sigh. She gets to her feet. “Linnith. Stay here. One of the two of us must survive this ... or Kelfor will never be found.”
Linnith’s mouth opens slackly. Then she narrows her eyes. She shakes her head.
“No, mother.” She reaches down into her carrick and takes a long knife out of a hidden recess. “This is not your task. It is time I started to do my part.”
Karith is horrified. She raises the remaining gun we have. “You are not going anywhere, young lady!”
Linnith’s chin tilts. “Are you going to shoot me with that, Mother? I rather think you will need it for the Scoriats. Don’t waste ammunition.”
Jethran stares at his daughter, then puts one large hand out to the side and pushes his wife’s barrel down, so that it points to the ground. He gives a grunt and waves his other hand at Linnith and I.
He doesn’t have to say anymore. We are gone. Linnith grins at me as we race for the Great Chasm. I smile back. She has a knife. I have a sling and my kappaltu training. We are great warriors on our way to great deeds. It feels good. My blood is beginning to sing.
We have no idea what we are going to find. The others are already over the horizon. There have been no further lightning flashes. A good sign, I think.
Linnith and I run on, our breath beginning to come in gasps now. You get so dehydrated here, so fast. Some of the muscles in my legs begin to complain, to demand that I rest them. I am determined to take no notice of them. If Linnith can make it, so can I.
We reach a small mound in the flat surrounding land and carefully pull ourselves to the crest. It is only about six feet above the rest of the plain, but in these plains, it represents a large disturbance in the terrain.
We peek over the top.
In front of us, about a hundred yards away, we can see Torch bent over some shapes on the ground. His slumped shoulders show how he feels. Then he stands. His shoulders straighten as he faces off the Scoriats. His thin little body is stiff with outrage. They have killed some of the skulks.
Zivan is out of range of the Scoriats, but racing relentlessly toward the three men. Doven is doing the same on the right flank, with Furian on the left. Three against three, but they may not get there in time. Torch is advancing directly at the Scoriat guns.
He is showing no fear. One of the Scoriats aims at him and there is a flash. Torch’s small shape is thrown back. Both Linnith and I gasp. A bolt of disbelief shivers through me.
I cannot wait any longer. Something inside of me has snapped. I am over the crest of the hill and I am running as fast as I can for the Scoriats, for Torch. I can hear Linnith pounding along beside me, her breath rasping in her throat.
My eyes are fixed on the small crumpled shape on the beaten earth. At least, they are until tears distort the image. I try to blink them away but more take their place.
In front of us Zivan seems to be flying toward her son. I don’t think I have ever seen anybody move so fast.
Everything seems to expand into slow motion. I am aware that we are running straight into our deaths, but I cannot stop. It is a stupid thing to do. It is a crazy, suicidal dive to our own deaths. But the impulse has taken hold of the others, too. None of us stop.
Two of the three Scoriat figures kneel in order to take better aim at us. The third stands behind them, having no gun.
A score of smaller shapes leap from the ground. They were crouched behind Torch’s prone shape. Now they throw themselves onto the three Scoriat figures. I can hear the low threatening growls they make as they close in. Both kneeling men turn their blasters on the skulks. They fire, and two of the leading animals scream before cartwheeling over and over and lying still. There are further shots and more skulks fall. It is all happening so quickly that we have only covered part of the distance.
But Zivan and Furian are now in range. They both drop into a firing position and the weapons in their hands blast out a reply. Lightning flashes across the earth. It hits both of the kneeling men. One moment they are there, the next they are gone, evaporated into their heaven between the stars.
The surrounding skulks turn their eyes to the remaining figure. The other Scoriat is retreating slowly, backing away from the pack of animals. It is Koban. Slowly he picks up one of the fallen blasters and aims it at the attacking animals. I am close enough to be able to make out the individual shapes. The skulks are growling at the man, teeth bared.
The prone figure of Torch moves. My heart gives a leap. He is still alive! But he is hurt. He staggers to his feet, and stumbles a couple of paces closer to the remaining man. He gives a shout, his voice higher pitched than usual. His skulks flatten themselves against the floor.
Torch is half sitting, half standing. He is clutching his left arm, which has been hit, with his right hand. Linnith and I are still behind the others, so we see that both Furian and Zivan are taking aim again. This time they are aiming for Koban. Doven brings his weapon to bear on the Scoriat as well.
But Torch has seen them too. He lurches across the distance separating him from Koban and puts himself deliberately in front of the Scoriat. With his arms wide, he is telling his mother not to shoot.
“Get away from him!” she shouts. “He deserves to die!”
But Torch just shakes his head.
He waits until all three have lowered their own guns, then crouches down by the fallen skulks.
As we come up to him, we can see his eyes are blotchy. There are ten dead animals lying on the ground, together with the few remains of the two Scoriats who have been vaporized.
I stop. I don’t know what I can say to Torch. He is heartbroken. His animals defended him and now so many of them are dead. Lupo, who has survived, is pressing close to the boy, tail tight between his back legs, ears lowered.
Koban has tried to retreat as far as he can. His arms are up and he has dropped his blaster. “I am not going to hurt anyone,” he says.
Zivan growls at him as she reaches for her son. Koban is no longer her priority. The Scoriat looks quite relieved.
She pulls aside the broken threads of Torch’s tunic to examine the hanging arm. He grimaces, but ducks away from her, making some of the high-pitched moaning noises he uses when he is uncomfortable.
Zivan gives him a little shake. “Stop,” she tells him with a firm tone. “I need to examine this. I must see what damage has been done.”
He is moving from foot to foot. His eyes are gazing at the dead animals and he is crying for them. I can understand how he feels.
I walk up to him. I have no idea how to comfort him.
He becomes aware of my presence. I give a shrug. “They wanted to save you.”
He gives a moan. I know what he wants to say; he thinks their lives were worth more than his.
“Your arm is only badly burned,” says Zivan. “You have been lucky. You shouldn’t lose the function, though it will hurt. I don’t think even Thurifer would have be able to prevent that.”
Torch is pleading with me. His eyes are asking me to help him. Tears of his drop down onto the pelt of one of the dead animals.
Then I understand. “You want us to bury them?”
His face clears. I have it right.
“Linnith?”
She is as eager as I am to do something ... whatever ... to console this boy. We examine the surrounding terrain. There is a small depression only a few feet to our left. That is fortunate. If it were like the terrain where Thurifer died we could never approximate anything like a grave.
We both move over and begin to dig at the earth with the sharpest rocks we can find. It cedes and we break through to softer soil underneath. Now we can use our hands to excavate a very shallow grave for the skulks. Even so, it is hard work. We are really only scratching at the surface. This mass grave will have to be covered in loose rocks. The ground is too hard.Then hands join us. I look around. First it is Furian, then Doven. Then it is the darker hands of Koban, with their Istak markings. The three men pile rocks around the small area we have cleared.
Soon the rest of the group come up to our position. Willing fingers add more rocks to the pile. It is only an hour before we have enough to cover the bodies of the skulks.
Torch gives a mewl when we move to pick up the body of one of the animals. He doesn’t want us to touch them. He moves to the first to lay down its small insignificant animal life for the person it had learned to love. It gave the only thing it had to give.
Torch buries his face in the soft fur. Then he walks to the center of the small hollow. He gives Zivan a small nod. She picks up the body carefully and passes it to him. Torch gently lays the body onto the ground. He puts his good hand on the dark pelt and lowers his own head.
After a few moments he looks up and nods at his mother again. She picks up the next body.
Soon they are all lying in their makeshift tomb.
I help Torch out of the small dip and wait for his instructions. In answer, he takes a couple of the stones we piled on one side and deposits them over the animals. I look at Azrial. The quondam is staring into the grave.
Guttural noises of anxiety come from Torch’s throat. The old lady sighs. She is remembering the promise she made to his mother. She bends down with some difficulty and takes a stone herself, letting it drop on top of the bodies of the skulks. Then she sits down some distance away. She is very tired.
Torch is pleased. This is all he requires of us. After that it is easy. Everybody ... even little Kalyka ... is happy to help him cover the animals that have saved us.
When the makeshift grave is finished, we stand for a moment with our heads bowed. It seems strange to acknowledge that we were not been saved by Zivan. We were saved by Torch and the strange bond he has developed with these animals.
Azrial moves close to Torch to inspect the damage done to his arm. For a second her eyes go to Vannis. He is Thurifer’s grandson. He should be a gramen. However, he is showing no interest whatsoever in Torch. I see another small shadow cross her face. She hasn’t smiled since Thurifer died. There is a perpetual frown on her face. Though one more deep line among so many is hard to see.
Jethran and Linnith help her open up the carrick which was Thurifer’s. They rummage a little inside until they find one of the many potions which he carried with him. Soon, Karith is administering the cure on Torch’s burnt arm. He shivers as it falls on the wound, but makes no effort to run away. Karith administers almost all the potion. She wraps a bandage around the thin arm before pronouncing that she is satisfied.
The men are clustered around the remaining Scoriat. There is a certain level of threat tangible in the air. Nobody knows what to do with Koban.
Vannis puts his chin up. “Shall I shoot him?”
Ammeline gives a shriek, “No!”
She runs to Koban, who puts an arm around her. He stares us all down, almost daring us to kill him.
Zivan gives him a calculating assessment. “He is a Scoriat. He will kill us.”
Ammeline puts herself in front of the dark-skinned man. “He will not!”
Furian steps forward. “Tell us,” he says. “Tell her.”
Koban gives us all an apologetic shrug. “It is true. If I am ordered to kill you by a superior, I may have no choice but to obey. It is in my genetic makeup. I cannot disobey a direct order from a Scoriat superior or a Rath.”
“In that case why are you not fighting now?”
“Because our orders are only valid until the penultimate soldier has fallen. Final survivors on the battlefield are commanded to retrench and use their best judgement. That is so that we may survive to make our way back to our tetrarch with information. I am not, now, obliged to kill any of you.”
Zivan curls her lip. “And you expect us to believe you?”
“Of course you must!” Ammeline is shaking. “He would never lie. He wants to be with me! You know he does; he tried to save me before!”
Rannyl dares to speak. “That’s as may be but it don’t be meaning he won’t wait his turn to slit our throats in the dark, now do it?”
Fimbrian clears his throat. “As I have said before; he did not choose to be as they made him. He is as enslaved as we are. We should not stoop to the levels of our enemies. I vote that he be allowed to stay.”
Ammeline lifts her hand. “And I.”
Linnith is staring at the Scoriat. She presses her lips together before raising one finger, rather tentatively.
Kelfor- the Orthomancers Page 12