Kelfor- the Orthomancers
Page 16
They speed through the eye of the needle, Jethran remembering to pull his legs up into his chest at the last moment.
He has to guess when to let go. His eyes cannot distinguish the black platform from dark night. He waits until the crossbar begins its rise toward the other side of the canyon, waits until his instinct tells him it is time to jump. He can do nothing more.
They fall together, the large man and the tiny girl, dropping for a moment without knowing if they will plunge right to the bottom of the canyon or whether they will hit the platform.
They smash into the dark rock before they can think of failing. Jethran takes a series of small steps, trying not to fall on top of the girl. He doesn’t want to crush her.
In the end he cannot help but trap her under his heavy body, but he is up before his full weight can harm her. He slips her hands over his head and uses his teeth to untie the knots that have tightened on her thin wrists.
He carries her to the very back of the platform, depositing her safely in a small alcove formed by two meeting rock faces. Then he reaches for the slack longline that goes back to the other side, and gives it two sharp jerks, letting the trapeze swing backward again.
It takes Fimbrian some time to manhandle the carricks into position to send them across the eye of the needle. He waits, straining his eyes against the darkness, trying to see if Jethran recovers them. When the two tugs come back along the line to him, he breathes a sigh of relief.
He and Azrial turn back to the night sky to the north, over the Abaloss Rift. The Scoriats must be almost on top of them now.
“We wait,” Azrial tells him, in answer to an unspoken question. “We wait until we can take some of them with us. We fire on them, and then we destroy the Karstik Needle. Clear?”
He nods. “What about Rannyl? Torch?”
“They will know what is happening here. As soon as they hear the guns, they will know to stay safe. They are of the land. The land will protect them.”
“But they can never cross the Great Chasm. They will be stuck here, hunted by the Scoriats.”
“Never is a long time, dissenter. Even you cannot be sure of anything.”
His teeth flash in the dark. “I never expected to die with a timeworn.”
“Sometimes life surprises us.”
“We will not die alone.”
“No. We will die together, facing our enemies.”
“I always thought you were the enemy.”
She is silent.
They rest their guns on a circle of rock, aiming out, ready.
Jethran is watching from the other side of the chasm. He and Kalyka are hidden in the dark and there are plenty of rocks to shelter behind. They are no longer in danger. He waits. He has to witness what happens now. He cannot bring himself to leave yet.
They do not have to wait for very long. It is only minutes before the guns light up both walls of the Karstik pass. The flashing lights enable the large man and the small child to see across the gap, allowing them to be unwilling spectators to the confrontation.
By the end of the second day, we are all desperate to get through this desert. It seems to stretch beyond all horizons. It is punishing. We are forced to shelter under the carricks as we walk in a vain attempt to lower our body temperatures to within reasonable limits. We must look crazy, struggling through the deep sand with the hard carapaces of the carricks propped over our shoulders. We are like snails in pointy shells.
We have given up trying to talk. The carricks mean that we have to keep our distances from each other and nobody has the energy to raise their voice. We are immersed in our own thoughts. Or not. In my case I am experiencing a sort of grey misery which is demanding coolness and darkness. Each breath I take sears through my lungs and makes me even hotter. There is absolutely no respite. It is hard and cruel.
Only the Scoriat is unmoved by the sheer discomfort of the desert. He is carrying the carrick he and Ammeline share on his shoulders. This leaves her freer than the rest of us, but she shows no signs of liking her lot any better. Koban walks with grace, his feet skipping through the sand as though it takes no energy on his part. He really is different. He seems stronger, much more resilient.
“What is the matter with you?” Ammeline has seen me staring.
I shrug. I am too exhausted to reply.
“Just because this is all about you doesn’t mean you can give yourself airs and graces!”
I shrug again.
“Leave her alone!” Zivan has dropped back to my side.
“Rest!” Furian’s arm goes up.
I close my eyes in relief. I drop onto the sand where I am, letting the carrick settle over me. Around me, I can hear the others doing the same. There is a rummaging sound as we all untie one of the small water containers and slake our thirst. Then there is silence. At first, the sand burns through my clothes. Gradually, as the carrick continues to block the sun, it cools down. I begin to fall asleep, my brain slipping into a disconnect with relief.
I am dreaming of floating through the downdrench at Boulderstone Pass. My head is tilted to the sky, my mouth open to receive the water. At first it is benign, wonderfully refreshing. Then it turns into hammer-like pounding. I begin to drown.
I wake up threshing about under my carrick, heart thudding. I thrust the carrick to one side and hold my sweaty face up to catch the rays from both suns. Gradually, they dry the fear from my face. I glance quickly around, hoping nobody has seen me. The others are all under their carricks, except Zivan, who is keeping watch some distance away from the rest of us. She is staring out over the desert. I breathe again. My terror has gone unnoticed.
I stare blankly around me. Nothing moves in this desert. There are no animals, no insects, no plants to provide any variation on the infinite expanse of sameness.
Then I see I am wrong. Looking behind us, back the way we have come, I can see our tracks. We have left furrows along the soft sands – long lines which cross this untouched surface, defiling its pristine, stark beauty.
But there is something moving. A dark shape is lifting up and down as it gradually and painfully moves in our direction. I narrow my eyes and stand to get a better perspective. I can just make out one large and one small figure.
Zivan has spotted them too. She has left her carrick where it was and is now running to meet the newcomers.
I realize who it is and follow. We struggle through the loose sand toward them. My mind is confused, refusing to accept who this is, refusing to acknowledge what could have happened to bring them here after us.
Zivan is already there by the time I reach them.
I lean down and hug Kalyka to me. She begins to cry. “Grandpa ...”
Jethran hangs his great head. Zivan frowns. But he will tell us nothing yet. “When the others can hear,” he insists. “I will not tell it twice.”
I cuddle Kalyka until the sobbing lessens. Then Zivan holds out her hand to help the little girl. I fall in behind Jethran, taking some shade from the back end of the carrick he still carries.
We walk. Under the caked dust his face is set, though I see the muscles in his jaw moving from time to time. I look away as I realize I am staring.
By the time we reach the others they have somehow become aware of our approach. Karith is standing, her eyes shaded against the glare, waiting for her husband. Her large face is illuminated through the grime, but wary at the same time.
Eventually we make a small shelter by burying four carricks on their edges in the sand, and laying the others across these, so that there is some respite from both suns. We huddle together under the improvised shelter.
Kalyka scrambles into my lap and I hold her close as Jethran recounts everything that happened. Kalyka is trembling, and although I try my best, my arms cannot comfort her enough.
We listen as he tells of their crossing of the Karstik Gap. I feel the girl in my arms freeze as Jethran tells how she hung from his neck, her arms lashed together. For a moment, she stops breathing.
His eyes slide to Koban, registering the Scoriat. His lip curls. He hates him, too. Koban looks away. Jethran’s eyes take on a glazed look. He is reliving what they saw.
“There must have been close to fifty of them. Fimbrian and Azrial opened fire when they were only around fifteen lengths away. They wanted to kill as many as they could. I saw around four go down before they managed to get to cover. Azrial continued to fire while Fimbrian turned to destroy the eye of the needle.”
There are several gasps. Ammeline’s eyes open wide. She has been expecting to go back, I realize. She hasn’t yet grasped that there is nowhere to go back to.
Her Scoriat puts one hand on her arm. She looks quickly up at him and smiles. She is thinking that he will take care of her. That he will save her. I stare. He is unsurprised by the news of the Scoriats. Did he know that there were more behind his group? If so, why did he not tell us?
He notices that I am staring. His eyes meet mine. They are candid. I feel confused.
Then I see that Zivan is also looking at the Scoriat. Her chin is up. She doesn’t trust him either. I bend down to drop a small kiss on Kalyka’s head. I don’t know who is good, who is bad. All the lines have blurred, making a nonsense of my prejudices.
Jethran bites his lip. “Fimbrian destroyed the upper part of the ring. It wasn’t easy, because the rock is so hard. Eventually it all collapsed in on itself, leaving only the bottom part of the needle still intact. The trouble is, as Azrial fired to one side to stop them coming, the Scoriats on the other side were able to creep closer. It was impossible for one person to keep them at bay. And it took Furian all that time to destroy the eye of the needle. He emptied his blaster in the process.”
Kalyka gives a tiny moan and threads her thin arms around my neck, clinging to me. She doesn’t want to hear what is about to come. I give her a squeeze. The words won’t damage her any more. I look down. Her eyes are tight shut. It is the images that won’t go away.
Jethran is still talking. “Fimbrian moved back to Azrial. She must have been very close to the end of her ammunition too. I saw them lean close to each other. She said something to Fimbrian, and he seemed to nod.
“She continued to fire until there was nothing left in her blaster. Then both she and Fimbrian dropped their weapons over the cliff. They edged backward until they were standing, side by side, their heels almost overhanging the drop.”
There is a long pause. Jethran’s voice has almost broken; he is waiting to be able to continue. He clears his throat so that his voice is firm and even again.
“They had them pinned down. There were Scoriats all around them, moving closer and closer. They were old. There was no escape for them. Augur Azrial had foreseen it.” His eyes meet those of Furian who inclines his head. He is giving Jethran permission to continue with the story.
“They put up their hands. Their fingers seemed to point the way to the stars. I could still see them, even though the shooting had stopped. The Scoriats had brought torches. They lit them when the firing ceased.
“The Scoriats walked up to them, and one of the leading men asked Azrial something. She shook her head, refusing to answer. I suppose they asked where the rest of us were. When she wouldn’t reply he hit the quondam across the face. She collapsed onto the ground.”
I feel the small body in my arms tighten her hold around my neck. Tears have come into my own eyes. She was so old. How could they do that to her?
Jethran’s toneless voice goes on, though I am no longer sure I want to hear it. “The man kicked out at her. He wanted to hurt her. He was angry that she wouldn’t tell him anything.”
“They directed the lights at the Karstik needle. They wanted to know why Fimbrian had been firing away from them. When they saw what he had done, they realized that there must have been a crossing and that he had just destroyed it. They fired at him, cutting his legs out from under him. He went down. He couldn’t help screaming in agony.” Jethran looks over in my direction, at the small figure I am trying to comfort. He sighs before going on. “I had to put my hand over Kalyka’s mouth. We were still within range of their blasters. Our position was not secure.”
“The quondam leaned in to Fimbrian. She said something to him and then struggled to her feet. She looked across at Kalyka and I. She couldn’t have seen us, of course, but she knew that we were still there. I saw her turn back to the leader of the Scoriats. Then she lifted her head up, up toward the stars. She seemed to be looking at something.
“She reached down again, down to Fimbrian, who was still on the ground, of course. I saw her stretching out her hand. He put his own into hers. She covered his hand with hers, so that she was holding his hand in both of hers. I suppose she wanted to make sure that she would have a strong enough hold.”
We have all stopped breathing, I think. We all know what is coming. We can feel it through his expressionless tone. Even Kalyka is silent and still, waiting for the end of the story.
“Then she simply threw her weight back. The Scoriat made a lunge for her as she did so. He nearly managed to reach her. He must have missed her by only inches.
“She threw her own weight back until she was hanging over the edge of the Great Chasm.
“Everything was still for a few seconds. The only thing that was stopping her from falling was Fimbrian’s hand, clutched between hers.
“I saw him smile. At least, so it seemed to me. I think he gave one of those slow smiles of his and said something to her as she hung over the cliff. Then Fimbrian rolled his body toward her. He couldn’t walk. His legs were shattered. It must have hurt him greatly to move at all.
“The Scoriats did nothing. Perhaps they were scared that they would be pulled over. Perhaps they didn’t care.” Jethran’s eyes move to Koban and examine him dispassionately. Koban meets the glance. He doesn’t look away.
“As Fimbrian rolled to the edge of the chasm, Azrial was waiting for him. Her feet were holding her horizontal against the rock and it looked for all the world as though she were about to rappel down the cliff face, using Fimbrian as an anchor.
“It must have been hard to keep hold of each other. Fimbrian might have felt her hands slip, for he brought his other hand over, to make sure that their connection would not be broken.
“And then, suddenly, they were gone. Fimbrian’s shattered legs broke free of the ground and he was over the side. As he fell, so did she. Their hands never parted as they plunged downward together. They made no noise. Neither of them cried out.” Jethran lowered his head and swallowed. “May Kianara and Niyafora, our suns, take their souls into perpetual rest.”
We all repeat the words, muttering them in chorus. Except Zivan. Zivan is staring out across the desert.
“And Torch?” I ask. “What will become of Torch?”
Zivan doesn’t turn around, but I know she is listening. She has tensed slightly.
Jethran answers. “Both Torch and Rannyl were far enough away to be safe. They should be all right if they keep away from the Scoriats.”
Torch is different. I know that. Even so, he is very small to fend for himself in the Plains of Teygar. I cross my fingers for him. I hope he will survive. Rannyl too. Rannyl has been nice to me. I would wish him no harm.
Furian stands. “We should be moving on. Now we know that there are more Scoriats behind us, there is no excuse for staying here any longer.”
Vannis tilts his chin. “They can’t get across the gap. Fimbrian destroyed it.”
Ammeline throws up her hands. “He might have stopped to ask himself how we would all get back before he cut off our only way of crossing. Now we could be stuck here.”
Vannis looks up to the sky and gives a slow headshake of disbelief. Ammeline glares at him. “What? Well, we could!”
Furian sighs. “It may
take them longer to cross the Karstik Gap, but they will manage it eventually. Even if they have to bring in heavy materials. They can and will do it. If our mission is to succeed, we must push through to Kelfor. We are too close to give up now.”
I am horrified. All this, and the Raths will still catch up with us? Then why did Azrial and Fimbrian have to die? What was the point?
Furian seems to sense my doubts. “They have bought us time,” he tells me. “Their sacrifice has given us a chance.” He turns, his expression rueful as he points to the lines in the sand which our dragging feet have left. “Once the Scoriats reach this part of the desert it will not take them very long to track us, I fear.”
Jethran is nodding. “All we can do is to move as fast as we can, as far as we can. There will be no time to rest from now on. Not if we want to survive long enough to get to Kelfor.”
We dig the carricks out of the sand wearily. Our morale is as low as it has ever been. Azrial and Fimbrian have died for us. Torch is lost. We have only a diminishing stock of food, of water. We eye each other. Who will be next?
Far, far behind, between the Rift of Abaloss and the Great Chasm, the Thrall is feeding.
Unfortunately only one of the bodies was still fresh when he found the place of fighting. He knew the meat was old and stale, but he is still disappointed not to find living flesh. Blood thickens on death, coagulating into tasteless lumps.
Graven eats, all the same. He needs sustenance. To find her. To follow her. He can still trace her scent even all this time after she has passed. And he is getting closer. If it weren’t for the huge rifts and chasms which crisscross this planet, he would have caught up with her long ago. But the rifts are hard to negotiate; they challenge even Graven’s intelligence and stamina.
Nothing is following him. Nothing can follow. And nothing will. The Raths will never expose themselves to the elements, nor to a creature that can kill them so easily. They never stopped to consider what they were creating! Graven shows his teeth as he contemplates the race which made him. Who would have thought the Raths could taste so bad?