A Fray of Furies, page 20
part #2 of The Waking Worlds Series
Quailing, it took an apprehensive mouthful. It was laughable – she’d watched this featherbrain eat actual feathered brains. Now it pulled up its nose at honest Hunters’ fare. It looked like it was about to chuck its guts. Or, at least, bulkbear guts.
Moaning disgust, it chewed. Swallowed.
She watched sublime revelation alight across its face. It wolfed its share while she sedately ate her own. The organ meat would give them quick energy and staying power.
It felt good to smile, even if she knew it to be blood smeared.
“Go make fire,” she motioned, turning back to her butchering.
With abundant access to food and water, she reflected, they could afford to spend a day or two here – build up their reserves. She’d have preferred a smoke tent for pelt and provender. An open fire would have to do for the meat and she could still brain-tan the hide. Provided she could get through the bulkbear’s thick skull.
“So,” the krin said, much later, when they were both sated and seated by the fireside. Wielding her longknife like a hatchet, she was turning the bulkbear’s severed head between her knees, trying to pry open its pate. The krin had been mulling since sunset.
“How did I come to be here?”
She gave it a sharp look, “You not remember this?”
It shook its head, looking lost.
She grunted. She detested lying. It was a thing of her second-mother and no proper skill for a Hunter. But she’d had an afternoon in which to weed any untruths from her tale.
“We find you. I find you, in forest. You not right in head. Our sigsur is wise man. He say, bring you to lowland city.”
It digested this, “How did I come to the forest?”
She shrugged apologetically.
“Did I have anything on me, when you found me?”
“Dirt,” she supplied. “Blood. You in forest long time.”
“And no one knew me?”
“No one. You surprise everyone,” she said truthfully.
It bit its lip, thinking.
“And these Old Masters, are they healers? Can they help me?”
“Show you to Old Masters,” she nodded, whacking away at the bulkbear’s skull. “They see what to do about you head.”
Such as, take it off, if they have any sense–
She’d finally managed to lever the lid off the brute’s skull.
Maggots spilled over her hands and across her knees.
“Ancestors’ hoary bones!” she cursed.
* * *
“This place is enormous,” he breathed, craning his neck. Though whispered, his words rose from the enclosed courtyard to echo off the stone archer-galleries – thankfully unmanned.
“I’d have thought you’d seen the Greenwall before…?”
“Never from this side,” he told the monk, eyeing the cold oil cauldrons. “Certainly never from the inside.”
“Well,” Yoriana mused, “it was built to keep you people out.”
He glared suspiciously, “What do you mean ‘you people’?”
“Heathens,” she promptly supplied. “Thieves. Murderers.”
“Oh,” he allowed, relaxing. “That’s alright, then. I thought you meant ‘Purlians’.” He ignored her sneer, mentally scaling the gatehouse walls... “Hang on, aren’t the Renali heathens too?”
“From our perspective, certainly,” the monk supplied.
“So why isn’t there a similarly impressive wall down south?”
“It took the Renali the better part of a century to fortify their northern front like this. Their southern border spans a far greater distance. And the Barrier Range is almost impassable already. Besides – Purlia was always the greater threat to them.”
He turned a jaded eye on the man, “Our mishmash of marauder princes? A greater threat than your continent-consuming empire?”
The monk gave him an apologetic smile, “Our might is our mobility. We are a naval power. But we can’t very well sail over the mountains. Logistically speaking, the next continent over is closer. So we blockaded the lone Renali port and moved on.”
“Seems like ignoring the jackal under the crib, if you ask me…”
“The Renali may be non-believers,” the priestess joined in. “But they worship no false idols and suffer no pagan practitioners.”
“And they’re a tiny nation,” Neever agreed. “Harmless.”
Metal-clad guards gave them hard looks as they passed.
“Harmless,” he mused, eyeing their cruel billhooks. “Yeah.”
Though he knew it to be his imagination, the sun seemed to intensify beyond the wall. A vast, rocky expanse of dry scrub confronted them. Even that would soon surrender to endless sand.
“An army could live there,” he opined, peering over his shoulder at the edifice. He was discreetly looking for handholds.
“One does,” Neever supplied. “At capacity, the Greenwall garrisons six standing battalions, not counting support staff.”
“I wonder how many men that is?” he mused absently.
“By Renali reckoning? Five thousand fighting men in all.”
He stared at the back of the man’s head, “How does a lowly monk know so much about enemy installations and numbers?”
Neever had originally been pulled from choir practice to act as his escort. Since then, he’d seen his modernist handler take armed swordsmen in stride and orchestrate multiple political infiltrations.
“Neever,” he wondered aloud, “are you a spy?”
“Keep your voice down!” Yoriana hissed urgently.
“You are!” he gushed, booting his horse forward. The monk’s serene expression gave the lie. “Wait! Does that mean I’m a spy?”
“Shut up, you simpleminded oaf!” the priestess hissed.
“I believe that is our caravan,” Neever broke in calmly.
A dozen wagons and thrice as many merchants, drovers, traders, travelers and servants clustered ahead. The company’s owner was laughably easy to spot. With bare belly bulging above puffy pantaloons, Hulain Vaste was a caricature. His authentic headdress and dark tan disguised it well, but his blood wasn’t Purli. The desert had sanded away any hint of his original accent though.
“You’re late,” the sweating man scolded in greeting.
He snickered. Had they arrived the night before, the blustery caravaneer would doubtless have said the same.
“Get your goods strapped down, we’re headed out,” the man huffed, belled slippers tolling with his hurry. “The fellow with the beard and the shoulders will be along to collect your tithe.”
“Got a lot on his plate,” Neever opined, staring after their host.
“Was that a fat joke?”
The monk blinked in consternation.
Captain Daim (with the beard and the shoulders) got to them on the road, during the course of the morning, “No wagon?”
“Just what the two packhorses are carrying,” Neever confirmed. They were traveling light, though the monk was reticent as to why.
“Cargo?”
“Alchemist’s tools and supplies. Some salves and solutions.”
Disinterest made the captain’s eyes inscrutable.
“Don’t you want our names?” Neever called at the man’s back, made broader by a two-handed tulwar sheathed across it.
“I don’t think he wants to be friends, Neever.”
Their first day was the customary march of minor catastrophes: shifting goods, squeaking axles, stubborn beasts and absent amenities.
He loved it.
Not even the ungainly Renali beast he rode, with its snoot like a butter churn, could spoil the mood.
He was alone in his enjoyment, he thought, sitting by the campfire that evening. Already the individual carts and companies were cliquing together, creating uneasy alliances and confused enemies. He watched the interplay of shrewd gazes and subtle shifting among the fires with a critical eye. A karwan worth his salt would have pre-empted such camps forming in his caravan.
Shaking his head, he dug Eris Bolk from his saddlebags.
The hero was crossing a desert as well…
…walked for forty-four nights, far onto the arid sands.
‘Slayer,’ the once-shepherd, cried in fear, ‘we must turn back. Surely, no oracle resides here. We must away, or lay down our bones beside these bleached ones.’
‘I feel the breath of foretelling upon my brow,’ the warrior said. ‘Faint, as might pass through a pinprick: we are on the right path.’
‘This way will lay you low, Slayer. Let us flee.’
‘No. I seek a path to survival.’
‘There is no man or beast as could best you, Slayer. But your sword will not stave off starvation, nor scoop water from this sand. You court your death among these dunes.’
‘It is not my own survival I seek to ensure, shepherd.’
So saying, the warrior led them deeper into the desert.
Then, on the sixty-sixth night, the sky turned black.
‘Thirst has felled me!’ cried Jepta. ‘The very stars have fled!’
‘Stifle your fear, shepherd. Hold tight to my belt and follow.’
With the dread gorgon’s eye held aloft, the swordsman led them through the emptiness. At long last, they came to an oasis.
‘Wait here whilst I confer with the oracle,’ the swordsman bid.
Eris Bolk braved the waters alone and swam to the bottom. There, he found a golden palace. Upon a jeweled throne sat a beautiful woman, a lion’s head crowning her shoulders.
‘How do you propose to pay for my counsel?’ she asked.
‘I bear armor that cannot be breached by mortal means and a sword no force of arms can shatter,’ the swordsman said. ‘Two questions I would ask. These two things I offer in payment.’
‘What need have I of arms and armor?’ the oracle said. ‘In this place, I am unassailable.’
The swordsman saw that this was so.
‘Lady, I know well what you are. And I know how you reckon worth. It matters not what need have you of these items. What matters is, what need have I of them? Let us not quibble.’
‘Let us not. I know what you are as well, Ender. I know what you would ask. And I know what you prize. There is only one payment I will accept from you.’
‘Speak it, then.’
‘Time.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Your quest consumes you. You are content to seek it until the end of your days. Two questions you would ask, two thirds of the remainder of your days I will take in payment. You must fulfil your quest in what time remains to you. Else you shall fail.’
‘Let it be done, then.’
‘By blood is our agreement made. Ask your questions.’
‘Where will I find my beloved?’
The oracle’s smile was terrible to behold, ‘A poorly worded question. You will not, is my answer. One more question, Ender.’
Eris Bolk considered, crafting a question with no clever escape.
‘What must I do to ensure my beloved’s liberation?’
The oracle’s smile grew wider.
‘Her captor’s kin holds the key, find the kin to set her free.’
‘Then I shall take my leave,’ the swordsman said–
“What’cha readin’?”
He looked over.
The boy had been a late arrival to the caravan, catching up on a swaybacked nag during mid-morning. It had been hard to judge the little runaway at a distance. Now, however, out of the saddle...
“Boys don’t sit like that,” he said by way of greeting. “Let go your ankles, lower your knees. See how I’m sitting? Men flaunt their privates. They don’t cover them.”
Her wide eyes skidded from his in a panic, “I don’t–”
“That’s a dead giveaway,” he overrode. “The way you just tried to tuck hair you don’t have behind your ear. Freshly shorn, yes?”
Cringing, she said nothing.
“And you should pad the front of your breeches,” he advised. “Bundled stockings will do. But not too big: men compare.”
“D’you think everyone else knows?” she breathed at long last.
He considered. He’d been taught to move and act like a girl by someone far more accomplished than whoever had taught her. He had an eye for it. Still, she wasn’t very good. He sighed.
“Probably not,” he guessed. “I take it you’re traveling alone?”
Whatever she was fleeing must be grave to force her into this farce. A woman alone had to gamble on the decency of the men she met on the road. Those were odds no smart woman would take. Safer, then, to not be a woman and to not travel alone.
With a sinking feeling, he realized how his party must look to her: a woman – apparently in charge; an older man – with as much sexual energy as oatmeal; and him – a physically unimposing youth of an apparently bookish persuasion.
Well, shit.
“Who’s your friend?” Yoriana asked, sitting down beside them.
“We haven’t been introduced,” he sighed, “This is…?”
“Garm. Pleased to meet you, mistress.”
“Are you teaching Garm bad habits, Master Jiminy?”
“Trying my very best,” he admitted.
“What are we talking about?” Neever joined them.
“Neever,” Yoriana introduced, “this is Garm.”
“Hello, young man,” the monk smiled. “What brings you here?”
“Er,” Garm stuttered. “Off to find my fortune, I suppose?”
Fortunes tend to already have owners, he sighed, setting Eris Bolk aside. He was saved from joining in the conversation.
The tinkling of bells preceded Master Vaste into the firelight.
“Esteemed guests and traveling companions!” the man boomed, silencing all conversation. “Welcome, to the Vaste Caravan!”
The applause was conspicuous by its absence.
“While in my care, I ask that you follow a few simple rules: no stealing, no fighting and no falling behind. Not unless you fancy finding your own way among the dunes.”
The various fires crackled loudly in the wake of this threat.
“Now,” the man glossed over, “to sweeten your wine and your dreams, my lovely wives have agreed to dance for you. Be warned: if you cannot keep your hands to yourselves, my guards will return them to you after the performance. Please welcome the lights of my life, the petals of my heart, the magnificent Inid and Obyd!”
Servants struck up a tune on a clay flute and some tambourines. The karwan’s wives gyrated from beyond the dark. They were certainly impressive. Their command of the raqshar was flawless. What they were not was very attractive, even with their veils.
The two undulated around the fires, trying to tempt the onlookers into participation. To a man, their would-be victims declined, some vehemently so. But Garm’s comparatively light weight allowed her to be levered to her feet.
Silken scarves polished the ‘boy’ to a spectacular blush. She stood, feet rooted, clutching protectively at her bulge-less breeches. Whenever she made to shuffle shyly away, one of the wives would throw a loop around her and tow her back into the show. The audience loved it, calling out raucous advice to the besieged boy.
Finally, the song was ended and Garm allowed to escape.
One of the caravan guards took the dancers’ place in the firelight. A moment of unease rippled as the man drew wickedly curved knives. The flute played a tense note. With no more introduction than that, the guard began to juggle. Relief conspired to applaud him. A second guard stepped up and the two began tossing the knives back and forth between them.
They weren’t half bad, he admitted as he clapped along.
The jugglers had hardly moved aside when the night belched a plume of flame, causing some in the audience to flinch. ‘Oohs’ and ‘aahs’ encouraged the spindly fire-eater to regurgitate ever more impressive tongues of flame.
Well, well, he thought.
His fellow travelers appeared much more relaxed than they’d been, breaking bread and making easy conversation.
Maybe Master Vaste was not the fraud he appeared.
But then, he thought, glancing at his companions, who among us are who we appear to be…?
* * *
She hurried through the underbrush, eyes hunting for bent stalks and telltale tracks. Her heart beat an anxious tattoo. She’d found a trail amid some bracken, lost it in a rocky patch, and picked it up again in a bed of brown needles.
Her thoughts churned with self-castigation.
This was all her own fault.
At first, she’d been smug that her tongue lashing had silenced the krin so completely. For a league or more, she’d basked in blessed quiet. Only gradually had it dawned on her that she’d heard no sounds of its pursuit for some time.
“Krin?”
She’d turned to find nothing but empty forest. Her harried afternoon had been spent, trying to retrace their morning’s route.
Now the light was failing and she’d only just picked up the trail.
“Krin!” she called, rage battling with her self-recrimination. The trees split the sound and smothered it among them. “Krin!”
By her forebears shriveled pears! She should have named the light-footed lout when she’d had the chance. She raised her fingers to her lips. Her father had taught her the horse-whistle. Then he’d extracted her promise never to let it loose unless she were leagues away from his ears. The shrill note pierced the sky.
“Answer me, damn you!” she screamed at the hush.
It couldn’t possibly have gotten lost. With its preternatural senses, it should have been able to follow her through a saltmarsh. Perhaps it was sulking, she thought, after having its feelings hurt. Rather that, she thought, than indulge her other supposition:
If the krin’s more monstrous nature was re-asserting itself, it would soon be stalking her through these woods. So far though, the tracks she’d found seemed human. She took a little comfort in that.
She stuck her fingers between her teeth again–
–and nearly swallowed her thumb.
Amid the grey boles, no more than a dozen paces distant, a figure stood. Watching her.
“Krin…?” she squinted, reaching for her knife.
