By the Moon, page 17
She pulled up above the surface, taking a gulp of breath as she opened her eyes. She went to her satchel and pulled a soft cloth and a bladder of water from its folds, tipping the bladder carefully to wet the cloth.
Gently she wiped the golden sheen from Guthnick’s face. Still the pixies slept. With each snore their wings emitted a tiny puff of the dust into the air, so that yet more rained down upon him. As she wiped, the ruddy complexion of his skin came through and he began to stir. When his face was clear she shook him again, calling his name softly.
No response, though he seemed a little closer to waking. Feyla swept her eyes down his body, confused, worry pounding through her veins. She moved towards his middle, shifting a pile of pixies carefully away from his stomach. Under their weight she discovered another patch of exposed skin, where his abdomen met his belt. The slice of skin was covered in more golden dust, so thick it shifted on the skin like sand, caught in the dark hairs that sprang from his belly. Feyla brushed at the dust with her fingers, causing it to pool down the side of his body, then wiped gently at the taut muscles of his body with the cloth.
She began to feel distinctly uncomfortable, her heart thudding with something different from the worry that pounded through her body, something more primal. She had never touched this part of a man before. As she continued to wipe at his muscled stomach the pale skin became clearer beneath the gold. He shifted and groaned in sleep.
Something was stealing over Feyla now too. Her eyes were growing heavier with each moment, each blink becoming longer. The pixies began to twinkle in her blurred vision, and she thought how comfortable it would be to simply drape herself down across Guthnick, curling in his furs and succumbing to a deep sleep.
How wonderful, to sleep.
There was an alarm going off in the back of her mind, quiet, as though from underwater. Some ever-watchful sense of self-preservation was screaming at her. She pushed back against it, trying to ignore the insistent nagging, until it grew too loud to ignore.
She stumbled up again, dropping the cloth on Guthnick’s now clean stomach. Turning over her hand she marvelled at the gold shimmer on her fingertips.
Wipe it off! her mind screamed. Almost lovingly, sleepily, she wiped the cloth against her fingers, leaving them clear once more, the golden highlight gone. As she did so the fog lifted from her mind, like mist rising through the trees. Around her the forest was quiet, though the sun was rising now, the trees above lighting yellow and white in the morning glow.
She shook him once more.
‘Guthnick.’
He opened his eyes and a shiver of relief flowed through her. It took a moment for him to find her eyes, then another until recognition lit in the depths of his gaze. She watched as he looked around, staring at the trees above, then finally gazing at her properly, confusion on his face. His eyes fixed on something left of her jaw, and he spoke.
‘What is that?’
She dropped her chin to look, surprised to see that the pixie still clung to her braid, its face calm in sleep. Long red hair flowed down the pixie’s back, fluttering as the creature snored.
‘A Malachite pixie. We are in their forest, we arrived last night. You have a few too.’
She nodded to Guthnick’s body and he lifted his head slightly to look, dislodging several of the pixies in his hair. As they shifted he gave a small cry of surprise and looked up at her, helpless.
‘Help me move them.’
Together they scooped up the limp bodies of the sleeping pixies, Feyla laying them carefully in her own hammock. Guthnick heaved himself onto the boardwalk. She saw him readjust his clothing to cover his bare stomach, with a furtive look across at her. A slippery wriggle of guilt slid through her gut and she looked away, gazing intently into the trees, as though extremely interested in the beetle climbing up the bark of the nearest trunk.
He cleared his throat loudly and spoke.
‘What is this magic? I remember our journey but while I slept there was nothing. Only darkness and ease.’
‘The dust seems to enforce sleep,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I felt it in your body; the dust kept you tethered to sleep. Even though I shook you and yelled, I could not wake you until I had cleared the dust from your skin.’
‘From my skin?’ He looked confused.
‘Yes, from your face. A layer of gold covered your face, and… other places,’ she trailed off, feeling her cheeks redden. ‘I had to clean it off before you could wake.’
Guthnick’s hand went instinctively to his belt, and he too blushed pink beneath his scrubby beard. Feyla spoke quickly, trying to cover the awkward moment.
‘It seems to emanate from their wings, do you see? It gives some sort of enchantment; a deep sleep settles upon whoever receives it. And they sleep so deeply themselves, you saw how they did not wake, even when we moved them. It seems that the enchantment falls upon them also.’ She gestured to the tiny pixie still in her hair and prised it gently from her braid, careful not to touch its gossamer-thin wings. She laid it atop the others, in the silken folds of her hammock.
‘It is a powerful weapon.’ Guthnick was staring up into the hive, watching the golden dust fall like fine mist. It piled in the centre of the boardwalk, creating a small hillock of shifting sand.
Feyla craned her neck to look over the side of the boardwalk. Dust had fallen through the cracks and the ground below the hive shimmered golden in the dim light. She could see several tiny creatures, a mouse perhaps, and there a fat possum, sleeping soundly on their sides, the dust covering their thick fur. She looked back at the mound of dust that lay beneath the sleeping pixies, twinkling innocently, destined only to be wasted on the forest floor.
‘Perhaps a powerful weapon worth keeping,’ Feyla said mildly, watching Guthnick for his reaction. His eyes lit with opportunity and he looked around furtively.
‘You gave it to them, with your All-Power,’ he shrugged.
Every one of the thousand pixies was still sleeping soundly. He nodded encouragingly and Feyla crossed quietly to her satchel once more, pulling out an empty bag fashioned from soft leather and picking up the cloth. She lifted the hood of her furs above her head before she stepped beneath the hive, into the soft shower of dust falling like snow. Crouching beside the pile she used the cloth to pull mounds of the dust into the bag, filling it to the brim with sparkling powder. She tied the toggles carefully, ensuring the bag was tightly closed, then stepped back.
Guthnick was watching appreciatively, his eyes on the bag. She shook back her hood, stamping and shaking the dust off herself, tucking the bag carefully into her satchel. A thrill went through her at the prospect of what she had just acquired.
‘Shall we march onwards?’ Guthnick asked her. ‘It seems… ungrateful, to leave while they sleep.’
‘It seems ungrateful also to thieve some of their magic.’
Guthnick laughed at that and the joyous sound broke the seriousness of the morning. Feyla laughed too, and heard some of the pixies begin to wake, their voice starting to babble like a brook. The spell of the quiet dawn had broken. Several pixies rose from where they had been sleeping in the hammock, zooming through the trees as though they had never stopped. The sun was rising now and the sky beyond the trees was blue.
Feyla gathered her things, checking her satchel. The bag sat innocently in the leather folds and she could sense its magic even through the material, a singing echo of the static energy from the pixies themselves.
When they were ready she called a goodbye and several pixies slowed and smiled, their birdlike hands on her shoulders, her face, touching her hair lightly in farewell. She and Guthnick turned their back on the hive, to begin the trek further west. At a curve in the path Feyla spun round to take one last look at the hive before it disappeared between the trees. She saw Ametrine hovering near one of the closest trees, watching them go.
‘Thank you, Ametrine,’ she called.
‘Anything for the All-Power,’ Ametrine called back. ‘Enjoy Anguard, if you make it.’
With that she began to laugh, a trilling sound like thousands of tiny bells that echoed through the forest as they walked away, beautifully sweet, yet strangely menacing.
* * *
The forest beyond the hive thrummed with magic. They walked and walked, the sun meandering above them as the days passed. They slept the nights on the boardwalk, the branches rough and uneven beneath their furs. Several times Feyla found herself wishing for the silken cocoons of the pixies. Everything in the forest grew abundantly, thousands more shoots of green rising every day. When Feyla woke each morning, she was sure there were new branches growing on the nearby trees and fresh leaves sprouting up around them. She wondered how many enchantments lived in this magical forest, glittering with the jewel-bright hues of green. The very earth seemed to hum with secret growth, sprouting and pushing through dark soil, vines snaking around the thin trunks of the curved trees.
Occasionally other pixies meandered through the trees, though none slowed to speak with them, nor did anything at all to acknowledge their presence. Feyla saw again how she had mistaken them for birds at first, with the golden whir of their wings and high-pitched chatter. Guthnick grew louder and more at ease the further they stepped from the hive, cursing loudly about the tiny Moon-wasters and chuckling about the enchanted dust, musing on how long he would have slept if Feyla had not been there to rescue him. Feyla reflected several times on how different he was when away from the pixies. The tiny creatures seemed to terrify him into silence.
Guthnick asked about life in Seylon. He was so interested in her answers that he pressed her for more and more information, and she found herself speaking for hours about the lands of her home. She told him about her father, of evenings spent in the tavern, how her sister was courted by every eligible male. She told him about the icy winds that whipped through the village in the winter, the flower-strewn meadow in summer, the pond full of fat fish.
He chuckled at her stories of learning to fight with Raven and Traynor, and was intrigued by the stories of the wood women, of how they worked so incessantly up on the edges of the forest, their muscles hard as rock, their exposed bodies turning nut brown in the sun. But when the conversation turned to the forest, to the beasts that stalked beyond the shady edges of the trees, Feyla found that her light-hearted attitude abandoned her as quickly as a passing shadow. She fell silent, thinking of Oaken, worried that she would fail to get help when they so sorely needed it. She remembered the way Florine had sobbed when she left, how her father had gripped her shoulder so tight it hurt. How frightened they all were for her. She thought of what would happen to them if she failed in her quest.
Guthnick seemed to sense her reserve, for he did not ask any more questions, and they walked on in silence, their boots thudding on the boardwalk below. The path sloped ever downwards as they descended off the western flanks of the Hawked Mountains. Feyla’s knees ached.
Occasionally Feyla would think to marvel at the miles of boardwalk that spooled out ahead of them, never ceasing, snaking through the trees. Occasionally she would stop to look at the green shades of the forest, so bright all around her, darkening as it grew more distant, the leaves so lush and verdant they almost seemed to grow as she watched them, burgeoning and stretching up towards the sun beyond the canopy, eager for its glow.
Mostly though, they walked.
On the afternoon of the third day the trees seemed to thin and dappled sunlight warmed her face. The air around her was growing warmer and she began to itch under her heavy furs, feeling the prickle of early sweat in her armpits.
The trees were indeed thinning as they dropped further in altitude. Small bugs gathered here, buzzing and flitting, creating a low hum that reminded her of summer in the forest back east.
After a few more minutes of walking, they heard human voices, the first since the Hold. The sound dropped like a handful of snow into Feyla’s stomach and she stopped suddenly, listening intently. Guthnick kept walking steadily; he must not have heard it.
They must be approaching the Pit. Surely he wanted to stop and prepare? Still he walked on, getting further and further away from her, walking tall as a king. She ran after him, her feet lightly thudding upon the uneven boards below. The voices grew louder. They must be only around the corner.
When she reached him she gripped his arm, swinging him around to face her. Surprise registered on his face and he looked down upon her, waiting for her words.
‘Can you—’ she faltered, confused now. ‘Can you not hear them?’ Her voice was a whisper, and in the silence that followed the voices were plainly audible.
‘Oh, I hear them,’ Guthnick said loudly, his deep voice carrying through the trees. Feyla thought she heard the other voices break, then start again, faster now. ‘Though I am unconcerned about these men. Squatters,’ he clarified, a look of disgust crossing his scrubby, pale face.
‘Squatters?’ she asked, understanding nothing.
‘You will see.’ He turned again and continued walking towards the light beyond the forest, his head held high. She sensed a new emotion coming from him, something akin to arrogance. She followed, bewildered, but trusting in the shadow of his complete confidence.
Within a few paces they reached the edge of the deep forest. She stepped out into the sunlight, raising a hand to shield her eyes.
It was not quite the edge of the forest, merely a clearing, large enough to house several tatty-looking tents made of thick canvas. The settlement looked permanent; a goat was tethered to a peg and had worn down the grass within the radius of its fraying rope. Its ribs were visible, it looked thin and underfed. Looking around at the people who now turned their way, Feyla saw that they too looked thin and underfed.
Several men stood around a fire pit near the closest tent. The fire was long out, an ashy blackness against the yellow of the trodden earth below, rocks circling the cool embers. It looked as though the men had been sitting on the low logs that surrounded the fire moments ago, standing to greet them. To greet them or fight them?
Their faces were full of anger, hostility billowing off them like a great wind. Their thin frames were hunched and their brows pinched together. No one spoke. Feyla sent a thin thread of energy across into the nearest, a man with a mop of wiry grey hair, standing with the help of a staff. She sensed into his energy field and recognised it immediately, that slippery black emotion. Fear.
Of what?
She looked at the men again, retracting her thread of energy, and saw that they were all watching Guthnick with the same mingled fury and fear. Whereas Guthnick, now that he was out of the forest, held his head high with that royal arrogance. She noticed that he looked pale, clammy and unwell, but no fear came from him, not an ounce of doubt.
He was in charge here, Feyla understood immediately.
Several people came out of tents or stood from where they had been crouched over buckets. Feyla saw in the shadow of the distant trees a group of women, clinging to the shady depths, watching silently.
She wondered what had happened here.
Guthnick spoke so loudly that Feyla jumped.
‘Squatters, people of our land. It has been a long time, no, since one of our warriors came to check on you?’
He paused, but it was met was only silence. After a few moments he began again.
‘So quiet! Down here in the Borderlands I thought there was mead and dancing! Merriment! All at the expense of our great forefathers. You cling to our lands, though we reject you, yet still you squat here in our fringes.’ He began to stroll forward, walking easily, looking around as he went. As he drew closer the men cringed together.
‘There are others, you well know, who would drive you out on finding you here. I’m sure you remember their visits. Each time you scuttle back, like roaches, swarming upon this fertile bounty of the mountain. I will let you alone this time, but know that you are not welcome. Why do you not find another clearing, west of the border?’
More silence, and Guthnick started to laugh. Feyla watched him uneasily, doubt pooling in her chest. She did not like this arrogant version of him. She stood in place, letting the distance between them grow as he walked further into the shabby camp.
‘Oh yes, west of the border is the Pit of the Honourless, and who knows what those soil-lovers would do to your village, to your people.’ His eyes ranged across the group of women standing in the shadow of the trees. He gave them a sardonic bow.
Finally one of the men spoke, a tanned, tall man standing in the group by the fire. By the way the others looked to him Feyla was sure he was their leader. When he spoke his voice was clear and confident; only the white knuckles gripping his staff belied his anxiety.
‘What is it that you want with us, mountain warrior? For years we have lived on this unused land, treading lightly, respecting the bounty it offers us, taking only that which will not be noticed.’
Guthnick stomped towards him, seemingly delighted that someone had finally risen to the bait.
‘What do I want with you? I want you to leave, Moon-wasters. I want you to take these,’ he looked around at the canvas tents, his lip curling. ‘These shacks, and your people, and your goat, and find a home somewhere else in the realm, not on our precious land.’
The man stood nose to nose with Guthnick, holding his gaze with a calm defiance. Feyla’s respect for him grew.
‘These lands are unused by the mountain people. You cannot survive here, yet you want the land untouched, for what? To sing of the great Hawked Mountains’ power? Our people need shelter and steadiness. We have lived here for many years, and for your grudging hospitality, we thank you.’
The man bowed his head briefly and thumped his staff once on the dusty ground. The thump was echoed by those around him. Guthnick stepped back, wrong-footed. He had wanted a fight, Feyla suddenly understood.
The man smiled tentatively at Feyla. ‘Who is your guest? She is not of the mountains, no? Her hair is too dark, and she looks too at ease in these woods.’
