By the Moon, page 21
The stolen feathered headdress fell as she ran, sliding from her head and flopping quietly off the side of the boardwalk. She heard a sizzle of heat as it hit the huge pool below, smelt the acrid scent of feathers burning in the acid. One wrong step and she would take the same fate.
Pain bloomed in her leg as an arrow struck her calf and she pitched forward with the force of it, landing hard against the boardwalk. The bow flew from her back, landing feet away on the wood before sliding into the acid with a hiss. Her boot yanked from her foot, caught on a loose plank. Agony began to spark through her body, white hot and shocking in its intensity. Then she heard a strangely magnified voice shout behind her.
‘Release him. He will bring the Seylon harlot down in a matter of seconds.’
Another voice, quieter, afraid and questioning. ‘But sir, how will we—’
‘I said release him!’ the first voice shrieked. The sound echoed around the crater.
Feyla struggled to get up and failed, expecting another arrow to strike her at any moment. There was nothing but a heavy silence, a pause in the fray, and against her better judgement she turned to look back.
There was a beast standing at the foot of the Pit. Gigantic and terrible, dirty hair matted on its haunches. Its eyes were red and bright, and even from this distance she could see that they were fixed directly on her. Men in protective gear were standing back from the creature, trying to release the metal cuffs that chained its legs and neck. As each cuff fell they clanged loudly to the ground, and the beast let rip an awful growl that seemed to come right up from the depths of his body.
A jaggedtooth.
She did not know they had one here, this far west. Feyla had always been told they were only of the East Forest, a terror known only to her people. She had never seen one in the flesh, but had been told so many stories by her mother and father, by men in the tavern in the long winter evenings. None of them had explained it exactly right, the terror that this beast incited.
His huge shaggy body was muscled, covered in dirty white fur. There were scars on his legs and sides, and his angular face was huge, a long snout baring sharp fangs. As the men released the beast it stood up on its hind legs and roared, the sound incredibly loud. He was twice the height of the men around him. The men nearest ran for cover, and the beast swiped at them, knocking several to the ground. They did not get up.
He dropped to his four paws again, his murderous red eyes still fixed upon Feyla. He began to run, impossibly fast, towards where she knelt, felled by the arrow.
There was no time. In moments he would be upon her, and there was nothing to either side but the acid-hot water of the lake beneath. She had no chance of running, even without the barbed arrow in her leg she would never be fast enough. As he thundered towards her she could feel the boardwalk rumbling beneath her feet, creaking under his weight. Instinctively she threw her hands up, throwing fear into the air between them. Then, when the beast was so close she could feel his growls reverberating through her chest, he seemed to hit an invisible wall, recoiling as he hit something solid.
Feyla stared up at him, her hands still outstretched. He snarled and snapped at the blockage. Something in her force was repelling him; she had created a shield of energy between their two bodies. Light rippled on the surface of it, faint rainbow colours shifting and changing, a giant shimmering bubble in the night air.
She wondered how long it would stay in place, and no longer had she formed the thought than her mind than her arms began to shake with the effort of it, her fingers trembling. The beast glared down at her, snapping its jaws and dripping spittle onto the wooden planks below.
Behind him the men were growing restless. Unable to see through the gloom, they crowded near the entrance to the boardwalk, pushing against one another. Their voices raised and babbled, then arrows rained down around her, thudding into the boardwalk like bullets. A few flew over her shield and thudded down behind her, but many hit the surface with a loud chink, as though they had hit glass. Still more arrows hit the beast’s haunches; he responded with a deathly roar. Snarling in pain he jumped on the spot, turning to see what had caused it, his hind legs stepping dangerously close to the edge of the boardwalk. Feyla saw the arrows protruding from his flesh, blood coursing down his yellowing fur. Still she held the shield, though she could feel her energy waning. Adrenaline coursed through her body but she was tiring. The bubble began to flicker and fade, and she pushed more force into her fingers, solidifying the shape once more.
The beast was growing angrier now, throwing itself from side to side in agony. Feyla got to her feet, gritting her teeth against the white-hot pain in her lower leg. She began to back away, her hands outstretched, checking behind compulsively to ensure she wasn’t going to step off the boardwalk into the acid below. The creature did not notice her retreat, distracted by the arrows sticking out of his flesh. She crept back, slowly at first, then gathering pace as she moved further away. The trees hung in the distance, a minute’s run at flat-out pace. Once she was in the forest she knew she would have a better chance of hiding. She knew the forest.
The men in the watchtower were shouting now, noticing her retreat and alerting the guards at the Pit. There were yells of outrage, and that magnified voice again, though Feyla could not hear the words. She would have to run. She had no idea how long the shield could stay in place, or what it could resist. It flickered once more as her resolve began to fade.
As the boardwalk beneath her started to rumble with the footsteps of twenty men marching towards her, Feyla threw off her caution like a cloak. The jaggedtooth was looking away, towards the Pit, watching and snapping as the men drew closer, their bows raised. She threw her shield towards the onslaught, glimpsing the surface rushing through the air, the colours glimmering as the substance rippled in the night breeze.
She turned and sprinted towards the trees, each stamp of her left foot sending a blinding shot of pain through her body. Nothing could make her slow now. As she ran towards the dark trunks that promised cover, she thought of the underbelly of the Pit beneath her, of being locked in a cell again, to be killed in an arena with the sound of a jeering crowd ringing in her ears as she bled out into oblivion. Her lungs burned as she ran, and she felt the rumbling of the planks beneath her, heard the shouting of the guards behind her, and a snapping, growling roar of death, only feet behind. She ran with every spark of power she possessed. When she was near the trees she thought she saw someone standing there in the darkness, watching from behind the largest trunk. A guard! If there were guards with bows in the trees she was surely finished, surrounded on all sides. But even as she watched the shape melted into the blackness, and she could give it no more thought, for there was hot breath on her neck and an arrow thudding into the acid water beside her. The trees were only feet away, then inches, and as she reached for the nearest branches she heard an unearthly yowl of pain, and a huge shudder of the earth beneath her heels. Not daring to stop she swung herself up and into the branches, swiftly flying through the darkness up into the canopy. She climbed silently and frenzied, gaining height, hand over hand, over and over, her breath loud in her ears. She allowed herself a look back once she was perched between two branches, ten yards above the forest floor. She could see one of the beast’s paws hanging at an odd angle, and only the tip of its muzzle was visible, the tongue protruding. Dead.
She looked at the base of the tree where she thought she had seen someone. There was nothing there.
The guards were drawing closer, their voices rattling in the night, each fighting to be heard. Feyla heard their words clearly as they drifted up through the dark leaves.
‘You’ve killed him with your arrow!’
‘I aimed for her! My aim is true, you know this. I did not kill the beast, look at where the arrow struck! It came from her, if anything!’
‘You have killed the prize beast. I told you not to strike while he was so close! Ovana will have you hung in the Pit for this misstep.’
They began to argue heatedly. The men yelled over one another and it became impossible to disentangle their voices as the crowd grew more and more agitated. Feyla hung above them, hardly daring to breathe.
‘She is alive, I know it! Search the forest, we will have her out within minutes if we use Devil Gas. Drop her like a stone.’
‘I saw her pitch into the acid! My arrow struck her leg, I know it! No one could run with an injury like that. She is boiled beneath us, I’m sure of it.’
There was a silence as Feyla imagined twenty men peering over the side of the boardwalk into the black liquid, trying to discern whether or not it held her body in its depths.
‘Ovana will want blood. We need something to take back. His prize jaggedtooth has been killed – he will be furious. The others are only cubs, they will take years to grow ready for the arena.’ There was a sizzle after the man spat, and Feyla realised he had spat into the acid.
‘I say we use the Devil Gas. Then we will know for certain. She would be a pretty trophy for the wall of the Pit, to match the others who have strayed this way.’
A deep laugh rumbled through the group and her stomach twisted with fear.
‘Look!’ A man shouted, sounding further away. His voice grew louder as he hurried closer. ‘Her boot! Just near the side of the boardwalk there, where the arrow felled her. She must have fallen into the acid.’
‘Ah! That will be good enough for Ovana. Come, we will take the beast for meat. Once Ovana has had his revenge, we will feast as the moon rises. It’s a pity we do not have her body, but the boot will do as a trophy. Perhaps you can drink from it, comrade, as you dealt the fatal blow that sent her to a burning death.’
A jeering laugh rumbled through the group once more and she heard the clap of several hands on the man’s back. There were creaks and shuffles as they positioned themselves around the beast, arguing about how best to shift its huge bulk.
Feyla breathed a quiet exhale, feeling her shoulders drop from near her ears.
Safe, perhaps. For now.
* * *
Quickly Feyla climbed through the trees, moving silently from branch to branch, though the men were arguing so loudly she doubted she would be heard, swinging above them. The night was black and a breeze whispered through the trees along with her, rustling the leaves as she passed. She climbed easily through the canopy, supported by the thick curving branches. Occasionally the foliage would open to the heavens and a night sky full of bright stars showed themselves, hanging above her.
She could think of nothing but putting as much distance as possible between herself and the Pit, and though she could not tell which way she was heading there was a bright glow in the night sky behind her, from the fires that burned there. Within an hour the glow had faded almost completely from the sky, and she was left alone with the stars.
Thoughts began to crowd her head as she got further away from the men. Slowly relief dripped through her, drenching every cell with a giddy weakness. The terror of being caught began to wash aside. She had escaped with her life! The pain from the arrow point still in her leg began to build once more.
And the satchel! She had her satchel, it banged reassuringly against her side with every movement, the soft leather scuffing against her belt. As soon as she thought of it her mouth watered, thinking of the dry kettlebark tucked into the folds. Food. She had not eaten since the soup at the Borderlands, two, maybe three nights ago. At the realisation her stomach twisted with intense hunger.
Hand over hand she began to climb down the trunk of the tree, helped by the hundreds of branches that snaked from and towards it, each one offering a hand to help her descent.
At the lowest branch she stopped, peering carefully at the shadowy forest floor. There was nothing but the thick trunks of trees, standing ghostly in the silence. She jumped, her feet pressing into the soft ground. Her injured leg smarted with the impact. She straightened, looking around. There was nothing to be seen, though she felt a prickling sensation in her belly, as though she were being watched by someone in the darkness, just out of sight. As she stared into the shadows she thought she saw a movement in the blackness, a darkness deeper than that around it. She watched, still as rock for many long minutes, but nothing else moved. Her stomach growled. Shaking the feeling off, she crouched and flipped open the leather flap of the satchel, peering inside.
She stared at it, her mouth open. Something in her began to sink. She sat heavily on the damp ground, holding a hand to her forehead and staring at the bag. Empty.
All of that, for nothing.
Outrunning a jaggedtooth, an arrow to the leg, escaping twenty men intent on her death. All for an empty satchel.
Something huge shifted inside Feyla. She cracked open, slumping sideways onto the leaf-strewn ground. A howling began to escape her, tears coursing from her eyes as she gulped for breath. A river of grief made her jaw ache, for being sent on this suicidal mission. For her sister, her father, for Raven and all of the people of her village. She thought of their smiling faces, the women swinging their axes in the burning summer sun. The young men in the tavern, lifting tankards towards her in a mocking salute.
She would have Joined with one of those men, given the normal course of things, if she was allowed to live a normal life. The mocking eyes would turn to enquiring, then desiring, and she would have welcomed it. She would have grown big with their baby, spent evenings by the fire in their own hut, watching the outline of his hand against her belly. Her own father would have walked with her child, taught him or her to fish, to run, to recognise which clouds meant rain and which meant wind. Her child would have heard the legends of the jaggedtooths, who stayed just far away enough to be entertainment, tales told over warm nights in the tavern. And when she was old and grey she would have cared for her own grandchildren, walking with them through the sunlit meadow, following fat little legs as they toddled to the next thing of interest.
All of it had been taken from her. There was no future. The benign chance of an easy, normal village existence had been tugged away from her path as soon as Oaken had summoned her, that sunny morning that she stripped bark from the trees, worrying about her sister’s many suitors.
It seemed laughable now, that she once had worries that small.
She curled in on herself, hands clutching her stomach as though her very guts were spilling from her body. She did not care how much noise she was making, how far her cries might be winding through the forest, around each silent trunk and into the unknown distance. The arrow still burned in her leg, buried in her flesh. The shaft had been broken off in her climb and now a jagged wooden spike adorned her calf.
She sobbed for the futile fury of every single thing that had stood in her path on this journey, everything that had gone wrong. For Guthnick, and Rybark, his blood seeping from his body, staining the white snow red. For the people of the Hold and how they ached for healing. The poverty of those in the Borderlands. The horror of the Pit.
All her life she had been told tales of the Pit. She had found herself trapped in one of those cells, the minutes ticking down to the moment she would be forced into an arena. Defenceless and ready to be torn apart for amusement.
Uncontrollable howls ripped from her belly, and her body racked with the effort.
She had nothing. No food, no medicine, no weapon. This suicide mission had all come to naught. The people of Seylon would wait for help, and none would come. Would Oaken see their deaths? See that she had failed?
Slowly her cries turned to soft sobs that faded into quiet breath, the only sound in the heavy darkness. A numbness spread through Feyla’s body, and she welcomed the cool white sensation of nothing at all, burning away the hunger in her belly, the pain sparking in her leg, the horror and terror and grief in her mind. Curled in the dirt, her mouth wet and cold on the damp leaves, she succumbed to the exhaustion, not caring where she lay, or who might find her there.
Sleep stole over her like vines from a creeper, pulling her down into its dark embrace.
17
People of the Land
She woke to the sound of something scratching nearby. Perhaps her father rummaging in the drawer near the cooker for his pipe, maybe her sister. That was it. Florine was making her bed, loudly, like she always did.
‘Hush Florine,’ she mumbled, rolling onto her back.
There was a sudden silence as the scratching stopped, then the sound of huge thumps as something moved closer. The ground shook beneath her. Then breath, and heat on her face, the smell of damp hay as something snuffled against her.
Feyla opened her eyes.
She was lying on the forest floor and above her was a creature twice her height. Its great shaggy head hung over her, antlers stretching out towards the nearest trees. As she stared up at the animal it pursed its lips and blew, covering her in spittle. She scrambled away from his huge bulk. The sprucedeer merely shook his head lightly, turning gracefully to stalk away amongst the trees, lifting his head as he chewed a bright green leaf in his mouth. As he trotted away Feyla saw several others follow him through the nearest trees, taking a careful path, their antlers slotting easily through each gap. Their coats shone brown and shimmered green in the dawn light, camouflaging them with their surroundings.
Feyla watched the deer go, and as they disappeared into the trees the pain in her leg rose. It was red and all-consuming now. Twisting awkwardly to look at her calf she examined the broken arrow shaft that penetrated her flesh. She had never tried to heal herself. As she inspected the wound another wave of pain rolled over her. She would have to remove the shaft, she knew. Steeling herself, she braced her foot against the forest floor. Without thinking too much she grasped the shaft in both hands, and pulled.
