The Edge of a World, page 7
Only one choice remained: he needed to risk stealing a yardar.
Otar stepped around the boulder, and someone moved in the shadows. Berat’s hair was mussed, his naked chest littered with dark spots.
“Leaving us so soon?” he drawled.
“Your hospitality was a bit lacking.”
Berat snorted and opened his mouth, and Otar reacted on instinct. He lunged forward, tackling Berat to the ground pressing a hand at the same time over his mouth.
“Don’t,” Otar said imploringly. “You’ll regret it.”
Hatred flared in Berat’s eyes. Whatever connection they might have shared, it was all gone now.
“Please,” Otar tried, “I can take you with me.” But Berat bit him and in surprise, Otar moved his palm a fraction, allowing enough space for Berat to take a deep inhale to shout, but before he could do so, Otar pressed down again and let go.
The monster, still simmering under his skin because of all the agitation, came readily, sucking the life force with glee.
Berat reacted fast, drew a small dagger, and plunged it into Otar’s side. Otar almost let go, but the monster was in control and held onto its prey.
It was over in a few heartbeats. Berat’s eyes turned dull, and Otar let the body sink down. Wild energy coursed through him; being sated like this was exhilarating and wrong in equal measures.
He moved fast; the new overspill of energy would soon dissipate. He winced when he turned. The dagger felt uncomfortable in his side, and running with it would be impossible. Onder, Andres’ brother, had warned him once to never draw out something pointy stuck in him; well, it was a risk he now needed to take. He slipped out of his shirt—the dagger had only grazed the edge of it—rolled it up, and dragged the dagger out, hissing out between his teeth at the pain. Then he knotted the shirt tight around his waist, putting as much pressure as possible on the wound, just as the doctor in his home village had taught him a long time ago.
He glanced down at the dagger and back at Berat. With a sigh, he put the weapon down on the other’s chest and curled a hand around it.
Once finished, he checked his surroundings, eyeing the yardar on the other side of the camp once more. Pale light on the horizon warned him that his chance was now gone.
He grimaced, turned, and ran.
After a few steps, a hound howled.
How did he miss the dogs? He cursed when he heard shouting near him, followed by the sound of scrambling of feet, and more hollering. Otar hurried down the nearest path into a narrower path, hoping that the more massive bodies of the slavers wouldn’t be able to fit through.
He rushed down, thinking fast. They had his pack. Was that enough to pick up his scent?
When he left the narrow pass, he found himself at the shore of a small river, its murky depths drifting past lazily. Otar checked on the bandage and winced at the blood seeping through. Going into the river would be a bad idea, but that was his only option. He exhaled and waded in. The water was freezing, and the riverbed fell away under him fast. Swimming sapped the strength right out of him, and he was not sure how he made it to the other side. He heaved himself out onto the opposite shore and lay still to catch his breath, then he staggered to his feet and hurried on.
At intersections, he chose a path at random until he reached a cave mouth. Otar stumbled in and dropped to the ground. He rose again, and slipped deeper into the cavern, retreating as far back as he dared, all the while hoping that nothing larger had already claimed it.
With the cave wall behind him, he drew his knees up and let his head rest on them. Everything had happened so fast, and the details were now fuzzy. What stood out in his mind was the death of two men—two men he had killed. He had done the one thing he swore to himself would never happen again: let the monster take blindly. But how much control did he have over it in the end?
He wanted to feel remorseful for the lives he had taken, but he had protected himself from a crueler fate. And yet hadn’t it been the monster itself that had protected, and he, unwilling to stop it, had given in to what lived inside him and tormented him since he could remember—always waiting for a slip-up, for a chance to take?
Had there been another choice?
Later, he told himself, later he would find justice somehow, find a priest if possible and donate something to the lords, begging for their mercy.
Before that, he needed to get out of the hillside alive and escape somewhere. The map Berat had drawn appeared in his mind’s eyes. The ruin lay to the east. Pale light filtered through the cave opening, barely penetrating the gloom. With all the stone walls and crevices that obscured the sky and the path of the sun, it would be difficult to make out in which direction he needed to go.
Getting out unseen was at the top of his to do list. Afterwards, he should head east or find a friendly merchant or even a traveling tribe to take him.
In Adabel, he would be safe, and then he could alert someone about the slavers roaming around close by.
While the light would make it easier to see, he’d be clearer to spot as well. Under the cover of darkness, it was less risky, but harder.
There was no choice.
He sighed and closed his eyes.
Chapter 8
“The Southern Islands are situated right off the south-western coast of the Altek Kingdom. Past kings have made many futile attempts to invade, until under Barek II, a long-lasting treaty was signed, promising the five major islands and their surrounding archipelagos sovereignty.”
(From: The Southern Islands, in: “The Seven Lands in its Entirety”, Vol. 25)
Otar paused and listened to the sounds of the night. What was that skittering sound? A foot crunching on the track overhead? He exhaled. It was probably a restless animal.
He crept forward again. Thick clouds obscured the moonlight. As predicted, the path was hard to see. Otar trailed a hand along the stone wall to not get lost. He snorted at the irony. In the ruins, he had done it to wait for something to happen. Here, he hoped nothing would.
When he slipped out of the cave as soon as night had descended, he chose a direction on a whim, praying to the lords that this one would at least lead him out.
Stones clattered somewhere. Otar stopped again waiting to hear the more rhythmic clicking of a person walking down a path. But just as before, it must be a skittering animal hurrying away into the darkness—no one seemed to follow him. After waiting for some time, he no longer heard any noise, so he moved on.
Wincing when he took a wrong step and aggravated the wound, Otar checked his side, blood was still seeping out and the bandage was damp. He was sick. Flashes of hot and cold shivered down his spine. His vision held dark spots, and his forehead was too warm.
Maybe he should hope to die out here, because when the slavers caught up with him, he would pay dearly. Two dead by his hands wasn’t an offense easily forgotten, regardless of what money he might bring them. They would take their revenge.
Another round of pebbles clattered down onto the path and Otar froze.
Too many, too often.
And then he heard the clicking of nails.
They had found him.
Otar squinted into the shadows, imagining them moving and twisting, reaching for him. He reconsidered his plan to escape into the steppe. The hounds had the ability to trail him, and out in the open, they were capable of racing. Could he outrun them?
A shot of pain raced down his side, reminding him why it would be a stupid idea. He gnawed on his thumbnail; once more he was running out of options. Exhaustion had slipped into all the places the energy had been before.
Endurance. It all came down to that.
A shout nearer than he would have liked, and he clamped his mouth shut, fearing his breathing would betray him. He turned his head up, making out moving shadows. Terrified, he pressed his back against the stone wall. His heart was hammering so loud they must surely be hearing it. It was a miracle the earth wasn’t thundering with it.
Words in their own tribal language drifted down to Otar, they didn’t speak in Common anymore, so he couldn’t make out their plans. There was more shouting further down the path, and the shadowy men turned in the direction they had been coming from. They must have discovered his tracks. Now it was only a matter of time.
The ravine he was using as a path was sloping downward, and another river arm waited at the end. He moved and clenched his teeth, pressing his jaw together to not cry out in pain. He fingered the bandage and found the surrounding flesh hot to his touch.
Could he make it through the river? Well, there was only one way to find out.
He hurried and didn’t stop when the freezing water hit him. As he swam, the current was stronger than he’d expected.
Otar paddled as close as he dared to the high walls towering over him on the other side. Searching for an opening, he let himself drift until he caught sight of a small outcropping reaching down into the river. He tried to grasp it but slipped, his fingernails scraping painfully over the wet stone. Taking a moment to breathe through the pain, he grabbed once more and heaved himself up.
He exhaled and climbed. It was slow going; fumbling more than once, he slipped down the rough stone, catching himself at the last moment with his fingertips. Their skin broke open, and he flinched at every grip he needed to make, until he finally scaled over the cliff. On the other side he stumbled through more stone walls, following a twisting path until he found himself on a gently sloped hillside. Pale light appeared, washing the horizon gray.
Otar swallowed and moved. He ran through the hills, always listening out for thundering yardar feet or the howl of the hounds. But nothing came.
Hopefully, that last bath had thrown them off for good. Still, when the sun flooded the steppe, he chose a small bower and rolled himself into it, waiting once more for the night to cover him.
In the twilight, he crawled out, shaking and stiff. The voice of a lone wolf rose; Otar flinched but didn’t stop and ran. His gaze flicked around, hoping to find the light of a settlement or a fire, a beacon to safety. But there was nothing but blackness; the moon had ended its cycle and was nowhere to be found, so darkness pressed in on him from all sides. He stumbled, caught himself, and kept on moving. The moment he stopped, he knew he’d fall down and never get up again.
Twilight shifted around him. The sun rose anew, its light harsh and hot.
Otar kept running. One foot in front of the other.
Wetness seeped down his side. His hand came back red and yellow. He cursed, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
He ran.
At roughly what should be midturn, his steps slowed. Not because he wanted to, but his body wouldn’t obey anymore. He willed his legs to go further and further, just one more step, just one more mile. But his muscles didn’t listen. His vision was blurry.
In the distance a dog barked, another answered.
Otar stumbled forward. Then his knees gave out, and he crashed to the ground, his arms useless appendages at his sides. It hurt. He was surprised he still felt anything. He groaned and then struggled to get back up again, trying to move his arms, his legs, but it was as if he was stuck to the hard soil, a force holding him down, pressing him deeper. Otar tried for a trickle of the life force the monster had taken, willing it to return some of it, to help, to keep them alive, but it didn’t budge.
Another bark, closer now, feet that thundered over the earth.
A snout in his hair, the hot stinky breath on his neck.
There was nothing left to give, as everything went dark.
Blackness stretched around him, with no end in sight. He was just a speck, without thought, without agenda, floating through something too vast to comprehend.
A heartbeat flickered, the darkness shifting from gray to white, flooding his senses. Otar tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but he couldn’t because he was nothing. He was …
You have come …
The light hurt him. He wanted to run away from it, hide his head and his eyes between his arms and escape the brightness.
With you, we finally can go. Bring the last piece.
No, he hadn’t, this wasn’t …
His eyes sprang open into blissful darkness. He shifted and found that he wasn’t able to move. His body refused to obey him—his hands, his arms, and his legs, no muscle twitched.
The slavers must have captured and sedated him, waiting for him to wake up so they could take revenge.
No, no, no, no, no … panic thundered through him, his pulse a staccato beat, his breathing … he wasn’t getting enough air … he opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came, no sound, the world swam around him.
He was—
He—
“Shhh,” a voice close to his ear cooed. One breath, another. He flicked his gaze to the side—a shadow crouched beside him.
Had they—
The specter shifted, holding up a witch light. Blink by blink the face next to him sharpened. He could see dark eyes, a wicked scar down one cheek—the result of a fight with a thunderbeast—and a tangle of braids encrusted with beads and ornaments tied back and slung over one shoulder.
“Andres?” Otar croaked. Was he a figment of his imagination? And even if so, it was a lovely one. The panic rescinded, and his breathing eased.
“You are safe now,” the Andres-mirage said.
Otar smacked his lips. His throat was parched.
“Water?”
Otar nodded and winced when pain laced through his skull. He remembered the unchecked tumble to the ground, and before that, whatever Berat used to knock him out. The Andres-mirage curled his lips in a teasing smile and bend to the side to grab something out of Otar’s line of sight.
There was the trickle of water.
Andres turned back, carefully wriggled a hand under Otar’s head and neck, and lifted him up, as if he was nothing more than a puppet. Then he pressed a shallow bowl to his lips.
“Slowly,” Andres said gently. He only allowed Otar a few tiny sips.
It was heaven. The cool water was soothing. How many turns had he been out there? After Otar emptied the dish, Andres laid him down again, still achingly gentle.
“What happened?” He asked when Otar found a comfortable position.
Memories danced through his mind. Sand and water. Stone and darkness. Panic. Shadows that flowed in the night. The empty eyes of Berat. He was sure he wasn’t able to explain anything right, so one word needed to be enough.
“Slavers.”
Andres’ eyes narrowed. “Where?”
In what direction had he run? His thoughts were sluggish, sleep tugging at the edges of his awareness. The sun had risen to his side, and then moved in front of him. Golden and deadly. That meant …
“North.” And then, “River underground. Many caves.” He coughed, his throat hurt, he was thirsty, he wanted more water, but also sleep. Sweet slumber.
Andres touched his face, caressing Otar’s cheek with his thumb. His eyes were half-hidden in the night shadows, but they felt like burning coals. “Sleep now. No more harm will come.”
Otar wanted to say more, wanted to ask—
Sleep claimed him once more.
Gray sunlight had crept in. Otar blinked into it, his eyes slow in adjusting. He traced the outline of wooden furniture and canvas walls. It was a big tent, the type the steppe tribes used on the plains.
Sun rays filtered through the air duct at the top, Otar raised a hand to catch them, and this time his arm moved. He nearly wept.
It was painful. Every tiny movement of his body brought pain. He had overtaxed himself, running for turns through the steppe would do any person in. Otar might even have snorted at the ironic thought, if he had the energy.
His memories were still a scrambled mess. Had he really envisioned Andres? Whoever had helped him had at least been kind. Otar wouldn’t ask for more.
Shouting rose outside, drawing him out of his contemplations. Otar rolled onto his side, winced at the pain from the stab wound, and then fought himself up on one elbow. His body protested, making it clear that this was a bad idea, but he failed to tame the panic that gripped him.
He tried to sit up further as more shouting rose. It swelled like a wave through what must be the entire camp, followed by the heavy steps of warriors on a mission.
Had the slavers come? Were they attacking the tribe that had been gracious enough to save him?
Otar planted his feet on the ground, his toes sinking into a plush and colorful rug. While he was wondering if it was a good idea to get up, the tent flap moved, and an old man hurried in. When his gaze fell on Otar, he raised an eyebrow. With surprisingly fast steps, he was at Otar’s side and pressed him back into the bed.
“None of this now, visitor.”
“But …” Otar protested, his body already following the command, melting down.
When Otar finally lay still, the old man checked the dressing at his side, probing it a few times before humming, satisfied. “It’s healing.” He laid a hand on Otar’s forehead. “The fever has broken as well.”
The noise outside swelled to a crescendo, then yardar thundered past, the ground vibrating under their powerful feet, as if an army were taking off to war.
“What is going on?” Otar croaked out, his voice failing at the last word.
“The warriors have gone hunting.”
Andres had explained to him once that the tribes supplemented their food with smaller game they’d hunt in the plains. But why so many of them?
Otar nodded as if he understood.
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t make it your concern. Whatever may happen, we’ll take care of you, visitor.”
Visitor. A stranger who came, who was taken care of, and who left again. Maybe he should inquire which tribe this was, maybe he should also—he blinked into the light. Otar was tired, exhausted. He had never known that someone could be this fatigued.
He was—
