Breath of Heaven, page 4
“Ready?”
Siobhaen nodded.
It took them nearly an hour to wrestle the litter with Colin in it up through the hole and out into the secondary room. By then, Eraeth was ready to strangle Siobhaen, and by the irritated anger in her face, she felt the same about him. But neither of them spoke of it, both snapping out orders and suggestions like whips. Once in the outer room, Eraeth stretched his arms and shoulders and checked on Colin while Siobhaen scouted their route out of the city.
They’d decided to head south from their location, farther away from the Haessari enclave in the surrounding cliffs and opposite from their most recent patrols and search parties. Neither one of them knew what lay to the south, but they couldn’t head west: that was the direction the Wraith army had gone to attack the dwarren on the plains. Eraeth guessed the Haessari were at least partially supplying that army, so there’d be scouts and caravans, more than likely watched over by those strange birdlike creatures he’d begun calling taeredacs. East was also not an option—it took them farther away from aid and further into unexplored lands. South was their best option. They knew there were humans to the south somewhere. Even if they didn’t run into a human patrol or settlement, once they were far enough south they could cut west and hope to run into the dwarren rather than the Wraith army.
But first they had to escape the ruined city.
Eraeth tensed as someone approached, drawing a knife. The darkness outside was lit only by a half moon and the stars, the night clear. He moved to the edge of the eastern window, saw a shadow dart from one pool of darkness to another, but recognized Siobhaen by her movements.
She ducked into the room, low to the ground, and he coughed to catch her attention. She spun toward him, knives raised, then lowered them a couple of heartbeats later.
“It’s clear as far as the ring of cracked stone that surrounds the city. Let’s move.”
Eraeth grabbed the litter again, Siobhaen leading them out into the night. He kept his eyes on the shadowed buildings and road to either side, trusting Siobhaen to warn him of anything overhead or behind as she skirted random debris. His shoulders began burning within the first hour, the ache starting high and spreading down into his upper back and along the backs of his arms. His fingers began to pulse with pain, threatening to cramp. After two hours, he was forced to signal Siobhaen for a halt. She nodded grudgingly, then vanished into the shadows.
He snapped his hands, trying to shake out the pain in his fingers, and sank down onto the gaping edge of a hole in one of the buildings. His breath came harsh and ragged, but it settled quickly. He wiped sweat from his brow. To the north, he could see the pinprick firelight coming from the Haessari city in the cliff faces that surrounded the ruins.
Siobhaen reappeared. She halted when she saw him, but he waved her away. She knelt at Colin’s side instead, checking his wound.
“He’s doing about as expected.”
Siobhaen stood. “And you?”
He massaged his shoulder. “It’s harder than it looks.”
“I can take over for a while. Drag him, while you scout.”
“No, it will make too much noise. We’ll start dragging him once we reach the debris ring, beyond the main Haessari patrols.”
They both reached for the litter’s handles again.
Two hours later they reached the pile of debris that surrounded the city. Inside the ring, the buildings were disintegrating but they were mostly intact, the destruction caused by age and the elements. But the ring marked a dividing point. Cracked and shattered stone had heaved up in a mound, the blocks obviously from what had once been buildings. Some had quarried edges, others the faded outlines of carvings. As they heaved Colin’s litter up and over the ridge, Eraeth saw what must have once been the hand from a statue, three fingers broken off.
On the far side, Eraeth assumed there had once been streets and parks and a thriving city. Instead, the ground had been churned up, whatever had been here before broken and jumbled.
They lashed one end of the litter together, creating a travois. Siobhaen took hold of the remaining handles and motioned him ahead with her chin. Flexing his hands, he began to scout, trotting forward into the night-shrouded wasteland. As he moved, searching for the easiest path while scanning the skies and the rolling ground for signs of the taeredacs and the Haessari, he wondered what could cause such strange damage. Whatever it was, it was ancient. The air and stone was laden with age, dry and dusty, older even than the Alvritshai ruins they’d wandered through in the White Wastes, by the feel.
Light had begun to touch the horizon by the time they passed through the shattered section of the city and back into a narrow band of ruins beneath the massive cliffs. They’d traded off pulling the travois twice more, but as soon as Eraeth saw the thin edge of dawn he had Siobhaen begin scouting for a place to hunker down for the day. He’d expected her to find a room in one of the buildings, but he followed her to the mouth of one of the jagged chasms that riddled the cliff face. They ducked into its cool shadow as the sun peeked above the horizon, tainting the eastern skies a vivid orange-pink, a vibrant green-blue above.
As he set down the travois and stretched out his back and shoulders, he said to Siobhaen, “We won’t be able to do this for long. We need to get out of the ruins and as far away as we can, then find another place to hole up until he comes around.”
* * *
“Where are they?”
Quotl frowned in annoyance at Tarramic’s insistent tone without opening his eyes. “They may not be here at all. Now shut up. You’re ruining my concentration.”
Tarramic mumbled something Quotl couldn’t hear. Gaezel stamped their feet and snorted behind him, the clan’s raiding party restless. They’d emerged from the dwarren tunnels south and west of the Break fifteen minutes before and the Riders were ready for action. Since the battle at the Break, the clans had discovered the Wraith army had seized control of the cliffs, but had halted there. Reports said they were recovering from the losses caused by the dwarren and Quotl’s collapse of the wall of rock north of the slide. It had killed hundreds of them, including nearly forty Riders. Quotl’s chest ached at the thought, but he knew the dwarren had been desperate. If he hadn’t used Ilacqua’s power—the Land itself—to halt the Wraith army it would have swarmed over the Break and caught the dwarren in the open. The collapse had given the dwarren time to seal the main entrances to the tunnels and regroup.
But now the clan chiefs were ready to strike back. The Cochen knew they couldn’t attack as one, on a single front; the plains were too open for that, the Wraith army too large. Instead, they intended to carve away at the army’s edges, using stealth attacks on their scouts, on the supply wagons, on any group that diverged from the main army small enough for the dwarren to take. The tunnels were their greatest advantage now. Tarramic’s group was only one of several spread across the Land to the north and south, searching for signs of the Wraith army.
Drawing in a deep breath of the fresh night air, Quotl centered himself. Since the battle, he had felt Ilacqua’s presence inside him, throbbing beneath his skin, in his blood, warm and comforting. During the meetings in the keeva, that presence surged forward, suffusing him, as it had at the Break. And with it came an uncanny prescience of the earth around him, the stone and grass, the air and the animals that thrived there. He could feel the life flowing back and forth through them.
Those senses sharpened as he concentrated. The damp grass from the recent rain bit into his nostrils, the earth beneath saturated and thick. He tasted the bitterness of autumn in the breeze that prickled the hairs on his arm. The musk of the gaezel and the fear sweat of the Riders surrounded him, and he could hear their blood pumping in anticipation of the hunt. He pushed beyond, spreading himself out through the earth beneath his feet, Ilacqua’s presence rising inside him. Unconsciously, he began humming one of the shaman chants, Tarramic and those closest quieting. His brows furrowed as he reached outwards, focusing to the east, but when he finally sensed wrongness, it wasn’t to the east, it was west.
His mouth turned with distaste and he fought the urge to spit. Twisting in his seat, he opened his eyes and pointed behind the group with his scepter. The beads tied to its end with strips of hide rattled. “The blight on the Land is there, headed this way. There are twenty in the group.”
“Orannian? Urannen? Kell?”
Quotl’s eyes narrowed as he focused, then shook his head. “Hard to tell. No Wraiths. And no gruen or terren. They’re medium sized.”
Tarramic spun his mount toward the Riders and began issuing commands. The party consisted of forty Riders and gaezel, which Tarramic split into two groups. One of them broke away from the main force, the hoofbeats of the gaezel fading into the night. There wasn’t enough moonlight for Quotl to catch their shadows on the plains after a few breaths, and they rode slow enough that the wet grass smothered the sound of their passage once they were beyond spear range. As soon as they were gone, Tarramic brought his mount up next to Quotl’s.
“We’ll meet them head on. Are they scouts?”
“Twenty of them?” Quotl shrugged. His fingers itched for his pipe and some of the yetope leaves; it always helped him think better. “I wonder how far west they were.”
Tarramci didn’t answer, but Quotl knew they were both thinking of the Summer Tree and how far its influence had degraded. The Cochen had already ordered that every clan begin harvesting whatever food stock they could and storing it in the tunnels. They would leave nothing above ground for the Wraith army to use.
Quotl stirred in his seat, removed a knife from its sheath at his belt. “They’re close now.”
Tarramic gestured to the right and left, then drew his own axe. The clan chief kicked his gaezel forward. Within moments they were charging across the plains, the wind chill in Quotl’s face, pulling at his beard. The only sound was the thud of hooves on grass, the usual dwarren ululations before battle silenced by the clan chief’s order. They wanted as much surprise as they could get.
A heartbeat later, the figures of the Wraith’s creatures appeared on the plains before them, all twenty running to the east. Quotl raised his scepter in one hand and bellowed, “For Thousand Springs! For Ilacqua!”
The Riders behind fanned out, their sharp cries rising into the night as Quotl bore down on one of the shadowy figures. The runners faltered a moment at the sudden outcry, but then Quotl swung his scepter, felt its metal head strike the creature across the face, the impact jarring. His gaezel trampled the body as it fell, but Quotl was already focused on the next figure. He heard a hiss as he approached, knew it to be one of the snake people, and brought his scepter down hard. But the creature dodged, the motion fluid and quick. His scepter glanced off its shoulder, even as the Orannian’s hand snaked forward and ripped him from his saddle.
Quotl heard one of the gaezel’s high-pitched and eerie death screams a moment before he hit the ground, his breath knocked out of him, his scepter lost. Hooves beat the ground, one stabbing into his thigh, and he tried to roll out of the way, but struck something more solid. Grasping for a hold, his hands closed on the Orannian’s legs, the material of its breeches coarse. Without thought, he brought the knife still clutched in his other hand around and jabbed it into the snake’s thigh.
It screamed, the sound a gut-wrenching howl and hiss, and tried to jerk away. Quotl hung on as it stumbled backwards. He pulled his knife free and struck again, the snake stumbling and falling. Quotl clambered up his legs and stabbed the knife into its gut as it thrashed. Taloned hands reached for him, snagged in his beard, but he could feel its blood slicking the hand that still clutched the knife. Its motions slowed, but with a last burst of effort its hood flared and its head shot forward, fangs bared as it snapped at his face.
Quotl cried out and lurched back, out of range. Something liquid struck his cheek and began to burn. He rolled away from the body and scrubbed at his cheek with the sleeve of his tunic until the burning stopped, then sat gasping. Around him, the Riders fought the rest of the Wraith group in the darkness. He watched, one hand going to his chest where his heart pounded painfully.
He was getting too old for this.
The Riders took out the rest of the Orannian. Tarramic dispatched the last two with his axe. Most of the Riders had lost their gaezel during the fight, including Tarramic. He spun where he stood, axe raised, but saw the rest of the Riders already making certain the Orannian were dead. Lowering his weapon, he sought out Quotl, trotting to the head shaman’s side and squatting down.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. A burn from that one’s poison, but it will fade.”
Tarramic remained silent for a long moment. “You shouldn’t be participating in these raids. I should never have allowed you to come.”
Quotl bristled. “Why not? The head shaman always follows the clan chief into battle.”
“You are the head shaman of Thousand Springs, yes. But you are more. You proved that on the battlefield at the Break. And you proved it yet again today. None of the other shamans could have told us exactly where the creatures were, or exactly how many of them there were.”
“Did we get them all?”
“Yes. Some tried to escape but the secondary group caught them. They’re to the southwest.”
Quotl shifted and saw the force Tarramic had sent to flank the group as it rejoined them, their figures black and anonymous in the dark.
Tarramic gripped his shoulder and leaned far enough forward Quotl could see the glint of the moon in his eyes. “You cannot ignore what has happened. Ilacqua has touched you. You are meant for more than being the Thousand Springs head shaman.”
“The dwarren already have an Archon.”
Tarramic’s grip tightened. “Kimannen was powerful, once. But he has weakened. This is a Turning. The Four Winds are blowing. We cannot afford to have a weak Archon.”
Quotl clenched his jaw. He had shoved his confrontation with the Archon aside as the clans regrouped. Too much had needed to be done in the aftermath of the Break—tunnels sealed, messages sent to each clan, plans made. He had immersed himself in the chaos and avoided the Archon whenever possible.
But that did not alter the fact that the power had shifted at the Break.
“Kimannen will not relinquish his hold on the shamans easily.”
“No. But you know the Thousand Springs shamans will support you. And so will many of the others. They witnessed your power at the Break. It will be hard for Kimannen to counter that, not without insulting the shamans’ intelligence.”
“It is too soon.”
Tarramic let his hand drop and stood. “Do not wait too long, or the memories of what happened at the Break will fade. But enough of such talk. Come look at the bodies and tell us what Ilacqua reveals to you. I do not think this was a scouting party.”
Quotl took Tarramic’s extended hand and rose with a groan, muscles already aching.
He leaned down over the snake creature he’d killed while Tarramic called for lanterns. In the darkness, the blood that saturated the creature’s stomach and the grass beneath was black. Its smooth, scaly skin appeared glossy. Its head had fallen to one side, mouth open, fangs bared, hood still flared. The skin beneath the hood was pale, but patterns emerged in the scales on the creature’s forehead, starting near the blunt snout and widening upwards around the eyes. Once the lantern was lit, Quotl could see that the mottling was tri-colored, two shades of brown with some red scales continuing up over the head at regular intervals. It carried the typical s-shaped sword, a few daggers tucked into its belt. A satchel was slung over the creature’s head.
Using his knife, Quotl cut it free and sorted through the contents. He held up a vial of milky liquid, then grunted when he found the darts and the blowpipe inside. He guessed the vial was poison, probably the creature’s own venom. He found nothing else of interest, just food, a waterskin, scraping stone and oil for the blade.
“They were in a hurry and we surprised them. None of their weapons were drawn and they were moving fast. They weren’t expecting to run into us.”
“Why were they coming from the west?”
Quotl shook his head. “Have the Riders check the bodies. Search their satchels. Look for anything out of place.” As Tarramic gave the order, Quotl moved to the next body himself, began rummaging through clothing, searching for pockets, checking bags.
A moment later, a Rider cried out, motioning toward the head shaman and the clan chief.
Both Tarramic and Quotl hurried over, the clan chief passing a metal cylinder from the Rider to his head shaman before kneeling to search the body more thoroughly. Quotl held the cylinder up to the lantern light, the flame flickering over patterns and indentations along its silvered length. He focused on the ends, made of bronze, heavier than the rest. After careful examination, he pushed in two buttons on opposite sides of the rounded mouth and one bronze end popped off.
Tarramic looked up. A few of the Riders edged closer in order to see better.
When Quotl tilted the cylinder, a sheaf of papers fell out. Tarramic stood and Quotl began sorting through them.
“What are they?” the clan chief asked.
“Messages, I would assume. I can’t read them. They’re written in a language I don’t recognize.” He glanced down at the creature’s face. “It must be Orannian.”
Tarramic said nothing. Quotl scanned the dead lying on all sides. Only a few of the dwarren had been injured, none of them killed. Unease uncurled in his stomach and he felt the need for his pipe and weed more than ever. There was only one explanation that made any sense.
“They weren’t scouts. This one was a courier, the others its protection. They were reporting back to the Wraith army near the Break.”
