by T. C. Edge
I put the question to Rhoth, and his already narrow eyes turn tighter.
“I don’t know,” he says. “The Bear-Skins don’t like trespassers…”
“Then why aren’t there here?”
“Maybe they are,” he says, his eyes moving left, right, away into the murkiness that surrounds us. “Maybe they’re watching us now. They won’t have seen a force like this before. If your hybrid friends have passed this way, they will be wary…”
“We have,” says Pearson, alongside us. “We’ve been back and forward a lot.”
“And have you encountered them?” I ask. “The Bear-Skins?”
“We’ve had the odd run-in. They don’t tend to interfere with us, though. They know what we can do.”
“Maybe they’re staying away then,” I suggest. “They probably think there are too many of us to tackle.”
It seems reasonable. Even Rhoth concurs, to some extent.
“Maybe,” he whispers. “Maybe not. We might have got lucky here…”
“Lucky?” I say, bemused. “We’ve lost dozens. How is that lucky?”
“Lucky, girl, because all this commotion may have put off the Bears-Skins. They are the most dangerous thing you’ll find here. If they came with their full force, they would take many more lives than those you’ve lost.”
“Then we better hope that they haven’t noticed…”
“Oh, they’ve noticed,” says Rhoth. “We just have to hope they’re not in the mood for war.”
163
The rain seems ceaseless, unwilling to abate. The rattle of raindrops against leaves and branches becomes a common soundtrack to my ears. The only other noticeable noises are the heavy slushing of a thousand bodies through the mud, and the occasional bout of gunfire, or terrible, shrieking screams, that spread from somewhere along the line.
It’s grown late now, late enough for the sun to have disappeared from behind the clouds, descending beneath the horizon. Late enough for the moon to have taken its place, invisible for now as the black clouds continue to clot, themselves hidden behind the endless canopy above us.
The roof of the jungle is impenetrable, and only as we venture towards the far edge of the forest do a few clearings appear. I search up with my eyes, but only briefly as the burning rain clatters down, and see a rare break in the clouds signal a sight of the heavens, now turned dark and littered with stars.
We’ve gone too slow, and have no choice but to continue. I see shoulders slumped now in fear and grief and exhaustion. Those who have suffered losses drag their limbs onward, barely caring if they should be the next to fall. Others suffer from a different form of pain, their skin badly burned, their lungs similarly throttled by the choking, deadly air that will see to their deaths sooner or later.
Those who have slowed us most – the oldest, the youngest, the weakest of us all – have suffered the most as well. The bottleneck of the woods has equalised our standing, certain points almost navigable by single file only where no one gets the benefit of proper protection.
The tragedy of it, and the great irony, is that those who have been taken, those who have slowed us, have doomed others to their deaths as well. In such a group, you can only move as fast as your slowest man, and such a plodding speed has made us vulnerable.
Rhoth knew it all along. If it were up to him, he’d have set the pace and refused to slow. He’s have made sure that only those capable of keeping up would survive. He’d have let the weakest fall behind and be taken by the woods, letting the natural order of things play out as he considers they should.
In certain respects, it’s a manner of thinking that Cromwell himself would employ. Yet I don’t look at Rhoth with the same animosity. I look at him as a product of his world, commissioned to do a job and doing it in the way he considers best.
He’s a brutal man living in a brutal land. A land where weakness isn’t pandered to if it should bring losses to the strong. Where strength and power are virtues to be extolled and admired, and where generations of such thinking have created legions of warriors and soldiers and hunters who live like this day in, day out.
I do wonder, though, how he’d behave were it his own tribe. Were he to be transporting his own people through the woods, complete with the children and elderly residents of his tribe, would he be so seemingly heartless in his attitude?
Perhaps he wouldn’t need to be. Perhaps all the elderly among the Fangs are old warriors themselves. Perhaps all the young are already being groomed as such. Perhaps even the weaker members of their group would be as strong as the strongest members of ours.
He’s probably looking upon our throng with the sort of callous, Savant-like thinking that is required. An honest appraisal of things in a world he knows much better than we do. One glance at us pampered lot from ‘the big city with all the lights’, and he concludes that a great many will perish on the road, and many more will follow suit because we’re too soft, too desperate to slow down and make sure that everyone gets there safe.
In the end, all that’s done is slowed this moveable buffet to a crawl. All its done is doomed many more of us to our graves.
Yet soon, some light appears in the dark as the woods open up. The trees start to disperse, gaps appearing, and above the storm seems to quiet too, and the glint of starlight and moonlight begins to shine on the many pools of water and little puddles that soak the ground.
And eventually, we emerge from the forest and step out into the open world again, and my eyes turn immediately to the left where the mountains loom closer than ever. The peaks, silhouettes in the night, tower towards the ceiling of the world, their tips breaking through the cloud and out into the clear skies beyond.
I turn my eyes ahead and see the more open lands stretching away, only sparse collections of woods and trees dotting the world. The people sigh out in relief as we go, the rain now turning suddenly to a gentle trickle and all but stopping as the clouds appear to float off on the gusty winds, lingering primarily over the cursed woods.
Under the light that now pours from overhead, my Hawk-eyes power up once more, and I spread my gaze towards the horizon in search of our destination. I don’t see it, not here in these undulating lands at the base of the mountains, but away off in the distance, I know it’s all there waiting for us.
But now, I know, it’s time to rest. The night is growing old, and the people are unable to continue. Even Rhoth agrees that we should take a break until the first cracks of dawn, the open lands here far easier to defend and protect.
“I will order my people to take watches,” he tells me.
Pearson says the same of his own men, Drum included in the party required to take turns watching the people as they sleep.
We work a little way from the woods, another mile or so until its threat is no longer visible. Rhoth, still leading us on paths that Pearson may never have taken, works us towards a place of cover beneath a cliffside, the natural formation creating a giant rock awning above under which we can hide.
Shivering cold, the people start to set up fires, and mini-camps like those in the underlands are erected around which the little groups assemble. The soldiers assigned to protect them are tasked with doing so, while the main perimeter of the site is watched over by the Fangs and our own small force of hybrids.
With the rain having slowed to a trickle, the most powerful members of our band find their gifts returning to life in their fullest form. Hawks sit and watch for movement. Bats listen carefully to every crinkle of a leaf or crack of a twig. Sniffers sit as still as they can, noting every single scent in the air.
Should an attack come now, we will have some warning.
As the fires are lit, and some food cooked, and the people sit in quiet mourning, those tasked with taking names go through the process once more. I see Sophie with her tablet walking through, ticking people off her list. It’s a terrible job, and one that leads to many cries of desperation as mothers and fathers, close relatives and dearest friends, beg for some c
onfirmation that the missing have returned, that those they long to see again have been checked off Sophie’s, or another administrator’s, list.
The lands, no longer being battered by the loud rain and rumbling storm, fill instead with the sounds of grief and pain. I wander through and see stricken faces, and hear a terrible cacophony of coughing, and see those wince in pain as they tend to their burns, now given a chance to check on the damage the rain inflicted.
I feel their pain and suffering, but find my own muted as I first see Sophie, and then see Drum, aiding the small party he was assigned to. I don’t go to him, or ask him how he is. I merely see him working and smile, and feel some relief that he’s OK.
These people, having escaped the underlands just before they were discovered, may never have thought the world could be quite so unforgiving out here. Some may even be wishing they’d stayed, crept back into the city and hidden in some old building, or even given themselves over to be reconditioned just to avoid such a perilous journey.
I doubt many imagined how cruel this day would be. And as the final count is conducted, I learn that over forty people were lost to the woods, with many others soon to follow as the poison slowly debilitates them.
A terrible loss, but still nothing compared to what’s happening in the city. Hundreds, thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands have been lost to this war, one way or another. And to end it, many thousands more will need to topple in the High Tower, a cruel act in the name of good.
And I guess that’s what this world of ours really is. Like these people, going from the underlands to the wilds, caught between a rock and a hard place.
That’s this world in a nutshell.
164
The morning brings with it a change. The night was merciful, and Rhoth’s insistence on getting through the woods as quickly as possible turned out to be the tonic we required. Were it not for the terrible conditions the previous day, losses would have been kept to a minimum.
But such is the state of the world. It has no pity whatsoever.
With the protection of the cliff at our backs, and the hunters and hybrids stationed at our front, no beast dared approach. They took their chances in the woods, snatching us when they knew the odds were in their favour.
But not here.
The people rise as Rhoth and Pearson call out for action just as first light comes. After such a terrible day, the weather is suddenly glorious. It’s a cruel kick to the gut, an awful irony, Mother Nature seeking her vengeance as she continues to complain about what we’ve done to her world.
Beautiful, vibrant light casts its glow across the weeping lands, still wet with the residue of the storm. It contrasts so heartbreakingly with the whimpering and mewling that fills the air, and the tear-stained eyes that litter every little group among the travelling horde.
Never before have I witnessed such a collective misery and sorrow. These people have lived in the underlands together, sleeping close to one another, cooking at the fire pits, hiding in the shadows. The plus-forty losses they suffered have hit everyone. To a man, woman, and child, they have all lost someone they care about.
Today, though, the show goes on. And by that cruel twist, it seems that it will go without a hitch.
Like the start of the journey yesterday, before the weather turned and we were forced to slow our step through the Cursed Woods – the name I have taken to calling them – we continue on at a greater pace and with the lands lying smooth and flat around us.
The only remaining threat appears to be the insufficient protection we have against the fog. Yet even that seems to have weakened somewhat here, perhaps dispersed by the rain and stormy winds, or perhaps due to the high mountains to our left, providing some shield against the mist down here in the valley.
Either way, the morning progresses speedily, the grief-stricken horde at my back forced to keep on moving. Some look to the south, to the woods no longer visible in the distance behind us, perhaps wishing to return and search in vain for those they lost. Others look forward, desiring never to look upon those woods again.
I know how they feel.
I, too, would rather not venture through that awful place, and yet know that I will need to again soon. My mind, as it always does, begins to swarm in other directions as we continue the march north, turning its attention south and to the city under siege.
I wonder how far along Zander and the strike team are to putting their plan into motion. I wonder what’s happening at the church, and whether Agent Woolf and Rafe have been found. I wonder what’s going on in the western quarter, whether Mrs Carmichael, Tess, and all the rest are safe in the academy as the war unfolds.
I wonder so many things, now free to do so as the dangers of the previous day subside. I even attempt to get in touch with Zander, but fail to do so, the mist fogging my mind and making my ability to connect with him too difficult.
Every step we take away from Haven begins to increase my apprehension. In a strange twist, I urge Rhoth to increase the pace, but find him less inclined to hurry out here in the open and under the sun.
“There is no rush anymore, child,” he says. “We have plenty of time to get there.”
As far as he’s thinking, yesterday was about getting through the woods before it got dark. Today, though, having covered more than half the journey, we’re only a few short hours from the facility and will reach it before lunch.
No rush.
The journey becomes a stroll in my mind. I start to look at Rhoth as if he’s merely enjoying a leisurely walk through some fine meadows, a yellow smile stretched across his face as he gazes up to the sun and enjoys its warming rays. With his force of hunters still fully intact, I doubt he’s too concerned about the losses our people suffered the previous day.
And, in return, he’s going to get a hell of a lot of help from the Nameless in defeating his own enemies. So far, he’s struck a pretty good deal.
On we march, across the hills and fields, passing more relics from a forgotten world as we go. On occasion, we slow as one of our hyrbids picks out something suspicious: a scent of danger in the air, the sound of beasts creeping nearby, the sight of a Shadow hidden behind some distant object, waiting to pull some unsuspecting person into its lair.
It’s natural that we’re on tenterhooks given what happened already, but here there really appears to be no need for concern. As with the first stage of the journey, the people are now fully protected, flanked and cordoned off by our guards, and without the rain the senses of our hybrids and Enhanced are fully operational once more, albeit slightly muted by the mist as it flows along in wisps on the wind.
I appreciate the vigilance, though, if not the fact that is slows our progress at a time when Rhoth himself appears to have relaxed. As he tells me, we’re beyond the remit of the Bear-Skins now, and the Shadows and other beasts only hunt using the cloak of night to aid them.
“They’re mostly nocturnal, and hunt by stealth and surprise,” he says, as if I haven’t worked that out myself.
Even the Skullers, as inconspicuous as the Bear-Skins, have seemingly decided to leave us alone. According to the beastly man beside me, they’re probably away hunting elsewhere.
“They may have ventured further to the northeast away from the city,” he suggests. “The sound of war scares away the beasts. We have got more lucky than you realise, girl. To avoid both tribes was not expected.”
Again, I have trouble swallowing the word ‘lucky’. A man like Rhoth, I suppose, hasn’t yet added tact to his many qualities.
With an hour of early morning walking turning to two and then three, the first sight of the facility comes into view. From the top of a hillside, I look down into a depression in the earth and see the rusted remains of a grand facility poking out from the dust and mud. Large buildings and huge pieces of machinery sit stagnant, unused for too many decades to count, twisted with vines and other growths and, in places, barely distinguishable from the natural features around them.
&nbs
p; The gigantic hollow itself is brown and grey for the most part, the soil unable to sprout much growth beyond the hardy creepers that cling to the manmade structures that remain. Around it, however, the verdant lands spread, cut through only by a pathway that works itself into the old compound, and towards a single double door excavated against the side of a central construct that looks like some sort of warehouse.
As the crowd come forward, up over the hillside, and see the place for the first time, their grief turns to relief for a moment as they see their new refuge. From the underlands of the city, to here over twenty miles beyond it, they will take position in a new shelter where they can safely wait out the war.
We continue on down the hill, rushing a little faster now, and I begin questioning Pearson on the provisions they have here.
“We’re well stocked,” he says. “There’s food to last a while, and stocks of weapons too.”
“And protection?”
“I have orders to stay with our soldiers. We are perfectly fortified here.”
I look to Rhoth.
“And what are you doing?”
“I will consider,” he says in his inimitable way, looking to the skies and sniffing the air in a peculiar manner. “The weather is odd out here near the mountains. It may change soon, and we may stay the night...”
“Really? You don’t want to get back home?”
“It seems you do, girl. You have designs of returning to your brother and Mr Savant, yes?”
I nod, unable to deny it.
“Well, you cannot go anywhere yet. If you wish to return to the city, you must do so with us. Alone, you will not survive.”
“And you’ll take me with you?”
“You may accompany us, if that is what you wish. We will go back through the woods and leave you at your church. That is, if you can stomach passing back that way…”
I look to the sky as he speaks. It’s clear blue, a glorious day. A search of the horizon yields no sign of incoming clouds. And the morning remains young, barely scraping into double digits.
