by Ru Emerson
Malaeth recoiled in terror, gasped, then swung about in a pale-faced fury. “Did you think me so weak as to desert your mother?” she snapped. “And yourself, Lady Ylia? You were to be gone as well, I think, Lady Princess!” Nisana, her whole furry body a taut demand for haste, padded back up-hall. “As for this child,” Malaeth continued, “I thought her gone. She was to have gone. She is in shock.”
Lisabetha huddled in her corner, nearly hidden by hanging robes, eyes open but unseeing. Young for her 16 years, fragile for all her outward show of self-reliance, she was sheltered, a true Nedaoan noble's daughter, with no real inner strength to face such a situation as this.
Though she had reason enough for her present state. Father and mother—dead by now. Her brother, Gors—dead, and before her eyes. And her own death howling at the outer walls...
Beyond the Tower came the sounds of battle; fierce cries tore at the air. Time was short. Ylia's face remained impassive; inwardly she quailed. I, who cannot care properly for myself, must now help two even more helpless than I? Inniva aid me! She steadied her thought with effort. The tunnel, the escape tunnel first. Then—whatever came next.
“We cannot leave her here, Malaeth.”
“No.” Malaeth crouched at the girl's side; sudden hope filled her. Scythia's daughter was strong; she'd not let them die. “But—”
“Nisana—cat, your aid, I cannot do this alone.”
No censure for a change in the cat's thought, there was not time for her usual tart jabs at the girl's stubborn denial of her potential. Ylia's mind steadied as Nisana joined, lending her considerable strength of will, her Power.
She knelt beside Lisabetha, took hold of her chin and brought her face around so that their eyes met. Difficult, but not without precedent, Scythia had told her sufficient tales from the old days in which this thing was done: find the place in the girl's mind, set there a command of following. “Bring her, Malaeth.” Ylia dragged the girl to her feet, set her hand in Malaeth's. The old woman pulled a cloak across her shoulders, pinned it with shaking fingers, threw another round Lisabetha and drew the girl across the chamber. Brandt's heir drew sword as they ran toward the stairs. Nisana leaped rapidly ahead of them.
There was a sudden, tense silence: silence both without and within the City, save for the pounding of Ylia's boots, the shuffle of Malaeth's soft slippers and Lisabetha's occasional stumble, for though she followed where led, she went blindly.
The tapestry in the Reception had already been dragged aside, revealing the entrance to the dark tunnel beyond. They had scarcely reached it when a jarring crash filled the air, and echoed across the high ceiling. A triumphant shout drowned it.
“The gates!” Malaeth shrieked.
“I know.” Now that the moment had actually come, Ylia was astonishingly calm. She turned, gave the two women a push. “Go. We dare not leave this entrance for the Tehlatt to find, they would take us immediately. And I do not know where the triggering device is placed.” The old nurse made a convulsive movement, started back toward the entrance. “Await us in the grove, but if we are not immediately behind you, leave and that quickly! Cross the Torth by the old fords and stay low until dark.” She pressed her heavy food pouch into the old woman's reluctant hands. “Go!” she snapped as Malaeth hesitated again. “Marhan may well be there, he was pledged to save what men he could and withdraw—go!” Malaeth cast one last terrified glance toward the outer gates, turned and hurried into the blackness, dragging Lisabetha after.
Ylia drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. Still that unnatural calm filled her. Mother, is this your aid in my time of need? Nisana leaped to her shoulder, balancing awkwardly on the mesh of the mail shirt. ‘What need have you?’
'Help me find the trigger, so we can close the wall.’ She recoiled, cried out involuntarily as loud cries echoed down the long hall. There was a sharp, terrible drain on her inner strength and a darkness swirled before her eyes even as dim shapes spilled into the Reception. The darkness solidified, became a wall that left cat and human in the silence and cavern-night of the tunnel.
'Work quickly!’ Nisana snapped. ‘I cannot hold such an illusion as this for long. No, use the Power!’ she hissed, as her companion hesitated. ‘A thing within the wall which is different. Use the Power and look for it, girl!’
Easy to say, for one who can build and hold so real a wall, Ylia thought sourly. If Nisana heard the thought, she gave no sign. So weak, that sense which faltered out to touch the damp stones. So far from true AEldra. But she dared not ask Nisana's aid, she could hear those in the great hall, knew how long they would live should that wall fade. She shuddered. Sweat started forth on her brow, burned her eyes; she pressed harder.
There. It was different, and easy to sense, once you realized how to find it. But she was too exhausted by the search to feel triumph. She fell to her knees, groped blindly, pressed hard against the odd brick. It swung out, stiffly, and a real wall slid to fill the opening, closing with a barely audible click. Sand spilled out. Nisana leaped to the floor, rubbed against her hand.
'I—rest here.’ Barely audible thought.
'No, girl. Not safe.’
'I can't walk. Sorry, cat.’
'Not safe, come!’
Ylia shook her head. “No. I—I used all I had. I must rest,” she whispered.
'Not yet.’ Nisana was adamant. She sent a burst of strength; Ylia's vision cleared, a little. ‘The wall will hold. But we must go; Malaeth will worry.’
Malaeth. She would worry, she'd be terrified, and she'd come back up the passageway, if they didn't appear shortly. It helped some. It allowed her to push away from the floor and, with the use of the wall, to gain her feet. They walked down the long and silent passage to the light beyond.
Malaeth, pale and wild-eyed with terror, stood just within the tunnel's end, another behind her, a bearded man in the plain brown of the Tower Guard. Ylia blinked, could no longer bring her eyes to focus. Her head ached; a horror and pain of loss was overwhelming her. But they must know, must be told—
“The wall is closed,” she whispered. “They cannot follow that way, the Tehlatt.” She swayed, felt concerned hands on her arms. “Malaeth, I must rest.” Someone aided her to the ground and let the darkness cover her.
Since the long kin of the Nedao first took the Plain from them, the Tehlatt ever sought to reclaim it. And they, being men and short-lived, and fearing the truth, took no cautions against such an enemy, but gave praise to their gods, their Mothers, that the barbarians were never able to bind all their tribes together, knowing if they did it would be the end of Nedao. Yet, can they be looked down upon for such behavior? For did not the Nasath and the Folk themselves, in an hour even darker and in the face of the horror that was the Lammior, not act precisely so? They knew, the humans, the day Kanatan led his warriors down the final slope to Koderra's gates—though it was then too late.
3
Silence within the smoky ravine, save for the faint victory cries of the Tehlatt. Ylia coughed, sat up to gaze about. Not far away lay Malaeth and Lisabetha; the three of them seemed to be alone, though it was impossible to see far in either direction, and the upper ledges were shrouded in gloom. Scarcely four hours from midday, as near as she could tell, but the sky was black with smoke, the sun a blood-orange halfway to the mountains.
If the Tehlatt found them now— But that was unlikely. The exit from the escape tunnel had been well chosen, and from the City it could not be seen at all. The barbarians had enough to occupy them for the moment, without searching the Plain for such hiding places.
She narrowed her eyes against smoke, coughed again as she drew an injudiciously deep breath. Someone there—a man under the trees on the northern lip, keeping watch toward the City. Mothers, it was! Marhan, King's Swordmaster, her own tutor in arms. Someone else with him—but she could not see well enough in the increasing, unnatural gloom to place him.
The old man—Marhan was indeed well past Nedaoan prime—had only one eye for th
e Plain, the other directed downward, for with a word to his companion he pushed to his feet, and slid down the steep bank. A soft leather bottle of water gurgled agreeably in his left hand. He scowled, thrust it forward and site drank, keenly conscious of the wrath he was keeping, barely, in check. It broke free as she corked the flask and returned it.
“So! This is how Nedao's heir keeps dagger-oath to her King! You were to be aboard a Narran ship last evening!” Black eyes bored furiously into hers. “I should box your ears!”
“What would you?” Ylia demanded stiffly. Unwise to show weakness when arguing with Marhan, but unlikely she would anyway. “Would you have left, not knowing what chanced? Well?” Silence. “And, had I left, what of them?'” She nodded toward the two sleeping women. “Do you wish to think of their fate? I would rather not!”
“Don't twist words with me, damn it!” Marhan turned aside and spat. “Of course it was good that you found them. But that you remained, that you took such fool chances—!”
“You would not have called them ‘fool’ had you taken them,” she snapped. Always, with Marhan, it came back to this—that he might take any chance, being older, wiser—a man, though he ever furiously denied that as a reason—but should she do the same, it was stupid and pointless. “And I can take care of myself,” she finished shortly.
“All right. So you can,” he muttered. “But not against an entire hoard of Tehlatt!” Ylia sighed, shook her head. Apparently he accepted the gesture as some sort of apology, for his next words were less harsh. “They're occupied with sacking the City, haven't come so far south. They hold the fords and the harbor. We'll go once; it's dark, the moon's a late one.” He hesitated, laid a hand across her forearm. “Your—your father.” His face was bleak. Ylia closed her eyes, swallowed hard, shook her head so fiercely the plaits slapped against her mail. No, do not think, do not. Marhan patted her arm awkwardly.
He reached then into the age-darkened leather over-jerkin to bring forth a flat, oiled packet: a map, much folded, of the Peopled Lands east of the seas. “When we leave here, we had better have direction.” His voice was husky and even more clipped than usual.
“So we must.” She pushed pain away, forced her mind to the moment. “How many are we?”
“There were five of us bowmen left when the gates fell. The others keep sentry there.” He gestured toward the rim.
Her heart sank. Four men at arms against a nation of Tehlatt? They were dead already. But—no. If they hid, avoided the enemy, skulked from the City. And they were six, for Marhan, though old, still had a strong arm. And she had learned well from him. “Six warriors, two helpless women and a cat.” Nine alive from over two thousand armed Koderra. “Most of the folk dead, the rest scattered between the Sea and the eastern deserts.” She swallowed again, leaned forward to study the map. “Which way do we go? You know the lands, your choice will be better than any I might make, Marhan.”
“Hmmph.” The Swordmaster snapped a dead branch in half, pushed dust and leaves to and fro with it. “Only two that I can see. Yls—” The stick traced the southern edge of the Lands, down the west bank of the Torth to the Sea, thence around the coast to Yslar. He met her eyes questioningly.
“No,” she said finally. “Not sensible. There are no boats, and though I have never seen it, I know full well how the land against the Sea looks. If the Sea-Raiders did not pick us off, we would be half a year walking that route. And the land passes will be thick with snow a month from now. Malaeth and Lisabetha would die, and it would be too cold for the best-clad of us. Either way, a long and doubtful journey.” And what welcome at the end, for the half-breed daughter of Scythia, coming as she would with news of her death? She buried the thought angrily. No. “Tell me the other choice, Marhan. It can be no worse, surely.”
“Perhaps.” He did not seem particularly certain of that. “But I see no others, none at all. Not without horses or boats. And even then—Aresada.” The stick pressed against a dark blotch north and west of Teshmor, ten leagues within the Foessa and sixty leagues or more north of Koderra. She rested her chin on drawn-up knees, thought hard.
“Then it must be Aresada. The Caves have been used before in time of need; folk would go there, if they escaped in the north or escaped Teshmor. And Lord Corry cached stores of grain, and dried food after Anasela.”
“If the boats reach Yslar—”
“They will.” She dared think nothing else for now. “The folk will be cared for.” She sighed, suddenly desperately tired, weak with the thought of what lay before them. Before her. “I have never felt less like Brandt's heir, but I see where I am needed most, Marhan. And that is where we must go.” Dark brown eyes met hazel ones. He nodded.
“So be it. But you are not alone, remember that.” He went back to the map. “So. We are here. Caves, here. A long and hard journey, however taken, but the Foessa are our only road.”
“I fear so. No matter where we go from here. It is said there are ways within the mountains, trails and paths. Though I have never seen them, save what remains of the old Hunter's Trail from Koderra.”
“I know no more than you,” the old man nodded unhappily. “I did take the pass to Yslar once, but it was a long time since. Hunters make and use the trails, but we of Nedao never used them. Why should we?” he added bitterly. “We had the Plain, we never needed the mountains.” Ylia needed none of the Power to sense the direction of his thought: men lost, friends and arms-companions dead. No hope of revenge.
“No. But we need them now. And we will use what paths we can find, and make others. Stay well within the mountains. The Tehlatt fear them.”
“So they do. There is that, at least. Where their gods live, they won't pursue us. And a few stragglers—”
“I—stragglers. Noteyen guard us.” She sought, gripped his arm. “It's true, isn't it? We have seen the end of all we knew, Marhan. Nedao. All of it. We were soft, complacent, unwilling to face what we saw among the Tehlatt. And Kanatan brought all the tribes together.”
“And made massacre. Not war, genocide,” Marhan said gloomily. “You are right, I said it in Council often enough. We were unwilling to face a fearful likelihood only because it frightened us.” He stared at the map without seeing it. “Though I took the Tehlatt messages the past year no more seriously than the others, and that after Anasela.”
“Even after Anasela,” she agreed. “They took that ten years ago, killing everyone who did not flee. And we actually believed they would be satisfied with so much and would leave us in peace.” They were silent for a time. Ylia traced her mother's calming charm across her inner being, fighting the encroaching fear that they might be the sole survivors anywhere across the Plain.
“Marhan,” she said finally, steadily. “There is one other thing you and I must discuss before we leave this place. I am Brandt's heir, now Nedao's Lady. But I am also armswoman.” She paused to choose her next words with great care; the subject was a touchy one with the old armsmaster. “We face terrible odds. We may not even live, all of us, to cross the Torth tonight. And the road we have chosen, you and I, it may be all that the old tales make of it, it may be worse than anything we can imagine. I will not command any, man or woman, where we go. Nor is this the time to hold to Nedao's traditional protection of noble blooded and female. I will neither lead nor follow. I will give no order, and I will not allow you to care for me as we must Malaeth and the girl. We who can fight must be equals and arms-mates in this.” Silence. “Do you agree?”
Marhan frowned. “Your oath to your father—”
Ylia stiffened, swallowed anger. “'Safeguards,’ he said. I count my sword among them.”
“Perhaps. You are not bad. But your sword is unblooded.”
She laughed, mirthlessly. “Hardly that! Do you forget Vess’ messenger this past winter?”
Marhan shook his head firmly. “You did not slay him.”
“No,” she replied flatly. The anger she'd felt then was still alive. “Not for lack of desire on my par
t. The guard came to my aid too soon.”
The old man laughed grimly. “It does not matter. If we travel the Foessa, you'll blood your blades properly within a five-day, I'll wager you.”
“No take,” she replied soberly. “But if the need is there, by the Black Well I will.” Another silence. The cries from the City were fainter, or so it seemed. “It is my fight as well as yours, Marhan. You trained me for this.” Keen eyes met hers. He opened his mouth, shut it again, refolded the map with great care and placed it in his jerkin. He was withdrawn for some moments. His hand moved then, freed the dagger from its arm sheath, and he laid it hilts down against his breast.
“That is how you mean it—arms-mate?”
She drew her own short blade, matched his gesture. “That is indeed how I mean it.” It was as though a weight had slipped from her shoulders, and she could have laughed for the relief of it: she'd won him over, however grudgingly. “What say you, arms-mate?” she added challengingly, one hand gripping his shoulder. “Shall we win through the Foessa to the Caves of Aresada?”
His face was battle tight, his eyes glittered. “Aye, arms-mate. Though an army stand between!” With one swift motion that belied his three-score years, he sheathed the blade, rose and returned swiftly to the lip of the ravine.
Ylia lay back, suddenly weary. Arguing with Marhan took much from her at the best of times. Nisana slid quietly from under a nearby bush, stretched her sleek, dark body and purred against the girl's shoulder. Teacher, friend—constant companion. Ylia smiled, rubbed thick fur, and the cat leaned hard against her cheek, moved down to curl against her body and went to sleep.
Malaeth slowly closed the few paces separating them, spread her cloak and lowered herself cautiously to the ground. “Where do we go, Ylia, and when?” She cast one nervous glance toward the unseen City. “And—and where is—where are the others?”
