by Ru Emerson
At Brendan's suggestion, they heated and drank plain water. “The warmth pushes hunger aside, for a little while.” Surprisingly, it did. Ylia rummaged through her bag, added a pinch of rosemary to a second pot.
The rain feathered around them, threatened to become snow, gradually moved south. A vague sunlight pushed through the clouds to lighten the afternoon. Marhan scattered the last bits of charcoal. “Go, now. Who knows what's on its way.” He helped Malaeth to her feet, took up the lead once again.
They were sheltered from the wind for some time; the ravine deepened until rock walls pressed in and towered to great heights on both sides. The stream ran down the middle; now and again, it poured down an opening in the rock; finally it vanished underground.
Slowly the way grew wider; the bank to the right gradually fell away, giving a view of distant peaks and a wall of black cloud, a sharp drop to more rock and wash. But the west wall still held off the worst of the wind, and now rose to even greater height, until it was a solid mass of overlapping slabs of stone. Here and there it hung out over them. Malaeth cast frequent nervous glances upward, moved with surprising haste past such places.
Ylia stopped. Her mouth went dry, her stomach turned over. Something—something wrong. Horribly, terribly wrong. Brendan turned as he realized she was no longer with him, and some distance ahead Marhan motioned them both impatiently on.
“What?” Brendan had caught her mood, if not the cause, and was already at her shoulder, hand to his hilts, eyes studying the back trail.
She waved a hand for silence. Deep in her pouch, Nisana was stirring. “A scent? No—not—even that,” she whispered, scarcely aware she spoke aloud. “A sense of a scent?”
“What are you talking about?” Brendan demanded. She waved him to silence again.
“Don't know. Something, somewhere, near—” As though her mind had conjured on its own the scent of death. Old, old death.
“Something wrong,” she whispered. A noise moved across rock and the sparse, weedy grasses, a faint hissing that was neither wind nor grass. The thinnest of shadows moved between sun and ground and fell across them.
Ylia threw back her head. A thing like an immense bat glided overhead, banked and soared directly at them. Evil pulsed from it, rooting her in horror to the rock as the deep pits that were the thing's eyes sought hers. Its mouth opened, revealing rows of tiny rasping teeth and eight long fangs.
An unclean touch moved with a stealthy, feathery caress across the edge of her mind: come.
Backward, the Nedao by our standards—but they are not stupid folk, as many of our kind say. They are keen-witted, skilled traders and bargainers and appreciate Osneran fine silk and other Narran-traded goods from Oversea, as well as their more civilized neighbors. A conservative folk altogether, however, and I often wondered how they would meet peril, or even sudden change. In the Foessa, where peril and sudden change were an hourly occurrence, I found my answer.
11
A redness blurred her vision; less than a whisper, that voice: come. No! She wanted to cry that, to scream aloud, but no sound came; she tried to move, could not. A wild, painful scrabbling against her chest that was Nisana fighting to free herself from the confining pouch. The shadow overhead halved as the thing drew in its wings and fell. A blast of hot air blew across the swordswoman's face, bringing with it the full stench of a thing long dead and rotting.
“To me, foul thing!” Brendan's voice cracked like a boy's, but his sword was up and out, his free hand sent her sprawling. A deafening cry echoed across the rocks, tore at her inner being. She shuddered, swallowed several times, pushed resolutely to her feet. Nisana wriggled free, dropped to the ground, moved forward to sniff, long-necked, at the creature. It had fallen to the path, wrenching Brendan's sword from his hand, and lay nearly across his feet.
Marhan gulped audibly. “What monster is that?”
Brendan shrugged, went back to retrieving his blade. “A thing beyond my ken, Swordmaster,” he replied coolly, thought not at all steadily. “Lady Ylia, what do you know of it?”
“Nothing.” She was still swallowing rapidly, desperate that she should not be ill. Marhan reached out and caught hold of her arm as she staggered. Her vision cleared. “I—it resembles a bat, but—”
“No. Not of any kind. Too large,” Marhan grunted. He glanced over his shoulder; Lisabetha and Malaeth were not far ahead. He motioned them to stay where they were: unnecessary. Neither one of them would have come another step. Brendan, his sword once again his, poked gingerly at the thing. Too large, indeed. It lay, wings spread wide, across the trail and partway up the western cliff, fully a man's length and half again from tip to tip. Its body was covered with a very short, dark brown fur, save for the face, which was black and wrinkled.
Nisana took a cautious step forward as Brendan poked at it again, held her ground when it twitched. Ylia bit her lip.
And it was gone, gone as though it had never been. Lisabetha cried out. Marhan retreated, caught his heel on a snag of rock and fell back into the cliff.
Nisana leaped onto Ylia's shoulder. ‘What a monster! Like something of a nightmare!’ Her thought was more blazingly curious than frightened.
'But it was there, cat!’ Ylia's thought, her whole body, shook. She hugged herself, hard. It had been real, it had touched her inner being, had fouled her thought, and Brendan had slain it with good steel. ‘Nisana, it was there!’
'Of course it was!’ Nisana snapped. ‘Did I say otherwise? It was there, it no longer is. And why?’ she demanded, as though she was teaching.
'Why?’ Ylia echoed blankly.
'Because, having failed, it has returned to the one who sent it.’
“Sent?” She whispered the word aloud, forgetful of the armsman at her side, but Nisana had already returned to her pouch and her thought was closed.
Brendan wiped his blade on a handful of dry grass, glanced from the now-empty spot at his feet back down the trail. Marhan and the other women had already started forward. “Whatever it was, it is gone,” the armsman shouted after them. “Let us leave before another comes!” Marhan scarcely slowed at all, waved them imperatively on.
Ylia drew a deep breath, started after, was arrested by Brendan's hand on her shoulder. “All right. What was it?” His face was darkly determined.
“I told you, I don't know what it was.” But he looked unconvinced.
“I understand why you will not say the name aloud to the Swordmaster,” he said testily. “And I am sure Malaeth and the girl would rather not know. But—”
“Do you think me a liar?” she demanded hotly. “I have no idea what it was! None! And I do not want to know! It is gone, that is enough. I do not wish to be reminded that it ever was at all!” There was a cold silence. “Sorry,” she said stiffly. He had it coming; hard to fight the words out, all the same. “Not the thanks you deserve for saving my skin.”
“It was my skin as well. Remember?” Brendan's manner was suddenly reserved.
“Well, I am sorry. Truly.” She drew a deep breath, let it out with her mother's calming charm. “I was afraid; I froze.”
“And it made you angry. It would anyone.” Another silence. “We—have all been afraid, some time or another.” He hesitated, stole a sideways glance at her. “I was last night. Had that thing wished, it could have stolen my life with its bare hands, for I was as helpless as a child.”
The quiet was not so stiff this time. “I thought you feared nothing in this world,” she said lightly. Brendan smiled. Shrugged.
“I once thought I never would.” The smile remained, answering lightness, a self-effacing smile. Odd, that I dare tell her the thing I dare tell no other. Not even Brel. “The old heroes, they were all brave. And I wanted—” he cast another doubtful glance in her direction, “I wanted, when I was a boy, to be one of them. Because—well—I realized young that much would be denied me when I was grown because I am not of a noble house. But heroes—they come from all classes, don't they? And not muc
h is required of them, really—skill with weapons, which I have. And bravery, of course.”
“Of course.” There was no mockery in her voice, and within her only awe. How can he dare tell me this, as though he sought my understanding—as though my understanding mattered? But—but he was wrong. “Brendan, no. None of the truly great heroes were fearless.” Again that doubtful glance. “Think. They were brave, the ones you admire from the histories, but of necessity. Think!”
He shook his head, unconvinced. “Merreven, Kilderes’ brother, when he went against the Mathkkra, the cave dwellers, they who had slain his brother, when he drove them from the Plains and put the last of them to the sword—”
“He feared, because he knew what he must face, but his path was before him and he had no choice. The thing needed doing, lest the innocent suffer, lest more die as had Kilderes, a blood-sacrifice—”
“But—”
“Brandt, my father.” Dark pain pressed against her throat. “He feared, I know he did, when he chose to remain behind, forming a rearguard in Koderra, so that the barbarians would not press on south and the helpless might reach the open sea. I saw the fear in his eyes, Brendan, and I know it now for what it was—to face death so clearly, to know there is no chance you will see the next day.
“But long years from now, when the Tehlatt themselves are dust, the tales will tell of the hero Brandt and the White Witch his wife who fell with the great Flames upon the enemy. Do you think she, also, was not afraid?”
“You believe this.”
“Because I know it. Because it is true.”
Brendan smiled suddenly, a genuine, warm smile. “Perhaps so. I have never thought much about such matters. In truth,” he added with a brief grin, “I have seldom in my life thought at all, merely acted.”
“For which I have reason to give thanks,” Ylia replied. “I acknowledge,” she added with the least of bows, “the debt of my blood.”
Brendan shook his head. “As you wish. But it was my life as well, you know. But—I thank you. For everything you have said. You have given me considerable to think upon.” Again that warm smile.
His attention was suddenly drawn to the fore: Brelian had returned, and with him was a strange man, a tall weed of a creature, clad all in skins to the fox's pointed muzzle and red ears that bobbed above his head.
They caught up with Marhan, who stood guarding the serving women from the old man—a mountain-hunter, he could be nothing else—with one hand on his hilt. Brelian had interposed himself between Swordmaster and hunter. “Marhan, it's all right! We met him on—”
“You'd trust to—”
“Marhan, if you'd just listen—!”
“Stay your hand, Swordmaster,” Ylia shouted as they came up. “You've plenty of time to murder him, if that's needed. I doubt he'd outrun even you!” Brendan winced; Marhan glared at her but released his sword. Old but alert brown eyes stared widely into hers from around Brelian's arm. “Who is this, Brel, and where did you find him?” Marhan spared her another hard look, shrugged and stomped off.
“He found us. We were lost. Not far ahead there is a place we thought we might have to climb, but even that proved impossible.”
“Climb?” Malaeth whispered, aghast. Lisabetha patted her shoulder reassuringly, but she looked no less anxious.
“No climbing,” Brelian assured them quickly. “This is Verdren, who once lived in Esmalda west of the river, but he decided there were too many folk breathing his air, so he came here. What, fifteen years ago, Verdren?”
“About. A man loses count when all the years are alike.” The old hunter's voice was creaky, as though he seldom used it. Quick eyes studied them in turn.
“He set us upon a proper trail,” Brelian continued. He cast a brief scowl at the Swordmaster, who was clomping back toward them. “We would never have found it. It is not far ahead, but somewhat east of us.”
“Where did you leave Golsat and Lev?” Marhan growled.
“Less than a league from where we join that trail, there is a valley and a small lake. There was sign of game even before we reached a point where we could see the lower ground. They went ahead to find us a place to sleep and have meat for us when we arrive.” Marhan glared at him, transferred the glare briefly to Verdren. “They—chose to, Swordmaster.” But Marhan had more things to worry at the moment.
“Handy that he chanced to be there, wasn't it?” Brendan remarked dryly. The old hunter met his eyes indignantly, though he must look up a goodly distance to do so.
“You had better think it was!” he snapped. “I seldom travel anywhere about here, I can tell you that! But that my pack animal wandered last night, you might have spent another cold night in the rocks, instead of warm and fed below!” He spat. “Think on that, young lordling, and put aside your fool's doubts!”
“Oh.” Ylia bit back a laugh. “And you never doubt anything you find here, I suppose? You have lived here for long years and seen nothing in these mountains, Verdren, that you are so open-hearted?” A line deepened between his brows. Shhh, don't tease the old creature. Her next words were more placating. “If we have spoken to you with little gratitude or trust, then we owe you apology, and you shall have one. But we have spent three nights in the Foessa, and what we have already seen—”
“Do not tell me. I will not ask.” He eyed her curiously, cast a brief glance in Lisabetha's direction, went back to a frank appraisal of her mail shirt, breeches, short-torn surcoat, and the young woman who wore them. “There is only one female that I have heard tell in all Nedao who wears the uniform of the Koderran Guard. But—”
“Ylia,” she said. “Myself.” To her intense embarrassment he dropped stiffly to one knee and bowed his head. The furred headpiece bobbed gently back and forth.
“My—My Lady. Forgive me, I did not know you. If I spoke any disrespect—”
She pulled him back to his feet. “It's all right.” Out of place here, the formal trappings of high station. And she was not used to full obeisance. “There is no need for ceremony, we are too few and our need too great. It has taken the skills and strengths of every one of us that we stand here at all. But if you would have my thanks, the thanks of all of us, aid us now! We are bound for Aresada, for the Caves. Do you know them?” A nod. “Can it be done?”
Verdren gnawed at his under lip. One hand tugged at the fox paws again, and he finally nodded, reluctantly. “It can, if it must. But let us move on. This is not a good place, anywhere hereabouts. You need maps and I have no hide about me, but there is a place not far ahead where I can draw them in the dirt.”
“I have a map,” Marhan began, but Verdren merely turned and set out at a swift pace. Malaeth and Lisabetha fell in with Brelian; the rest followed.
“You will need it,” the old hunter said. “But we will move anyhow, for this place is not good. I have seen things near to here—and the Foessa are haunted, you know.” Ylia caught Malaeth's dark, accusing eyes on her. Marhan snorted. Verdren regarded him with a level, disapproving expression on his old face. “Do not scoff, Plainsman. They do not lie, who say that! I would not for all the bounty of the Mothers walk the way you have come!”
“You have seen—” Brendan hesitated.
“I have seen. Shadows across the trail, but none to cast them. Battles fought under the trees, all in silence, until a fog shrouded them or the sun banished them. Things which stand and call, looking most like my old mother—”
“You have seen that thing?” Marhan breathed. “But how did you escape it?”
“How not? It was not my mother, you know. She is long since dead. And, if not my mother, what should it be in the Foessa? Why, a thing of evil!” he finished triumphantly. “I have not gone that way in a long time, and shall not ever again. But there is more,” he went on, dropping his voice until it was a mere sibilant whisper. “Have you heard of the Fear-That-Follows?” He cocked his head to one side, scratched his jaw. “It dwells here, the Fear does. I can direct ye around one such place, where i
t is ... or was. It moves about, you see, and is seldom two seasons in the same place. But you must take great care,” he added earnestly, “the Fear will eat your bones!” He gazed anxiously at the Swordmaster, but Marhan was beyond scoffing.
“That tells us little enough,” Brendan said finally. “Can it be slain?”
“Can it be slain? What, with steel?” Verdren laughed, a high, thin giggle. “Now, how would I know that? I have never seen it. When I could smell it out, I never remained to see how it looked! I am old, boy, but my legs have not failed me yet!” Brendan favored him with the odd little look he usually bestowed upon his brother and asked no more questions.
“You have never seen this Fear, and yet you know of it,” Ylia said finally. “How?” None of them, save she and Nisana, had been aware of the Fear, and this old man was purely of Nedao.
“Ye can—smell them out, Lady. No—” he frowned. “Not precisely that. Something about ’em, ye can tell when they are to hand. When they wish, or so it's said. Tell me, did the hairs on your neck never stand for no reason?”
“Did—” They were, right at the moment, as she remembered the flying thing and shivered.
“That,” Verdren finished grimly, “is how I know.”
The ravine opened out suddenly, leaving them on a high, sloping meadow, gazing out across thick forest far below toward a long, narrow valley. There was a glint of water through the trees, a thin trickle of smoke which rose as high as the tallest trees before flattening out to drift north.
Verdren dropped to the ground with a pleased grunt, held out a hand to the Swordmaster who reluctantly produced his map. Ylia stayed with them awhile as they huddled over the parchment, Verdren's fingers moving rapidly this way and that as he kept up a constant discourse. Marhan pointed to one place; Verdren shook his head, drew lines and marks in the dirt between them. She was already lost. Easier to leave them to it. She crossed the turf to stand with the rest of the company.
