Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  The clangor of battle reached Ky’lem as he left the wadi and scrambled up the loose shale slope that led back to camp. He nearly tripped on the body of a sentry, seeing the dark unmoving form at the last moment and leaping at an odd angle to keep from stepping on an outstretched arm. A sudden unnatural wind buffeted him when he crested the rise. A fire had blazed at the center of the camp when he’d left, but the heavy wind quashed the flames, reducing it like a fluttering candle. It did little to improve his vision, even with the spirit paste flowing through his veins. Vague silhouettes fought and yelled, and blades clashed, but it was difficult to distinguish Esharii from Draegoran.

  Lightning flashed, exposing the camp, and Ky’lem’s hopes were scattered like the flames of the fire. At least three of the enemy’s taulins, maybe more, fought in and around the camp—some on foot, some still mounted. Several of his tribesmen were already down. Against one taulin, the warriors had a chance. Against the number of gray men before him, they would be slaughtered. Only the spirit-walker’s magic could save them.

  Darkness returned, making it even more difficult to see after the bright flash. The wind grew stronger, churning up sand and dirt that stung Ky’lem’s face as he waited for his sight to readjust to the dim light. The okulu’tan had to be creating the wind. If it grew any worse, there would be a sandstorm equal to those of the Great Keln in the far south, but it gave Ky’lem hope. Some of his tribesmen might escape under the cover of the gale to reach the Weeping Pass. The spirit-walker’s parting gift.

  Lightning struck again, and this time, Ky’lem saw Pai’le. The big war leader had chosen his spot to sleep well away from the others, and he fought alone against a single gray demon. His back was to a twisted tree barely large enough to shield him. Behind the tree, a single gray demon approached unseen.

  It hit Ky’lem as suddenly as the lightning around them. He’d been with the asha at the start of the attack. There was no need for the storm to let him and the girl escape. So why the storm? Why let me return? There was someone else the okulu’tan needed to survive, and Ky’lem knew who it must be—Pai’le. That is why the okulu’tan prevented me from challenging him. The okulu’tan had only said that he would die if he challenged Pai’le, not that he would lose the fight. All men died eventually. Half-truths and madness. It all made sense. He could have spirited the girl away in the night if that was all the okulu’tan wanted. They would have been halfway to the mountains before the attack had come.

  “Faen’s ass. Why not just tell me the truth, old man?”

  Ky’lem raised his sword and sprinted to Pai’le’s aid.

  The gray demons were inhumanly fast, but they still had to know the weapon was coming to dodge it. Whether it was because of the wind and sand or because the gray man was too intent on killing Pai’le, it didn’t matter. He never saw Ky’lem. Ky’lem’s blade bit into the side of the gray man’s neck, nearly taking the head off, and the swirling wind flung a spray of blood in all directions that spattered them both in a hard rain. He knelt, and in one quick slice, removed the wolf from the gray man’s neck—proof of his kill.

  Pai’le was suddenly next to him. The big warrior looked from the tree to the body to Ky’lem, nodding his acknowledgment of what had just occurred. On the other side of the tree, the gray demon Pai’le had been fighting lay on the ground unmoving.

  “Wh . . . t . . . horse . . . ry!” The wind tore Pai’le’s words to fragments, but Ky’lem understood and obeyed, running toward where the horses were hobbled. Halfway there, he slid to a stop. Two gray men rode toward him. He could not defeat both at once, and without the horses there was no escape.

  “Faen take the gray demons,” Ky’lem cursed.

  Pai’le came rushing to his side just as the two Draegorans closed. Pai’le dove to the left, and a blade swung through the air where his head had been an instant earlier. The second horseman intended to trample Ky’lem. Ky’lem threw his knife with all the force he could get behind it and dove to the side. There was a loud clang when the rider deflected it with his sword. He hadn’t really expected the knife to do any damage; he’d only needed to distract the rider long enough to get out of the horse’s way.

  Lightning flashed a third time, and—by the grace of Sollus—his knife had landed nearby. He dove to retrieve it.

  The gray demons leaped from their saddles and advanced toward him and Pai’le. Ky’lem took a deep breath to calm his heart. The gray men were incredibly fast, but he’d fought them before and lived. If he defeated this one, he’d claim a third skin on this raid, and he wanted a third badly. No living Esharii could claim three skins on a single raid. What a story this would make—killing the third Draegoran while the spirit-walker’s great windstorm swelled around him.

  He dashed forward, swinging his sword in a downward slash aimed at the first gray man. Pai’le attacked the other. The first gray demon met Ky’lem’s blade, letting the heavy Arillian sword slide down the curve of his saber and away from him before countering. Ky’lem brought his sword back in low, toward the man’s legs. The swing carried little strength, and the gray man blocked it with ease. The weapons rang out when they met. The two stepped apart, circling one another.

  Ky’lem searched for an opening to attack. With speed on the Draegoran’s side, it was best to stay on the offensive.

  A gust of wind from behind Ky’lem threw sand and brush at the gray man, and Ky’lem used the opening to make a thrust at his face. The gray man avoided it and jabbed his sword toward Ky’lem’s stomach. Ky’lem brought the knife down to deflect the blow, but not fast enough. The saber grazed along the side of his waist. Ky’lem ignored the line of fire and stepped in close, bringing his knee up toward the man’s groin. The gray man twisted and Ky’lem’s knee slammed into his hip, knocking him off-balance.

  Ky’lem pressed the attack. He had little time. A gray demon could leach away his spirit from even the smallest of wounds. He dropped to one knee and used his sword to brush away a weak attack, then hooked his knife around the inside of the Draegoran’s thigh. The Draegoran tried to kick his leg up and out of the way, but he was still off-balance. Ky’lem tightened the grip on his knife and pulled. He felt the blade scrape along bone.

  By the time the gray man broke free, there was a deep gash below his groin from the back to the front of his inner thigh. Blood poured down his leg. The gray man wobbled unsteadily and fell.

  Ky’lem kicked the sword away from his opponent’s hand and turned to aid Pai’le. It was unnecessary. The other gray demon lay on the ground at Pai’le’s feet holding his stomach with his entrails spilled next to him. Ky’lem looked around for the next opponent, but they were left alone momentarily—a pocket of calmness around which the fighting turned with the storm.

  It would not be for long. Three gray men rode through the horses, scattering them. One of his former kinsmen was halfway into the saddle when a blade slashed down his back. The tribesman pitched forward, out of the saddle, and the horse bolted. The dying tribesman was dragged away, his foot caught in the stirrup.

  Three Esharii fought near the fire, but they were outnumbered. They wouldn’t be able to hold off the attack much longer. On the other side of the camp, another tribesman fought to escape two Draegorans. Ky’lem moved to help.

  “No, Ky’lem!” Pai’le’s words stopped him. “It is not your fight.”

  One of the three Esharii by the fire went down, and the remaining two fought back to back. They were outnumbered five to two. He started forward.

  Pai’le grabbed Ky’lem by the arm and spun him around. “I will help them. I am their warleader,” he brought his sword up between them, “and you are no longer a member of this tribe.”

  Ky’lem drew back.

  “You think I don’t know when one of my own warriors has betrayed me? You think I don’t know that you planned to challenge me and take my place? The okulu’tan told me everything, right after you groveled at h
is feet, begging for him to take my spirit. You think I’m stupid?” Pai’le waved his sword back and forth with his words. “If you had not saved my life, I would kill you. Consider the debt paid.”

  Ky’lem’s head spun faster than the wind. What is Pai’le talking about? While he’d thought of challenging Pai’le, he hadn’t gone to the okulu’tan for help. The okulu’tan had asked to speak to him.

  “It wasn’t . . . I . . .” Ky’lem stopped. He almost laughed at the absurdity of the world. The crazy old spirit-walker’s half-truths went deeper and farther than he could fathom. He’d played on Pai’le’s fears and made it so Ky’lem could never return to his tribe. There was no other choice than to become the asha’s protector. No matter what he did now, he was chae’lon, and a chae’lon who did not serve an okulu’tan was as good as dead or, worse, a slave.

  “Go. You are not wanted here.” Pai’le raised the sword threateningly, like a man scaring away a dog. “Go. Hide behind your spirit-walker while you can. If I ever find you with the paint of a true warrior on your face again, I will kill you for the honorless coward you are.”

  Ky’lem’s blood pounded in outrage, but he backed away. The tribes are more important than the truth. He told himself those words again and again, using them as a shield against the shame.

  Pai’le spat on the ground between them and turned his back to Ky’lem.

  Feeling like the coward Pai’le named him, Ky’lem moved away. He nearly tripped over the body of the gray demon he’d killed. He would still take his skin for the kill. Pai’le could not take away that honor.

  He half sliced, half ripped the square symbol from the dead man’s neck. He tucked the bloody skin into a pouch. With the wolf he’d taken and the dried-up owl he’d carved off the Draegoran at the outpost, he had his three.

  After a last look at his kinsmen, Ky’lem ran to catch one of the mounts that had scattered. He was running away now because he had no choice, but if he ever united the tribes, he wouldn’t rest until he’d carved the skin off the neck of every living gray demon in payment for the shame of today.

  He did not see the great vortex of wind strike the camp behind him or hear the screams of the men it lifted into the air and dashed against the rocks. Nor did he see Pai’le leading the last of the Esharii in a desperate charge to escape. He had only one thing left to him—the asha.

  She’d better be worth the price of my honor.

  Chapter 19

  Riam and the other children changed boats when they reached the city of Ibbal, arriving in the morning and leaving the same day. The river they traveled joined the Layren a few steads above the city, more than doubling its size and speeding up, just as Gairen said it would. No chain could ever be stretched across it like the one at the timber yard. A half dozen barges lined end to end would not span the river’s murky depths.

  “Ibb is the Draegoran word for stone,” a thin, wiry-haired boatman said. “So Ibbal means ‘place of stone.’”

  It was an accurate description. High rock walls protected the city and the crowded docks that jutted from the iron gates along their base. Riam and the others never saw behind those gates. It took no more than a sandglass to march to another boat and for Captain Karlet’s personal gear to be transferred before shoving off again. They now rode a much larger barge used to carry grain downriver.

  Captain Karlet, it seemed, owned a fleet of barges that transported everything from wood and grain to livestock downriver. The barges would then be towed back upriver filled with finished goods and other “rare materials,” as he put it. Normally, Captain Karlet remained in Parthusal with his warehouses, but every now and then he ventured out on the river to “regain the feel of his operations and get the measure of his crews.” None of the men on the barge seemed to enjoy his presence. They all looked nervously over their shoulders as they worked, and there seemed to be some confusion between the usual captain and Captain Karlet’s orders.

  Riam and the children spent the day the same as they’d spent their previous days on the smaller vessel, trying to stay out from under the feet of the boatmen and the two captains. They’d all learned the hard way that getting in the way was a fast method for learning how to properly scrub a deck.

  The small crew cabin at the rear of the barge and the areas where the crew worked the sweeps were forbidden, which pretty much meant that the whole rear and the majority of the sides of the barge were off limits. The only places left were either along the front or on one of the heavy scantlings that ran the width of the ship and separated the grain into multiple open holds. Thick tarpaulins stretched over the mounds of grain to protect them and were battened to the scantlings. The mounds looked like they would be comfortable to sit on. Instead, they were scorching hot from the afternoon sun. There was no rail on the barge, only a short, raised coaming that ran the perimeter of the nearly rectangular hull. The front was the better of the two spots. It had the best view and was the coolest place to ride, and because the barge was what the boatmen called a “rake,” the front curved back underneath and allowed a person to sit with their legs dangling over the water. Unfortunately, Tannon and his gang had laid claim to the front, leaving the scantlings to Riam and the other outcasts—the name Vashi had given to those who didn’t do what Tannon ordered. The sandy-haired boy’s arm was out of the sling now, and he never sat in one place for long—and always bouncing and fidgeting when he did. Right now he was walking back and forth across a tarpaulin, heel-to-toe with his arms out wide, counting his steps.

  Riam and Loral sat together on one of the scantlings, watching a long, slender ship lined with oars tow another barge upstream. The oars were mesmerizing—up, forward, down and into the water, all in perfect time, like a giant caterpillar crawling on glass. The barge behind the oared ship rode high in the water, its bright red loadline a rod above the water’s surface, which meant a light cargo. Marcus and Karyl were currently playing a slap game with their hands on the other side of Loral from Riam.

  “The one in front is a prison ship,” Marcus said without looking up from his brother’s hands. He squinted his eyes in concentration, watching his big brother’s hands and trying not to blink.

  Karyl nodded, affirming the smaller brother’s words. Marcus did most of the speaking for the larger brother who tended to hover on the fringe of conversations without saying much. Karyl flipped his hand over and smacked the back of Marcus’s hand before the smaller boy could pull it away.

  “Ouch!”

  “What?” Loral asked.

  “I said, ‘ouch.’”

  Loral rolled her eyes. “I know that. I meant about the boats.”

  “The ship pulling the barge. Prisoners row it. Free men don’t row on ships, at least not the ones on rivers.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s a life sentence,” Marcus added, “so they’re really just slaves.”

  “But only the Arillians have slaves. The Covenant forbids slavery,” Loral said.

  “Exactly—that’s why they’re called prisoners,” Marcus said.

  “That doesn’t seem right. They’re still slaves, even if you don’t call them that,” Loral said before pressing her lips into a flat line—the way she did whenever thinking deeply about something she didn’t like.

  After several days together, Riam knew that look. In the mess hall he’d wanted to change it into a smile, but over the last few days he’d learned it was better to get out of her way than to attempt to change it. He’d also come to the conclusion, after being yelled at twice, that it wasn’t his responsibility to change it. Riam slid a few hands away from her.

  “I wonder what they did,” she said.

  “Thieves maybe, or beggars. It’s a crime to beg,” Marcus said. “Their crimes can’t be too bad, though, or they would’ve been executed by their district wardens.”

  “Well, that’s a great choice; be a slave or starve with no money,” Loral said
.

  Riam didn’t say what they were all thinking. Someday it might be them who enforced the law. He thought of his grandfather. That helped put it into perspective. “They broke the law. People who break the law deserve to be punished.” He said the words to himself, but the others heard him.

  Loral gave him an exasperated look.

  “It’s not evil to protect others by stopping those who are bad,” he explained.

  “It’s horrible, spending your life rowing a boat because you don’t have any money,” she replied.

  “I’m sure they are all criminals and deserve it,” Marcus said, giving her a big smile.

  Smack!

  “Ow!” A wince replaced Marcus’s smile. His brother had used the opportunity to put more effort into his swing. “That wasn’t fair. I was talking,” he said, shaking his fingers out to try and ease the pain.

  “Serves you right,” Loral said. “You wouldn’t think you deserved it if you were forced to spend your life as a slave and your only crime was being poor and hungry.” She made a big deal of jumping down from the scantling and stomping across the tarpaulin cover, forcing Vashi to lose count of his steps as he jumped out of her way. The grain shifted beneath her, and she nearly lost her balance. She glanced back at Riam and the others, but they were smart enough not to laugh.

  Marcus and Karyl both looked to Riam; their hands were back together between them.

  Riam shrugged. “I think it has something to do with someone in her family. She’ll be back when she cools down.”

  The twins nodded.

  Smack!

  “Would you stop doing that when I am not looking, you stupid screet!”

  Riam chuckled at the twins’ bickering. Other than a slight similarity in looks, they were really nothing alike, except that they were both getting their adult teeth later than the others. Marcus, the small one, was always wiggling a loose tooth, while Karyl’s two eyeteeth were coming in at different angles. The crooked teeth, combined with his size and how little he spoke, made many of the boatmen take Karyl for a simpleton, but he was far smarter than his overtalkative brother. Like most of the children, all except for Loral, Tannon, Dunval, and Vashi, the twins were from a small town—somewhere on the coast where they’d worked their father’s fishing boat. Karyl was the one who’d taught Riam the words for the different parts of the barge and what a loadline was. Riam understood why you said port and starboard, but why you couldn’t just say front and back instead of fore and aft was a question neither of the twins could answer.