Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  “Breathe it in, boy. It’ll help get the water out of your lungs.”

  He didn’t believe the man. There was something wrong with these two people, but he couldn’t figure out what. His head was too muddled from the river.

  “Where do you suppose he came from?”

  “Either off a boat or swam across. I suspect he’s running from something,” the man said.

  The fumes continued to burn Riam’s lungs. He tried to pull away again and found that he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even blink.

  “That ought to do it, Warril. Don’t want him damaged.”

  “His clothes . . .”

  “What about them?”

  “They were gray,” the woman said. “You know what that means.”

  “I saw ’em. If he’s running, I can’t say I blame him.”

  “What if they’re searching for him? If they find us with the wagons full like they are, it won’t be the ships for us. They’ll kill us.”

  “They won’t. Think I’d risk it if I thought they were coming?”

  “We could leave him here, just in case.”

  “No. He’s worth a gold dreg in Parthusal. They always need new boys for the streets. We’ll put him with the others after he warms up a bit and then move on. It’s almost morning anyway. You get rid of his clothes. Throw them in the river. Get rid of the sandals while you’re at it. We don’t want anything that might draw attention to him.”

  “Seems a shame to waste him on the churps.” The woman’s hand stroked Riam’s chest.

  “None of that. We need to get moving. I’ll wake Nem. After he marks the boy, we’ll hitch the horses. If the boy is running from the Draegorans, we don’t want to be here when they come looking . . . and, Polla,” the man’s tone became more stern, “he goes to the churps as soon as we make it to the city. No argument.”

  It seemed as if the whole conversation were occurring in a dream—a dream from which he couldn’t wake. Riam wanted to cry, but he couldn’t even do that.

  The two remaining gods, Sollus and Faen, are like twin boys who hate each other steering the same boat down a river. One wants to stop, and the other wants to know where the river ends, and neither of them holds a paddle.

  —Okulu’tan Proverb

  Chapter 21

  Despite the bitter chill and weariness in his bones, Ky’lem continued to move, each step a battle between willpower and frozen death. While it was summer in the lands below, he’d climbed high enough to reach the frozen snow that never melted. He wasn’t dressed for the cold, and the icy wind burned his exposed skin. Over his shoulders, he carried the asha, wrapped in the wool saddle blanket he’d taken from the horse when it collapsed. His shoulders and legs burned, and his breath was short, but he kept moving. Ahead of him, the last rise taunted his tired body. At the top of the rise sat the Notch. From this close, he could see the line marking the narrow fissure in the rock that served as a passage over the spine of the mountains. A passage that would offer him and the asha shelter for a time and lead him into Esharii lands once more. To either side, snow-encrusted cliffs rose up toward clouded peaks.

  Taking the High Sun Path through the Notch was always a gamble, even in summer, but the gray demons hadn’t ceased in their pursuit and had cut them off from Weeping Pass. They’d lost the horse escaping the gray men’s grasp, making any other route impossible. If he was going to make it to the Najalii as the okulu’tan commanded, this was his only option with her slowing him down. Before him, footsteps in the snow led toward the Notch. At least one of his desperate kinsmen had escaped and come this way.

  Former kinsman. Now that he was chae’lon, he had no tribe. Regardless, he hoped it was a tribesman who’d made the tracks. There were dangers that walked on two legs in the mountains. More than one warrior had become a meal for a hungry merdon in these mountains. The snow beasts were a twisted blend of ape and pig that were far too humanlike in appearance for comfort and far too beastlike to ever garner sympathy. As good as he was with a sword, he didn’t want to face one of the great, lumbering beasts alone, especially when he’d already used up the last of his spirit paste.

  Ky’lem paused long enough to kneel and brush at the edges of a footprint. There were no short scratches at the front to mark the tips of clawed toes, and the prints were soft, caving in at the slightest touch. Human . . . and recent. He checked a second print. It was slightly longer than the first. He rocked back on his heels and looked down the line of footsteps, taking in everything without concentrating on a single print. More than one was off size. Two men, then, with one following in the first man’s tracks. He rose to his feet, groaning with the asha’s weight on his shoulders. Whether two men or one had lived to escape this way, it didn’t matter. They had to go through the Notch.

  Thunder rumbled to the south. It was distant, but not so far away that it kept him from worrying. Getting to the Najalii wasn’t the only reason he needed to keep moving. So far, the weather had been his ally, but even a mild storm at this height would delay them into death. If Sollus was with them, however, they’d be down the other side of the mountains and far enough to be safe before the storm reached them.

  He almost laughed at the thought of dying here, frozen, for a warband to find on their way to kill the very gray demons who’d forced him to use the pass. They would certainly laugh at his weakness. A true Esharii warrior turned on his pursuers and died in battle; he did not collapse in the snow and die like a feeble old man. The thought burned more than the wind—more so because it had nearly happened the previous night. He’d fallen, and it had taken every bit of his strength and the asha pounding on his back to keep from surrendering to the cold. The shame of her coaxing him up still stung at his pride.

  Angry at his own weakness, Ky’lem charged up the steep incline. The crunch of snow and ice echoed off the cliffs as he pounded his way upward. The asha grunted with each jarring step and the rough blanket rubbed painfully against his torn ear. It was stained with green-and-black smears from his face paint. In truth, he should have removed what remained of the paint before now, but he was loath to cut away the last link to his tribe. He must if he was going to embrace the future the okulu’tan had forced him into. It was too late to worry about it, though—there was nothing to wash his face and arms with. He’d given the asha the last of the water this morning.

  Ky’lem’s legs burned, but he pushed himself harder when he reached the narrow entrance to the Notch. At its center, the fissure would widen, creating a large shelf with a deep crevice to one side. Warbands used the spot to camp and rest. With luck, there would be wood left behind to make a fire and sleep. They couldn’t afford to rest for long with the storm coming, but even a short sleep near the warmth of the flames would do wonders for his spirit. The mixture of ice and rock beneath his feet became slick and treacherous, but he did not slow. At least there was no more snow, and the narrow, winding fissure protected him from the bite of the wind.

  He rounded the final bend. A plain-faced warrior sat with his back to the wall in the dim light that filtered down from the narrow crack above. His sword lay across his lap, a hand resting on the hilt. The remains of a fire sat next to him. Ky’lem shook his head in disappointment. What scraps of wood had been left behind were now useless ash, but at least he was no longer alone.

  “Ho, brother. It is good to see someone other than the gray demons,” Ky’lem called.

  The pachna was silent.

  Ky’lem’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. There would never be a response. The man was frozen dead.

  Ky’lem slid the asha from his shoulders. She readjusted the blanket so that her face peered out between a fold. Her dark skin had a waxy cast to it, and her lips held a bluish tint around the edges. By the numbness of his face, he was sure he appeared much worse.

  Motioning for her to keep silent, he drew his sword, and keeping a shoulder to the rock wall, move
d closer to the body. The warrior may have simply wanted to die with his sword in his hand, but by the way he sat facing the entrance, he’d either been waiting for other survivors from the warband or preparing to defend against something else. Most likely the warrior had succumbed to the cold, but until he was sure, he would take no chances. He stopped and closed his eyes for several breaths, listening. He heard the wind on the rocks above and the asha’s breathing, but nothing else.

  “Pah,” he said, “letting my fears get to me.” He moved to the dead warrior’s side and combed his hand through the ashes. Cool, but not frozen—one, maybe two days old at most.

  The dizziness of fatigue hit him when he tried to stand, and he nearly toppled over. He placed his hand on the body’s shoulder to steady himself.

  “So, how did you die, my friend?” he asked after the dizziness passed. He searched the man’s clothing. No coin, no food, and no water—not a single item beyond his sword and his clothing. Either he’d lost everything getting to the Notch, or someone had already been here and taken his belongings. The second set of prints? There were no wounds on the body.

  The asha moved to his side. “What happened to him?”

  “The cold. He slept too long, most likely.”

  Deeming they were safe enough for the moment, Ky’lem stumbled back to a wall for support. His eyes burned, and his eyelids felt as if there were stones woven into his lashes like the rings in his beard. He needed to rest, and the chamber was his only chance before returning to the snow-packed surface. A short rest only, and then they would move on. It would have to be enough.

  He slid down the wall and placed his sword across his thighs. Another day to reach the tree line where he would find wood enough to make a fire, another six to cross Ti’yak lands and reach the river, and then another eight by raft to the Najalii. Sixteen total, and that was without the need to hunt for food. Altogether, they had eighteen days left in the okulu’tan’s warning if he counted right since the last lightless night. It would be close—very close.

  If he were any other warrior, he’d say it couldn’t be done, but he was Ky’lem—the only warrior alive to slay three gray men in a single raid, the warrior who would one day unite the tribes. He would get the asha to the lake in time to save them both.

  The asha flung her blanket over them both. He was thankful for the sudden warmth. Wordlessly, she squeezed in close. He put an arm around her though he kept his other arm free with his sword ready.

  Through half-closed eyes, Ky’lem stared at the top of the asha’s head. The girl had changed since the pool. She was still simple in the way most children were, but she was stronger, with little thought to herself. She had not complained over the last few days, nor had she made any outlandish requests, and she did not quit. If anything, she was driving them harder than he was. He’d seen the crystals she carried—the parting gift of the old okulu’tan. Perhaps those were what pushed her. He had little understanding of how the spirit-walker’s magic worked aside from the bond.

  No, she was not the weak asha he’d originally thought. He didn’t know exactly what she was or what she would become, but there was something powerful within her waiting to come to the surface. Perhaps one day she would be worthy of his service.

  Is this the truth? Or is it the bond growing stronger that makes me feel this way? It was hard to know what his true feelings were, especially when he was so tired. The mind played tricks on a man when he became delirious with exhaustion.

  He looked sleepily at the body of the plain-faced warrior. He recognized the man—one of the spirit-walker’s pachna. The dead warrior had failed to make it home, just as he’d failed to protect the okulu’tan from himself in the end. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. “Unlike you, I will not falter.”

  They mirrored one another—backs to the wall, no supplies, and a weapon held upon their laps. He threw the blanket off and scrambled to his feet.

  “What is it?” The asha looked around warily, startled by his sudden movement.

  “I will not die here like you. I am stronger. I am Ky’lem!” he raved at the corpse.

  The asha rubbed his arm. “Of course, you will not fail.” Her face had a determined set to it, and she looked at him with a seriousness far beyond her age. “And I will not fail you.”

  Their eyes locked together, and a rush of emotions passed between them: wariness, cold, fear, fatigue, and—beneath those—an iron bond of loyalty neither could break, even if they wanted to.

  “You will both fail,” the dead pachna rasped.

  Ky’lem spun at the words. He raised his sword and moved to shield the asha. “What is this?” He wasn’t delirious. The corpse had spoken.

  The dead pachna rose to its feet in stiff, jerky movements, its joints cracking as they broke free from their frozen positions. It rolled its shoulders, like a living man working the kinks out upon waking from a hard sleep. Then it raised its sword and slashed back and forth, testing the blade in the air. The halting movements became smoother. While it acted like a man, its eyes remained glassy and its expression slack and empty.

  “I do not desire to kill you, but the asha may not return with you,” the corpse said.

  “Who speaks to me? What demon fouls this man’s skin?”

  “I would tell you to forget the girl and return to your tribe, but it’s too late for that. The two of you are nearly one.” The corpse stepped in front of the opening that led to Esharii lands.

  The asha hit him on his back. “Don’t talk to it, kill it!”

  Ky’lem had fought against the gray demons, he’d fought for his place among the Ti’yak, and against creatures large and small, but never had he faced the dead. Against the living, he was fearless. Against a possessed corpse, he was a young boy fighting to earn his face paint. His heart raced. His sword felt awkward and clumsy in his hands. “I will take her to the Najalii. I will save her,” he said, more to regain his confidence than to argue with whatever controlled the dead man’s body.

  The corpse lunged toward Ky’lem, and the asha shrieked behind him.

  Ky’lem was as slow and stiff as the corpse, too much walking and too much cold, but he managed to block the attack.

  “Back the way we came!” he yelled at the asha.

  The next thrust against him came faster.

  Ky’lem blocked the attack and stepped out of reach, drawing a deep breath to calm himself. He was close to the narrow point where they’d entered the chamber. The asha was behind him, safe for the moment. He placed himself in front of her. Any farther back, and he’d no longer have room to swing his sword. They could retreat the way they’d come if they had to, but it would only work to the corpse’s advantage. To retreat was to die in the coming storm.

  Ky’lem roared and charged. The clash of their swords rang out deafeningly in the enclosed chamber. Twice Ky’lem wounded the dead warrior, but it did not bleed. One left a gaping wound across the corpse’s shoulder—a wound that would have dropped a mortal man. So large was the cut that Ky’lem could see bone.

  The dead warrior simply passed its weapon to its other hand and attacked again, all the while its face remaining slack and empty.

  Ky’lem blocked a vicious cut toward his legs and ran the dead warrior through. This, too, had no effect. The creature, for that’s what it was—not a dead man, not a corpse—grabbed Ky’lem’s blade with its free hand and swung its sword at Ky’lem’s neck.

  Ky’lem released his blade to keep from being decapitated.

  The creature pressed the advantage, and Ky’lem dodged and ducked his way around the room in a maneuver that became part dance, part mad scramble. His only hope lay in using his speed to escape with the asha back the way they had come, to take their chances in the storm while they searched for some unknown way over the mountains.

  Unfortunately, whatever possessed the corpse knew his intent. Each time Ky’lem wo
rked his way close to the exit, the creature cut off his escape. It was a stalemate. The creature could not turn its back on Ky’lem to pursue the asha, and Ky’lem could not reach her.

  As Ky’lem tired, each of the creature’s swings came closer to finding its mark. He steered it close to the chasm, and after a wild swing that nearly split his head, he darted in and threw his shoulder into the creature’s side.

  It stumbled backward and tilted out over the edge, but it did not fall. Ky’lem pushed with all his strength. Still the creature held.

  In a blur, the asha was there, throwing her weight with his. Her slight form didn’t add much, but it was enough.

  Farther and farther the creature leaned out over the edge, until at last it began to tumble away. In a reckless move, Ky’lem lunged and snatched the handle of his sword before it was out of arm’s reach. The sword did not come free at first, and Ky’lem nearly followed the creature into the chasm. With a popping sound the sword came loose, and the creature tumbled away, bouncing between the walls and smashing to the bottom. After a brief silence, the sound of the creature scratching at the rocks rose from the deep.

  The asha peered down into the darkness.

  Ky’lem doubled over, putting a hand on his knee. His arms shook. Never in his life had he seen such a thing. “It should be trapped. The walls are steep and smooth. Come away from the edge,” he said between gasping breaths.

  “That was well fought, pachna.” The word pachna was drawn out and derisive.

  Ky’lem spun about.

  Pai’le stood at the entrance to the chamber, his sword out and ready.

  Ky’lem looked warily at the weapon in the big warrior’s hand. He bent his knees slightly, preparing for an attack if it came, although in his weakened condition, he doubted he would have much chance against the big man.

  “I said I’d kill you if I ever found you with paint on your face, didn’t I?” He turned the weapon in his hand, appearing to mull the idea over, and then sheathed it in a quick, fluid motion. “But not today. Today I am curious why one of the spirit-takers wants you dead.”