Slow Turns The World

by Andy Sparrow

  And so they left the plain and began the long climb. There was a path that in parts was worn smooth by the treading of many feet, but elsewhere vanished below screes and falls of greater rocks for the slow cycle of ice, temperate rains and relentless burning sun had left a shattered, broken land.

  “Look to the plain, Torrin,” said Perrith as they struggled upwards.

  Looking across the plain, sweeping his eyes from the sea of shadow below to the still sunlit land beyond, Torrin saw the column of smoke rise.

  “Do they pursue us, Perrith?”

  “I fear so, for they will know the time of our leaving.”

  Torrin pictured the body of Perrith's father lying by the abandoned camp.

  “Aye, they will, and that we are not far ahead.”

  “Torrin, take a small band and seek the trail. We must pass the high places, those that follow are not the only danger, for the wind begins to change and soon the cold may come. Choose who you will and go quickly, we shall come when oldest and youngest are rested.”

  Torrin gathered together Rasgan, Turnal, Nagul, and three other hunters who were swift and strong. They set off briskly up the steep and winding path while above them reared great cliffs, dark and shadowy, with only the highest crags flecked with red sunlight. Many rock-falls had tumbled down ripping away or burying the ancient route. Despite moving cautiously with their hunter's soft tread upon the tumbled debris, they often sent the unbalanced rocks bouncing away to a distant, echoing impact. They reached the bottom of a cliff but the forbidding crag showed no sign of breach or stairway. Then Rasgan, scouting along the wall’s foot, called to them.

  “Here! Here is the way! Our mark is upon it!”

  A great cleft led upwards, narrowing back into the mountainside. It was bridged in many places by wedged boulders that had fallen from above. Carved in stone at its base was the mark of the tribe, worn by time, battered by rock-falls and barely to be seen.

  “The mark must be carved again, “ said Rasgan, “for when the world turns full circle our children's children will come this way. This is my task, now do yours. Go upwards and find the path.”

  Leaving Rasgan to chip a renewed symbol into the unyielding rock, they began to scale the cleft. The rocks were smoothed as if many feet and hands had climbed the way before and sometimes on reaching upwards they would find steps and edges that had long ago been hammered or chiselled into the stone. The cleft was steep and narrow but they made good speed between damp and mossy walls until they emerged at last upon a broad terrace where a final tier of cliffs confronted them with the highest pinnacles rearing up into sunlight. Another gully beckoned, wider and less steep.

  “Did Rasgan say what lies above?” asked Turnal.

  “A high valley,” replied Torrin. “And a gentle path downward.”

  “I do not like the wind,” said Turnal, facing the darkness to the west. “It begins to turn and grows cold.”

  It was then that a stone fell from above. They drew silent and bunched together beneath the cliff.

  “Listen,” hissed Torrin, motioning them to silence. There was a voice above but the words could not be heard.

  “It cannot be the Ummakil,” whispered Turnal.

  “It should not be,” replied Torrin, “But we must see...”

  He stepped out from the shelter and shouted up.

  “I am Torrin of the Vasagi, who stands above?”

  A voice called out from the cliff top.

  “It is the Asgal who stand above you hunter, as ever we did.”

  There were other tribes whose paths crossed theirs from time to time. If they met in lands or times of plenty, and if no old feuds smouldered, they would trade and sit before a common fire. But if the land was lean or parched by drought, then they might quarrel and skirmish. Always somewhere ahead, under a brighter sun, were the Asgal whose pathway was as theirs. There were times when one tribe hurried and another lingered, each for their own purposes according to their ways, and then they might meet. There had been no bad blood between Vasagi and Asgal in living memory.

  Torrin led his companions up the final scramble, into the warm bright rays of the sun again. Before them stretched a valley, a great trough that curved away between walls of snow-capped ridges. Further down the valley, from somewhere unseen, rose several columns of smoke. There was a distant ringing as of many metal hammerheads beating upon stone. Stood between them and the downward path were a dozen Asgal. Torrin had met the tribe once in his youth and knew much of their ways. They were hunters too, but hunters of many beasts; he remembered the pelts and skins they had worn when joining the Vasagi at the fireside. But these Asgal were dressed differently and they did not carry bows or spears. Each was clad the same, in dark leather bearing a strange emblem, a triangle within a circle. There were long scabbards slung from their belts and each man held something that Torrin had never seen before, yet he sensed was a weapon; a crossbow. And they all smiled, but not the smile of welcome, it was the smile of a predator seeing the prey is cornered, anticipating some cruel sport.

  “Where do you journey, Vasagi?” asked one of their band, still smiling.

  “We seek the way for the tribe,” replied Torrin cautiously. “We seek our path.”

  “There is no path for you here.”

  A silence followed for a moment before Turnal spoke.

  “This has ever been our path and well you know it. Why do you linger here? Can you not see the fires of the Ummakil yonder?”

  “Why should we fear the Ummakil?” replied another Asgal, “or any tribe? We are stronger than we were, Vasagi. Our ways have changed. This land we take to be our own. And none may pass unless we say, be they of any tribe.”

  Turnal stepped forward, flushed with anger.

  “End this game and let us pass!” she demanded, “The wind grows cold and our people wait below….”

  The nearest Asgal grinned at her. “You may pass, pretty one,” he said, “you may share all that is mine….”

  He walked towards her as he spoke and reached out to touch her breast. A swift backward sweep of Turnal's foot pulled the Asgal’s legs from beneath him and he fell heavily on his back. The others of his group each made a movement of their fingers upon the crossbows as with a click, safety catches were released. Turnal was already kneeling upon the fallen man, with a bone dagger poised at his throat.

  “You may share this with me if it pleases you. What shall I cut? Your throat? Or shall I take the blade lower and chop myself a trophy for the women to laugh at? You may choose.”

  “Turnal! Leave him!” ordered Torrin.

  “There is a lesson in manners to be taught first.”

  “Let him go. We do not come to fight but to seek the passage which is our right.” Torrin sensed that more menace and danger lurked around them than the others had realised. Turnal gave him a bitter look but released the man, who rose again to face them.

  “Now we shall teach a lesson…” the Asgal said, picking his crossbow from the ground.

  “Enough of this!” said Torrin. “I ask that you take us to your chieftain.”

  The man Turnal had released looked Torrin up and down.

  “The chieftain here does not waste time with such as you. It is we who deal with thieves, beggars and savages…”

  It was then that Nagul pushed forward and raised his spear.

  “I have never killed a beast that walks on two legs but if you do not move aside…”

  Beside him the hunter called Gresad also raised his spear and stepped forward. There were two clicks, then a hiss as the air cleaved apart, and a sound that hunters know well; an arrowhead burying deep into sinew. Gresad fell back without knowing what had slain him, a dart buried deep in his chest. Nagul slumped, clutching the shaft in his shoulder. Then there was another sound, of steel drawn from leather, as a dozen sword blades were unsheathed.

  The sword tip hovered at Torrin's throat. He had seen a metal blade before but never such as this, never such honed, glinting s
harpness. There were finely crafted patterns engraved upon the steel, snaking and interlacing towards the hilt. The hand clasping the weapon gripped a carved ivory handle of intricate design. Torrin looked slowly upwards, past the fine tiny stitches of the leather waistcoat and its delicately scrolled metal clasps, past the silver emblem that hung upon the chest, a triangle within a circle, and upwards to two hazel eyes so cold that he felt death within them. He waited for the single thrust that would push the blade effortlessly between his ribs, not doubting that it would come.

  There was a sound of hooves. The hazel eyes and the sword tip backed away a pace as a rider approached astride a cantering horse. The man dismounted, passing the reins to the nearest Asgal who took them dutifully. He was a heavy man; strong, broad of body and of some tribe Torrin did not know. He wore the same leather tunics as the Asgal but had a domed metal helmet, which bore the emblem of the triangle within the circle. From his waist hung two scabbards, one short and straight, the other much longer and curved. There were three features of the man Torrin would not forget; the close-cropped beard, the pattern of scars upon his face and the harsh angry voice.

  “What's this scum doing here? You know your orders.”

  “It is just some beasts from the plain who lost their way,” said one of the Asgal, “a few stragglers from a sickly herd. Poor sport, but enough to test our blades…”

  “I need necks thicker than these to practice on,” scowled the newcomer, “but a man must find what he can in this place.”

  He drew a long curved sword and closely eyed its keen blade before looking to Torrin and the other hunters. He regarded each in turn with a cold smile as if deciding where the best pleasure might lie, but then the sound of hooves came again and one of the Asgal spoke.

  “We had best hold for a while. His Lordship comes.”

  A second rider joined them, but he wore no leather and bore no weapons. His tunic and leggings were simple, but finely woven. Around his neck hung a delicate metal chain holding upon his breast the same emblem of circle and triangle, but fashioned from some glinting precious metal. A lean, beardless face of middle life looked down upon Torrin and his band.

  “Does your tribe’s path come this way?” he asked.

  “It does,” Torrin answered

  “Then you must find another.”

  “This is our path.”

  “Do you see these men? They are charged to let no one cross this land and they have weapons to prevent it, which you have seen they are impatient to use. If you go now it will be under my protection. Return to your tribe and find another path. If you come again this way they will certainly kill you. Go now.”

  Torrin scanned the many eyes that watched him and took a pace back. His foot found a warm sticky pool and he looked down to see a puddle of dark blood, which trickled from the body of Gresad. The slumped figure of Nagul lay beside the corpse, clutching at the crossbow bolt in his shoulder and catching gasping breaths. Turnal helped Torrin to raise the wounded Nagul to his feet then looked to the Asgal and spoke angrily.

  “What did it cost you? The leather you wear, the shiny new swords, the little bow that kills with a fingers touch? What have they taken from you?”

  Some of the Asgal lowered their eyes but no answer came.

  It was some time later that they crouched in council with Perrith. Beneath them, on the great plain, the smoke from the fires of the Ummakil had crept closer. They could hear the sobs of Gresad's widow and children intermingled with the soothing words of comfort being were offered by the gathered women. Rasgan laid the maps before them.

  “There are but two choices,” he said, “follow the path of the barak to the south or go quickly north into unknown lands and hope another way over the mountains can be found.”

  “There is a third way,” said Turnal. “Fight the Asgal. That would be my choice.”

  Perrith turned to Valhad.

  “My son, which of these would you choose?”

  Valhad looked to his father, and at the others around him, who saw in this a test of the chieftain’s heir.

  “I would go back to the Asgal,” he said, “without weapon or threat. I would go alone and seek passage for the tribe. If this failed I would bid you follow the barak.”

  “You would not fight?”

  “To fight is not my way. And even if it were, they have the high ground. With the weapon that struck Gresad and Nagul they would need but a few men to hold the way.”

  Torrin had listened silently to much of the discussion, but now he spoke.

  “There is maybe a deeper problem here. Do we know of this emblem?” He scratched the sign of the triangle within the circle in the dirt. All who looked upon it shook their heads or murmured that they did not.

  “Then there is a new tribe in these lands, unlike any we have known. A tribe with weapons we have not seen before, and a tribe bearing something perhaps more dangerous still, for what did the Asgal say? That the valley was theirs. Theirs, as if it were a spear or a tent. But still there are more questions; why would they claim the high valley? For the sun sinks, the darkness comes and all men must walk. Why linger there, of all places, why there? What is their purpose? There was a sound of much labour and many fires were smoking…”

  There was no answer, then Perrith broke the silence.

  “We will follow the barak. Tell the tribe we walk at once.”

  “ What of Nagul?” asked Valhad.

  “Casan has removed the arrow and dressed the wound. She has asked that we seek the fungus called imbas which cures all poisoning of wounds or blood. It is rare and precious medicine. Without this no more can be done.”

  So the tribe walked down from the mountain and followed the tracks of the barak herd into the forest. There were berries on the trees and a few snuffling pig-like creatures that provided a fatty meat. They came across a single barak; an old female, lame and abandoned by the herd that gave another good meal. They were following a deep valley with a twisting tumbling stream cutting ever deeper into bedrock. Nagul had seemed to be recovering but now his wound oozed and stank. Casan cleaned it with herbs and fresh water but knew that it did not bode well for him.

  She searched every tree they passed for the healing fungus and asked all the others to do likewise, but none was found. Throughout this time they walked in shadow with only the distant highest ridges still brightly lit by the ever-sinking sun. And so it was that after walking and sleeping a dozen times that they came to the sea and walked out into sunlight again. The sun hung between the distant mountain peaks of the far shore and sent forth a single shaft of red light casting huge shadows behind them as they walked towards the pulsing waves. There it was that they found the torn bodies of the barak.

  Chapter 2

  And we too must be hunters, and loose our arrows into the heart of the unbeliever.

  The book of Tarcen. Ch. 6 V. 7

  Perrith summoned Torrin and they walked together where the waves washed in slow rhythm onto the sand.

  “This is what will happen,” said Perrith. “You shall take with you a small band of your choosing. Return to the mountain to see if the Asgal remain there. We shall make rafts but will await your return, unless the Ummakil come near, then we shall cross the water. This we must do whatever lurks there. There is one more thing; I want Valhad to go with you.”

  “I had thought to take Turnal,” said Torrin

  “One only can go, for the risk is great and both must not be lost. He is no hunter and many fathers would take no pride in him, yet there is some special quality he has. When you meet the Asgal let him try the way of words, for he has a gift that may serve the tribe greater than arrows or spears. He is precious to me Torrin, let him do this thing, but do all you can to bring him back to us.”

  “Perrith, I swear the greatest oath that any of us can make; I promise to you, on the lives of all the Vasagi, that I will do everything that can be done to bring him safely home.”

  “Torrin, no promise can be stronger than t
his you have made to me. No oath is greater than that which you have pledged and I thank you for it.”

  They returned to the forest's edge where the domed tents were clustered and a fire smouldered. Nagul lay close by, pale and sweating, while Casan propped his head and offered him water. Torrin crouched down and took Nagul's hand.

  “Hunter…” he said softly. Nagul's eyes opened a little.

  “Hunter, I have seen you kill the bull barak with a single spear thrust…”

  Nagul flickered a smile and nodded. Torrin spoke again.

  “Will you let the sickness take you where the horns of the barak could not?”

  Nagul's eyes closed and there was no reply amongst his laboured breathing.

  “I am to go back to the mountain,” Torrin told Casan.

  Then Casan spoke softly, lest the dying man could hear her.

  “Seek for the imbas as you go, Torrin. It grows on the shaded side of the rianna, like a clenched fist coloured as honey; perhaps if you are swift it will be in time for him.”

  “I will look at every tree we pass. There is Varna too; her time draws near. Will you give her the herbs that soothe?”

  “Torrin, I will tend her, but she will take no potion that might dull her mind. That is not the way of her. Do you see?” She motioned towards the trees of the forest and Torrin saw Varna carrying a burden of fruit she had collected. He hurried to her but she would not pass the bundle to him.

  “I am neither weak nor sickly,” Varna told him, and she rested the load upon her belly as she walked.

  “Varna, I am to go back to the mountain.”

  She stopped and did not resist now when he took the burden from her and placed it on the ground.

  “If I was Perrith,” she said, “then I too would send you. For there is none better for the task, this we all know. But...”

  She looked where Nagul lay and bowed her head for a moment before summoning strength to continue.