by Andy Sparrow
“Here, priest, take a look at this and tell me what you see.”
The officer of Nejital touched the ember to a string that emerged from the ball and threw it down to the Deacon. It landed at his feet. Gretal picked it up, curiously turning it in his hands, watching the little plume of smoke rise from the fizzing string. Torrin had already half-turned his mount when the grenade exploded. The cart erupted in a vivid ball of noise and flame. A plume of smoke rose to heaven, and the tatters of flesh that had been deacon Gretal rained down to earth. Laughter and cheering filled the moment of awful silence before more grenades descended. Every cart became a blossoming flower of gold and red, a thousand flying shards of timber mixed with the torn limbs of man and beast. Torrin's horse reared in terrified panic, but he clung on, the sounds of thunder deafening his ears, burning debris showering down, and then with a lurch he was carried away, galloping across the rocky plain.
He took a new path that skirted wide of the mountain. From a high place he could see the excavations and the many mobile dots that were toiling people. The breeze carried that bitter smell of fumes he had smelt before. How poisoned would the land be before the sun set again over this portion of the world? How many lives would be wasted in the service of wealth, of power, in the ambitions of competing empires? What of his own life? A long road lay ahead before his debt was paid. He could see the lands stretching to a far horizon; forest, winding river and mountain peaks that seemed to call and beckon. It was in his instinct to travel, and all the time at Etoradom that primal urge had been repressed. He rode on with a lighter heart and left the tainted air far behind.
In the moons that followed he knew why he had been selected for this task. He was on foot now; his horse had carried him as far as it was able, until it became thin and often lame. He let it free on a grassy plain where it could graze and put flesh upon its protruding ribs. As the beast galloped away, delighting in freedom, Torrin hoped that it would find its own kind for he knew what a burden it was to be alone, separated from friends and kin.
Yes, he knew why he was chosen for the task. Who else but a hunter could travel through all the waking time, and then find prey with the arrow's tip? Who else but a hunter could make fire and shelter in the damp forest when the cold rains lashed down? As he journeyed on, the sun lowered in the sky until it touched the westward mountain peaks and it was almost as if he had returned to the realm of the Vasagi. But there was one difference; this was dawn, not sunset. The sun was behind him, rising, filling the world with warmth and the promise of a new day that would last half a lifetime.
He met some tribes and avoided others. The pages from the book had good advice on their ways and custom. He knew which people he was likely to meet and if they welcomed strangers. But now the world was empty before him, he had passed the last tribe, the most westerly described by the wandering priests of Etoradom. He crossed another ridge and saw mountains on the horizon glinting in the golden light of dawn but a deep valley filled with shadow lay before him. He scrambled down out of the sunlight and felt air so chill it cut his flesh like tiny knives. Not since half a turn of the world had the sun warmed this place and the rocks beneath his feet had a coldness that seeped through the thin, worn soles of his boots. He looked along the valley sides where crags and pinnacles rose into sunlight. They were islands of warmth and if he could move between them then perhaps there was a way to survive, to cross this frozen land. He wrapped the cloak tightly and scrambled on downwards over drifts of hard-crusted snow and later, when shivering racked his body, he struggled up the icy slope onto bright-lit rocks and let the sun warm him as he slept.
Where the sun shone plants thrived and fruited while birds nested in noisy colonies. So he lived on berries and eggs between his sorties into the shadowy cold. But the warm refuges were coming to an end and to continue the journey he would need to cross an expanse of the shadow-land until he could gain another sunlit ridge. It looked too far, too impossibly distant, but the warm honey sun bathed it in enticing light. Then the wind blew from the south casting cloud across the sun and the air grew suddenly chill. Somewhere in the sky above rain carried from distant seas mingled with the night-cold air and turned to snow. Flakes sped past in the growing breeze, then the refuge was no more, and the sun-warmed islands that had brought him there vanished behind a veil of swirling white. The line of retreat was severed and the way ahead promised no sanctuary, only a hope that if he could reach the ridge, if the blizzard passed, if the sun could shine upon him again….
He slid down the snow slopes to the valley floor and found one crumb of unexpected good fortune; that the winds were less chill than the still air pooled in the valley had been. Blinded by the snow he trudged on doggedly using the wind to keep his direction as true as he could. There was no sense of time, only the rhythm of one foot put before another, sinking deep into the cold blanket that covered the land. He felt the clammy dampness creeping through the cloak and the ice clinging to his beard. He stumbled many times, and found himself lying upon a soft bed of snow. It would be so easy to lie for a while; to sleep while the flakes covered him in their nurturing cocoon. But time and again he struggled to his feet and pushed on until at last he felt the land rising and steepening.
There were boulders now lying in tumbled heaps and snow-filled gaps between them that trapped his feet and bruised his legs. Then the rocks were steeper and bare as he scrambled upwards clutching with dead fingers until he came at last to level ground. He had reached the ridge-top, but the sun had not returned and now his only hope was shelter. He struggled on blindly and then caught a smell in the wind; an unmistakable scent of wood smoke. Turning into the storm he fought on, an arm held across his face to fend off the tiny darts of driving snow. He lost the scent more than once, turned back, caught its whiff again and set off in a new direction. Then, as his last strength diminished, he found himself on the brink of a steep slope and, between the snow filled gusts, he saw a glimmer of flame. He blundered forward, falling and tumbling, over and over, until he came to a final rest in the soft yielding snow, and knew the time to sleep had come at last.
When waking came there were many sensations before Torrin's eyes opened. There was the feel of sunshine on his face, of the heavy woven blankets that wrapped his body in a warm cocoon, there was the sound of birdsong and the scent of many flowers drifting on a gentle breeze. And there was a hand upon his brow, warm soft skin with a tender touch. He blinked in the daylight for a moment, then closed his eyes tightly again as the sunlight flooded in. Then he looked again and focussed on a face that hovered over his. He saw eyes as blue as a baby’s and hair gold like the sunlight that shone upon it; but the tide of sleep was still upon him and he sank back into the realm of slumber. When he next awoke there were voices around him and he lay for a while listening, rising slowly from the realm of dreams. There was a man speaking close by, the voice was gentle in tone yet strong in its resolve.
“It would be best to leave him, Soola. If he is strong he will live. He is not of any tribe that we know and others of his kind are likely close behind. If they are armed as well as he, it would be better if we walked again. The time is due for it and all are prepared.”
The voice that replied was female and it too was gentle in tone, but strong also.
“Father, I have tended this man through the time of snow, when all else said he would die. I will not leave him now for the wolves to find. What you say is true, he is not of the tribes we know. But did you see the many maps he carried, of lands we have never trodden? I guess he is a pathfinder sent far ahead to find a new road for his people. Whatever his story we should know it.”
“Soola, is it we that need to know his tale or is it only you? When you were a child sitting at my feet you begged me always to tell of the strange places I had seen, and of all the people met along the road.”
“Is it wrong to know more of the world, Father?”
Torrin became more awake and opened his eyes to see the two people standing over him
. There was the woman Soola, whose face had hung in his dreams since that brief moment of earlier awakening, and her father; a lean, tall man whose gray hair hung in long plaits.
“I have not come with others.”
Torrin managed little more than a croaking whisper. Soola knelt beside him and laid a hand gently on his brow; her father looked down uneasily at them both. She put a wooden cup to Torrin’s lips and he gulped down a sweet and warming brew. When he spoke again his voice was stronger.
“I am Torrin of the Vasagi.”
“Vasagi?” said the father doubtfully. “We know of no such tribe.”
“You would not, for we walk where the sun is setting, half the way around the world.”
The eyes of Soola, already bright and alluring became wider and more beautiful.
“You have come across the whole world?”
“Aye, and seen many things; some I wish I could forget. Do you know of Etoradom?”
She looked at her father, who gave a small shrug and a shake of his head.
“If you do not,” said Torrin, “then you are blessed. I am in the service of a… chieftain… of that… tribe. I am sent to find the city of Dh’lass.”
“Dh’lass?” said the old man, shaking his head. “We do not know this place. It is not on our path.”
“Then I must go another way,” said Torrin, and Soola looked with sadness at him.
Torrin's strength soon returned and he rose from his bed. He found himself led by Soola to where the people of her tribe had gathered, a short walk, rising to a craggy hillock, which looked out upon the world. He could see that the ridge he had climbed was but the tail end of a long spine of hills that rose gently and enjoyed the warmth of the rising sun. Forests, emerald green with new life, swept rising and falling across hill and vale into the distance. The fallen snow was already nearly melted away and the sound of waterfalls carried across the land, mingling with the ever-chattering birds. The tribe that were the Haranda, all hundred strong, squatted on the sun-warmed rocks while Soola’s father, their chieftain, gave them counsel. He stood upon a slab of stone, listening quietly as a younger man spoke to those assembled.
“We should cross the river before the ice melts, or we shall not cross it at all.”
Another voice sounded from the group.
“That will not happen yet awhile. We need not hurry so. This land is plentiful and the hills beyond the river are riven with dark valleys. The animals do not hurry so why must we?”
The chieftain pondered for a few moments before responding.
“It is my judgment that we should move westwards, nearer to the river but not yet over it. Until the herds make their crossing we shall wait too. We will make ready to walk now.”
As the people dispersed the old man beckoned Soola and Torrin to approach him. He cupped Soola's face in his hands and kissed her forehead tenderly, then he looked Torrin up and down appraisingly.
“My daughter has tended you well. Will you tell me now why you have come here?”
Torrin sat with Soola and her father, and told them of the Vasagi, and all that had happened since he was parted from them. Soola listened, captivated by the tales of ships, great cities and distant lords. He showed the maps he carried and then studied intently those of the Haranda that were laid before him, until he pointed his finger to the end of a chain of mountains that were drawn there.
“It must be here,” Torrin said, “that the city lies.”
“To reach this place,” he was told, “you must go eastwards to where the high mountains form a ridge. If that ridge is followed south you will stay warmed by the sun for the remainder of your journey. But there is danger for the snows are melting and sliding from the mountainsides. It will be a perilous road. For now, at least, you may travel with us and show how skilled the Vasagi are in the ways of hunting.”
So Torrin walked with the Haranda and discovered the world that they inhabited. The sun rested no higher in the sky than in the lands of the Vasagi, and yet its light was of a different quality, golden and honey hued. They walked forward through forests of rianna, the sunshine speckling the ground in a bright dancing mosaic as gentle breezes rocked the treetops. Through all his life with the Vasagi he had walked among such trees in their golden-brown autumn beauty, but here they filled the sky with the vibrant green of young leaves. There were glades where constellations of flowers pushed up through lush new grass and filled the world with scent and colour.
The women of the Haranda wove crowns of petals and blossom around their hair and sometimes, with girlish laughter, on the head of some proud hunter, dozing on a fragrant sun-warmed bed. In shadowy dells and ravines huge icicles dripped away upon the diminishing drifts of snow, filling the streams with chill lively waters that tumbled from rapid to waterfall or plunged into deep clear pools. Squirrels scurried away as they passed and deer cantered between the tree trunks, but not always before the hunter's arrow struck. They ate well, the lean meat of the deer made delicious by the herbs of the forest.
Torrin slumbered, aware that the waking time was nearly due. He heard soft footfalls creeping towards him and opened one eye just enough to see a vague shape moving tentatively amongst the surrounding ferns. He waited until the hand was about to grasp at his neck and then caught it swiftly in a firm grip.
“I have you! Now I need my spear to finish the job.”
“Don’t be so sure, hunter,” said Soola, and with her free hand she emptied a jug of ice cold water over him.
He chased her, shrieking, through the camp, jumping over the many still sleeping bodies, ignoring their rudely woken complaints. When he caught her he lifted her over his shoulder and carried her off into the woods. She made a token resistance, squirmed unconvincingly and battered him quite gently with her clenched fists. She struggled more furiously when they came to the stream and she saw the clear waters of the plunge pool beneath her. And then, instead of dropping her into the water, he jumped in too, still holding her. After the shocked gasps of the chill drenching came laughter, and then they scrambled back onto the grassy bank and rested in the warming sun.
Soola, he had discovered, was as tough and strong-willed as she was beautiful. She could run through the forest nearly as swiftly as the deer that she pursued and did not balk when the moment came to shoot an arrow through its heart. She would climb the highest trees to bring down eggs, laughing at those below who turned their heads away and could not watch her balancing fearlessly on the narrow branches. Soola was never far from Torrin, urging him to tell more tales of his travels, or showing him the beasts and plants of these dawn lands. She was devilish in her laughter, first showing him some soft fruit, then sending it flying towards him when his back was turned, then running off into the forest with enticing taunts.
Sometimes she was like Turnal, and then she was like Varna; but often she was like none other than herself. But, though he found beauty and delight in her, he knew she was a chieftain’s daughter and he was a passing stranger offered hospitality, a stranger who would soon go on his way. So when they lay together by the pool he did no more than squeeze her hand and hold it tight in his. Then he told her of his wife, of the child he had never held, and how, above all things in the world, he wanted most to be with them. She lay beside him, saying nothing, but clasping his hand ever more tightly when the wistful sadness made his voice falter.
When the tribe moved on again, they found a clearing in the forest around an old stone cottage. It was a relic from some other tribe, people who did not move so often, who rested long enough to build and plant crops. A precarious life, thriving while the land is fertile, but then with heat and drought creeping closer as the world turns towards noon. Or maybe it was after the heat that the farmers lived here, when every passing moon had brought the sunset closer, and their harvests had diminished. Then they would have to move on, migrating a great distance to find new lands, and risking the anger of all the tribes that thought the new territory already theirs. The Haranda made camp in the
clearing and then Soola's father called all together for council. Beside him stood an elderly couple; some of those gathered around them were weeping.
“Sad news is upon us,” he said, “Gill and Lucen will end their journey here. They are decided in this, and beg that those of their family do not ask them to journey further. Preparations will be made and there will be a ceremony at the next waking time.”
The people dispersed with a subdued murmuring and Torrin found Soola sat tearfully alone.
“It is a great sadness when the old people that we have loved can walk no further,” he said and rested a hand on her bowed head.
“They have always been in my life,” she said, sighing, “and now they will be gone. Like the others.”
“How is it done?” asked Torrin gently. “Do they eat some herb to enter the sleep from which there is no waking?”
Soola looked up at him strangely.
“Is that what your people do?”
“We must, for there is only darkness and cold to follow, or the Ummakil who delight in killing and eat the flesh of all that walks.”
“You will find our ways are different.”
The Haranda busied themselves stocking the cottage with provisions and sowing many seeds in the surrounding ground. They feasted when the work was done and every person made a gift to the old couple, then spoke of their kindness and of the many times shared that would not be forgotten. When the waking time came each member of the tribe bade farewell, some with respectful bows, others with sobbing embraces. As they walked on into the forest Torrin asked Soola what would become of them, left alone in this place.
“Who can say?” she said. “The sun will rise a little and the world will become warmer, but they will die of age before the heat grows too strong. Other tribes may pass; some will be kind people who might share, others may not. But this is our way and it is better than what you have told me; of what must be done in the land of sunset.”
