“If you can call two drops on a thorny leaf a water source.” Lakeo rubbed her lip.
Yanko sighed. He wasn’t going to get a chance to reflect on his feelings and his uncle’s passing. Maybe it was just as well. It was too raw right now, and as tired as he was after the chaos and walking all night, he wasn’t far from weeping. He did not want to break down, not in front of Lakeo. Not until he was back home and could find some privacy, perhaps in the very forest that had never stopped calling to him.
“Once we get over the pass, it’s much damper,” he said.
“So... we’ll get three drops on a thorny leaf.”
“Maybe four. And most of the leaves aren’t thorny.”
Yanko veered off the trail to climb up a cluster of boulders, the dry rock laced with tenacious lichen. At the top, he raised his hand above his eyes and squinted back into the desert. He wanted to know if the invaders remained camped outside of the mine. If so, if he hurried, his people might gather forces quickly enough to take back what had been taken—the material goods, anyway. But they had come too far, and he couldn’t see the area anymore, not with his eyes. Though he was reluctant to make his headache worse, he tried to stretch out with his mind, hoping the openness of the land between here and there might let him push his senses farther than he usually could.
But he barely reached a mile back, and the amount of wildlife in the area overloaded his mind—his thoughts snapped back into his head with all the gentleness of an arrow to the eye. He groaned and slumped against the boulder, rubbing his temples. That should have been warning enough to give his mind a rest, but he had sensed something more than deer and squirrels out there. Even as his thoughts had been jerked back into his skull, they had brushed past the road.
He wiped sweat from his brow and pushed his senses in that direction again. Yes, there were humans out there. At first, he let himself hope that his father might have already received the news about the mine attack and that he had gathered troops, troops that would descend upon the intruders and punish them for their arrogance. But these men were walking and riding with lizards of burden, with carts strung out behind them. His father’s team would have been led by men in carriages powered by magic, lightweight craft that could have moved much more quickly. These had to be more invaders, or was it the same troop? Heading over the pass? If so, the village was in danger. He had to—
Halfway through the thought, his senses snapped back again, this time with a blinding flash that brought light, then darkness. He slumped against the boulder, his legs giving out beneath him.
He did not realize he had lost consciousness until a shake to his shoulder roused him. He blinked blearily up at Lakeo, his head aching as if it had been pounded like an anvil in a smith’s shop.
“If you want to take a nap, I wouldn’t mind a break, either, but I thought you were in a hurry,” she said.
“I am,” Yanko croaked, his throat dry. He was looking forward to those leaves with the three drops of dew. He pushed himself to his feet, vowing not to try to draw upon his mental power again, not until he had rested for a night. Or seven. “There are more invaders on the road.” He climbed down from the boulders. “I don’t know if they’re heading to the village, but it’s not far off the main road over the pass. We need to get there before they do.”
Lakeo took the lead, and he was happy to let her, to plod along until they reached their destination. The trail they were on would bring them to the village eventually. To the back side.
“Do you smell smoke?” She sniffed at the air as she walked.
All of Yanko’s senses seemed broken, and it took him a moment before he could catch the faint hint of burning wood on the air. “Yes. Some traveler’s campfire.”
She gave him a long look over her shoulder. “If you say so.”
“What do you think it is?”
“Maybe those people you saw aren’t heading to the village, but have already been there.”
Yanko tripped over a root. “What? No. There’s nothing there except a lake and some gardens around my family’s land. Where we keep bees. That’s the town’s biggest industry. Nobody raids a village for honey. They don’t.” He realized he sounded like he was trying hard to convince himself. Maybe he was.
Of their own volition, his feet sped up. He passed Lakeo and took the lead, almost jogging along the trail, especially when they crested the ridge and the ground leveled out. As weary as he was, he tripped often, but he could not bring himself to slow down.
They passed streams funneling down off the snowcaps, and the trees thickened, growing greener and more lush. Clouds drifted into the sky to dull the heat of the sun, but Yanko didn’t see any of it. Halfway across the pass, he had noticed smoke in the distance, too much smoke for a traveler’s campfire.
It was afternoon by the time they reached the far side of the mountain, and his stomach was snarling with hunger, but he didn’t stop until the trail crossed a familiar ledge, a cliff that overlooked the valley and the lake of his homeland. At that point, he verified the source of the smoke. He hadn’t wanted Lakeo to be right. He hadn’t wanted this day—this month—to get any worse. But those tendrils of black smoke were wafting from the roofs of burned buildings and burning trees. He was too far up to see people and animals, but the scene told him enough.
“They were attacked too,” Yanko said numbly.
4
Yanko walked around the village, his home of eighteen years, in shock. Half of the log and earthen cabins, yurts, and larger buildings had been burned to the ground. Others remained standing, but they were devoid of life. Here and there, a chicken scratched in the earth, but the people and most of the livestock were gone.
The only thing that kept him from collapsing in an inconsolable heap was the fact that he hadn’t seen any bodies yet. Maybe there had been some warning, and his people had fled. But why run instead of standing their ground? Why had they given up their homes? During the war, Father had been a soldier, and many of the other men in the village had been, as well.
Yanko found his answer when he walked closer to one of the Tayo Yant family’s outbuildings, one that had not caught fire. It was, however, charred. He touched the hot log wall, which was still smoldering even though he judged this had been done the day before, and examined the huge circular scorch mark on the exterior. Nobody had done that with a torch. A wizard had flung this fireball. To leave a scorch mark this large and deep, it must have been an extremely powerful one.
There were Sensitives in the village, but he didn’t think there were any others with an aptitude for the mental sciences, at least none who had ever studied it. Yanko’s tutors had always been travelers that his father had talked into staying and teaching him for a time. The gypsy who had been his last one had moved on almost a year earlier, and Yanko did not know of anyone in the area who could have done this. He certainly could not. Most of his learning had come through books. Perhaps he had been delusional to think he would ever be qualified to attend Stargrind.
Lakeo strolled out of a shed with two canteens bouncing on her hips. “At least there’s water here. Good well. Nice lake.”
“You took those?” Yanko frowned at the canteens, the idea of his people being stolen from while they were gone irritating him. This whole situation irritated him.
Lakeo shrugged. “Nobody’s using them. We have to walk another two days to the coast, right? I’m tired of licking leaves.”
“Put them back.”
Her indifferent shrug turned into a scowl. “You’re not in charge here, Yanko. We’re just two people traveling the same way. You don’t have any right to tell me what to do.”
Yanko stepped away from the building. “That’s Shen Pon’s shed and his canteens. He’s a baker, lost a leg in the war, and his only son is a shepherd. He’s probably poorer than you. Put them back, and I’ll get you something from our house.” Granted, Yanko hadn’t reached his own family’s homestead yet, but he trusted that whatever the raiders had come for,
it wasn’t canteens.
For a long moment, Lakeo stared mulishly at him, but she finally shrugged again and tossed the canteens back into the smoldering building. Half of the roof had burned off, and soot stained two of the inside walls. If Shen Pon came back, canteens were probably the last thing he would worry about. Still, the idea of stealing from his people—from any people—made Yanko grimace.
“Got any beds in your house?” Lakeo asked as they walked along the lake, the worn cobblestone road in good shape despite the destruction to the rest of the village.
“Many.”
“Think we can rest there tonight? That it would be wise? I’m exhausted. They wouldn’t come back to raid the same village twice, would they?”
“I don’t know.”
Yanko did not know what they would find. It was wishful to think that the raiders hadn’t reached his homestead, but the property was fenced, so maybe the rest of the village had run there to hide—to put up a stand. Granted, the split-log railing that encompassed most of the area would not keep out determined warriors and definitely would not stop a wizard. Even the deer leaped over it easily in their constant quest to terrorize his grandmother’s garden.
Thinking of those deer and his family brought memories of his childhood to mind. He tried to swallow around the lump that had formed in his throat again—or maybe it had never completely disappeared.
“Look, Yanko,” Lakeo said. “I’m sorry you lost your uncle. And that this happened. I know it’s hard.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled. He sensed that saying that had been hard for her, though he didn’t know why. She could make sarcastic comments easily enough.
“I lost my mother too. A few years ago. Been on my own since I was fourteen. It’s not easy being alone.”
“Yeah.”
They passed through the wooden gates, and the grassy foothills that marked the beginning of the homestead came into view. The property wasn’t impressive by the standards of many of the honored families—he had been told that his grandparents had once owned several homes in the Golden City that princes would have been pleased to stay in—but it was sprawling, with plenty of space for children to roam. The centuries-old main house had room for multiple generations, and barns and yurts dotted the property, along with a couple of greenhouses that supplied much of the produce for those who lived in the valley, especially tropical fruits that couldn’t survive the mountain frosts. Yanko did not see any signs of destruction, no singed walls or smoke wafting from the roofs, but as with the village, an emptiness hung about the place. Though his headache hadn’t abated, he cast out with his mind, searching for his kin or even his hounds. Everyone was gone. A wind blew off the mountains, bumping two upturned canoes together on the beach, the sound eerie in the stillness of the valley.
“Looks like a nice place to grow up,” Lakeo said.
“It was. There should have been more kids running around, aside from my brother and me, but, well, you’ve heard the story about my mother. We did have some younger cousins who were around. That made it seem busier. Fuller.” Unlike how it felt now. Yanko peeked into the vehicle stable. The big lizards, a special breed that had been magically adapted over the centuries to deal with the cold of the mountains, were gone, but the wagons and the two carriages remained. Even from the doorway, he could feel the power from the Made devices that powered them. “Strange. Everyone left, but they didn’t take the carriages.”
“Those look like they would only be good on the roads,” Lakeo said.
“They are. The wheels aren’t suited for rough terrain. Are you opposed to taking the road down to the coast?”
“Didn’t you say some of those invaders were traipsing through the mountain pass? Along the main road?”
“Yes, but...” Yanko chewed on the inside of his cheek. “How many of those bands of marauders could there be? My uncle and I just crossed the pass on the road out to the mines a couple of days ago. I didn’t hear anything in town about trouble coming. But my uncle’s dying words... He seemed to think this was inevitable. And I remember Prince Zirabo mentioning something about it, too, back when he came to the mines.” He pushed his hand through his hair, half knocking out his topknot but not caring. “Why didn’t any of them tell me more? Did they think I was too young? That I wouldn’t care? Or couldn’t be trusted?”
“Maybe they thought you were getting everything you needed from those newspapers you were reading.” Lakeo pointed to the porch. “So, there’s a bed in there I can use?”
Yanko waved her toward the door. “There’s not a lock. Go ahead.”
He should think of bed, too, but it would not be dark for another hour or two. Even if they hadn’t slept last night, he couldn’t imagine relaxing now, not when he hadn’t solved the mystery of his people’s disappearance. Had they all run up into the hills to hide from the invaders? It was hard to imagine his father cowering behind a rock, even if a wizard was involved, but Yanko would feel better knowing everyone was safe in the forest somewhere.
In the brush near the main gate, birds squawked and flew up. The creaking of something—a wobbly wheel?—drifted on the breeze. Yanko flexed his hand around the hilt of the sword he had been carrying all night and day. He stood with his back to the porch that led into the house—Lakeo had already disappeared inside. Maybe he should find some shadows to hide in.
Before he had taken more than a step toward the woodpile at the side of the house, an army carriage wobbled into view, one of its wood and rubber tires half-busted, the cannon that should have been mounted on the roof torn off. Despite the sturdy construction and reinforced leather armoring the thick walls, no less than a dozen arrows stuck out of the sides. There wasn’t a driver sitting on the exterior seat, and whoever was peering at the road through the horizontal slit of a window in the front didn’t seem to be doing so soberly. The vehicle kept veering into the tall grass and ruts beside the cobblestones.
Yanko did not know if he should be running forward to help or continuing to his hiding spot. He stretched out with his senses, endured another white flash of light that had him gripping the corner of the house for support, then gasped because he recognized the aura of the wagon’s sole occupant.
“Falcon?” he whispered, a mixture of confusion and disbelief rushing into him.
It had only been a few months since he had seen his brother, when Falcon had been home on leave. He had returned to the frozen outpost where he was stationed shortly after. That was more than a thousand miles to the north—and ten thousand feet higher in elevation. He couldn’t have received leave again so quickly, and regardless, he wouldn’t have been given an army vehicle to come home in.
Yanko rushed forward, but had to leap out of the way as the wobbly carriage nearly ran over him.
“Falcon,” he cried. “What’s wrong?” Aside from the arrows sticking out of the craft...
As it finally slowed to a stop, Yanko squinted at the end of the lake, wondering how far behind those archers, and whatever trouble his brother had escaped, were.
“Yanko?” came a wan call from inside.
It was only then, with his brother closer now, that Yanko sensed not only his presence, but his pain. He rushed to the heavy door on the side and tugged on the latch, but it was locked.
“Falcon? Let me in. Were you shot?” Not waiting for an answer, he pulled himself onto the roof to try the hatch that gave soldiers inside access to the cannon. It was locked too. He was on the verge of trying to conjure up some magical method of picking locks when the lower door thunked open.
Falcon spilled out onto the street with a groan.
Yanko hopped down, landing beside him, touching his chest lightly. The nub of an arrow, the shaft broken off, protruded from his brother’s thigh, and a huge slash had torn open the shoulder of his army uniform—along with an inch-deep canyon in the flesh beneath.
“What happened? Do you...?” Worry constricted Yanko’s throat again, making it hard to finish. If Falcon was mortally wounded th
e way Uncle Mishnal had been... Curse the coyote god, Yanko couldn’t lose someone else he loved. Not his brother.
“Need a healer?” Falcon asked. “Love one, thanks.”
Yanko found the flippancy encouraging. Dying men weren’t flippant, right?
“Everyone’s missing,” Yanko said. “I’m sorry. We just got here and don’t know what happened.”
“Missing?” Falcon’s eyes grew haunted as well as pained. “Am I too late?” He touched a small messenger satchel strapped across his chest.
“If you have a letter for Father, yes. I don’t know where anyone is.” Yanko raised his voice and called, “Lakeo? I need your help.” He could carry his brother inside, but probably not without hurting him further. It would be easier to keep from bumping his wounds with two people.
When he started to stand up, Falcon grabbed his arm. “Yanko? The message is for you.”
“Me? Who would send me a message?”
“That’s what I asked.” Falcon managed a quirky grin, even though he was breathing deeply, grabbing his leg and struggling for composure. Someone had bandaged it around the arrow, not risking pulling it out in the carriage. Or maybe Falcon had made the clumsy bandage himself. “I wasn’t told. I was pulled from my unit, given a carriage, and told to deliver it to you.” With a shaking hand, he reached for the satchel, fumbling with the clasp.
“Let me. You’ve lost a lot of blood, haven’t you?” Yanko could see some of it staining the floor of the carriage. He glimpsed someone’s arm, as well, an unmoving arm, also coated in blood. “And a driver,” he guessed.
Beginnings: Five Heroic Fantasy Adventure Novels Page 112
