The Hands of Lyr (Five Senses Series Book 1)

by Andre Norton

  The frown which Nosh had seen him wear since morning deepened a fraction.

  “Beside it, then—out of sight!” His words had the sharp emphasis of oaths and she knew that he was angry.

  She turned and began to pace along the same general direction of the road. Within a very short time they had good evidence that that wider way was not in use. A mighty tree, storm-blasted, had fallen across to block it effectively.

  Even after that they kept to the side trail. There was a sudden surprising lift in the ground on either side of that road as if it had been carved out of the hills.

  Here rocky spurs protruded from the earth. The way they followed narrowed until, whether or no, they were forced down into the road itself and so they passed between two jutting spurs of rock and found themselves looking down into a crater where there were rough blocks of stone, cut from the native rock, waiting to be used. A quarry—perhaps that which had supplied the stone to build PanHigh and which might still be called upon to produce materials for repairs.

  At the lowest portion of that gouge into the earth there was a dull sheen of what could only be water. As they sighted that there came a rattle of small stones displaced. Kryn swung, weapon ready, toward that sound, only to reel back, his sword falling out of his hand, a wave of blood spurting from just under the rim of his helm.

  With a cry Nosh hurled herself forward and dragged him back or he would have hurtled over the edge of the drop. She shook off her pack and stood, astride of his crumpled body, searching for sight of their attacker.

  There came a shrill whistle and the sound of more falling stones heralding some movement behind the upper edge of the cliff to her left. Then only silence.

  She waited for what seemed the longest moments she could ever remember until she dropped down beside Kryn. His helm had been turned around when he struck the ground as he fell and now hid most of his face. She edged back, striving to pull him with her along the cut of the road, lacking the strength to hoist him up from that well-worn way.

  Then, when she was as far from those cliff tops as she could manage to drag him, she got off his helm. At first she thought he was dead. Blood puddled down his neck and over his shoulder.

  Her aids for any hurt were in her pack. But first she must loosen his pack, get it off, stand it up as a pitifully poor shelter. Having somehow accomplished this, Nosh wriggled back to where they had stood when that attack had come, trying to make of herself—fruitlessly, logic told her—as small a target as possible.

  In so doing she discovered the missile which had brought Kryn down—a rough pebble. When she picked it up she knew how it had been used—a sling! She herself had had such a weapon for hunting back in the Ryft, learning the skill well because the success of her aim meant the difference between food or hunger and the small prey she sought were flashingly quick.

  No raider, she believed, would have used this. She tossed the bloodstained stone aside and went for the pack, crawling back and dragging it to where she had left Kryn.

  Using a wad of shredded moss from her supplies, she patted away the blood. By some trick—or surprising skill—the slinger had struck below the cheekbone. However, when Kryn’s helm was off and she turned his head gently to rest on her knee she discovered much worse. He must, in his fall, have hit full force against some rock, delivering to the back of his head a blow which even the helm could not ward.

  Nosh refused to think of the slinger now. It was far more important to her that Kryn’s hurts be tended. She feared that all the healcraft she had learned might not serve. The eye above that cheek blow had begun to swell; she could not even be sure that the bone itself was not broken—she could only clean as best she could the torn and bruised skin, spread the wound with healing salve.

  Head wounds were always chancy. Though, when she felt very gingerly at the back of Kryn’s head, she could detect no depression. There was a small smear of blood on her fingers when she withdrew them from the examination but not the flow such as spurted from his face.

  Having dealt with his wounds as quickly and as efficiently as she could, Nosh sat back on her heels and looked about. It was close to night. There must be shelter. She saw again the gathering of a cloud mass above. Perhaps even another storm. To be caught in the open by such now would surely mean death for the both of them. But where could they go?

  The slinger—perhaps the caretaker of the Ushur herd. Both she and Kryn were armed. Such a one could well believe that they were part of a raider party who had trailed hither. The silent attack on them was so explained. But would there come another? Could that lurker, seeing that there were only two of them—that they were not joined by any others—simply disappear as he might have been trying to do from the first?

  Well enough to ease the fear of another attack. But that meant nothing as to shelter—warmth. Kryn must have warmth. Nosh was only too well aware in her tending of the injured among Jarth’s men that shock of wounds could bring on danger also.

  She sat beside Kryn, one arm over her own pack, the materials of her healing still laid out, her other hand to the Fingers. They were warm—warmth! She could not tell if they would act for another—she could only hope. She pulled the cord holding the bag over her head and settled it on Kryn’s chest, bringing both of his hands up to lie on it, anchoring it and them so with a strap from his pack. Then she pulled tightly around him his cloak and spread over it hers.

  Danger or not they must have a fire—if the storm would allow them such. But first she must make sure that there was no better spot for them to hole up in. Once more Nosh ventured back to the quarry. There were gashes in the walls—many of them where stones had been hewn out. But none of them were roofed as might be a cave. And the nearest—Nosh stood measuring the distance with her eyes.

  She could not possibly carry Kryn. Yet their best chance might be one of those breaks. There was no…

  A stone struck the rock at her side, sending a flack of splinter flying.

  “I kill—you move I kill!” It was a thin shriek, almost like a scream. And it froze Nosh where she was.

  More stones fell but these were not intentionally aimed. It was not quite twilight, though the walls of the quarry were filmed with shadows. There was something moving, leaping from one rock point to another with all the skill of the zark. Then that other landed, a loaded sling weighted and ready, to stand staring directly at her.

  Nosh stared at the small figure, one skinny arm protruding from bulky wrappings to swing that sling in threat. This was only a child!

  Hair which might earlier have been gathered into a braid or knot at the back of the neck now hung in strings about a small face on which dirt was runneled by marks which could only have been the paths of earlier tears, smeared though they now were.

  The eyes fastened on Nosh were bright—with something wild about them. So might a cornered animal have looked, and the fierceness of those matched the snarl which showed teeth.

  “I will not hurt…” Nosh put up her hands, palm out, in the only gesture of peace she knew. In doing so she must have dislodged the traveling bag of the zark— or else her earlier exertions had already done so. For the creature slid out of its padded nest and clawed its way up to squat on the shoulder cape of her hood.

  The small stranger blinked, stepped back. Attention passed from Nosh for a moment to the brilliantly scaled creature whose neck frill expanded in a wide fan as it chittered seemingly in Nosh’s ear.

  “I—we mean no harm….” Nosh tried communication again. “We are not the raiders….”

  If her guess that this lost child feared those who had smashed PanHigh and believed them to be stragglers from that force, then maybe she could get the point across. She must do something and soon—the wind was rising and Kryn had no chance without shelter.

  “Ah-ya-law.” The child dropped the sling. Its whole body quivered and it fell to its knees both hands over its eyes as if to hide what confronted it—Nosh and the zark.

  The girl recognized no wor
ds in that wail. But it might be some countryside plea for mercy. Tentatively she took a step forward and then another. The child cowered closer to the ground but did not try to run.

  “I am no enemy,” Nosh said slowly. “I am one, like you, who must hide from such as the raiders.”

  Was she getting through? Could the child understand, or understanding, believe? Now she stood beside the huddled body and stooping with infinite care, she touched that head, drawn down as far against the shoulders as the child could contrive.

  The whole small body shuddered under her touch and then slowly the head on which her hand rested moved upward. Nosh dared to brush back the bush of hair and look down directly into those eyes… not afire now, but bewildered.

  “I am Nosh,” she said. “This one is a friend.” She touched a finger now to the zark and felt its flickering tongue against her flesh. “We would both be your friend. But…”

  The wind blew a gust against them and she knew there was little time for exploring a beginning relationship. She must move and quickly.

  “There is another of us—he is hurt. There is a storm coming…” Surely a child of a farming village must be as weatherwise as she. “I must find a place to shelter…. ”

  Though how, in the Name of Lyr, she was going to get Kryn moved at all she had no idea.

  “I be Hanka.” The first normal words came out of the stranger. “There be place—down there—Ushur there now.”

  She pointed to her right turning her body a fraction. Nosh dared to edge past her and look down. Yes, there was even a trail of sorts along there and she caught a whiff of the strong body odor of the animals which she could not see.

  However, to get an unconscious man, one with a head wound which might not allow movement, down there! It was as impossible as if she had been ordered to sink the hills about back to the level of the western prairie land.

  “My friend is hurt, he cannot walk,” she said. “I do not know how…”

  The child jumped up. For a moment it stared at her as if still in doubt, and then it whistled, a clear call to cut the wind. Nosh moved back toward the entrance into the quarry. Could she possibly hack off brush, make some form of transport she could drag, could roll Kryn onto? She might cause his death by handling, but night and the coming of this second storm would end him anyway. While she could fight for his life she would.

  Only when she returned she found Kryn moving inside the cloak she had bound about him. Struggling weakly against the binding.

  As she hurried to him he looked up at her. It was not plain he knew her.

  “What…” His shoulders heaved and in fear that he might undo all she had tried to aid him, Nosh pinned him down still—to hold him so until…

  Until what? She looked about, at a loss for what to do first. If Kryn was fully conscious, the worst of her fears faded. It might even be possible to shift him without too much danger.

  “What do you do?” His voice was louder, more assured and again he tried to free himself, though her strength was still enough to hold him steady.

  “There is a storm coming—we must move.”

  “My hands—fire—hands…”

  Was he sliding into delirium? She pulled aside the cloaks to look as his writhing grew stronger. His hands were still as they had been bound to hold the Fingers to breast. They looked odd; she could see the dark marks of bones clearly outlined beneath the flesh—all aglow.

  Quickly she loosed the bag and drew it to her, then surveyed his palms. No sign of any burn but he gave a sigh of relief. Had the Fingers served him in their own way? Was he conscious now because of power they could exert on his body? Dreen had never spoken of such healing power. But Lyr had healed—the very life of the Ryft had been of Lyr’s giving. Perhaps here had also been manifest a fraction of that life.

  A clatter brought her head around. Through the end of the road came that bundled-up child walking between two large Ushur—larger than Nosh had believed such creatures ever grew.

  Their herder urged them to where Kryn lay. The child had to reach up to lay hand on their shoulders and Nosh found their long necks brought their heads above her own.

  “Bashar and Brit.” The child’s head went from side to side in that naming. “That one,”—now she nodded at Kryn—“can walk between them and hold on.”

  Nosh heard an exclamation from the man. He was indeed striving to lever himself up. It was a suggestion which seemed wildly impossible but what else could they do?

  Nosh took the weight of Bringhope to her own shoulder, slung on the pack. She pushed the zark back into the traveling bag in spite of its annoyed chittering. Somehow she got Kryn to his feet. Part of her marveled at the amount of strength he seemed to have regained— Lyr’s gift—of that she was sure.

  Somehow they made that march. The child leading the way, Kryn swaying and staggering, but managing to keep his feet, each arm resting on one of the animals, which made no complaint. Behind came Nosh with both their packs, though Kryn’s she had to drag rather than attempt to carry.

  They took that path and came before the complete closing in of the dusk, hastened by the storm clouds, into where there was indeed a shelter built of quarried rock, roofed with wooden poles which sagged from rot.

  There were six more of the Ushur already crowded within, the rank scent of their damp coats heavy. But their herder pushed and urged them to one side, making a place for Kryn to lie down as he wavered to a collapse, and leaving Nosh to bring in their packs. Outside they could hear the first spatter of large raindrops on the rocks.

  CHAPTER 28

  To Nosh’s surprise there came a flicker of light and she saw small hands replacing a battered lantern on a shelf which the child must have stood on tiptoe to reach. At first the girl was about to protest and then realized that where they were now was too well shielded to worry about any betraying beams without. While the lashing of the ever-increasing force of the storm would surely send lurkers to any cover they could find, even as it had sent them.

  Though the lantern light was limited, Nosh could see more of their shelter. The Ushur had been urged on into the back of the hut and a pole dropped as a bar to keep them there as if this were a regular stabling place. Most of the beasts had already knelt and were chewing cuds from their day’s grazing.

  It seemed that they were not only to have light but that even greater comfort—a fire—for there was an offset in the wall where the child was busy with sticks, arranging with well-learned skill a crisscrossing for the first lighting. From the mass of body wrapping the fire builder then produced a fire snap—an excellent one from the speed with which sparks answered and the fire crackled into life.

  Nosh had folded Kryn’s long cloak to give greater covering to the stone of their flooring. Now she rolled and lifted as best she could to get him onto that poor excuse for a bed, using part of his pack to pillow his head and being very careful how she moved that.

  He was muttering but she thought he was again sinking into unconsciousness and certainly the few words she had been able to understand made no sense. Drawing her own cloak over him, though it was too scant to cover the length of his body, she went back to exploring their packs. Bringhope she had been glad to lay beside its lord and she rubbed her shoulder where the weight of the weapon had chafed even in the short journey they had made.

  Meanwhile the small figure nearer the fire had been busy in turn. A long scarf of heavy weave had been unwound and folded aside. Under that appeared a jerkin which had certainly been cut for a much larger body and that was also discarded. Now a slim figure wearing somewhat wrinkled leggings and an oversized shirt squatted down by discarded clothing and looked steadily at Nosh.

  That hair which had been an unruly and half-masking curtain outside was being systematically smoothed with a broken-toothed comb produced from a crevice between two of the wall blocks. Now Nosh saw that the herder was a girl, perhaps only a little older than she herself had been at her meeting with Dreen in the Ryft. Behind this child
must now lie such horrors as she had walled from her own memory in those days.

  “Hanka,” she began a little awkwardly, not knowing just how to approach this young stranger. Though the girl now expertly rebraiding her hair, still glancing at Nosh now and then, did not seem as devastated as she might have expected a refugee from PanHigh to be. “Hanka, are you from the village?”

  Perhaps there was a second settlement, one the raiders had not erased. Yet Hanka’s first fierce cry had suggested that she knew very well armed strangers were to be feared.

  The child did not reply. Instead she pulled out of the shadows beyond the fire a bag woven of the long dried prairie grass and began to take out a series of objects she either placed on the hearth or rejected and set to one side. Those on the hearth were plainly food of a most coarse kind—bread of the darkness of that known to the very poorest, then a limp, furred body of a creature hardly larger than a grain rat.

  The bag which was the riding place of the zark bounced against Nosh’s hip and she opened the confining twist at the top to allow the creature an exit. For a breath or two it sat on Nosh’s knee and then it gave a sudden leap into the full light of the fire where it set claws in Hanka’s kill, raking fur and skin away from the dead animal’s side.

  “No!” Nosh grabbed for the lizard, afraid that the child might attack and be stung.

  However, Hanka made no move to defend her meager supplies. There was an arousal of interest now showing in her expression, as if she was more intent on what the zark would do than resentful of its stealing the meat of another hunter.

  “What be?” Hanka glanced up.

  “It is a zark, a rock lizard,” Nosh said, glad that at least this proved to be a subject on which Hanka was willing to communicate.

  “Zark,” repeated the child. She was watching absorbedly as the zark made swift feasting, plainly relishing the fresh meat it had not tasted for some time and which Nosh was sure its nature craved.

  Having seen Hanka bring out provisions, Nosh without any more questions produced her own, as well as some from Kryn’s supplies. They had used the last of Raganat’s cakes but there were small blocks of dried fruit and meat, well preserved and pounded together into a firm whole before being cut down into bite size. There were also dried roots, which Nosh proceeded to push into the heart of the small fire with the end of a stick, leaving them to roast.