by Sandra Kopp
Growling, Cumah assumed his human shape and withdrew into the forest, heading south. Apprehension furrowed his brow ever deeper as he walked. A once proud race, the Anathahites had numbered thousands. Now only five remained: Akira and Chemille, who remained in the camp guarding their fair-haired captive; Afrose and Patrus, who had incorporated themselves among Nedra’s mutant host; and himself, the strongest of them all, their leader Chirubach—whom Angyar knew as Cumah.
Afrose and Patrus had joined the Rauths in pursuing the woodsmen. After failing to overtake them, Patrus returned with the rest of the company to Rama-Rauth. Afrose, however, had continued west and never returned, neither had he responded to Patrus’ repeated attempts at mental communication. Cumah feared the worst, despite Afrose’s fierce reputation and past indomitable feats. If alive and well, Afrose should have either returned or notified Patrus concerning his activities. If injured, he would have issued a telepathic call for aid. No word had ever come.
Cumah traveled another mile and angled east. Patrus’ report to Akira concerning the woodsmen’s sorry state left little doubt in Cumah’s mind that most of them probably died in the forest, either from their injuries or of starvation. He should find their corpses before long. Perhaps he would pause for a hasty meal. Gnawing concern for his missing brother, however, rendered even the sweet taste of man-flesh undesirable. What had befallen Afrose?
“Afrose,” he shouted. “Do you hear me?”
Around him the old trees groaned and swayed. Cumah’s throat tightened. His mouth felt as dry as the sun-seared sands of the treacherous deserts beyond Epthelion’s borders. A piece of shale slid forward beneath his weight, nearly toppling him. Cursing, Cumah righted himself and kicked the rock aside, grimacing as its jagged obduracy sent shafts of pain through his foot and up his leg. A mossy frond snagged on an overhead branch floated into his face and he cursed again as he yanked it down and hurled it to the ground. “Afrose! Answer me! Where are you?”
A faint odor rode the errant southeast wind to Cumah’s nostrils. He caught his breath, stopped, and sniffed. The fickle zephyr rose and fell, carrying only intermittent traces of an odor he recognized as death—probably the cursed woodsmen Afrose had pursued. Cumah turned southeast and began to run. Several hours had passed since his last meal. Man-flesh would make a welcome feast.
For more than an hour he traveled, gliding over smooth terrain among the rocks and trees. At one point he reached a clearing in the middle of which stood a blackened snag, the hapless target of a wrathful thunderbolt. Cumah slowed to a walk and shot it a sideways glance. The sight of those gnarled and twisted limbs knotted his stomach. One in particular unnerved him: the semblance of a bony, grasping hand. Images of Afrose clawing after his fleeing life flooded Cumah’s mind but he vigorously shook them off. “Blasphemy!” he shouted. “You lie! My brother lives.”
The wind rose again, its surging breath now a malodorous omen that sent him racing from the clearing. The trees huddled closer. Patches of ferns filling the spaces waved friendly greetings. Shadows cast by swaying boughs chased each other into a broad glade, the grass of which had been well trodden and in places flattened as though something heavy had been dragged across it. The stink of death hung over the place, so thick Cumah could taste it; only now it had acquired a terrible caustic foulness. Cumah’s whole body felt suddenly heavy. Decaying man-flesh smelled nothing like this.
Instantly energized, he darted about, peering over rocks and logs and tearing aside bushes and branches to find the source. Clustered stones between two pines near the glade’s south side caught his eye and he raced to them, sliding to a dead stop when he saw the elongated, misshapen hand sticking claw-like through the soil near the bottom of one stone. Cumah clapped a hand over his gaping mouth, staring in horror and disbelief.
Blood and earth encrusted the lifeless limb, already discolored by putrefaction. The fingers had frozen into grotesque talons, and the dirt packed under the torn and broken nails bespoke a horrific fight to escape. Afrose had been buried alive, and this revelation maddened Cumah beyond comprehension. Clutching the hair on either side of his face, he threw back his head and loosed a roar that rang throughout the forest. When at last it subsided he stood, chest heaving, drenched with sweat, staring at his brother’s tomb.
“Afrose,” he croaked. “My brother.” Fury contorted his face. He clenched his fists. “Who killed you, brother? Who? I will avenge you, I swear it!”
He wiped his tears away and hung his head. “If only I’d not wasted time with that damnable Wyar! I might have saved you. I might have—”
A limb creaked beside him. The leaves of a nearby aspen whispered softly. An almost imperceptible drumming rose in the distance, faded, and rose again. Perhaps one—or several—of Afrose’s murderers returned. Well, let him come. Let them come, whatever their number. Cumah would deal with them all.
The drumming deepened. Cumah recognized the furious cadence of powerful hooves approaching at breakneck speed, closer than he had thought. They were almost upon him. . .
The shrubbery behind him exploded as a massive beast plowed through. Cumah whirled and stumbled backward, gaping at the flailing hooves of a rearing red horse. Instinctively he threw an arm up to shield his head and then froze. Where a horse’s head and neck should have been he saw. . .
Cumah’s brain had no chance to decipher what his eyes beheld. A front hoof lashed out as the beast descended, slicing open Cumah’s forehead and sending him sprawling. Dazed, he struggled to his hands and knees but his attacker spun around and with both hind legs delivered a kick that catapulted Cumah across a broad thicket and slammed him several feet high into the trunk of a towering pine. Unconscious, his wind knocked from him, Cumah dropped and landed in a crumpled, forlorn heap.
Branches snapped and popped as the creature tore through the thicket. Lightning flashed in Cumah’s brain as another hoof bludgeoned the back of his head. Crushing weight descended upon his back.
Afrose. . .I come to join you. But before he finished the thought the weight lifted. Darkness enshrouded him. Departing hoofbeats echoed hollowly in the distance.
Cumah awoke an hour later, his head pulsating and sticky with blood. His back hurt so intensely he thought it must be broken. Fearing the worst, he gingerly tested his arms and legs and to his great relief found them functional. For several minutes he lay still, drawing long, slow breaths while trying to will the pain to cease.
No mortal had killed Afrose, he thought, but a demon possessing supernatural powers and strength surpassing even Cumah’s. He wished he could remember the creature’s front parts, but its image remained buried amid the fog of confusion now clouding his memory.
Numbed and in shock, he shakily rose and staggered to the river. There he dropped to his knees, took a drink, and then washed his face, taking care not to dislodge the hardened blood that had clotted over his wounds. Easing onto his buttocks, he cradled his throbbing head in his hands, hoping the blood would staunch further and the pain abate. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer blow pounding great swells of blood throughout his torn and damaged vessels.
Several minutes passed. Cumah’s anguish eased somewhat. He drank again and, feeling better, hauled himself to his feet and tottered north along the river. But his weakness increased and he stood still, closing his eyes as he pulled in several long breaths and blew them out.
No ami, no ami, no ami. . .
The words soothed him. Cumah breathed slower and felt his muscles and pain-furrowed brow relax. He inhaled deeply through his nose, held it a moment, and then slowly exhaled and opened his eyes. Feeling stronger, he assumed the creature’s shape again and bounded into the forest.
The late afternoon sun trickled through the trees, softly illumining the pair keeping watch over their sleeping charge. Davon felt their surveillance and prayed he could maintain his guise of deep slumber. He knew too well that, sooner or later, the Anathahites would intensify their probing to the point he could resist them no longer. T
hey would discover his identity—and then what would they do?
Several silent minutes passed, during which Akira studied Davon intently. Finally he clicked his tongue and, with a gesture toward Davon, asked, “What do you make of him, Chemille?”
Chemille sighed quietly. “He suffers sorely.”
“Yes, but even in sleep I read nothing from him. Does he so control his mind that, even in pain, he locks up his thoughts? How can this be? What manner of man is he? Or is he a sorcerer?”
“Perhaps.” Chemille bit her lip, frowning. “Or perhaps his injury damaged his mind.” She sighed. “I fear we shall never learn about him.”
“We would, were Chirubach here,” Akira snapped. “He would restore this fellow’s memory. What keeps him, I wonder?”
Chemille shook her head. “It depends on who he encountered and what he discovered.”
Their alien tongue had unnerved Davon. Now they spoke the common tongue, which unnerved him more. They sought to elicit some response from him, he sensed, and their current conversation left him hard-pressed to contain himself. Chemille approached and knelt beside him. Davon steeled himself, somehow maintaining his composure as she stroked the hair off his wounded forehead and gently drew an icy fingertip across his bruised flesh.
“How tenderly you caress him.” Akira’s voice carried a sarcastic bite.
“Look at him,” came her soft response. “Do you feel no pity?”
“No. And neither should you.” Akira glared at Chemille. “Confess! You fancy him!”
Chemille slowly rose and returned his stare. “I care for his welfare. Nothing more.”
“Then come away from him. Sit here beside me,” he snarled. “He can fare well enough on his own.”
The words had scarcely left his lips when Cumah the beast burst through the trees, transforming into human form as he slid to a stop.
Akira jumped to his feet. “Chirubach! What kept you?” Chirubach cast a sideways glance at Davon and Akira continued, “We learned nothing.” He noted Chirubach’s wounds and paused. “What happened?”
“Do not speak the common tongue,” Chirubach snapped. He heaved a sigh and then continued in the language of the Anathahites, “Afrose is dead. I found his grave and while there encountered an otherworldly beast possessing strength and speed beyond anything I have ever witnessed. I surmise he killed our brother.” He broke off and glared at Davon. “This one lays here for days, helpless, and still you know nothing?”
Akira shook his head. “He has vexed us enough. Why don’t we just kill him?”
“The hordes of Barren-Fel seemed determined to take him and the other fair-haired one alive. They would have carried both to their queen, but Patrus believes Anhuapta would pay a higher price. One has escaped; but we have this one. I would know who he is and why they want him.” Chirubach paused and studied Davon. “I have never seen his kind before. He may bring both wealth and power.” He paused again, intensifying his scrutiny. “He looks like nobility, in which case his own people might pay a handsomer price than even Anhuapta would offer.”
“Did none of the mutants know him?” Akira demanded.
Chirubach sniffed. “As Patrus discovered, they’re naught but mindless drunks who know nothing and care even less.”
A malignant smile curled Akira’s lips. He bobbed his head toward Davon. “What manner of beast accosted you?” he asked Chirubach in the common tongue.
All watched Davon as Chirubach answered, also in the common tongue, “A monstrous red horse unlike any ever seen. His head, however, was not that of a horse; but what it resembled escapes me now.”
The Red Horse! Davon’s heart leapt and he hoped against hope he had made no noticeable response. Chirubach advanced and stood over him, scrutinizing Davon’s face with shining, hypnotic eyes. Davon felt his probing stare and through pure strength of will kept his breathing steady. He only prayed his rising emotions would not betray him by a racing heartbeat, a twitching muscle, or a flushed or perspiring face. This Chirubach was death, as was Akira. Chemille alone might befriend him, but the thought of what she might demand in return sickened him.
“Zounds,” Chirubach muttered finally in the Anathahite tongue. “I sense nothing. I see him breathing, else I would think him dead.”
“I have never encountered anyone like him,” Akira said. “Even asleep he evades us.”
“Your ways prove too harsh,” Chemille said. “I can win his confidence and discover—”
“You want him!” Akira shouted. “From the very beginning you wanted him. Very well; have him. But know this, Chemille: The day you do is the day you die!”
“Quiet!” Chirubach glared at the pair. “Waste no more time with him. I have the tool needed to find him out. Where is the fool who thinks himself a god?”
“He lies upon Beyelor. I will bring him,” Akira answered.
“No. I will go to him. Cease all efforts with our fair-haired friend. Do not speak to him. Do not touch him. Above all, do not let him go. I will return soon.” Chirubach paled and put a hand to his forehead. “I need medicine,” he groaned.
Chemille dashed through the trees to the pond and returned with a bulging wineskin. She started to open it but Akira snatched it from her hand. “Give me that,” he growled. He pulled out the leather stopper and passed the wineskin and a cup to Chirubach, who ignored the cup and began drinking from the wineskin, slowly at first and then with more relish. After a few swallows Akira took back the wineskin and poured a little of the deep red liquid onto Chirubach’s wounds.
Chirubach started and threw back his head. “Ah! That stings. Enough now.” He twitched and shook his head. “I’m well enough now to find our fool. Just remember what I told you.” In a flash of light he transformed into Cumah and bounded away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Angyar groaned. The black curtain separating mindless peace from brutal reality had begun to lift, allowing the veiled sun to kiss his cheek and revive his senses. Even before fully conscious he discerned wet clothing against his clammy skin, the probable result of a passing storm. He longed to return to the inky void where he had felt neither pleasure nor pain; but, as if on gentle waves in a quiet river, he floated out of his protective cocoon and into the world.
The air, ominously still and so heavy it felt almost liquid, smelled of rain. Angyar slowly rolled onto his back, his reluctant eyelids fluttering open as his awakening nerves infused his brain with ghastly reminders of events he wished only to forget. His partially numb right arm began to ache; not surprising, given it had endured hours pinned between his weight and the rough rocky soil. Searing pain wracked his entire body and each limb felt out of joint. The back of his head prickled as if aflame and, with a shaky sigh, he rolled his head aside and focused on the western horizon.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, just beneath a fiery sheet of orange and blue nimbus. Overhead, heavy gray cumulus bulged like overfilled waterskins. Angyar wondered where he was and how long he had laid there. Hours, perhaps even days must have elapsed. He ran his tongue across his parched lips, unnerved by the absolute silence and lack of even the slightest breeze—highly unusual, even frightening, in this land of ceaseless winds.
After several minutes he carefully stretched, wincing as the stones upon which he lay pressed into his back. He cautiously tested each limb and then, satisfied he was whole for the most part, sat up and scanned the area.
He found himself halfway up a steep mountainside, just above the heavy forest robing its lower flanks. A rock ledge splashed with lichens jutted from a bank a few feet to his left. Patuka was nowhere in sight. Neither was the Rauwyar Valley, which he distinctly remembered overlooking before this nightmare began. Yet even disoriented he found this place strangely familiar.
Holding his breath, Angyar rose stiffly and tottered a few steps down the hill. A cluster of trees and rocks farther down caught his eye, and he immediately recognized it as the spot where he and Aron had buried Jovah.
“Ho
w did I get here? Where is my horse?”
Indeed, he scarcely remembered his intended errand before his foolish fantasies crossed into the forbidden realm, catapulting him into this hell. But as he stumbled along he slowly remembered: His grim journey to the Wyars still waiting at the Ashgard.
Angyar groaned, wishing the earth would simply open and swallow him. He faced an arduous walk on foot. Patuka might still await him above Rauwyar; or, she might have fled; or, his demon aura might have devoured or otherwise destroyed her. Angyar knew not whether to seek the horse or continue to the Ashgard. He finally decided it best to conserve what little energy remained and simply head for the Ashgard. He would likely never find the horse, anyway. Besides, he must eventually face his countrymen and somehow explain Ramsha’s tragic death. If Fate held any mercy for him, they would quickly slay him and continue on, dealing with events as best they could. Angyar wondered if any would survive.
So much blood on my hands! He would rather have borne the weight of every stone on the mountain than this crushing load of guilt.
The sun touched down on a distant hilltop as Angyar reached the bottom and proceeded west. A light breeze arose and caressed his feverish brow but he took no notice. Head hung and shoulders slumped, he plodded on, hearing only the plaintive howl of a distant coyote and then—hoofbeats! Whipping out his boche, Angyar leapt behind a nearby bush.
Cumah, in the beast’s form, raced down the trail. Patuka followed close behind and as they neared Angyar saw the horse’s reins clamped between Cumah’s powerful jaws.
Cumah reached the bush where Angyar hid and stopped. “Angyar, come out. ‘Tis only me.”
Only you! Gritting his teeth, Angyar slipped his boche back into its sheath and edged around the bush. Cumah approached—almost submissively, Angyar thought—and nudged the herdsman’s hand. He laid Patuka’s reins across the now opened palm and assumed human shape.
Angyar curled his fingers around the cherished leather and for a moment simply stared, wishing he could hurl this bane from hell into oblivion. But Cumah, seemingly subdued, showed none of his usual arrogance. Angyar noted a fluctuating haziness about his forehead, with intermittent fleeting snatches of yellow and purple discoloration along a dark and jagged line that much resembled a gash. Angyar cocked his head. Had someone stronger and more evil than Cumah himself finally meted this devil his due reward? Obviously Cumah tried to conceal the spot but lacked sufficient strength to completely do so.
