The Children of Anthi: Anthi - Book One

by Deborah Chester

  Beyond the hillside on which he sat the ground descended in a series of short, rocky ridges like the spines of old skeletons bleached gray against the black sand. The sun hung lower now, its large bronze orb staining the lavender-tinted sky a bloody purple as it neared the horizon. He saw no vegetation other than a few scraggly thornbushes that grew no higher than his knee, and no animals or insects. It was a daunting emptiness, but he sternly forced himself to remember that there was life here. He just had to figure out how to find it.

  As though in answer, a distant howl, shrill and eerie, lifted through the cold air. The cloudless sky turned ocher as twilight deepened with startling swiftness. For a moment the wind lay stilled from its restless questing. Blaise sat tensely, beginning to shiver as the temperature dropped, with the sun now beneath a far, black horizon. He watched a trio of tiny moons ascend one by one, followed by a vast one, whole and ghostly white, that appeared to fill the night sky. It seemed to crush him with its nearness, and its light stretched over the silent desert with cold barren fingers, casting Blaise’s hunched shadow into line with the straighter one of the rock. The wind rose up more strongly and cut him through with cold at the first touch. Shivering, he pressed his palm against the edge of his throbbing wound and flinched as the distant howl rose again. It sounded closer this time, but how he hoped to the mercy of Demos that it was only a trick of his imagination.

  To distract himself from the eerie howls and the night cries that answered, Blaise attended to his pangs of hunger and dug through his pockets for chunks saved from several ration cubes. Storing up had not been easy, for the Bban’jen clearly did not believe in fattening themselves or their prisoners. Now his fumbling, eager fingers found only crumbled powder. Disheartened, he shook some out into his gloved palm and licked up the dry stuff, choking a bit as his parched mouth and throat failed to produce sufficient saliva to start the chemical process. The taste was awful, and he wondered how much dirt had mixed itself with the food. After a while he gave up.

  Chance, or perhaps some extra sense, made him look out across the rock-strewn ridges to his right. Lean, furtive shapes ran over the crest of one, dropping out of sight only to reappear moments later in quick silent leaps from the shadow of one stone to another. Blaise’s breath caught in his throat. He turned to the left. Yes, there was a flick of movement from that direction too: vague lean shapes keeping out of the bright moonlight as much as possible. He swallowed hard, his parched throat sore. They were hunting him.

  Fear swept through him. Sitting out here in the moonlight, he was a far too visible target. But where could he go? Where could he hide?

  In silent, deadly determination the hunters closed in, surrounding him on three sides. And at his back rose the steep cliff and the cave above. He drew his good leg beneath him with a grimace, his heart thudding with a sudden urge to run. But running was out of the question. Could he make the cave? Even as he considered it, he felt despair. The climb was steep, and even with two good legs he’d have a hard time getting up there.

  Then, on a sudden crosscurrent of wind, the scent of Bban musk reached his nostrils. He panicked, shoving himself up on his good leg and trying to hobble up the slope. But with one step the wound on his leg opened and half his blood seemed to spew out, plunging him into agony so great that he screamed aloud. An outcry went up behind him. Trying to ignore the pain, the feeling of renewed fire burning away bone and muscle, he kept going, only to lose his balance and stagger to his knees. A javelin whistled over his shoulder, missing by centimeters, and thunked into the earth ahead of him. Blaise crouched where he was, panting, trying to drive back the pain as he glanced quickly over his shoulder.

  “Choi-hana! Chi! Chi!” screamed a fierce wild voice.

  They were on their feet, running swiftly up the slope toward him. He counted eight, all swathed in ragged cloaks and masked with strips of cloth wrapped across their faces. Their eyes glowed brightly, intent and triumphant as they howled, leaping from rock to rock with quick surefootedness. Another javelin hurtled toward him, catching his cloak and pinning it to the ground.

  Blaise broke loose from his numbed terror. With a wild cry of his own, he seized the javelin in both hands, jerking it from the ground so violently that sand flew, and hurled it back at them as hard as he could. It hit no one, but it checked the impetus of their rush. For a moment they stood still, eyes glowing incandescently as they huddled together and growled at each other in swift conference. Blaise seized his chance to crawl up the slope to the other javelin. Then he faced them with it, his face grim and hot behind his mask. Why didn’t they come on and finish it? He no longer held hope of escape or survival, but he wanted to go out fighting. Blood still oozed down his leg; he waited, furious at them for toying with him, feeling weaker by the second. His vision blurred, and their lean figures shimmered in the wan light as they picked their way up toward him at a steady pace, jen-knives glinting in their hands.

  Anger at them and at his own helplessness coursed through him, and with a last burst of defiance he raised the javelin in one hand, aiming it at the nearest figure, while with the other hand he pulled the translator from his pocket.

  “I know Picyt,” he said, desperately seizing the first words that occurred to him. “If you honor him, leave me to my own way.”

  They stopped, but merely stared at him without response. He gripped the translator harder.

  “I am not from this world. I have no quarrel with you.”

  Finally one stepped forward a pace. “This is territory of the J’agan-dar. No jen may come here unbidden. You are our meat.”

  Bban-meat, he thought with a sudden wild urge to laugh. Fire seemed to engulf him, blurring his vision further and leaving him cold in its wake, but he shook off the feeling, driving the point of the javelin into the ground and using it for support as he levered himself to his feet.

  “I am no one’s meat!” he shouted back, his voice as hoarse as theirs. It echoed across the desolation surrounding them before the wind blew it away. “And I am here not by choice, but because some damned flin named Hihuan brought me out here and shot me. Now you—”

  “You are sworn enemy against Leiil Hihuan?” asked the Bban with sudden interest. “To the blood?”

  Blaise set his jaw. “Dammit, yes.”

  “He is a jen spy,” said another suddenly.

  The scent of Bban musk, raw and horrible, filled the air. Blaise choked on it, felt his grasp on the javelin slip, and suddenly fell to one knee. Immense weariness rolled over him, pressing him down.

  “Any enemy of the Tlar leiil has place,” said the first Bban. “But a friend of the Noble Picyt must be considered with suspicion. We shall put it before the elders to be weighed.” He walked toward Blaise, extending a bony hand. With hesitation Blaise held out his own, only to gasp as he realized too late the creature’s intention. The Bban struck, snapping Blaise’s head back violently enough to make his neck crack. Light exploded within his brain, blinding him so that he was only dimly aware of his dislodged mask slipping down as he fell…

  He awakened to the intriguing scent of something cooking. Blaise blinked at the shadows overhead, bemused by the ruddy flicker of firelight on the rough stone ceiling. For an instant he thought himself back in the Bban citadel. Then a noise caused him to turn his head, and he stiffened at the sight of a woman nearby tapping her long horn spoon on the metal edge of a cooking pot that was suspended over the hissing yellow flames of a small fire. Aromatic steam rose from the bubbling contents of the pot. Hunger gnawed through him, but he did not so much as breathe until she turned slightly to lay her spoon down on a curiously hollowed stone. His breath eased out at the sight of her smooth, high-cheeked profile, firm, slightly rounded chin, slim straight nose, and clear brow. She was tall, like the people of this planet, and moved with supple grace as her slender form cast a shadow on the opposite wall. Her clothing was simple, consisting only of a thin, untanned leather garment fastened at the throat with a jeweled brooch, falling in
a straight sheath to her knees. The slit up one side gave him tantalizing glimpses of a slimly curved thigh. Her hair hung straight and thick down her back like a veil, glittering gold in the firelight.

  Where, he wondered in a daze, had she come from? Was she an off-worlder stranded here too?

  He lifted his head slightly, and at once she turned with a sweep of her unbound hair to regard him with silver eyes that glowed in the way of the Bban. Jolted, he frowned, staring at her delicate, golden-skinned features. She was not Bban, and yet…

  Quickly she reached into the pouch tied to the braided thong around her waist and held out the translator. “Lie quietly,” she said in a husky voice, her silver eyes regarding him from under knit brows. “You must not reawaken the blue fire.”

  Obedient to that suggestion, Blaise nodded and let his head drop back. At least the Bban had not killed him…yet. “My name is Blaise Om—” He broke off, suddenly tired of an identity that no longer served him. “Just Blaise,” he said, his voice weak. “Am I—”

  She gestured with a graceful lift of her hand. “You are within the dara of the Bban tribe J’agan-dar. Scouts found you while hunting a chaka escaped from the herd.” She cocked her head to one side. “You wear the cloak of the jen, but you are weaponless. Why? Have you been stripped of honor and left to spread your blood upon the sand in shame? And you are neither Bban nor Henan nor Tlar. The warriors know great bewilderment.”

  Blaise felt rather bewildered himself. “You are not Bban,” he said finally, refusing to answer questions. The steam from the cooking pot again drifted his way, and his mouth watered longingly. “May I have some of that?”

  Her cheeks had darkened at his first statement, but now she glanced at the cooking pot. “It is not yet time,” she said, then looked at him hesitantly. “No, I am not Bban, but Henan. Do you think anyone of caste or honor would tend a stranger with striped eyes and no weapon?”

  The scorn stung. Blaise said tersely, “I come from another world—”

  “Blaspheme not the powers of Anthi!” she broke in with a swift gesture. Her silver eyes narrowed at him. “You are a spy of the evil Tlar—”

  “Hihuan and his scummy friend Aabrm?” said Blaise with a snort, and she gasped, looking at him in shock. He eyed her, wondering how much of a rebel she really was. “They are responsible for this leg.” As he spoke he reached down beneath the heavy fur robe covering him, only to stiffen in alarm as his probing fingers awakened no feeling in his thigh. “Demos!” He heaved himself up on one elbow, then gasped as the cave spun before his eyes.

  She moved swiftly to his side and pushed him flat. “Fool,” she said, checking the bandages swathing his leg. “It has taken me many hours to deaden the fire. Will you awaken it? Lie still!”

  Obedient to her sudden fierceness as well as the weakness causing his heart to flutter oddly and his lungs to struggle, he lay still save for the bandaged hand he reached out to grip hers.

  “The leg,” he said through his teeth. “What can you do for it?”

  She drew back, her silver eyes growing as chilly as ice as he defied pain to hold her fast. “Release me,” she said coldly. “Perhaps we shall cut off your leg, striped-eyes, and eat it.”

  Her spirit roused a weak laugh from him. Lacking the strength to argue, he slackened his hold. She snatched free her hand.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  Her delicate nostrils flared as she rubbed her wrist. For a moment he thought she would walk out. Then her set mouth softened, and she brushed back a straying strand of golden hair. “I am Giaa,” she said, “and your leg has had all the care due to a stranger of no honor. More, perhaps.”

  “Giaa,” he said, liking the sound of it. “You must believe that I am no spy for Leiil Hihuan. Picyt asked me to help him when—”

  “The revered noble!” She widened her silver eyes, their glow suddenly intense. Swiftly she raised her fingertips to her lips and forehead. “You serve the First Honored of Anthi?”

  “I serve no one!” flared Blaise without thinking. Then, seeing her expression, he realized the rashness of his outburst. Demos, where were his wits? “But,” he amended hastily, “you might say Picyt and I have worked out a deal—”

  “The elders must be told!” Even as she spoke she turned, hastening toward a shaggy leather curtain.

  “But wait!” he called desperately, not trusting her sudden eagerness. “Giaa—”

  She halted, making no attempt to hide her impatience. “The legends tell of you, striped-eyes.” Again she touched her brow in a swift gesture of respect. “You are the harbinger of the rising, when our true leiil shall return to lead us. Oh, I must tell the elders!”

  He tried to sit up. “No, Giaa! Wait!”

  But she was gone.

  “Demos,” he said in disgust, and dropped down on one elbow. He frowned. A thousand credits said Picyt had set up this legend to suit his own grisly purposes. Blaise lay further down with a grunt, fretting at his weakness. Perhaps escaping to Ruantl had not been such a bright move after all. The Institute would not pursue him here, but still, he’d not been free of injury since the crash. Lying on his back at the mercy of these people was not the way to get ahead. It was time he took the offensive.

  His frown deepened. By now he should have had some idea of this planet’s resources, government, and police control. Instead all he knew were confusing bits of superstition, a native population that set his teeth on edge despite years of xenobiological exposure, and hints of a conquering race no longer in control. Well, then, why had the Tlar come to Ruantl at all? Surely any scouting party would have reported the X rays and other hazardous conditions of this rock. Yet they had come here anyway and settled. Why? Had their own world been dying? Was it overpopulation that drove them here? Or greed?

  He sat upright again, ignoring the tilt of the room as he stared at that tantalizing cooking pot. It was fashioned of a peculiar bright-green metal. A memory tickled the corner of his mind. Yes, the jen-knives were made of it, too, but he had seen it somewhere before, very long ago. Unconsciously he brought up one of his bandaged hands to rub his jaw, where faint tracings of the old identity number remained despite the skills of a very expensive eraser. Realizing what he was about to do, he stiffened and slowly lowered his hand. Of course!

  The memories came back in a sudden flood of unwanted venom, filling his veins with the strength of old hate and rebellion. It happened when he was a threeling—one-third grown—and assigned to work at simple tasks in Laboratory 80. They had brought in an unusual alien specimen for analysis and dissection. Blaise, sickened and shaking, had done the cleaning up, and he had held for a moment a finely wrought armband of strange green metal, silky smooth and oddly warm to the touch.

  Then a hand, supple, white, and smelling of disinfectant, plucked it from his grasp.

  “Corybdium bracelets are too costly for vat boys.”

  Even now the words burned through his brain like a white brand, and the shame boiled through him again. But the past was over, said a cold part of his mind as it pulled him back to the cavelike room where animal skins covered his bed and hot coals sang from the fire. He narrowed his gray eyes. Corybdium was so rare that he had never seen it again until coming here. And by her own words, Giaa was of small importance to her tribe, yet she wore gold and jewels and carried a knife with a blade that would bring thousands of credits on the black market.

  Excitement leaped within Blaise, driving away all thoughts of pain, hunger, and weakness. Ruantl must be a treasure trove of costly minerals! And this Picyt was waiting and anxious to hand the whole planet over to Blaise in exchange for…

  He winced with revulsion. True, he was a vat boy, created in the Institute laboratories for the labor supply, and therefore, logically, his body should mean little enough. To be vat grown was to be the lowest and most despised of all creatures in the Institute’s hierarchy. To be vat grown was a shame overcome only by conforming to the Institute’s ways more rigidly than everyon
e else, to fight not for advancement but for acceptance that seldom came, to attain humanity by becoming less than human, in short, to be the perfect little drone. Blaise gritted his teeth. He had refused to conform. He had fought to be different, rebelling until he had been forced to escape to survive. And he had survived, as renegade, robber, and spy. He was proud to be a miscalculation, to have won the small victory of individualism. Vat born or not, committee designed or not, numbered BLZ-80-4163 or not, he was his own man and not just one more number owned by the Institute.

  Was that achievement worth exchanging for an alien body? He looked again at the green cooking pot and grew thoughtful. Wealth enough to stagger the galaxy could lie beneath the barren surface of this planet. He considered the gamble with a quickening heartbeat, his eyes beginning to gleam even as a throb of pain through his thigh made him grimace. He lowered himself flat again, drawing a shaky breath.

  The hide curtain moved aside and Giaa ducked through. Her silver eyes shone at him through the shadows like pools of mercury. For an instant he heard the faint melodic strumming of an instrument set on a key that vibrated through him with every twang. She let the curtain fall behind her, and the music was cut off.

  “Giaa,” he said, motioning for her to produce the translator. “Do you know Picyt? Can word be sent to him? I must—” He broke off with a wince as the pain intensified, sawing through his leg with a viciousness that left him white.

  She hastened forward, and her golden hair brushed his scraped cheek as she bent over him. “Later,” she said, laying a slim hand on his forehead as though to check for fever. “You must rest…sleep. The dara-elders are in conference with the council of warriors.” Her gentle mouth twisted with bitterness, and for a moment she stared into the distance, her eyes opaque and flat with a hard sort of anger that seemed out of place there. “For once a Henan was heard.”