Umbertouched

by Livia Blackburne

  We make our way painfully slowly, threading our way through wider spaces and stopping every few steps to clear out a path, or when I need to rest. At least I have the mule to lean on as we hike. Finally, I settle the soldier safely in the cave and rest an hour before heading back out to hide our tracks. It’s impossible to erase all signs of our passing, so I settle for dragging the sled along many paths to camouflage the real one.

  In the shelter of the cave, the soldier recovers much more peacefully. Soon, he’s opening his eyes for brief periods of time. Once, when a gust of wind blows across the cave mouth, he startles awake. I lay a gloved hand on his forehead.

  “Be at peace,” I say. “The gods watch over you.”

  Though I wonder, if the Goddess really is looking in on the two of us in this little cave, what she is thinking.

  They give me half a day to get out of scouting range. Half a day to separate myself from my flesh and blood and never return. Part of me wants to beg them to give me another chance, but I scrape together some dignity and stay silent.

  Gatha’s generous with provisions—more generous than people want her to be, considering the glares I get from around the camp. As she hands me what looks like a few weeks’ worth of dried meat and bread, I check her eyes for any wavering, any sign of changing her mind, but her gaze is steady and grim.

  I can’t hate her. She gave me plenty of chances to regain her trust.

  As I stuff my extra tunic into my bag, Hashama comes to speak to me.

  “I don’t believe you to be a traitor.” He’s solemn as always, but this time it seems appropriate.

  I clasp his hand. “I’m honored to have had you and Sarsine under my command.” Beyond that, there’s not much to say.

  Hashama doesn’t see me out of the camp, nor does anyone else. I walk alone past the stares of my kinsmen. Out of the corner of my eye, I see people stop what they’re doing to watch me, but I keep my gaze straight forward. At least I have Slicewing. The loyal crow flies circles over my head, diving down occasionally to peck for worms before taking flight again. The camp grows quiet behind me, so quiet that it’s hard to tell how far I’ve walked. But I don’t look back.

  Already the forest around me feels darker, more dangerous. Somehow, in the span of months I’ve gone from being a man of two peoples to a man with none. Any Amparans I run into will kill me on sight, and I don’t know what the Shidadi would do. Though I don’t see or hear anything unusual, there’s a prickling at the back of my neck, as if threats I can’t detect linger just out of reach.

  After several hours of walking, my stomach starts to growl, so I sit and break out a portion of my food. That’s when it hits me. For the first time in my life, I have no orders to follow, no one to fight for. No direction on where to go. It’s this thought that finally sets my mind spinning and makes my skin break out in sweat. I might as well be one of Slicewing’s lost feathers, floating from tree to tree until it falls apart.

  Calm down, Dineas. If you can face dozens of Amparan swords, you can handle making your own way.

  But can I? The forest, which was already feeling dark and dangerous, now feels impossibly large. I almost wish for enemy soldiers to walk out of the bamboo so I can fight them. But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Yet my heartbeat won’t slow. Something constricts in my chest, and the world starts to tilt.

  Claws dig into my shoulder. Slicewing peers around and eyes me with worry. I’m not alone, not completely.

  I reach over and scratch her neck. “Thank you.”

  I’m too restless to stop for long. Soon I’m walking again, with Slicewing flitting along behind me. I try once more to get my bearings. If Zivah and Sarsine are still alive, I want to find them. But how? I don’t even know if they made it back to Monyar. Do I go back to Central Ampara and try to retrace their steps? Where do I even start?

  Slicewing gives a warning call. Something swishes through the trees. Pain explodes in my calf, and I pitch forward.

  I’m running out of a Central Amparan outpost with soldiers hot on my heels. A bowstring twangs, and an arrow embeds in my calf. I tumble head over heels, struggling to break my fall. I won’t let them catch me. Won’t let them torture me.

  No, that’s just a memory. That’s not real.

  But another bow twangs, and I roll to keep from getting skewered again.

  These arrows are real. And it’s only a matter of time before one of them kills me.

  Slicewing folds her wings and dives out of the air. The forest shakes where she hits it, and someone yells. She’s distracting the archer, but not for long. I grit my teeth and climb to my feet. My calf is bleeding, but there’s no arrow embedded in it, and it holds my weight.

  Roaring at the top of my lungs, I charge toward the place I heard the yell, crashing through leaves and pushing branches out of my way. An Amparan scout claws at his face as Slicewing dives and swoops. He lets out a surprised grunt as I tackle him, and we tumble to the ground. In the tangle of limbs, I reach for the knife in my boot and bury it in his neck. Hot blood flows over my hands. He shudders.

  I’m wrestling with Tus on top of a mountain. He pins me to the ground and raises a knife, hilt first. I brace myself.

  The Amparan’s dead now, but there might be more. I throw the body off me and stagger to my feet. As the archer’s body thuds to the ground, his face shifts, and suddenly it’s Zivah lying there. Zivah, on the ground, bleeding out. I let out a ragged cry.

  Slicewing flutters to the ground in front of me, staring at me.

  “You’re real, right?” I whisper to Slicewing, lurching toward her. The crow hops away with an alarmed caw and then flies to perch on a stalk of bamboo. The bamboo flickers as if under­water, and faces appear in its green bark. Walgash, Masista, Naudar, their faces one on top of each other.

  “Traitor,” says Masista. “You’re a disgrace.”

  I scream.

  Over the next days, the Amparan soldier continues to improve. I’m certain now that he’ll live, though that brings other worries. How certain am I that I have not infected him? I’ve been careful not to touch him with my bare skin, even while transporting him to the cave. But what if I slipped up, or my gloves became infected?

  As he gets stronger, I leave food and water laced with restorative herbs next to him, and I hide at the edge of the cave to watch him wake. He sits up, puts his hand to his temple, and looks down at the roast fish and bamboo segments filled with water. Then he puts a hand to the ground and laboriously pushes himself up. He falls forward onto his knees, and I have to suppress my urge to rush in and help him. Does he still have an injury that I missed?

  But then he clasps his hands together. His lips move silently.

  He’s praying.

  I tell myself that his prayers have nothing to do with me, but I can’t shake my unease.

  The soldier eats and he sleeps, gaining strength. When he doesn’t fall ill after five days, I start to feel more optimistic. As weakened as he was, the plague essence would have overcome him sooner than the usual ten days. He continues to pray upon waking each time—not the perfunctory prayer of those absorbed in their lives, but the earnest, grasping prayer of one who has seen the gods. It’s with great relief several days later that I watch him get up and walk south back toward the Amparan camps.

  The respite I gain from his leaving only lasts a half day. That afternoon, I find an Amparan archer with a deep gash in his arm, as well as a broken wrist and leg. This time, I don’t hesitate before bandaging his cuts and setting his bones. As I gather scrap bamboo to build him a fire, I find another foot soldier with a bad head wound. Despite my best efforts to stanch his bleeding, he dies an hour later, moaning in pain as I hold his hand.

  The archer fares much better. I give him sleeping potion for the first day, and when he awakes, he’s alert and doesn’t appear to have much pain. I watch from a distance as he hobbles around and fashions himself a crutch. It’s a far walk down to the Amparan camps, but he might make it if he’s determi
ned. Or he might run into his comrades along the way.

  I act before I have much chance to think, stepping out into his path. “You must stay,” I say.

  He stops. Looks at me in shock. Takes in the sight of my rosemarks and stumbles back.

  “I treated your wounds and set your bones,” I say. “I took care not to touch you, but you must stay until I’m sure it is safe for you to rejoin your comrades.”

  He reaches for his sword before realizing he doesn’t have one. “Stay away from me,” he says. He walks a wide circle around me, eyeing me as if I were a coiled snake. I tamp down on my growing anger, but I don’t move to block him. The soldier passes me and gives me one last suspicious look before hobbling away.

  I reach for my blowgun and shoot him in the nape of his neck.

  It takes me a half hour with the mule’s help to drag him back to the cave. Once there, I watch him sleep, sending more than one complaint to the Goddess as I do. Is it worth it, to spend my strength on someone like this? And what will happen once he returns to his countrymen, now that he’s seen me? Even if he doesn’t recognize me for who I am, someone else might guess.

  A noise outside the cave catches my attention. I’m not even sure what exactly I heard, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I instinctively know I must be silent. The sound of footsteps drifts in from outside, along with the occasional clink of metal.

  I hold my breath, thankful that my patient is unconscious, and trying to remember how well hidden my cave is from outside.

  A voice drifts in, speaking Amparan. “...somewhere around here...says he walked two days south from where he woke up...”

  A thrill of fear shoots down my spine. I cast my eyes around the cave. The comatose archer lies sprawled out against the back wall. Scrawny lies a short distance away, asleep in a nest of leaves. On the opposite side of him, my blowgun leans against the wall. Carefully, I crawl toward it.

  “...says a goddess saved him...it can only be the healer...”

  I grab the blowgun and fit a dart, then crawl on one hand to the cave mouth. The opening itself is as high as my knee. There’s some grass in front to conceal it, but not nearly as much as I’d like. I chance a look out and see two men walking a stone’s throw away. They’re wearing unmarked armor, like the men who killed Sarsine, and they’re umbertouched. Are they the only two, or are there others?

  “I think she’ll be farther north,” says one. “She’ll be eager to join the others.”

  “But it’s hard to travel with all the fighting,” says his comrade.

  They’ve stopped now, and the first one examines the ground in front of him. Did I leave a footprint? He’s so close. I lower myself onto my stomach and prop myself onto my elbows. I take aim.

  “Something was dragged here,” says the soldier.

  My stomach knots.

  His comrade walks up for a closer look and then turns his face toward the cave opening. He squints.

  I shoot.

  As he crumples, the first soldier jumps to his feet, scanning the rock face around my cave.

  Don’t panic. Don’t fumble. Reach for another dart.

  My dart catches the second soldier in the hand. He slaps at it, as if swatting a mosquito. And then he too collapses.

  Guilt.

  Waves of it. Guilt that gouges a hole in my core. I curl in on myself, claw at my arms, my neck, my face, anything to make it go away.

  The dead parade in front of me. Naudar, Tus, the myriad Shidadi I killed when I fought in Neju’s Guard. In my visions, I cut down my kinsmen over and over. They die, and when I’m finished screaming, they die again.

  “Forgive me!” When did it get so dark? Cicada calls assault my ears, and the night is bitterly cold. Once more I curl into a ball.

  There’s fire all around me. The air smells of lamp oil, and heat sears my skin. Smoke overwhelms my lungs. I cough uncontrollably.

  Walgash draws his sword. “You’re not leaving here alive.”

  I don’t want to fight him, but I must.

  I’m thirsty. Grievously thirsty. I grope for my waterskin and lift it to my lips. A trickle of water comes out, but no more.

  I’m in the dungeon. Chains chafe my wrists. My back is sticky with blood, but I would take ten more whippings if I could just have a sip of water. Footsteps sound outside, and fear flares in my chest. Not again. I can’t take any more. Please, just let me die.

  I’m by the river. It’s light again. How did I get here? In front of me, water swirls cold and fresh. I submerge my mouth, drink, and never stop.

  The interrogator grabs my head and forces me underwater. I sputter and choke, thrash and cough. I’m drowning.

  A dusting of black feathers against my face. A click of beaks. Slicewing peers into my eyes. Behind him is...Preener? Didn’t I send him away?

  “Help me,” I whisper.

  Slicewing sticks her beak into my hair. I run my fingers over her feathers, and they tickle my palms. The two crows chatter to each other. I cling to their voices. This is real. They are real.

  Preener hops to my side and nestles into my chest.

  “Preener, you vain bird. What are you doing here?”

  The darkness creeps up on me again, crowding the edges of my vision. But this time I don’t dream.

  What have I done? I crawl out the cave opening, shaking like a spooked mouse as I scan the forest for more soldiers. Both of the men I’d shot lie motionless in the grass. I dash to the first one and lift him by the armpits. He’s not a small man, and he drags like a sack of flour as I strain to pull him toward the cave. By the time I wrestle the second man inside, I’m exhausted and covered in sweat.

  Panting, I look at the three comatose soldiers laid out inside my cave. I can’t stay here. That much is clear. But what do I do with my prisoners? The archer has seen me and talked to me, and this time when he wakes, he’ll be angry. And then there are these soldiers with unmarked livery, the ones sent to kill me....

  I have a few hours before the potion wears off, so I gather my courage and venture out again. I feel hopelessly vulnerable without Scrawny scouting for me, but there’s nothing to be done except to keep my loaded blowgun at the ready.

  The forest is loud with chirps of crickets and cicadas. The first thing I do is find a forked stick and trim it to my liking. Then I start my hunt, looking for the darker corners of the forest, the piles of leaves in the shade. Hours pass. I grow thirsty because I left my waterskin at the cave. But then I spot the telltale black and yellow stripes of the soulstealer snake. Carefully now. These snakes are notoriously easy to scare. I take one step closer, and then another. The snake lifts its head as I bring my stick toward it, tasting the air.

  Now.

  I thrust my stick into the ground so that the forks land on either side of the base of its head. The snake writhes and hisses as I pick it up, though it relaxes just slightly to my low-toned whistles. He goes headfirst into an improvised sack, and I waste no time in returning.

  Back at the cave, my prisoners sleep quietly where I left them. As they dream, I milk the soulstealer with a piece of leather stretched over a segment of bamboo. Then I mix one drop of venom with liberal amounts of ziko and nadat, enough so the venom will only erase memories from the past few days. I dip a snake fang into the mixture and scratch each man’s skin.

  The venom should keep them asleep two days. When they wake, they’ll be ravenously thirsty from the venom, so I place canisters of water laced with the strongest sleeping potion I have. I hope this buys me five days at the least, hopefully more.

  Scrawny gives me a reproachful look as I go to check on him. Either he didn’t like being left here with the soldiers, or he knows more about my healer’s vows than he’s let on.

  “Time for a new home,” I tell him as I tie him into his sling.

  I walk well into the night before I stop to rest. When I do sleep, I dream of Kaylah visiting me in the cave I just left. She comes in and looks at the soldiers, the soulsteal
er venom, and the tainted water. She puts her hand on their foreheads, listens to their confused mumblings, and wipes down their faces.

  I beg Kaylah for news of my family. Is Leora’s child still healthy? Was my father able to make the long walk to the Dara camp? Is Dineas alive? Please tell me he’s alive.

  I ask her what I should do with these soldiers. When that doesn’t work, I yell at her to simply talk, to say anything. I don’t want to die alone out here. Please don’t let me.

  But she stays silent.

  I have no idea how much time has passed. It might have been an afternoon. It might have been weeks. All I know is that it’s still summer and I haven’t starved to death. My bag of food is almost empty, and I can see my ribs clearly under my skin. I also have a strong memory of painful thirst, though now my waterskin is full again.

  The hallucinations and dreams space themselves further and further apart, and in their place comes bone-heavy, incapacitating exhaustion. I sleep long hours beneath a granite overhang too low to sit up under. I’m caked in layers of mud, and dried scabs cover my arms and legs. Everything hurts. My bones creak, and my head feels like it’s being crushed repeatedly with a hammer. When I’m not sleeping, I have enough of my wits about me to eat a few mouthfuls of food, maybe stumble over to the river that I somehow found in my madness. Then I return to my hiding place and fall into dreamless sleep. At least now, when I wake up, I can remember falling asleep in the first place.

  Eventually, I stay awake long enough to wonder what’s happened to me. Have I truly gone mad? My episodes had never been as bad as this. Was it the fight in the forest that triggered it? Or being kicked out of my tribe? My mind seems to be piecing itself together once more, but I wonder how long it will last.

  And then there’s the issue of the crows. There are two of them.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Preener as he struts a circle around me, fluffing his plumage. He’s looking obnoxious and self-absorbed as ever, but I still remember the comforting brush of his feathers on my chest, and I know I owe him.