The Wild Road

by Jennifer Roberson

  Rhuan considered that, rubbing his bottom lip in bemusement. “The head of the serpent.”

  “Cut it off?” Darmuth threw back a gulp of ale, brushed foam from his lip. “It’s a thought . . . if one were to ask Brodhi how the serpent likes to sleep. That is, if he knows. But neither Ferize nor I can kill him. We can’t hold the false form and kill a man. Our power is limited here in the human world, it can’t be doled out to different tasks. And if we let go the illusion, we very likely would be killed immediately. They are fearsome warriors, our Hecari, and I don’t doubt that the warlord has men aplenty whose sole task is to guard his body.”

  Nodding thoughtfully, Rhuan glanced around. He saw the farmsteader, Davyn, deep in thought, wrinkles across his brow, drawing circles in spilled ale. He blamed himself for saying anything about the road through Alisanos if he were so poor at keeping secrets. But the man had needed something.

  That gave him an idea, and he rose with a brief grasp of Darmuth’s shoulder, then took himself and his tankard to the bar where Jorda spoke quietly with Mikal. “Have him go.” Rhuan tilted his head in the farmsteader’s direction. “Take him with you to Cardatha.”

  Jorda straightened. “Why?”

  Rhuan very much desired to say he wanted Davyn out of the way before he let slip anything else. In the meantime, seeming idleness would do better than insistence. “It will fill his time. Distract him. Here, all he can think about is his family. Take him with you, and he can help if the wagons bog down, help gather supplies in Cardatha. We’re losing all the couriers to the Guildhall—the trip back will need another pair of hands.”

  Jorda frowned. “I thought Darmuth would accompany me.”

  Rhuan kept an eye on the farmsteader, answering Jorda absently. “Then have a third pair of hands to assist on the way back.”

  The karavan-master stared hard into Rhuan’s face. Rhuan knew very well when he was being weighed, when someone attempted to sort out what was in his mind. He also knew that at some point he was going to have to be painstakingly honest with Jorda. When he and Darmuth had been no more than hired guides for the karavans, there was no need for Jorda to ask more of them, to know their origins beyond a cursory explanation. But now, with the world upended and Alisanos on the doorstep, Jorda would not let anything slide by.

  Rhuan forestalled the emergent question by lifting a staying hand. “I know. And I will discuss this. But first—take the farmsteader with you. I’ll tell him you’ve asked for his help.”

  “Then wouldn’t it be best if I ask for his help?”

  “He might say no if you do it.”

  Jorda frowned. “No to me, but yes to you?”

  Rhuan smiled crookedly. “Yes.”

  Jorda raised his tankard and took down the last swallow. When he thumped it on the bartop again he fixed Rhuan with a steady gaze. “My wagon,” he said. “Soon. A matter of moments. You and no one else. Not even Darmuth.”

  That surprised Rhuan. “Not even Darmuth?”

  “Does he need to know your secrets, too?”

  “Darmuth knows most of them. But we can discuss that, too, at your wagon.”

  “Soon,” Jorda repeated, as much a command as a suggestion.

  Rhuan nodded. “I’ll speak to the farmsteader and come over immediately after.”

  “No lies,” Jorda declared. “No more disguising things with dimples, a shrug, a lazy observation.”

  Jorda knew him better than Rhuan had believed. “You’ll have the truth of me.”

  Jorda stared hard at him for a long moment, then turned to Mikal. “I’ll leave the Summoner here . . . once the rain has died, you may as well ring it out by the bonfire. That will bring everyone out, and we can begin gathering volunteers for the tasks.”

  Rhuan glanced back at the farmsteader as Jorda walked by on his way out of the tent. Davyn had pushed his stool away from the table, midway to rising. Rhuan said sharply, “Wait,” and after two long strides sat down across from him. He knew very well that the motion coupled with the word would be effective.

  And indeed, Davyn sat back down after a moment, blushing red in embarrassment. “I know. I—know,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said anything about the road. I’ll govern my tongue more closely after this.”

  Rhuan fixed Davyn with a stare as hard as Jorda’s. “Yes, I think you’d better. Fortunately the idea is so preposterous that no one will think about what you said, this time. Next time, they might.” He pulled his meat knife and speared a chunk of cheese. In front of Davyn’s face, he waved the knife and cheese. “Unwise,” he said. “Most unwise.” Before tucking the cheese into his mouth, he said, “Why not go with Jorda? He could use your hands and strong back on the return journey. The couriers will remain in Cardatha, so he will be short of help.”

  “No.” Davyn shook his head. “I won’t go so far from the deepwood. Who’s to know that my family won’t somehow find their way back? I need to be here, in case that should happen.”

  Inwardly Rhuan sighed, but he kept his tone casual even as he meticulously enunciated. “As I have said, until the road is built—and it will be built—they can’t come to you. Nor can you go to them.” He sliced off another hunk of cheese, chewed neatly, and swallowed. He washed all down with a measure of ale, then said with great clarity, albeit couched in offhandedness, “Jorda could use you in my place. I have to stay and begin mapping the border.”

  “Then I’ll stay here and help you with that.”

  Rhuan shook his head. “I’ll risk no human to the deepwood’s whimsy. You don’t have land-sense; Alisanos might merely shiver, yet take you into it. And no, you wouldn’t find your family that way. It’s most likely you’d simply be eaten.”

  “Eaten?”

  “Very likely.” Rhuan tore a hunk of bread off the loaf. “Alisanos teems with devils and demons, all kinds of beasts, even humans who have been perverted by the wild magic. No one there will guard your life.” As he had guarded Audrun’s. Once done with bread and cheese, Rhuan slid his knife back into its scabbard. “In Cardatha, you won’t be eaten.”

  Davyn scowled. “You’re trying to get rid of me.”

  That truth Rhuan felt safe in telling. “Yes. I am.”

  Lightning shot across the heavens. On its heels came a massive explosion of thunder. Davyn winced and covered his ears. When he uncovered them, he asked, “Does it rain like this in Cardatha?”

  “No. Cardatha’s rain is gentle.” Rhuan grinned. “No monsoon where you lived before?”

  “Not like this.” When lightning crackled so closely outside the tent that its odor could be smelled, Davyn once again covered his ears. Sure enough, thunder rumbled behind the flash. “All right. All right.” He pushed away from the table. “I’ll go with the karavan-master.”

  “Jorda will see to it you’ll have meals and coin rings for your trouble.”

  Davyn nodded, but his mind was clearly on something else. Rhuan waited until the farmsteader exited the tent, then returned to his own table and slid onto his seat beside Ilona.

  She studied his face. “You have the look of a man pleased by his actions.”

  “I am.”

  “What were they, exactly, these actions?”

  Over the rim of his lifted tankard, Rhuan said, “I told the farmsteader he should accompany Jorda, and that the rains are gentler in Cardatha.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did.”

  “He’ll know you for a liar when he gets there.”

  Rhuan smiled at her. “But in the meantime he won’t be here.”

  “And that matters?”

  “It will fill his mind with something other than worry about his family.”

  “For a while, perhaps, but—”

  “But, it’s enough. For now. And Jorda could truly use his help. Darmuth has a tas
k in Cardatha emminently more important than buying supplies and loading a wagon.”

  “Doing whatever it is neither of you would discuss in front of everyone?”

  “Doing exactly that.” Rhuan leaned close for a quick kiss, then scooted back his stool as he rose. “I’m wanted at Jorda’s wagon. I’ll come to you after.”

  Ilona propped her chin against the heel of her hand and smiled lazily. “Do.”

  BETHID SAT WITH Timmon and Alorn as they finished their ale and chewed at her bottom lip as she thought. She looked first at Timmon, then Alorn, with great intensity. “We have to do this.”

  “Do what?” Timmon inquired.

  “What we said we’d do. We’re going back to the Guildhall. We must discover how many of us are trustworthy . . . and who might betray us.” She played a quiet tattoo against the tabletop with her fingertips. “So long as the Guildmaster doesn’t immediately send us back out, we could sort out those in the Guildhall who would support us.” She frowned thoughtfully. “But I guess even if we are sent back out, we could test those couriers we meet on the road or at settlements. It’s vital, I think, to let the people know there is a safe place available.”

  “Against Hecari?” Alorn asked. “What safe place?”

  “Here.”

  Timmon’s brows shot up. “Here?”

  “You heard the discussion. The terrain now favors us. We could either provide directions for folk to come here, or lead them here ourselves.”

  “You heard the discussion, Beth.” Alorn shook his head. “It would invite a culling party.”

  “This is still a much safer place than out on the plains, wouldn’t you say?”

  Alorn’s mouth twisted. “I suppose.”

  “And the Mother knows there is plenty of room for more folk.”

  “For now,” Timmon agreed. “But at some point there will be too many for this settlement to sustain. How do you propose to choose who comes here and who doesn’t?”

  “Hmmm,” Bethid murmured. “That does bear some thought.”

  Alorn said, with a mix of fond amusement and exasperation, “That is your abiding fault, Beth.”

  It startled her. “What abiding fault?”

  “You throw yourself wholeheartedly into one project or another, committing yourself—and, in this case, us—before you’ve thought your way through.”

  “But we talked about this! You agreed we should do whatever we can to keep people from harm, to lay down the first planks of rebellion.”

  “Yes,” Timmon said. “But that was before you said anything about bringing people here.”

  “They’ll come anyway, some of them. Everyone wants to leave Sancorra because of the Hecari.”

  “You know,” Alorn said thoughtfully, “there may be another way. If we are very selective and only send men here who would be in deadly earnest about undertaking this rebellion, it could work.”

  Bethid frowned. “You mean build our own army?”

  “In a way,” Alorn replied. “Certainly we overcame the four warriors Brodhi brought back with him; and yes, I understand that four hardly constitutes a major victory, but the point is that we all of us were organized. That’s critical. If we can build on that, smaller numbers may prove more effective than one might think.”

  Timmon looked doubtful. “Even against the Hecari?”

  Bethid understood Alorn’s intent and pounced upon it. “We train as many Sancorrans as we can, then send them back out to find others willing to fight. And then—” she sat up straight upon her stool. “And then we can begin killing Hecari patrols. Possibly even culling parties. We could meet the Hecari on their own ground.” She waved Timmon into silence as he opened his mouth to speak. “Yes, we would have to be certain of our numbers in those circumstances. We must be judicious about this.” She chewed briefly at a hangnail. “Brodhi could keep Hecari numbers down, perhaps. At first.”

  “Exactly: but only at first,” Timmon said. “And if the warlord sends a thousand warriors? What then?”

  “Brodhi said the passageway is narrow, like the neck of a bottle,” Bethid replied. “That means a thousand warriors couldn’t all squeeze through at the same time. It gives us an advantage. And if they try to push through, all of them, well . . .” She grinned. “A fair number would likely run smack into Alisanos. To them, it would be a forest. Nothing more, until it was too late.”

  Alorn shook his head. “I agree some would be lost as you describe, and that others might be killed by us, but we couldn’t account for the deaths of a thousand warriors. We may have men, but we can’t truly assemble an army. Not to withstand the numbers the warlord will throw against us. Can we kill a few? Kill a culling party? Probably, once we’ve trained a fair number of men. But we’ll never have enough to defeat the warlord’s armies.”

  Bethid considered for a moment, then looked at both men. “If Hecari keep disappearing here, specifically here, I’d think the warlord himself might decide to take a personal interest.”

  “Sweet Mother, Beth, you’re out of your mind!” Timmon shook his head vigorously. “If he comes here, we might as well kill ourselves rather than die beneath the warclubs!”

  “Maybe,” Bethid agreed, “and maybe not.” She gave herself the luxury of a big, back-cracking stretch, thrusting both arms in the air. “In the meantime, I think we’d better go raise our tent.”

  “In the rain,” Alorn said gloomily.

  Bethid rose. “When I left it, everything we had in the tent was covered by the canvas when it fell down. I suspect it won’t be as wet as you might be inclined to think. We may very well sleep dry tonight. And besides—we’re going to Cardatha. They have buildings there.”

  THE CHILD CRIED in a thin, wailing voice. Demon cradled her in its—no, in her—arms, wishing peace to the infant. She had fed, and fed well. Still, she cried.

  Demon had made a small nest of tattered blankets. The baby had slept there for some time but awoke with a demanding cry. Demon at first felt completely helpless, but she took the child up into her arms, head resting in the crook of her left elbow, and began to rock the infant in small arcs. It came easily, the action. It fit. Empty arms were empty no longer.

  Woman. Woman. She had been.

  Was.

  As yet it was alien to Demon. The child’s cries did not quicken her breasts. She had borne no baby and her body knew it. But she had called milk from her breasts nonetheless. Thin, watery milk. There was something of a woman left in her, deep inside. That woman longed for the baby, longed to hold and comfort, to ease her own heart that had been stone for so long. Longer than she could count.

  “Tha tha,” she said, then corrected herself once again. “There, there.”

  The alteration from human into demon had been lengthy and painful. At first she understood what she had been and what had happened to her, trapped in Alisanos. But in time memory died. Even as scales formed from breastbone to genitals, as the nubs erupted from bone through flesh on either side of her spine. The pain of it had nearly driven her mad. She had no knowledge of what was happening to her, of what she was becoming. She knew pain, and nothing more. And when she had tried to rub her back against a tree, searching for relief, the pain of that had dwarfed all other discomfort. She had not tried again, but bore it. Bore it.

  Eventually she had twisted her arms behind her back to just barely reach to her spine, and found more than nubs. There was thick skin, and none of it her own. She felt where layer upon layer of muscle had spread, knitting itself from her body into what was growing upon her. The substance was leathery. But she could reach so little of it, even twisting her arms behind her back; she knew only that she was changing. She was not the woman she had been the day Alisanos took her.

  Claws, black and curved. Eyes that fed her richer colors, brighter sunlight. Too bright, as it could be in a world with do
uble suns, and she felt something in her eyes, a brief stab of . . . otherness.

  Still the infant cried, and it came to Demon that babies required more than food. She set the child down into the nest of tattered blankets and undid the clout. Very wet. The odor was astringent. At first all she could do was crouch down over the newborn, wishing her to be well. She was puzzled. Her mind felt empty of what she should do. And then something inside her, something buried human years before, guided her.

  The child was wet and should be dry.

  Demon smiled broadly. She knew what to do. And as her mouth opened, as her mouth stretched, fangs appeared.

  Yes. She knew what to do.

  Chapter 11

  RHUAN DUCKED OUT of the ale-tent into rain. The day remained gray and depressing. Puddles had begun to fill in the low spots where no grass grew, where livestock and humans had pressed the grass and weeds out of life into packed dirt. For now, wet ground was an inconvenience but within a matter of days the surface would soak up so much water that no more could be assimilated, and the top layer would become slop running with rain. The only choice was to build a boardwalk, as Jorda suggested, unless people wished to fight the bog-like mud every time they attempted to go anywhere.

  With the young grove destroyed, the grandfather grove now offered the only exterior shelter for the karavaners against the rain. Tent-folk were already under cover, save for those few whose tents had fallen during the latest incursion of Alisanos’s birth pangs; all worked in haste to get in and escape the rain. Wagons were scattered throughout the grove, parked under thick-bolled, wide-canopied trees. The karavaners had begun to set up awnings from the sides of their wagons, tying the oiled canvas to wagon ribbing, then stretching it out to full length. Staves were driven into the ground, and the loose ends of the awning were roped into place and knotted, providing rough but effective cover so long as someone kept an eye on the awning and tipped off the water before the canvas grew too heavy. In addition to general shelter, awnings provided a place where cook fires could be built and survive the rain, where families could eat a meal together.