Lakhoni

by Jared Garrett

  Good. She hadn’t lied yet.

  All she had to do was delay the men as long as she could. The longer she could keep them off of Lakhoni’s trail, the better chance he had of getting away.

  “Mibli!” the voice came from behind her. Asam, the guard she had drawn away from the healing hut’s door, had apparently not stopped searching.

  The only one with brains.

  “She’s got two big bags here,” Asam said.

  “What’s in them?” Mibli asked, shoving Simra aside and stepping closer to Asam.

  Simra tried to keep her frustration from appearing on her face. She sighed quietly and turned to look at where Asam crouched over the bags. He pulled things out, groping them and then tossing them aside.

  Simra stood in place and watched, knowing her game was nearly over.

  “She’s got food, looks like a cooking pot and stuff. Some clothes,” Asam said.

  “You were going to meet him!” Mibli’s voice cracked. “You were bringing these things along!”

  She thought fast. She had to give Lakhoni more time. She surveyed the gathered warriors. Now that Asam had found her bags, the warriors milled around in varying postures of attention. Mibli had them so cowed that they couldn’t think to continue searching while he interrogated her. She tried hard to keep her laughter inside.

  “That’s right.” She faced Mibli. “He’s due any minute.”

  Mibli glanced around. Catching himself, he glared at Simra. “You think I’m stupid.” He sneered, but it looked more like childish truculence than anything else. “So what did he tell you, girl? That he loved you?”

  “I know all I need to know,” Simra said. First Fathers give me patience!

  “You saw how he lied!” Mibli said. “He was playing with you the whole time.” He stopped, perched on the balls of his feet, his head cocked as if he were listening to something faint. After a moment like this, he suddenly growled, flinging his arms wide and shouting at the gathered warriors. “Go! The spy is still out there! We have to capture him to keep ourselves safe!”

  Within seconds, all of the men had departed but for Mibli. She could not see his face well, but she felt his anger. Sudden fear hit her in the stomach. She was alone with him now.

  “You think that was funny, don’t you?” His voice was a strangely high pitched growl.

  A resounding shout came from the village. Father. She grabbed the bags that Asam had pawed through, gathering the things he had dropped to the ground.

  “Don’t ignore me!” Mibli said.

  “I’m not ignoring you,” Simra said. “But it’s past my bedtime and I’m tired. You wouldn’t have me leave these things here, would you?”

  “I know what you were trying to do! You were trying to keep us here while your lover ran away!”

  She heard another shout from Neas. He was calling her name. Simra wanted to call for her father to tell her where she was. The fear in her stomach was now a knot, clenching tightly. She had to show no fear to Mibli, or he would always think he could have his way around her.

  “We’ll find him,” Mibli said as he loomed over her. “And when he confesses, he’ll tell us everything! And everyone in the village will know what you really are.”

  She tried to bite back her retort, but failed. “And what exactly am I?” She stood, a tightly packed bag in each hand. If he tried anything, she could use the bags as weapons. The thought that she needed to be crouching in order for Mibli to be able to loom over her helped her ease some of the tension in her gut.

  But she didn’t wait for his response, choosing instead to head back toward the village. She stepped around him and started walking. She fought the urge to look over her shoulder to assure herself that Mibli wasn’t sneaking after her.

  “You know what you are,” Mibli said. “You spent all that time in there with the spy. The whole village knows how you must have thrown yourself at him.”

  The words stung, especially given what had happened before Lakhoni left. But she wasn’t some kind of wanton girl who fell for just anybody. Lakhoni is not just anybody, even if he’s stupid for leaving me here.

  “You think you won!”

  She kept walking, ignoring his taunts.

  “Just watch! My men will catch that spy and teach him a lesson. Then he’ll find justice in the brick fields!”

  The yelling stopped. She glanced over her shoulder. Mibli was disappearing into the trees, obviously joining his warriors in their search. She let out a breath that she’d been holding for the last ten or so paces, relaxing her shoulders.

  “And you’ll get what’s coming to you, too!” Mibli’s voice carried through the trees.

  Simra spun, the heavy bags banging her legs. She couldn’t see Mibli, but his voice was plenty loud.

  “Your life is over, too. You helped the Usurper spy escape! Not even your father can protect you this time!”

  She tried to say something to shut the man up. He wasn’t as stupid as she sometimes let herself believe, and he spoke the truth. She could think of nothing, so she turned back on her path, calling out to her father, whose voice was getting louder. Neas must have heard Mibli’s shouts, for she could hear his heavy thumping through the trees. “Father!” she called. “I’m coming. It’s okay.”

  But as she walked closer to her father, and nearer to her village, she realized that it wasn’t okay. Her life might not be literally over, but Mibli was right that she would be judged by the village for her actions this evening.

  She wouldn’t be sent to the brick fields, but everything would change.

  Life wasn’t going to be the same anyway, with Lakhoni gone. Lakhoni had been headed for the city of Zyron. She had planned to go with him to avoid all of this mess.

  As Neas came into view, Simra made her decision. She would prepare carefully and go to Zyronilxa too, trusting in the First Fathers to guide her to Lakhoni.

  “I’m here, Father,” she said loudly. Softer, she spoke again as the bags of supplies bumped into tree trunks and bounced against her legs. “But not for long. I can’t stay here anymore.”

  Chapter 31

  Orphans

  The long, polished oak table shone orange and yellow in the light of the huge fire in the hearth. Tall-backed chairs also shone in the bright, wild light, eight of them occupied. Torches lined the wall, adding more illumination to the cavern room.

  Shelu sat tall in his chair, his back stiff as frozen granite. He fixed his expression to one of calm anger, knowing the scars on his face only enhanced the effect. To his right, at the head of the table, sat his lord. Bonaha of the Separated. The small, mighty man who would lead the true heirs to take possession of the land. On the other side of the Bonaha sat Gimno, his panther tattoo barely visible under the red paint of the halkeen. “She has not spoken of the sword yet,” he told him.

  “Perhaps you are not asking the right questions,” said the Bonaha.

  “Perhaps you should not have let one of your people get away!” Shelu shifted forward in his seat, directing his anger at Gimno. “You endanger everything!”

  “He is harmless.” Gimno flashed a white smile. “He knows nothing of our plans and was an impatient orphan who learned slowly anyway.” Gimno turned to Vena, who nodded confirmation.

  “An orphan?” A pang of alarm drove through Shelu. He pushed forward again, his muscles tight, ready to pounce like a great jungle cat. “What do you mean?”

  “His village was razed,” Gimno said. “Probably by one of your cohorts.”

  Shelu sprang to his feet, his chair tipping backward to land with a dull thud on the thick furs layered on the floor. He glared at Gimno, who was far too casual at this critical point in the plan. “When did this ‘orphan’ come to your village?”

  “Calm yourself,” the Bonaha said. His voice dripped with sweet danger, like poisoned honey. He lifted a hand, as if to lower Shelu back to his seat.

  “Months ago. He was near death.” The soft tones of Vena’s voice slid across the polis
hed wood of the table. Her body leaned close to her red-painted husband. “A head wound, his side torn, he was the last one of his village. The raiding party must have thought he was dead.”

  Shelu pounded the table, growling. Why would these people not answer sufficiently? “What village? Where did he come from?”

  The Bonaha stood now. “You have no cause for this! Explain your outburst.”

  Two tall, lean guards at the entrance of the cavern approached. The Bonaha waved them off.

  “An orphan. The only one living. So is my captive!” Shelu fed the fury in him with deep, powerful breaths. He leaned over the table on his fists. “Who is this one who you let escape?”

  “Surely not from the same village.” Gimno flashed another smile, this one less confident. “Three, perhaps four miles southwest of here.”

  Tempted to draw a weapon and slice the smile from Gimno’s face, Shelu instead turned to sit. He found his chair upended and turned back. “Exactly when? When was this village raided?”

  From the corner of one eye, Shelu saw one of the guards approach, right his chair, and move away.

  “Three or four days after the first new moon of autumn,” Vena said. She exchanged a glance with Gimno.

  “That’s right.” Gimno idly slid his fingers along the smooth top of the table.

  The pang of alarm grew to a spear of cold dread driving into Shelu’s gut. His mouth dropped open. The same village—could it be? Silence spread like tree sap on a warm day as Shelu sought words.

  The Bonaha turned to Gimno. They exchanged a questioning glance.

  “What is this about?” The Bonaha, his voice sharp now, rubbed the smooth table surface.

  “After the first new moon.” Shelu fell into his chair, his legs feeling suddenly weak. How could it have gone so badly?

  “What are you getting at?” asked Gimno.

  There was still hope. It couldn’t possibly be the same family as his captive—or even the same village. That would be too much of a coincidence.

  “Did you return to his village?” He heard the urgency in his voice and did nothing to restrain it.

  “I took him myself. He was my student.” Gimno leaned forward.

  “Was there a hut with a shape on the keystone?” Shelu stared intently, daring Gimno to give the worst possible answer.

  “Yes! A sun, or something like it, with a line through it.”

  “Spirit save us. The same village.” Shelu’s broad shoulders sagged. “Impossible. All were dead.”

  “You will tell us what this is about now,” the Bonaha said. He had gone unnaturally still. “Right now.”

  “That is the village the girl came from. That is the house the guardians lived in.” Rubbing his face and fingering some scars on a cheek, Shelu went on. “But he couldn’t—”

  “That was the cub’s home,” Gimno said, comprehension dawning. Vena grasped Gimno’s hand, hissing in surprise.

  Shelu’s face went slack as the spear of dread turned in his spine. He blinked once at Gimno, then the Bonaha. “If you are correct,” he said, “you allowed the son of the guardians to escape your grasp.”

  A new kind of silence filled the room. This one was heavier than the sound of the crackling fire—heavy like a thick, sodden fur that smothers.

  After a time, the Bonaha spoke, his words clear and deliberate. “Obviously he knows the girl is alive. He must be seeking her.” He fixed a hungry look upon Gimno first, then Shelu. “He will come to us. In the city.”

  Chapter 32

  Caravan

  As he jogged away from the village, easily moving among the trees, Lakhoni kept his ears open for the sounds of pursuit. Faint voices wafted above the trees and filtered down through the dimly lit branches. They must have found out I’m gone. Concern for Simra almost had him hesitating, but he forced it away. They would forgive her; she was a daughter of their village. She would be safe there. Safer than if she had come with him.

  The decision was made. Instead of faltering, he ran faster.

  He flowed through the forest, the early spring undergrowth cushioning his footfalls so that he was nearly as silent as the great panthers that sometimes stalked the forest around his village. As he ran, leaving the raised voices and Simra far behind, he sent his thoughts into the future. One of the men of the village had mentioned that there was a road that ran toward Zyronilxa. It was supposed to be to the north, so if he just kept to as straight a track as possible, he should run into it.

  Would he need a story to tell to other travelers he met? He would stick as near to the truth as possible. My village was destroyed by raiders. I’m going to the city to make a new life.

  Within a few more minutes, he came to a place where the trees thinned out into small groves. These groves eventually turned into wide meadows. Everything glowed in shades of silver, the winter-dead husks of grass glimmering wetly as he jogged.

  An hour later, a long stretch of flattened, hardened dirt stretched east and west of him with no end in sight. As he approached the strange looking gash in the landscape, he realized that the road had been covered in a layer of small rocks.

  Stepping onto the road, he turned east. His confidence soared. All he had to do was keep to this road, going this direction, and he would finally be in Zyronilxa.

  As he jogged, he tried to maintain a mental estimate of how many paces he took, remembering that his father had said there were around two thousand regular strides per mile. He had gone several miles by the time the horizon in front of him began to change colors. It couldn’t be much farther now.

  By the time the sun truly crested the mountains on the horizon, he felt as empty and dry as the husks of flat, brown grass that covered the meadowlands on both sides of the road. He needed a place to rest, preferably somewhere under the cover of trees so that he wasn’t totally exposed.

  He slowed to a walk, scanning the land. He was much closer to the mountains now, so if he went much further, he would at least start hitting foothills. Surely there would be some kind of cover there.

  Lakhoni pushed himself onward, his bag of supplies slung across his chest. He commanded his legs to continue to move, seeking that place he had found while traveling during the winter, that place where his legs moved despite exhaustion, illness, and near-starvation. He was in much better shape now, and the temperature was only a little cold.

  He tried to imagine what the city would be like, what the houses might look like, how the people might act. He pictured an arrangement like the cavern of the Separated, only bigger.

  His feet and legs detected the change in the road before his eyes registered it. He was climbing a low hill, the first in a series of growing hills that led to the mountains. He followed the line of the road and tried to predict where it would lead. It appeared to aim between two of the grizzled, rounded mountains that he had been told acted almost as a bulwark for Zyronilxa. All he had to do was make it through the mountains and he would be there.

  There, trees and a stream. Tough-looking bushes surrounded several copses of trees and spread out from there, dotting the hills as far as he could see. The stream flowed from his left to his right, cutting a channel under the road at the base of the next hill; a bridge of strong planks spanned the stream, which was about his body-length wide.

  Leaving the road, he jogged down the first hill and dropped to his knees in the cold mud of the stream bank. He drank deeply, the crisp mountain water feeling like a balm to his parched throat. He wished he had food, wished he’d had time to find his bow or even find a fishing net in the village.

  It didn’t matter. He had eaten well recently; he would survive on the dinner Simra had given him for a while longer. Lakhoni pushed himself to his feet and trundled over to the nearest copse of trees. He dropped to the ground again, sliding his bag under his neck, and fell asleep almost instantly.

  He awoke to the sound of raised voices. Heart hammering, he clenched himself into a ball and tucked tighter into the bushes between him and the road. Jud
ging by the sun’s position and the heat, it had to be later afternoon. Feeling rested, but with a hunger clawing at his insides like a jungle cat, he peered through the bush branches. Had Mibli and his men come all this way to find him?

  He relaxed. This had to be one of the caravans the man in Simra’s village had mentioned. Three heavy-looking wagons, each with four thick, roughly carved wheels trundled down the road, just now passing his position. Clouds of dust raised by the caravan drifted gently off the road, blown by the soft afternoon breeze.

  The wagons were headed toward Zyronilxa, hauled along by the largest oxen Lakhoni had ever seen. Their shoulders had to come up to his head, if not more! The drivers had been the voices Lakhoni heard. One man walked along on each side of the team of oxen, a long tool of some kind in their hands. It looked like a whip, but the handle was longer and the leather part shorter.

  Lakhoni watched from his hiding place, pondering his options. Maybe I should just go out there and present myself to them. They wouldn’t have any reason to disbelieve me, would they? There was too much he didn’t know. Better to observe for a moment.

  As he watched, the merchant caravan moved further down the road, slow-moving but giving the impression of being unstoppable. Standing, Lakhoni examined the men in the caravan. He needed to find the chief. Surely it wouldn’t be the men with the ox teams. Perhaps one of the men sitting on the front benches of the wagons.

  Lakhoni jogged down the slope of the hill, reaching the road quickly. The caravan was maybe fifty paces ahead of him. Nobody had noticed him emerge from his hiding place. He glanced to his right, down the road he had already traveled. Dark shapes several hundred paces down the road might be people, but that was all he saw. This was his chance.

  He caught up to the wagons quickly, pulling his shirt up to his face to shield himself from the clouds of dust that grew thicker the nearer he got. He moved to his left to try to get out of the dust. What do I say? Forcing the worry away again, he cleared his throat, slowing to a walk as he came abreast of the last wagon in the caravan. Hello should work.