“If there were, one of us would know it.”
“He’s just a boy.”
“Don’t make it harder.”
She drinks deep. “Every now and again, it should be fair.”
There is nothing to be said to this, so nothing is what I say.
Darkness settles over the plains. As if in answer to her complaint, a glimmer appears in the far distance. A yellow-green pinpoint shimmers and resolves into a cloud.
Fireflies.
At first they seem to be coming our way, but as the swarm gathers, it settles and stops in the distance.
On the flatlands, sound travels faster than an antelope. We hear shrieks, groans. Drums pound out, then go silent.
“Is it the Kuta?” the halfling asks.
By now the others are at our side.
“Too far away. A neighboring tribe.”
“The Salipat?” Katiiwa asks. It would be best if it were the Salipat, whose lands we do not intend to enter.
I shake my head. “The Latari. Their first queen dug up the gourd goddess when she was buried under the hot earth and could not get out. Latari breathed her last breath into the goddess, who then revived her and gave her people life.”
The shrieks rise and echo across the grassland, then taper off. Soon they are replaced by mourning chants.
Mwonduk has joined us. He takes Sunasuka’s hand. “What is happening?” he asks.
Sunasuka looks at him. “We’re being told to hurry.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Dawn comes too slowly. As we leave Kuta territory, we see lion riders from afar, making sure that we go. If we turn back, it will be as prey.
The soil grows richer as we intrude deeper into Latari territory. Thick green vines appear amid the dry brown stalks of grass. Yellow blossoms sprout from curls of leaf. By harvest time they will be gourds, heavy with the ancestral blessings of the Latari goddess. We take care not to uproot the vines as we enter a sea of grass. Arok towers above the tips of the stalks, but the rest of us are enveloped.
Not long after, Verkusht hisses a warning. “Visitors.”
Arok and I sense it too. The rhythm of the wind on the high grasses around us has altered, barely. They’re coming at us from all sides.
Obai calls out. They can’t see us, but she performs the visual rituals of the Stranger Greeting.
A woman’s voice, grief-ravaged, rings out to the left of us. “Surrender the accursed one, and the rest shall live.”
“Neither he nor we pose a threat to you,” Obai responds.
“Dozens of us already lie dead, slain by the cloud of glowing death he sent against us in the night.”
“Your spirit-talkers divined this?” Obai asks.
“Delay us not with lies. Convey him to our justice, so that no one else may die.”
“Mwonduk is a solemn child, old for his years.”
“For that to happen, the boy must be taken to the goddess who has cursed him.”
A second, deeper voice, also a woman’s, comes from behind us. “You are unshakeable in this?”
“Your thirst for justice is understandable, yet cannot be quenched through the means you propose.”
“Then all must die!” cries the second voice. War-whoops rise up from the obscuring grasses. Leaping Latari warriors are all among us. The fight is joined.
Three Latari jump my way. I parry the lunges of their three spears with my one. A Latari screams as Arok lifts him high overhead and hurtles him out of sight. Verkusht has a warrior from behind, his blade poised to cut a red furrow into his throat. Katiiwa summons a cloud of sickly poison vapors, ready to roll its death into the grass and over our foes. Obai prepares her own fatal god-calling.
These people cannot take the boy, but to want to is not wrong. For these actions, they should not die. I utter the Cry Of Ara, turning lethal blows to a gift of slumber.
Arok’s rending hands turn indistinct as they pass through his opponents. They drop, breathing lightly. Verkusht’s knife, shrouded by the hero of my birth-tribe, passes into flesh without tearing it. Katiiwa’s venom cloud sends those trapped in it to the realm of sleep.
The retreating Latari regroup. Sunasuka has fallen, a gash from a spearhead traversing the length of her thigh.
We can see the Latari now. Fear plays across their faces, but is overcome by determination. Mighty as we may be, the six of us cannot fight our way through an entire tribe.
The boy pushes his way through his defenders. He faces the Latari.
“I am the Accursed One,” he says. “Hear me speak.”
Chapter Four: I Must Die
The boy stands before the Latari, who seek his death. He unlaces the northern-style tunic given him by the Aspis Consortium. Marked on his chest is the firefly birthmark that heralds his curse—the curse that has claimed the lives of these plainsland tribesfolk.
“I am called Mwonduk, and I am the one you want. Kill me if you want, but don’t hurt my guardians. They mean only to prevent harm.”
This is the first time I have heard the boy speak above a whisper. His head is no longer bowed, his shoulders now straight. He stands with his chest thrust out, as if daring a Latari warrior to throw a spear through it. Some appear to be contemplating it. I envision the boy impaled on the spot, the sharp edge of the spear obliterating and penetrating the birthmark.
Verkusht, crouching, catches my eye, silently asking if we shouldn’t leap on the boy, clap hands over his mouth, let Obai resume her role as talker. With a twitch of my head, I warn the Bekyar to stand down.
A leather-skinned, white-haired woman stands. Her crown is fashioned from a gourd, the goddess object of her tribe. “Harm has already been done. Your insect minions descended last night. My husband, my children, murdered. There are none of us standing here who did not lose kin. In agony they shrieked, torn to shreds before our eyes. Kill you we shall, young demon. Your death is ours by right of blood.”
Mwonduk gets down on his bony knees to bow his head before the Latari queen. “I didn’t send the fireflies. I would never hurt anyone. The fireflies are sent by a goddess—the one who put her mark on me. I don’t know why. Long before I was born, my ancestors did something wrong. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe there’s no fairness in it.”
“There is no fairness in our kin being killed.”
The boy prostrates himself, touching his forehead to the dirt. “No, there isn’t. This goddess is not fair. She is hungry. She hungers for me. So I must be sacrificed, and die.”
The queen retreats to confer with her spirit-women. When she returns her attention to the boy, he continues:
“I don’t know anything about this goddess. I am ignorant. My whole life has been fear and an empty stomach. I have no kinsmen to mourn me when I die. So please let me die the right way.”
The spirit women break away to argue among themselves. Annoyed by their harsh whispering, the queen calls a halt to it with a shrill whistle.
The queen’s manner has softened. “We know our own goddess well, child. She is benevolent, but demands that we avenge wrongs against us.”
Mwonduk rises, steps toward them. “So whatever you do, you will anger a goddess.”
The queen steps back. The spirit women step back. The Latari warriors, too.
“Is the gourd goddess forgiving?”
“All life springs from Chuaka.”
The boy rubs at his dripping nose. “Kitumu, the firefly goddess—I don’t think she is forgiving. Without a reason, she hurt you bad. What would she do if you gave her a reason?”
The eldest of the spirit-women shakes her rattle, to get the queen’s attention. Anger rises in her face as the queen ignores the gesture.
“Please, Latari queen.” Mwonduk clasps his hands together and shakes them toward her, the gesture of a
child beggar. “Let my death mean the end of the plague, and not the worsening of it.”
The queen brandishes her royal staff, both at us and at her quivering spirit-talkers. “Go then. Move quickly through our lands. Do not stop to sleep or rest or drink.”
The boy bows again.
“But boy, if we hear that you live, that you escaped your sacrifice, my warriors will track you down and cut out your heart. They will find and kill all of your companions. They will hunt you until the last Latari is dead.”
She sweeps into the nearby grass. We stand still as her people follow her.
When they are gone, Sunasuka, whose leg has been badly speared, lets herself moan. She performs a healing spell on herself, and separated flesh folds back together. The skin crawls over the gash and seals itself, leaving a tear in the halfling’s hide breeches as the only sign of her injury.
Mwonduk goes to her and extends a hand to help her up. “You worry about me,” he says to her. “But don’t. I understand what you all must do.”
∗ ∗ ∗
The Latari lands are the last we pass through on the savanna before reaching the jungle. Once under the canopy, I find a stream. We drink, fill skins with water, and rest. From here, we will head north, skirting the Aerie of Bloodletting Songs. I describe the route to the others. Were there any point in it, I would draw them a map. If I fall, Arok can take them the rest of the way. Should the group lose both of us, no sketch or scribble will help them.
Verkusht now feels free to complain. “Who was it who said we should tramp through the lands of these mad plainsmen, instead of boating up the river and across the jungle?”
Everyone remembers, including Verkusht. It was him. Whitebridge Station, where the river meets the jungle, crawls with Bekyar. Tarood would have ambushers on the river route. Verkusht wants us to tell him that, as difficult as the plains walk was, we were still better off, and he still indispensably right. None of us have the energy to humor him.
We lie on flat rocks and Sunasuka, exhausted by her wound, lapses immediately into a snoring slumber. Arok and I collect fruit as the others take shifts and nap.
As we lope silently through the jungle shade, I sense the gorilla’s disquiet. It is a worry I should share, this close to the Aerie. Concern for the boy has distracted me. Now that Mwonduk has spoken of his willingness to die, I somehow feel worse for it.
But I must clear my thoughts. The Aerie.
Arok freezes. A litter of bush pigs springs from a nest of brush near our feet. He sniffs the air. Its mother will be near. A meat-feast will nourish us well for the hard trekking to come.
A snuffling snort and the fast rustle of hooves announces her charge. Arok frowns. I ready my spear and pierce the beast as it comes at me, tusks outthrust. It falls and slides.
Arok hangs back. Game taken so close to the Aerie must be carefully checked. It falls to me to do it. I open its dead mouth, check its tongue and teeth. Its eyes are the proper color—no pulsing flakes of red or green. The boar’s feet are cloven as they should be, in two parts, free of extra toes or protuberances.
These tests are made necessary by the actions of a forgotten people, taken back in the vague Beyond Time. In the jungle to the east of here, they summoned demons and ate the flesh of men. Heroes unknown wiped them out, but even now the lingering residue of their grisly rituals remains. Madness rolls across the Aerie like mist. Men cannot live there without losing their minds. Beasts dwell within the Aerie, their forms warped and corrupted. There, nature has been reduced to one law—predation.
If this boar wandered for too long into the Aerie, its blood will be poison. Those who eat its meat will succumb to visions of torture and depravity.
Judging the boar edible, I nod to Arok. Though he will eat only the fruit we have gathered, he hoists it on his mighty shoulder without complaint.
Seeing us approach with our game, Katiiwa removes spades from her pack. She and Sunasuka dig the pit, while I gather wood for the fire. The boy comes with me, finding dried branches. We do not speak. There is nothing to say.
∗ ∗ ∗
“The Bekyar have perverted nature itself.”
Rested and fed, I lead the party north into the jungle. When the music of the trees changes, I slow our pace. The barks of gibbons and trillings of finches give way to discordant shrieking. It is birdsong, deformed into a keening, clattering wail. The fur on the back of Arok’s neck stands up. Unseen parrots chorus together to produce a groaning chant. They are imitating a language, but not a human one. It clicks and chitters and scratches.
Obai tenses. “Those are the names of demons,” she whispers.
“I thought you said we’d be safe here,” says Verkusht.
“I’ve never seen the creatures so far from the Aerie before,” I reply.
“Unnatural creatures gain in strength when balance is disrupted,” says Obai.
Then they dive at us from everywhere, the blackened, gnarled birds of the Aerie. In their forms are hidden the recognizable shapes of wild creatures: parrots, swallows, vultures, hawks. They are striking us, raking exposed flesh with razor beaks. With a thump, I am knocked to the ground. I sense only a swoop of feathers, and a bird heavier than any flying animal ought to be. My spear lies on the ground, out of reach. I withdraw a knife from my belt as another of the creatures dives at my face. The bird swoops sideways to avoid the waiting blade.
I regain my footing, swiping at the air with my knife. Wherever I strike, there is a distorted bird to hit, but for each one that falls another flies in to replace it.
Arok grabs at the swooping horde, plucking one of the birds after another out of the air. Each he crushes, then tosses aside.
Chanting a nature spell, Sunasuka attempts to quell the creatures. Stripped of their animal instincts, they ignore her commands.
Verkusht watches the rhythm of the swooping birds, matches it, evades them as they drop dizzyingly toward him. His dagger remains in his belt; there is no more point in killing these things than in exterminating raindrops in a storm.
From Katiiwa’s sigil-incised harpoon leaps a cone of frigid air. The birds caught in the blast plummet, frozen, to the ground. Each makes a tiny thump as it lands. Then more sweep in, and the space cleared by the Bonuwat’s magic is filled again.
I look for the boy. A funnel cloud of dark birds sweeps down toward him, and he gasps in pain as beaks bore into him. They seem drawn to him most of all. Seizing my shield, I leap, diving into the stream of feathered beasts. They rattle against my shield, nearly knocking it from my grasp.
“Gather together!” Obai shouts. With shield held uncertainly overhead, I wrap an arm around Mwonduk and carry his underfed body toward her. The attacking birds grow denser as the others converge on Obai’s position.
The balance priestess chants to Nethys. A half-globe of blinding white light appears around us, but the birds smash through it, pelting against us. Mwonduk yelps as they dart beneath my shield to slash at him. Obai’s chant, first airily beautiful, shifts to a grinding dirge. A second half-globe of swirling darkness appears. It settles into the white light. Light and darkness battle, then settle into an accommodation, blinking and ever-shifting.
Inside the globe are a few of the carnivorous birds. Arok catches them as he can. The remaining birds batter against the inside of the doubled globes, knocking themselves out. We stomp them until they no longer move.
Demon birds outside the sphere rattle a thundering percussion against it. Necks break and thin bones fragment as the creatures hurl themselves at our shield. After a few thundering instants, the creatures relent and the onslaught subsides. Obai leaves the spheres in place for a good long time. When she allows them to fade, I prepare for the birds to resume their attack, but there is no sign of them. Even the dead ones have resolved themselves into a sick-smelling paste. These remnants leach into the soil,
leaving behind black smudges.
Katiiwa casts an admiring glance over the decaying fruits of Obai’s handiwork. “You twinned a circle of destruction with one of protection,” she says.
The priestess tilts her head, acknowledging the sorceress’s admiration. “Only in combination do they evoke and restore the balance that is double-faced Nethys.”
“As beasts cut off from their essential natures, you reckoned that they could not abide the contradiction.”
“That is broadly correct.” She turns the side of her face with the tattooed smile to Katiiwa.
Their talk of spells and spellcasting grows impenetrable. Sunasuka heals the deep cuts crisscrossing Mwonduk’s head and arms.
“Were the birds trying to kill me?” the boy asks.
“They were hungry for us all,” Sunasuka answers.
“But more of them came at me,” Mwonduk says.
Sunasuka shrugs. “They weren’t really birds, but had turned into something else. So their actions are beyond me.”
Unsatisfied by this reply, the boy turns to me. “Will everything in the jungle try to kill me?”
I don’t know what to say, so I say this: “You must be brave. Like you were with the Latari.”
“But the birds did try to get me, more than anyone else.”
“It happened very fast. There will be more dangers.”
Frustrated, he kicks at one of the greasy spots left by a decaying demon bird. “They felt the curse in me, and wanted to rip me apart.” His strange dignity has deserted him. For the first time, he seems like an ordinary child. “I already agreed to die. Why can’t I be let alone till then?”
I look to the others. They are the talkers, not me. None come forward.
“You must be brave,” I stupidly repeat.
Finally Verkusht rescues me, by clapping his hands together and saying that we must be on our way. “We can’t stay around here waiting for those things to come back,” he chatters. He ducks down to mutter into Mwonduk’s ear.
Plague of Light Page 5
