To Walk in the Way of Lions

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “Your friends will be dead by morning,” he grinned. “You can greet them.”

  The curved sword flashed, the woman brought her hands together, and the entire camp erupted in flame.

  ***

  He found it comforting to know that at least the night sky hadn’t changed. The constellations were the same in Turkey as they had been Belgium, and then Switzerland before he went down. He could barely remember Aukland. They would have been different there.

  He slid his eyes over to look at the tigress. Tigress. She was a tiger. A cat. A cat person. Amazing what the IAR had done. And what was even more amazing was the fact that right here, right now, it seemed normal. Understandable. Natural.

  By God, they were a beautiful people.

  They sat, side by side, on the hood of the Humlander, leaning back against its shatterproof windshield, watching the stars and wishing things had gone very differently. She was very quiet and he was surprised she wasn’t crying. He’d figured her for a crier. But then again, he wondered if she hadn’t done her fair share of crying on this crazy adventure he’d taken them on. Right now, they had no idea where they were going, had no idea if any of the others were alive, and if so, where they might be.

  Yes, he wished things had gone very differently.

  He saw her wringing the white tip of her tiger’s tail, and realized that body language was the same in all manner of people, human, feline or otherwise.

  “So, uh, you and Kerris…?”

  She shrugged, dropping her eyes to study her tail. “Maybe. We were. Kind of. I ruined it though. I want too much. I’m hopeless.”

  “Hm.”

  There was little to be said, less to be heard. He had forgotten what such a big, open, empty space sounded like. There had been few places left like this when he went down.

  She cleared her throat. “So, um, what about you? Do you have a wife or something?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned sadly. “I did. She died, though. One of the last plagues. I thought we were safe inside. Damn, but it was virulent.”

  “Virulent?”

  “Killed a lot of people.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Yeah.”

  He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, breathed deeply the cool night air. Actually, it was cool. If he figured correctly, they were nearing the end of October, and while Turkey was a Mediterranean country, it still got cool at night. It amazed him how much useless information was bottled up inside his brain.

  What the hell was he going to do?

  “What’s that?” she asked, and he opened his eyes. She gestured to his left, beyond a ridge of mountains covered in the forests of cedar and pine. He squinted, but she was right. There was a glow, like lights from a distant city. “It looks like a fire.”

  “A damn big one,” he grunted. “But this thing’s fireproof and hey, we’ve got nothing better to do…”

  “Can I drive?” she asked.

  He grinned as he scrambled down the side of the huge vehicle and into through the open door. Cats wanting to drive. Could his life be any stranger?

  “Not tonight, kitty.”

  ***

  She dreamt she was falling.

  Sliding, falling, hitting the ground hard, the weight of someone on top of her and she scrambled out of the way with curses in her mouth and claws at the ready.

  All she could hear was her own breathing.

  It was very dark, even for her sharp sharp eyes, and the waning moon was hidden by mountains of silver clouds. Quickly, however, she could make out the silhouettes of trees, reaching like outstretched arms to the night sky, followed them down to the forest floor, and her pupils grew large, taking in all the moonlight available. There was movement to her left, a crunching sound through the branches. It was the mare. She was moving slowly, erratically, puffing and grunting with head low to the ground. Finally, she released a great breath and her forelegs buckled, and she sagged to the forest floor. The Major allowed her eyes to roam over the creature’s body, black against the blackness of the night, saw four shafts sticking out at unnatural angles, four rivers of sheen below. With a heavy heart, she watched as it thrashed once, twice, and quietly grew still.

  That mare had been with them from the beginning. Another one of them dead.

  She was missing something. Someone had fallen on her.

  Her eyes cast about the forest for some sign of him, and sure enough, she made out another shape that looked darker against the darkness of the ground. She rolled onto her knees and gasped, cursing again at her weakness and the pain that shot through the length of her body.But first one knee, then the other, she forced herself to move, crawling over to him, palms slick with earth.

  Like the mare, there was an arrow in his back.

  ***

  There was an arrow in his back.

  He knew that full well. Had known it the moment it had struck him, but then again, pain had always been a matter of perspective. His mind could have managed that pain quite easily had not his body begun to rebel. With each movement of the horse, the barbed tip sliced more of the tissues within his ribs, and while he could feel little blood on his back, he knew it was filling up inside. The weight, which had initially settled on his shoulders, was crushing him now. None of his limbs seemed to know how to move anymore and his mind was wading in tar-like blackness.

  He could feel tugging now, as if someone or something were trying to remove the arrow, but the barbed tip prevented this. Hands were moving on him now, and he did not need to open his eyes to know it was the Major. He did not wish this on her. She had been through enough, but his world had grown very small and for his part, he was grateful she was there.

  He smiled at her, finally seeing moonlight through the clouds.

  “I cannot pull this out,” she growled. “But if I push this through, it will kill you.”

  Seeing silver in her hair and face.

  “Push it through,” he whispered.

  She took a deep breath, adjusted her grip on the shaft, and with a sharp cry, shoved the arrow through.

  Suddenly, his perspective of pain became a great deal broader.

  More tugging, and the bolt was gone. He could feel the blood escaping from the wound in his chest now, felt the blackness rise up all around him, felt her arms, her hair, her tears as they splashed on his face and rolled into his eyes.

  ***

  Dawn over mountains is always a breathtaking sight.

  The golden sun sends her rays first to the peaks, which shine like tips of brightly polished daggers, as if they wish to do her the honor of reflecting her rays back in salute or praise. Then the edges of the mountains glow with color, sometimes pink, sometimes purples, sometimes a fiery red. This morning the color was orange, and the sky began to streak with orange and pink and red. Colors of warmth and companionship and blood.

  They had left the Humlander and stood at what was obviously the edge of a great fire. In fact, it looked like the outer ring of a great fire, and it reminded Solomon of a bomb blast, minus the crater. To Fallon, it reminded her of the fire circles Sherah had drawn on occasion, to protect them from the rats in Roar’pundih, from Gowrain in the not-so-big mountains of Hirak. There were remnants of tents as well, smoldering, still burning in some places, boxes and barrels reduced to cinder.

  But it was the bodies.

  Burned, blackened, smoking bodies. Some still with scraps of pelt, others burned beyond knowing, some even fused together from the heat. Most were holding weapons, charred swords and bows and she shook her head, wishing she were not seeing but unable to tear her eyes away. As they walked through this graveyard, she counted thirty-seven dead and she knew these had been the dogs that had been tracking them. It froze her blood to know how close they had been.

  Solomon raised a hand, pointed at one particularly long, angular skull. “Is that a horse?” he asked, and she turned to look. Sure enough, smoking and skeletal, there were several horses, or pieces of horses, scattered around the camp
as well, and it was only when they neared what had seemed to be a central hearth, that her heart leapt to her throat.

  It was a body of a cat.

  She hurried over, knelt down to examine it even as her every instinct told her to run. It was indeed a cat – easily identifiable by the shorter skulls than the dogs, and the longer tail. His pelt was charred completely off his face, but she could tell he had been in black and silver robes, and she felt the relief drain from her muscles.

  Not Kerris. NotKerris.

  Not the Captain either, nor Sireth, nor Ursa. An Alchemist. Jet barraDunne?

  “Here too,” said Solomon, as he wandered away from the hearth. “And here…and there…”

  “All in black robes? Tell me they’re all in black robes…”

  He nudged one body with the toe of his boot. “Hard to say. Maybe…”

  She pushed up from her knees and looked around. The sun was rising in the sky, giving the scene an surreal air. Gruesome dead bodies and sunshine.

  “We, um, we need to burn them. The bodies, I mean. We need to do that.”

  He glanced at her. An unusual reaction, he thought, but fitting He grabbed the first at his feet and began to drag.

  ***

  She was cold. The night had been cold, the body beneath her cold, her heart very cold.

  There were birds now, announcing the first break of dawn, singing and calling, whispering and warning. Even they knew winter was coming. Even they could feel the cold.

  She had failed.

  She pushed herself up from the Seer, from his blood-stained robes and she wished she had grabbed the packs. He needed his monk’s robes, the ones from Sha’Hadin. Perhaps she would go back, if she could find the way. If she could make it without a horse. If she didn’t find a pack of dogs to kill first.

  No, she stopped herself. That would not be the way. Not her way anymore. She had failed in her duty to protect the last Seer of Sha’Hadin, and as a result, had lost her honor. No matter what they had done, no dog could have taken that away from her and she remembered his words, from beneath the pistachio tree.

  He had to have seen. He had to have known. That was a heavy thing to carry. She was glad he hadn’t told her.

  She looked up at the sky beyond the treetops. It was streaked with pink and red, and she could see those birds flitting from branch to branch above her. It was a beautiful morning. She could almost see her breath.

  She would bury him with rocks, for here it was impossible to dig. The soil was too hard, the roots of the many trees too close to the surface. No, she would bury him with rocks and continue building the mound for as many days it took until she too died. It shouldn’t take very long.

  So, she cast her eyes around, looking for the first of what would likely be many rocks.

  ***

  Fallon Waterford paused and wiped her arm across her forehead.

  If anyone had told her nine months ago, that she would be beyond the borders of the Empire, having spurned a Royal lover and burning dog carcasses with an Ancestor, she would have likely clapped her hands and wished for such a wonderful adventure. Now, as the ash from the bodies rose up to the sky and the smell of roasting flesh was forever in her nostrils, she realized that her desire for adventure needed some serious revisiting.

  However, as she surveyed the remains of the camp, she also realized that she had grown strong. Physically, emotionally, she was no longer a child, and this land of womanhood was stark and unforgiving and cruel. Like so many women before her, she had seen things that had shaped her, and would continue to shape her for the rest of her life.Choices made, regretted, accepted. These were the things of real life. The real way of things.

  She watched Solomon stoke the fire that consumed the dead. Once dead, now alive, tending the dead. It was sad, somehow, and yet, there was something else, a power in the raw act of living, that stirred her soul. It needed to be captured somehow, written down in a story, poem or a song.

  And so, as the mountain of blackened bodies smoked and burned, Fallon Waterford began to sing.

  ***

  She had placed the first rocks over his eyes. It seemed a natural place to start. Then his forehead, lips, palms and chest. It was a ritual now, the placing of rocks, as if each rock closed a door on something remarkable, something sacred. She had found many rocks.

  Walking had been difficult at first, and the shift had been stained with fresh blood as her body sought to rid itself of all remnants of dog. But as always, her will was stronger, and she moved stiffly at first, but at least she moved. It was mid morning now, and she was coming back to the place where he died with her third armful of rocks.

  His body was gone.

  The rocks that she had placed over him were scattered, and she dropped those in her arms, retaining a few choice stones for throwing at the offender’s head. It was likely an animal, but a large one, and she wondered what sorts of predators were found in this land beyond their borders.

  If it were a dog, she would kill it with her own claws.

  There was a trail, for she was a tracker, and she followed it slowly, cautiously, deeper into the trees until she heard the sounds of breathing. Light streamed in shafts down from the treetops, and she spied a figure clutching a trunk, struggling to stand. She squeezed the stone in her right hand and approached.

  She slowed, stopped breathing. It was the Seer.

  Perhaps she was the one who was dead.

  She bit her lip, drew blood. Was there blood after death? She narrowed her eyes, flipped the stone once, twice, three times in her hand before flinging it with a good measure of force at his head. He yelped, tried to turn in her direction, still clutching the tree for support.

  “Who is that?” he cried. “Petrus, please! Stop this!”

  “Not Petrus,” she growled.

  “Major,” his voice cracked and he sank to his knees, hands still grasping at the tree. “Is this real? Is this death? What is this?”

  She moved a little closer, eyed him suspiciously. “I do not know, Seer. Perhaps I am also dead.”

  With a deep breath, he leaned back against the tree, blinking and pushing his palms into his eyes. He looked lost, exhausted, confused. But against reason, he also looked alive.

  She knelt down very close to him. Breathed deep the scent of him. The blood on his chest was dried, the wound once gaping seemed closed. Something else was different. His chest, once blackened and scarred, was apparently healed, the pelt grown back tawny and spotted and striped. It was against all reason.

  “How have you done this?” she asked, for she did not wish to believe. “How is it that you were dead and now are alive?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea,” he moaned. “Petrus said…” His voice trailed off.

  “Petrus Mercouri is dead. Like you.”

  “Yes. Yes, he is. But I spoke with him…”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. And the Alchemist, I spoke to her as well…” He frowned now, still blinking. Clearly, there was something wrong with his eyes.

  “You spoke to the Alchemist. Is she dead as well?”

  “I have no idea. But she kissed me and sent me back…” And he pressed his palms into his eyes yet again.

  The Major snorted. This seemed to be a running thing, this Alchemist and her kisses. She hoped the woman was well dead.

  “What is wrong with your eyes?”

  “It’s all wrong. I can’t see rightly.”

  “Rightly?”

  “Everything is blurry. It is hard to look anywhere without falling over.” So he closed his eyes and sagged against the tree. “I wish she had blinded me completely. This is worse than half.”

  Ursa stared at him for a long moment. The Seer was alive. Some sort of magic was obviously at work here, whether on the part of Petrus Mercouri or Sherah al Shiva or the Seer himself. Her bet was on the Alchemist. Alchemy was the nature of Change, and nothing could symbolize change more than life to death and back again. Either way, it
was magic, and she didn’t trust any of it, not one bit. However, the mongrel was alive, and that meant she still had her duty to perform. She had failed but her honor had been restored.

  She reached down to the bottom of her shift, grabbed an end in each hand and pulled, ripping off a perfect strip.

  “Hold still,” she ordered and he complied, waiting as she wrapped it across his eyes and around his head. She tied it snug in the back.

  “There,” she said. “This will help you stand without falling over.”

  He caught her hand, squeezed it. “You feel quite real.”

  She said nothing. She had no words for him.

  He brought her hand to his lips and she had to catch her tears before they fell. He was alive. It didn’t matter how, it didn’t matter why. The last Seer of Sha’Hadin was alive.

  And therefore, Major Ursa Laenskaya had a job to do.

  ***

  There was a time, there was a time,

  Beyond all cities, walls and lines,

  A people fought, a people died,

  There was a time.

  There was a year, there was a year,

  The Sign of Tiger brought good cheer,

  The number six announced a fear,

  That Tiger Year.

  There was a place, there was a place,

  Where people lived because of Race,

  And others died to serve the Fates,

  There was a place.

  There was a hope, there was a plan,

  There was a lion and a man,

  And dogs so quickly overran

  That hopeless plan.

  There was a dream, there was a dream,

  A silly girl and her ideals,

  A love to last beyond the years,

  There was a dream.