Fardale slipped from the forest’s shadow. The wolf’s slitted eyes scanned the horizons calmly, the sight having little effect on him. He simply padded across the rocky soil, his fur reflecting the sunlight in oiled sheens.
Mogweed’s eyes narrowed. Fardale was always the cool one, the brave one, the noble one. One day, Mogweed hoped to see him break and prayed he would be the one to cause it.
Mogweed watched Fardale casually lumber past and continue into the barren foothills. With his neck still slightly bent away from the large sky, Mogweed followed his twin brother, cursing his sibling’s stout heart.
One day, dear brother, I will teach you to fear.
15
TOL’CHUK CARRIED THE limp form of Fen’shwa in his arms. He stood upright, his back straight, needing two arms to cradle the heavy body. As he approached the village, he saw several females rooting for grubs in the thin soil. When they spotted him, their noses cringed with disgust at Tol’chuk’s upright posture. Og’res normally used their backs and only one arm to haul tree trunks or other heavy objects, leaving the remaining arm to support their lumbering gait. Shocked by the sight of him, it was only when he continued closer that the females spied his burden. Eyelids flew wide, and a cacophony of bleating arose from their throats. The females fled, loping away. The musky scent of their fear still hung in the crisp highland air.
Tol’chuk took no notice, but trod up the worn path toward his tribe’s caves. His back and arms burned with exertion, but this was a small price for his atrocity. He had committed the worst violation of og’re law: An og’re never kills a fellow tribe member. During war, og’res could kill og’res of other tribes, but never of one’s own.
As he had stood over Fen’shwa’s bloody form, he had considered running, such was his shame. But by doing so, Tol’chuk would dishonor his dead father. And his birth was already enough of a disgrace for his family. How could he add to it by such cowardly actions? So he had collected Fen’shwa and begun his hike toward their caves, determined to face his tribe’s punishment.
Ahead, at the foot of towering granite cliffs, Tol’chuk spotted the black hole of his tribe’s home, easy to miss among the shadows clinging to the craggy and pocked rock face. The females had already alerted the village. Near the entrance to the caves, a crowd of og’res clustered—almost the entire tribe, even the bent backs of the old and the scurrying feet of the young. A few oak staves of the warriors bristled among them. Silence stood like a tribe member among his people. One weanling pulled a thumb from his tiny mouth and pointed at Tol’chuk, but before the child could utter a sound, his milk mother clamped a large hand over his mouth. No one spoke when the dead walked among them.
Tol’chuk was thankful for the silence. He would soon face those many questioning eyes again and speak his crime aloud, but first, he had a duty he mustdischarge.
Tol’chuk’s heart beat hard in his chest, and his legs began to shake. But he did not falter a step before his people. If he should hesitate, he might lose his momentum, and the growing fear could catch hold of his heart. So he forced each foot to follow the other and marched toward his home.
One thick-limbed adult og’re burst through the wall of onlookers. He leaned on an arm as thick around as a tree trunk. He raised his nose to the wind carrying toward him from Tol’chuk. Suddenly the huge og’re froze, his muscles tensed like a rocky ridge. After seasons of living in dim caves, og’res’ vision weakened as they aged, but their keen sense of smell grew more acute. The adult og’re raised his face to the cliff walls surrounding him and bellowed his grief, the sound shattering the silence. He had recognized the scent of Tol’chuk’s burden.
Fen’shwa’s father knew his son.
Tol’chuk almost stopped. How could he confess his guilt? The muscles of his jaw ached as he clenched his teeth together. He kept his eyes fixed on the hole in the cliff’s face and continued his march.
Fen’shwa’s father galloped toward him, his thick rear legs hammering the stone escarpment. He slid to a stop, showering Tol’chuk with a flurry of loose shale. He reached his free hand over to touch his son’s limp arm as it dragged along the ground. “Fen’shwa?”
Tol’chuk ignored him, as was the custom among his people. The grieving were not to be seen. He continued to march toward the yawning entrance. But Tol’chuk’s silence was answer enough to the father. His son was not just injured—Fen’shwa was dead. Behind him, Tol’chuk heard a keening wail from the father’s throat. He saw the other members of his tribe turn their backs on the grieving father.
Now stumbling with both exhaustion and fear, Tol’chuk swept through the parting crowd of og’res. No one touched him, no one hindered him: Let death pass quickly by. He carried his burden through the entrance into the darkness of the caves.
The roof of the large common chamber stretched beyond the reach of even the scattered cooking fires. But fingers of rock dripped from the ceiling to point accusingly toward him. With his head bowed, he worked his way through the cooking section of the village. A few females stood hunched by their fires, wide eyes reflecting back the twitching flames of their hearths.
He crossed the living areas of the various families. Smaller entrances jutted off the common space to the private warrens of each family. Males of the tribe poked their heads out suspiciously as he passed, fearful that someone sought to steal one of their females. But when they saw what he carried, they disappeared back inside, fearful that death might hop into their warren.
As he passed the opening to his own family’s caves, no og’re peeked outside. He was the last of his family. His home caves echoed emptily since his father had gone to the spirits four winters ago.
Tol’chuk ignored the familiar scent of his home. He knew where he had to go before he could rest his responsibility—to the cavern of the spirits.
He continued to the deepest and blackest section of the cavern. Here a slitlike opening cracked the back wall of the cavern from floor to ceiling. For the first time during his trek, he dragged to a stop, frozen by the sight of that opening. The last time he had neared this dark path had been when his father had fallen during a battle with the Ku’ukla tribe. Tol’chuk had been too young to go with the warriors. When they returned, no one told him his father had died during the fight.
He had been playing toddledarts with a child still too young to fear and loathe him when they had dragged his father’s speared body past him. He had stood there stunned, a toddledart in his hand, as they hauled the last member of his family into the black crack on its journey to the cavern of the spirits beyond.
Now Tol’chuk had to walk this path.
Before his legs grew roots of fear and locked him in place, he pulled his burden closer to his chest and continued. He was forced by the bulk of his burden to turn sideways to edge into the narrow slit. He squeezed down the black path, holding his breath. Sliding his back on one wall, he traveled the well-worn path until a weak blue glow flowed from beyond a bend in the corridor ahead. The light seemed to sap the strength from his legs and arms. His resolve faltered. He began to quake.
Then a voice whispered from ahead. “Come. We wait.”
Tol’chuk stumbled in midstep. It was the voice of the Triad. He had hoped to drop the body in the spirit chamber and slip off to confess his atrocity to the tribe. The Triad were seldom seen. These ancient ones, blind with age, dwelled deep within the mountain’s heart. Only for the most solemn ceremonies would the Triad crawl from their residence beyond the spirit caves to join the og’re tribe.
Now the three ancient og’res waited for him. Did the Triad already know his foulness?
“Come, Tol’chuk.” The words trailed to him from ahead like an eyeless worm searching for light.
Tol’chuk dragged his feet toward the voice. He held the air trapped in his chest. His grip on Fen’shwa’s body grew slippery with sour sweat. Finally, the narrow path widened, and the stone walls pulled back. He was able to twist forward again and walk straight.
With
his arms trembling under Fen’shwa’s weight, he heaved into the chamber of the spirit. The cavern, lit by blue-flamed torches, stretched away to a black eye on the far side, the entrance to the Triad’s domain. No og’re except the ancient ones and the dead traveled that path.
Tol’chuk trembled at the edge of the cavern. He had only ventured to this chamber once in his life—during his naming ceremony when he was four winters of age. That day, one of the Triad had branded him with the cursed name He-who-walks-like-a-man—a shame he had had to bear for twelve winters now.
He had hoped never to step into the spirit-wrought cavern again, but Tol’chuk had been taught the custom. The og’re dead were left in this chamber, away from the eyes of the tribe. What became of their bodies was never even whispered or questioned. To talk of the dead could draw tragedy to a hearth.
The deceased were the Triad’s concern.
Tol’chuk took a single step into the chamber. In the center of the cavern, the three ancient ones hunched like rocky outcroppings sprouting from the stone floor. Naked and gnarled, more bone than flesh, the trio waited.
A voice rose from one of the Triad, though Tol’chuk could not say which one spoke. It seemed like the words flowed from all three. “Leave the dead.”
Tol’chuk meant to lower Fen’shwa’s body gently to the stone, to offer as much respect to his slain tribe member as possible so as not to offend the gods. But his muscles betrayed him, and Fen’shwa’s body tumbled from his exhausted arms. The skull hit the stone with a loud crack that echoed across the chamber.
Cringing, Tol’chuk bent his back into proper og’re form. His duty done, he began to step back toward the narrow path, away from the Triad.
“No. That path is no longer open to you.” Again the voice carried through the air from all three og’res. “You have harmed one of your tribe.”
Tol’chuk stopped. His eyes fixed on the worn rock. The ancient ones knew of his violation of the law. Words slipped from his lips. “I didn’t mean to kill—”
“Only one path is open to you now.”
Tol’chuk raised his head just enough to spy the hunched forms. Three arms were raised and pointed toward the distant black eye, the tunnel that no og’re except the Triad entered.
“You walk the path of the dead.”
MOGWEED HID IN the shadow of a huge boulder and stared east toward the mountains. Fardale, with his keener senses, had gone ahead to scout the route forward. After crossing the golden meadows of the low foothills, they had reached a more rocky and treacherous terrain. Gnarled oaks and an occasional spray of pine dotted the higher foothills, but spiked hawthorn bushes covered most of the dusty ground. Luckily, after struggling through rocky gulches and up steep cliffs, Fardale had come upon a more hospitable path leading up to the peaks. The trail was a welcome sight. Ever cautious, Fardale insisted on investigating the trail before trusting it.
After the day’s journey, Mogweed’s clothes stank of sweat and clung awkwardly. He picked at them and wondered how humans tolerated living in the drapings. He closed his eyes and willed the change, wishing for the familiar feel of flowing flesh and bending bone. But as usual, nothing happened; the manlike form persisted. He swore under his breath and opened his eyes and looked east. Somewhere out there lay the cure to the curse on both him and Fardale.
Sweating from the climb, he stared longingly at the cold snow that tipped the tallest peak on the horizon, snow that even the hottest summer sun had failed to melt. The mountain, called the Great Fang of the North, towered over its many brethren. The range of craggy peaks, named the Teeth, ran from the frozen Ice Desert in the north to the Barren Wastes of the south, splitting the land in two.
Raising a hand to shade his eyes, Mogweed searched the range of mountains south. Somewhere thousands of leagues away rose this Fang’s twin sister, the Great Fang of the South. From here, the southern Fang remained beyond the horizon. Even though countless leagues separated the peaks, rumor had it that if someone stood on the top of each Fang they could speak to one another. Even whispers could be sent back and forth, spanning the distance.
Mogweed frowned at such a preposterous notion. He had more important concerns than a child’s fantasy. He hugged his arms around his chest and stared with a bitter expression at the wall of peaks, beyond which stretched the lands of the human race—territories he feared to tread, but knew he must.
Clouds began to build among the peaks, caught on the crags as the wind blew eastward. The snowy tip of the Great Fang was blotted out as black clouds churned. Lightning played among the thunderheads. If he and Fardale were to cross the Teeth before winter set its frozen hand upon the land, they needed to hurry.
Mogweed searched for his brother among the scraggly trees and brush. What was keeping that fool? A worry gnawed at his stomach. What if his brother had run off, abandoning him to this barren countryside?
As if he had heard him, Fardale suddenly appeared at the foot of the rocky slide. Anxious, panting from a sudden run, dancing on his paws, Fardale stared up toward Mogweed, requesting contact. Mogweed opened up.
Even from here, the wolf’s eyes glowed amber. Fardale’s thoughts whispered in his head: The stink of carrion rotting in the sun. Racing legs pursued by gnashing teeth. An arrow’s flight through the open sky. Hunters approached.
Men? Even though he appeared a man himself and would likely have to interact with men during the long journey ahead, Mogweed was in no hurry to meet any. He had secretly hoped to avoid the eyes of men, at least until they had passed through the Teeth.
Mogweed slid down the rocky grade to join his brother. “Where do we hide?”
Racing legs. Pads cut by sharp stone. Fardale wanted them to run—and quickly.
Mogweed’s legs ached. The thought of fleeing through this rugged terrain sapped his will. He sagged. “Why can’t we hole up somewhere until they pass, then return to the trail?”
Razor teeth. Claws. Wide nostrils swelling for scent.
Mogweed tensed. Sniffers! Here? How? In the wild forest, the beasts traveled in packs. Ravenous in their appetites, the creatures used their keen sense of smell to track down isolated si’lura and attack. He had not known the beasts could be domesticated by humans. “Where do we go?”
Fardale swung around and bounded up the trail, his tail flagging the way.
Mogweed hefted his pack higher on his shoulder and took off after his brother. His tired joints protested the sudden exertion. But the thought of the slavering sniffers and the beasts’ shredding teeth drove Mogweed past his aches.
As he rounded a bend in the trail, he saw Fardale stopped just ahead, his nose reading the air. Suddenly the wolf darted to the left, abandoning the trail.
With a groan, Mogweed pushed past a bramble bush, thorns tearing at his clothes, and followed his brother. Scrambling up a steep slope of sharp stones and loose dirt, Mogweed soon found himself crawling on all fours like his wolf brother. The footing was treacherous. Mogweed kept slipping and losing hard-won ground.
Gasping between dry lips, Mogweed stared up to the crest of the slope. Fardale had already reached the top and stood with his muzzle raised to the breeze. Damn this awkward body! Mogweed dug his raw fingers into the dirt and clawed his way upward. Slowly he fought the slope, careful where he placed each toe and hand. As he worked, a familiar buzzing bloomed behind his ears. Fardale sought contact. Grimacing, Mogweed raised his eyes to meet his brother’s.
Fardale was crouched at the lip of the ridge, his eyes aglow. With the contact established, his brother’s images flowed into him: Teeth slashing at heels. A noose of hemp strangling. The hunters were closing in.
Fear igniting his effort, Mogweed scrambled up the last few spans of the slope. He crawled up next to his brother. “Wh-wh-where are they?”
Fardale turned away and pointed his nose east toward the mountains.
Mogweed searched. The trail they had left wound among the steep foothills, a worn track disappearing into the wilder country of the peaks.
“Where—?” He clapped his lips shut. He spotted movement on the trail, much closer than he had expected!
Men dressed in forest green, with bows slung over their shoulders and sheaves of arrows feathering their backs, marched down the trail. Mogweed melted lower. Three sniffers, attached by leather leads and muzzled in iron, strained against their master’s yoke. Even from this distance, Mogweed could see the wide nostrils fanning open and closed within the iron muzzles as the sniffers drank the scent of the trail. Bulky with muscle and naked of fur, with skin the color of bruised flesh, they fought their leashes. Claws dug at the trail. Mogweed saw one pull back its lips in a snarl as another bumped into it, revealing the four rows of needle fangs that gnashed between powerful jaws.
Mogweed lowered himself closer to the ground. “Go!” he whispered to his brother. “What are you waiting for?”
Suddenly a shrieking wail erupted around them, echoing through the hills. Mogweed knew that wail. He had heard it sometimes at night coming from the deep forest. A sniffer screamed for blood!
Fardale’s eyes glowed toward him. Images intruded: A weanling pup scolded for mewling at night, revealing a hidden den. A nose glued to a trailing scent. The sniffers had caught Fardale’s scent on the upper trail.
Mogweed bit back a venomous rebuke as Fardale sprang away. He raced after his brother’s tail. The run was a blur of scraped skin and bruising falls. Screams chased them, but from how far behind was impossible to judge.
Using an old dry creek bed as a trail, Fardale led the way higher into the foothills. The water-smoothed rock that lined the dry bed made slippery footing. Mogweed’s boots betrayed him, and a heel twisted on a teetering stone. He fell to his knees, his ankle flaring hotly.
Mogweed fought back to his feet as a wail erupted behind him. The beasts were getting closer! Fardale danced anxiously just ahead. Mogweed tried to put weight on his injured foot, but red agony flared up his leg. He tried hobbling across the uneven surface and fell again. “I can’t run!” he called to his brother.
Wit'ch Fire: Book One of The Banned and the Banished Page 15
