Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong

by Greg Hamerton

  He ran, with his awkward lumbering gait, not caring about how the omnium cloak flapped open and whipped behind his shoulders, not caring how the few apprentice wizards and the doorman gaped, crying out as he fled by, not hearing the shouts behind him. He jumped into Seus again and again, cutting out hours of his life at a time, and each time the pain was deeper, but he ran and ran until he could bear to run no longer and he could only hunch down upon his agony.

  Kingsmeet would soon be named Kinsfall.

  His wrath would be great.

  Ah, those wizards of the college in Kingsmeet, they did not see that so much Order-use had left a legacy in the balance of essence, so that Ametheus could spark tons of flux from the origin, in that time, and also long after the Three Kingdoms had fallen.

  The Chaos that came to ruin the world was because of the Order that ruled before it.

  17. FOLLOW THE LEADER

  “If you see the dragon fly,

  best you drink the flagon dry.”—Zarost

  Bevn couldn’t remember how long they’d run through the silver sands of his nightmare, or how long he had walked on rigid, cramped legs, or how long Gabrielle had just dragged him, but he came around with her slapping his face, over and over.

  He was lying beneath a tall, twisted tree. It seemed to be formed from thickened roots, or cords of green rope which had been tied, stretched and tangled into one painful knotted and angry mass. In his half-conscious state he understood what it would be like to be that tree. Every muscle in his body felt that way.

  Daylight played through the bright-edged leaves far above, and trails of old silk ran between them, fluttering translucently. A warm wind pushed the burnt-meat-and-cinnamon scent of the desert sands into Bevn’s nose. The high boughs shook, and a single red leaf broke free with a snap. It tumbled down toward him, falling faster than it should. It seemed heavy, and hard. It flipped over and veered away, picking up speed.

  Thud! The leaf pierced the ground as if it was a sword. Bevn sat up sharply, and moaned against the instant pain through his muscles. This was no ordinary place. He was in Oldenworld. Gabrielle gripped his chin and turned his face to look at her. She spilled some water into his parched mouth, and he spluttered, coughed then gulped at the bladder’s nozzle. Water! He was so thirsty! She pulled it away from him before he was done. He groaned and lay back again. There hadn’t been much more water left anyway.

  “Get up!” Gabrielle ordered. “I can’t drag you anymore. Get up!” She kicked him and he yelped. “We must hide deeper in the forest. The windrunners are coming.”

  He turned to look to where she pointed. The tree he was seated underneath wasn’t very deep into the forest; the bright sands were close at hand. The spinney of trees formed a wedge around them that searched into the desert like a finger, or was it the wastes that had pushed into the forest on either side? The gnarled trunks were so tall they would tower over the battlements of Stormhaven. Out on the desert, a diving shred of colour wound backward and forward in the air, and at first Bevn couldn’t remember what it meant.

  Then it returned to him, with a sudden rush of memory and fear. The collapsing ridge, the Lûk corrupted in the wildfire, the warm blood on Bevn’s face and the spears raining down after Gabrielle. Two of the Lûk were dead. The windrunners would be seeking revenge upon him, and they would be able to follow footprints to the edge of the forest.

  Another gust rushed through the trees above, and Bevn scurried to his feet, despite the agony. He looked up nervously, but nothing broke free to fall upon them this time. Gabrielle led the way into the forest, her raven-black plait swinging like an angry tail across her bared lower back. She had cleaned herself of blood and grime, but she hadn’t bothered with him—he was filthy. Then he noticed the bandage tied around his wounded left arm, a bandage that had been cut from the lower hem of his shirt. Maybe she did care about him, after all. He followed on at an agonisingly slow pace. He couldn’t get his legs to bend. He felt like a cripple fleeing a charge of mounted Swords. The Lûk would be able to run after them. They would be fresh and uninjured. Panic rose in his throat as he stumbled after Gabrielle.

  “Wait!” he cried. “Don’t leave me!”

  She didn’t need the protection of the Kingsrim here, he realised. They were running on solid ground. She was getting farther and farther ahead, making for the safety of the shadows and tangled growth. He couldn’t go faster. He dared not look back any more, he couldn’t bear to see.

  The ground was littered with brown bark chips and bubbles of earth, green scalloped fungi, and desiccated pale roots. Deeper in the sheltering gloom, things burped from within the piles of heavy leaves. Strange birds called from high up among the sharp-fringed boughs, some with gibbering little songs, others with grating cries. Everywhere, there were trees, impossibly big trees, little trees, trees that grew from the arms of other trees and strange hanging vines which looped through them all. The vines were the worst. They tried to reach out and grab his ankles; they seemed to slither through the undergrowth when he wasn’t looking. Nothing grew straight; every trunk was covered in knurrs and knots, as if they suffered much in the course of their growth. Now and again a large leaf thudded into the ground with deadly force. Bevn began to understand how a piglet felt when it tried to escape a butcher’s knife. He ran and he ran, but he never knew which step was going to be his last.

  After a while they came to another break. The dappled shade gave way abruptly to bright silver sand, where the desert had cut deep into the forest, forcing a channel of wildfire across their path. Huge fallen trees littered the ground at the perimeter, as white as skeletons, leaving a swath of open sky beyond.

  Gabrielle waited for him there, but as he slowed, she grabbed him and pulled him on.

  “We should keep to the trees!” he shouted to her. “We should go around!”

  She shook her head. “Come, princeling, follow me! We can lose them here—they wouldn’t have carried their boards. Come, don’t make me hurt you.”

  Bevn followed her like a puppy. No, not a puppy, he told himself, he just chose to accept her guidance because he couldn’t stand any more pain. Besides, she was good at this; she had been escaping from people all her life. That she was still alive was testimony to her ability—she always survived. He just had to stay with her and he’d be all right.

  Gabrielle kept him close as they moved across the sand. The jumbled debris was easy to negotiate. It crushed to dust underfoot, staining their boots and leaving dirty clouds swirling in the air. He was thankful for the Kingsrim once again. The dust turned golden as it neared him, and remained so until he had passed, when it turned back to silver again in his wake, drifting idly to the ground.

  Bevn felt very exposed in the clearing. Their pursuers would spot them easily, and if not they’d still see the clear tracks in the sand. He tried to run faster. When Gabrielle came to an abrupt halt, he couldn’t stop himself from cannoning into her.

  He caught hold of her with both hands to avoid tumbling to the ground.

  “Why have you stopped?” he gasped.

  “It is too late to run,” said Gabrielle.

  “Why? What is it?” he asked, pushing himself upright.

  “There. Look where we are running to.”

  Furtive figures moved between the trees. They wore dappled clothing that blended in with the forest background. Bevn couldn’t be sure how many were hidden from his eyes. Only when they moved, could he see anything at all, and even then it was only the flash and blur of a head, or hand, or a weapon. They weren’t Lûk though, they were something else and they were armed with wicked recurved bows. Ten figures, at least. Would they use their arrows? Sharp tips pointed down from the lowest boughs of the trees, all of them aimed on the point where he and Gabrielle would exit from the wildfire.

  “Let’s run back!” Bevn said. “Come on! We can escape before the Lûk arrive.”

  Gabrielle shook his hand free.

  “No,” she said. “I have an idea. We can�
�t just keep on running. you move too slowly.”

  That much was true. The Lûk were surely closing the gap behind them, and this time they would be ready for a fight, ready to kill.

  “Listen. These strangers don’t know us. They don’t know what we’ve done. We can use that to our advantage.”

  Bevn stared dumbly at her. He couldn’t see how people who were pointing arrows at him could ever be manipulated. He tried to come up with a better solution. The forest folk wouldn’t come out onto the wildfire, he observed. They kept to the trees. They were afraid of the silver essence, just like the Lûk.

  “Why don’t we wait in the middle?”

  “And do what?” she asked archly. “Sit out here until we starve? No, we must bargain with these foresters. We must bargain for our lives. Come, we haven’t much time.”

  “Be ready to retreat, if we need to,” she added.

  His feet became as heavy as lead as they neared the forest. More archers were drawn out by their approach; they stepped into the spaces between the trees with arrows nocked. Twenty figures blocked the way. Gabrielle halted just short of bow-range, and raised her hands.

  “People! We bring you no harm!”

  A man called out harshly, and in an instant the archers were gone, hidden among the trees again. Bevn imagined he could hear the creak of many drawn bows, which made him feel itchy behind the ears. Sweat trickled down his back and into the crack of his bum.

  “Be ready,” warned Gabrielle.

  “Tetaris?” someone called out. “Whattayee?”

  “Na!” a man replied. “Na! Theyarenee fierspawner, ah kin seether whole. Bestill yor arrow.”

  A tall man stepped out from behind the closest tree. He had wild white hair, and wore a mottled leather breastplate and a cloak of russet leaf-patterns. A narrowly trimmed beard striped the centre of his chin. Bevn took him to be the commander.

  “Whyaree na firespawner?” he shouted. “Howcanee standerinnin wither firewyld?”

  The man’s lilting accent was incomprehensible.

  “We are travellers,” Gabrielle announced. “We are no threat to you.”

  “Silliver chaosdusts!” shouted the forester. “Burnbane? Howaree innit, wither na chainge?”

  “In it? What, this blasted soil?” Gabrielle asked, stamping her foot. “We carry a special ward!”

  That was true. It was the crown that kept them from harm. If it weren’t for the Kingsrim, they would have been dead long ago, just like that Lûk scout. Bevn felt suddenly itchy between his toes. He wanted to be anywhere but in the blasted circle. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. The crown had protected him across the wastelands; there was no reason for it to fail him now.

  The men came from behind the trees again, their lethal bows held steady. They wore leathers and the same leaf-patterned cloaks, and most had narrow beards like their leader.

  “We seek your help, we don’t want to fight,” Gabrielle shouted. “Can we come closer?”

  “Werearee coming, thatta walk onna firewyld?”

  Gabrielle paused, deciphering his words. “Eyri, we are from the kingdom of Eyri,” she answered loudly, and gestured away across the wastes. “In the mountains, south of here.” Gabrielle seemed to have a better ear for the strange dialect than Bevn did—he was still making little sense of it.

  “Ayryee? Owe long thessertoo walkaway?”

  “We have run for a day, and we were on a windrunner with the Lûk for another.”

  “Lûk!” the commander exclaimed. The archers tensed. One of the archers made a sharp comment to the commander, and a short disagreement followed, which Bevn understood nothing of. They talked too fast between themselves, their language like wind thrashing in the trees.

  “Can we approach you without threat?” Gabrielle called out. “I am tired of shouting.”

  “Ther Lûk,” the commander challenged. “Why yee wither Lûk?”

  “We were coming to you, but they captured us,” Gabrielle lied smoothly. “They stole our food, they hurt us. They tried to kill the boy, but we fought them off, and killed two of theirs. They hunt us now.”

  Bevn tried to conceal his amazement. Gabrielle had lied for him, to cover the shameful truth. She had said just the right thing too, for the commander seemed impressed.

  “You anner boy is as toughtimbered asser ironwood, ther Lûk na softly inna fight. Why are yee coming to huntersland?”

  Gabrielle paused for a moment. “We have an offer of trade for the leader of your people. Eyri has great things to offer, and we brought the first sample for your leader, but the Lûk stole our gifts.”

  It was a flagrant lie, but it was a lie that might keep them alive.

  “Ah, ye be freetraders. The Lûk stole ther treasury for our Hidesman Raherro?”

  “Yes, that’s right, it was for Raherro. We still wish to speak with him. We have much to offer—our secret ward, for one.” The commander considered this, then nodded to the men on either side and they lowered their bows slightly.

  “Come, this is where we must keep our wits,” Gabrielle whispered over her shoulder. She paced confidently toward the forest people, into the range of the bows. Bevn couldn’t afford to look frightened. Though his heart pounded, he followed.

  “Be ye easy!” said the leader when they were before him. “Ther Lûk have na rights here. This is Hunters land. If yee would trade, thenner ye be welcome.” He extended his palm toward them, fingers pointing to the sky. “I be Tetaris of er Bradach Hide.”

  “I am known as Gabrielle Aramonde,” she said. “And this is Bevn Mellar, of Eyri.”

  Bevn didn’t know quite what was expected of him, but he raised his hand as Gabrielle did, in a similar fashion to the Hunters. After an awkward pause, the commander stepped forward to press his hand against theirs.

  “Ye nanarow our custom? Ye nounce the eldertongs astrange, I kin see ye are na Lûk, but ye make a lie to us here.” Tetaris the commander knew they were lying. Bevn’s mouth grew dry. “Ye na cross ther whiterlands!” Tetaris exclaimed. “Two days southward is desert, silversand then brown, na Ayree, na living thing but wind errockery. Ye come wander on from Korin, ya, beyonder ther six landerside of Lûk?”

  Bevn had begun to understand their strange dialect a little. Tetaris didn’t believe that Eyri existed. It wasn’t surprising, because the ruffian probably only knew of the forest, and the wastelands at its edge.

  “We are from Eyri,” Bevn said, “and I am to be king.” His swelled his chest out proudly.

  Tetaris regarded Bevn critically. His eyes were a bright brown colour like polished chestnuts.

  “Kinge? Is ther kinge squarelish in your tribe?”

  Bevn wasn’t sure what ‘squarelish’ meant. “I shall be the ruler. This crown proves it!” He lifted the Kingsrim slightly.

  “Ther tattinhat a rulermark, where your tribe hunts?”

  “It is not a hat, you meathead! It is my crown, it shows my power.”

  Tetaris took a step back, a wary expression on his face. “Ye are the oldest in your land, menninman?”

  “I– ”

  “Oh, shut up,” Gabrielle said, in a low voice. “You’re just making things worse. They know nothing of Eyri. We’re the first to come from there.”

  “But how can they not know what a king is?” Bevn asked dejectedly.

  “I can see you are an intelligent man, and understand the value of what we might have to offer,” Gabrielle said to Tetaris, ignoring Bevn again. Her voice was all honeyed cream. “Can we travel under your protection?”

  Bevn didn’t like the way Gabrielle had upstaged him in front of all the rough men, but she seemed to know what she was doing. She was using her charms to draw their attention, and it was working. They were so stupid.

  “Ye willerwalk with us to Bradach Hide,” said Tetaris. “Kulomb our elderman will wisher na ’scuss your trade an a’tribe.” The commander issued a few short orders to his men. Four archers came into close flanking positions around them. Bevn could see how
sharp the tips of their arrows were—bright metal points with mean barbed heads. What was Gabrielle thinking, lying to these wild men? They would find out the truth, wouldn’t they? They had nothing to trade. He wondered if the Lûk still tracked them. If they caught up with the Hunters, they would tell them how Bevn and Gabrielle had murdered their men and run away, but the more he considered it, the more he realised how clever Gabrielle had been. The Lûk were obviously not popular with the Hunters. If there was a feud between the Lûk and the Hunters, then the Hunters would believe the lies which painted their enemies in a bad light. They might even fight to protect them.

  As the morning went by, he began to realise the Hunters might have protected them already, just by being there. The Lûk might not have dared to follow them into the forest at all. This was Hunters land, the commander had said, and the Lûk had no right to be there. The Hunters looked to be dangerous men. They were all armed with bows, and Bevn guessed they knew how to use them. There had only been five Lûk following them in the cutter. They might well have reached the edge of the forest and come no farther.

  “How far is it to the edge of the Lûk’s land?” he asked.

  Tetaris’s expression hardened at the mention of the Lûk. “Rôgspar is a daily march on away, wherebegins ther sixlanderside Lûk. We patrol to keep it thatter way.”

  Rôgspar, that was where the Lûk captain Jek had been aiming for with the cutter. Hopefully that was where he had gone, after losing his chance of catching them.

  Bevn smiled at Tetaris. He decided he liked the Hunters, despite their silly way of talking and their rough appearance. As Bevn’s fear of pursuit eased, so he became more aware of how much his feet hurt, but he couldn’t let the tough men know.

  He didn’t want to see what his toes looked like inside his boots. His feet had gone all burny and slippery again when the blisters had burst during their run. He struggled to match the Hunters’ swift pace as they led them on the faint trail. Some of the men ranged wide in the forest. The tangled growth did not seem to slow their pace and they made little noise. When Tetaris noticed how badly he was limping, he ordered half-pace for his men, which was only slightly better, in Bevn’s opinion.