Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong

by Greg Hamerton

  The Lûk were a good people. They had given her a flaxen-coloured dress, short-cut in the Lûk style, and she wore it to honour them, although the coarse fabric scratched her skin in places. At least the patterned ribbons were soft where they crossed between her breasts. They had also given her a pair of salakan boots, to replace the ones she had worn through the wastes. They were hard-edged, besides being a bit wide in the toe, but once Sihkran’s daughter Sunni had shown her how to bind her feet with an inner wrap she had found that the boots were comfortable and warm.

  Sihkran met them again where the men gathered into loose ranks at the edge of the forest.

  “Beyond these trees lies the land we call the brdaki, the blood-belt,” he explained. “It belongs to neither the Lûk nor the Hunters. It is where we fight. I see you are determined all the way to come, Tabitha Mahgu. That is brave, but when we through the bloodbelt move, you will to the centre of the group keep. You are not as well-protected as us or as accustomed to the Hunter’s way of battle. I will not allow one of such great stature to fall prey to a hateful arrow.”

  “Are the Hunters that bad?” Tabitha asked. “Can’t you talk to them without a fight?”

  “Know that for over two hundred years, the Hunters have waged terrible war against us. They take the lives of our women and children. They are scavengers, they steal whatever they can lay their hands on and kill whoever tries them to stop. We, the Lûk, make things, we weave; we grow. They are hunters, they only take from life; they never give. My father at the hands of the Hunters died, my father’s father before him. There is nothing that a Lûk more hates than a Hunter.”

  Men swore in Lûkish all around them.

  “Have you never known peace?”

  “Peace?” Sihkran repeated, rolling his tongue in his mouth as if tasting the unfamiliar concept. “That is an old word, from the myths of the Old Tongue that you speak. Peace is spoken of in the tales we tell to our children, but in our lives? No. There is always war. Our task is to see it in the blood-belt is kept, and not in our Six Sided Land.”

  He drew himself up to address all the assembled warriors.

  “Let the Fifth Dja seek out the murderers! The ones who our windrunners slayed shall find no shelter in the Huntersland.”

  The men beat their spears against their shields.

  “Spearleader!” Garyll called out. “With respect, Sihkran, but we need Prince Bevn alive.”

  Tabitha had been thinking the same thing. King Mellar would never forgive them if they allowed Bevn to die.

  “Alive?” Sihkran repeated, incredulous. “What justice would it be to keep him alive? One who kills should be killed, just as one who steals should have everything stolen from him. No! A’Lûk telamenn im! He and his bitch have killed our kind. I am Spearleader Sihkran, and I will see this Bevn dead.” Sihkran came closer, his demeanour suddenly threatening. “If you are truly against Bevn, then you will prove it by fighting on our side.”

  Garyll held Sihkran’s eye for a moment, but then he turned aside, to Tabitha. He nodded his head a fraction, and she could guess what he was thinking. They were in the Lûk’s land now, and could not dictate to the warriors how they handled the matter of Bevn’s treachery. They were lucky enough to be included in the march. If Bevn died at the hands of the Lûk, it was a fate he had brought upon himself, Tabitha decided. They would still be able to retrieve the crown, and that was what mattered. She nodded back to Garyll.

  “Aye, we are with you,” Garyll said slowly. Maybe he had a plan, for Bevn.

  “We move!” shouted Sihkran.

  He turned and led them into the forest. They followed, and the Lûk warriors settled into a steady lope, keeping Tabitha, Garyll and Mulrano in their midst. Jek, the craggy-faced captain of the windrunners, took a position close on Tabitha’s right.

  “We shall meet many Hunters before we find Bevn and Gabreel!” he said. “You do not move toward their lands without them knowing of it and so we make no effort to conceal our approach for that will only delay the meeting. Prepare yourself. The Hunters are known for surprise attacks. They are cowards.”

  The forest drew them in, with all its strange organic scents, unfamiliar birdcalls and sounds. The trees closed behind them, the coloured flowers of the meadow of Rôgspar lost to view. The air was still in the forest. The first trees were healthy, but after a while they began to appear more gnarled and sickly, with growths bursting through the flaking bark of their trunks. There was no road; only a faint game trail, a narrow channel through the undergrowth. The Lûk crashed through the creepers and beds of lichen and brittle leaves, apparently unconcerned about their noisy passage. Tabitha was glad she was deep in the column—the many feet ahead trampled the worst of the thorny creepers and clusters of sharp twigs flat.

  They crossed a narrow, white-stained stream upon stepping stones, careful not to let it touch their feet. The current frothed and foamed, and it gave off a gritty jangling sound to Tabitha’s ear; she could sense the Chaos essence within it. Soon afterward, they skirted a ruined ashen circle where the dry scent of wildfire lingered. Despite the rain of the days past, she could smell it, the fatal magic; the Sorcerer’s scent.

  They passed other places that had been struck by wildfire that morning. The growth in the forest alternated between areas of health and places of sickness. The trees got taller the farther west they travelled.

  The Lûk men chanted as they loped along.

  “Bakti, Benna, Jallen, Paduk—” called four men in turn.

  “Jak jin jeer,” they chorused.

  “Likwhan, Yud, Runkkn, Brât—”

  “Jerrik vinn nageer!”

  Tabitha turned to Jek beside her. “What is that song about?”

  “We sing whenever we are heading beyond the Six Sided Land. It is a way of remembering, letting everyone know they are seen, that they are part of the Fifth Dja, and the greater weave of the Lûk. If there is a battle, the memory of the song will carry on in those who live. They call out their names: Bakti, Benna, Jallen and Paduk, those four there, strong as stone. Then the next four, they carry the might of their ancestors.”

  The plainsong passed back through the moving ranks, until it was Tabitha’s turn to add her own name to the chant of remembrance. “Tabitha!” she called out. It felt strange to call her name into the expectant hush which had fallen upon the Lûk.

  “Garyll. And Mulrano,” said Garyll beside her.

  “Ralok krn ros keer!” the Lûk sang gruffly, from ahead and behind.

  “Brave to the end,” Jek translated, in a whisper.

  Tabitha wished it hadn’t sounded so much like a final pronouncement. They would be remembered, in the Lûk tradition, in the plainsong. The chant moved on through the men behind her.

  They entered a darker part of the forest. A chill passed over Tabitha. Something had changed—something within the background sounds had altered. The blood-belt—it was a terrible name. Through the trees on their right, a loop of river lurked, sliding by like a great and swollen grey serpent.

  When the song reached through the soldiers behind her, to the rear of the company, it stopped. The army loped along, the shafts of the spears glistening as they crossed a narrow gap of sunlight. The ground levelled out in a broad swathe between the giant trees. In a brief moment of stillness, when even the breeze seemed to pause around them, Tabitha heard the pitter-patter of running feet, but when she listened harder for it, there was nothing. Her mind was playing tricks on her.

  Sihkran slowed at the head of the company, lifting his hand. The forest seemed to be filling with awareness, movement unseen. What Tabitha could see of the trail ahead was empty, but she had come to recognise the capering sound of living things amid the music of the elements, and she sensed that something lived nearby, spread out, approaching with hushed footsteps.

  “Garyll—” she began.

  He tensed beside her, reading her apprehension. The mounting presence was undeniable, playing havoc with her nerves. Ahead. To the side
s. Behind? Mercy, Tabitha thought. Had they circled them already? Could they move that quietly? She caught a flicker of movement, nothing more. A flap of fabric off to the right. No, it was a motionless tree, when she looked. Then another, farther off to the left. Then she saw them.

  They came from between the trees, running light-footed and swift, and even as she watched, they seemed to fade in and out of view, so well-camouflaged were their garments. They covered a great area and although she could not count them, she sensed at least thirty figures approached in a tightening arc.

  Sihkran gave a sharp command, and the Lûk readied their shields and formed up, shoulder to shoulder, in a broad wedge. Tabitha was shuffled into a space behind Garyll, many places back from the front line.

  A tall man with white hair stepped out from a tree not thirty paces ahead, and as he did so, ten others with drawn bows came out from behind him. They had narrow beards, just a stripe upon their chins. They looked like rough men accustomed to hard living. Most of them wore assorted leathers—thick doublets, wristlets, breastplates or collars. Some wore low-browed helms, smeared with muddy colours. Their clothing blended into the colours of the forest; their cloaks had russet-coloured leaves sewn into them.

  The tall man drew his great whitewood bow, and he held the arrow as steady as if he were merely pointing at Sihkran with his finger. He made some challenge, but his speech was difficult for Tabitha to understand. There were few recognisable words within the brogue.

  Sihkran shouted something back, using a similar accent to the Hunter.

  The white-haired Hunter shook his head. “Lûklings, belay yer weapons pon where ye stand onnin loudfeet!” he commanded.

  “Notnay a’likely,” responded Sihkran. “We willer spy yor shaft bedowned a’first.”

  “As well as can be, then we yock over mine arrow bepointed. Why are ye inner Hunterland, Lûklings?”

  “Blood-belt, na Hunter’s land, ya canna claim ground before yon river beside Bradach,” argued Sihkran.

  The leader shrugged, as if he didn’t care where Sihkran thought the Huntersland began. “Why are ye not innin cozened hole inner Sixersides?”

  “We beseek newacomers, they owe a’Lûk two that were living. A boy that a’walk ponner firewyld, he an he woman. They come of a’place named Eyri. We seek justice pon them.”

  A flicker of colour drew her eye upward. A man in the tree pulled his bow taught, his balance steady; his aim intent. Once she’d seen him, she spied ten others among the boughs. Tabitha felt the points of many arrows, kept from falling upon her only by the interruption of the tenuous negotiations.

  “Why should we cannacare about yor justeece?” the Hunter’s leader demanded, his expression implacable, his bow steady. “Why should we waggle tongues pon those from Ayree?”

  “Ye begiven us they that are murderers, or ye let us pass to Bradach.”

  “What makes ye say a daredevilfoolish thing as that? Why should we let er Lûk innin Hunterland? So ye can betrample onner hunting ground, and soiling innin brook? Be away with ye all!”

  “Are ye asimplemind? We have more inner number than ye can hold. Ye bespeaken er truth about a’two newacomers, or ye for treachery die.”

  The Hunter didn’t seem intimidated by Sihkran’s threat. He spat upon the ground then backed away, and his men fanned out around him. “We shed na tear if he killer two Lûk,” he called out. “The riddance be good!”

  “They were treasured men!” roared Jek, just ahead of Tabitha.

  “Majar!” shouted Sihkran. The Lûk rushed forward as one.

  A bowstring pinged, and her quick eye caught a movement against the darkness of the forest, a single shaft, moving fast, its tip a rusted brown triangle, its fletching dirty red. A moment later the heavy-shafted arrow quivered in Sihkran’s shield. The Lûk bunched tightly together, their shields already raised. Then there was a sound like a flock of low-flying doves. A staccato of impacts followed as arrows struck into the company hard and fast. Some of the outermost men yelped, one warrior fell, a red bloom on his chest. Then everyone was roaring and running.

  The battle unfolded around her like a strange vision she couldn’t believe. It had begun so quickly; so stupidly. Garyll and Mulrano stayed with her, framing her on either side with their shields, immobile in the sea of chaotic activity. The Lûk fanned out in multiple wedges, their shields held together like carapaces. Between the volleys of arrows, they advanced, and the Hunters retreated. The closest archers fired. As the Lûk advanced upon them they turned and fled through their own ranks to take positions farther away. A Lûk warrior fell hard, an arrow driven through his chest. Tabitha cried out. The foremost Lûk faced a barrage of arrows shot from extreme angles. Their shields were long and hard enough, but when they lifted them to cover their heads from the tree-borne archers, their legs became exposed. Men fell from the front edge of the formations, clutching arrows, as the remaining Lûk warriors hurried past.

  Tabitha was sick to her stomach. She had no quarrel with these Hunters, but the Lûk had vowed to help her and they had drawn her into this battle. Tabitha might have to fight beside them to survive. She had to call upon her power.

  What could she do? Heal the Lûk as they fell, so they could rise and fight again? Kill the Hunters with the terrifying resonances of the second stanza? What use was there in being a wizard if she couldn’t bring peace?

  What was worse, she might bring wildfire down upon them all if she tried anything. The Sorcerer’s bane might be less reactive over the forest than the wastelands, but she couldn’t be sure. Could she risk moving the clear essence? She knew too little about the workings of wildfire. She was too scared to try. The flowers, there was something about the flowers that was important, but she couldn’t think. Violence seethed all around her.

  As she focused on her dilemma, the perspective she yearned for began to flicker into her mind. Wildfire was drawn to the movement in essence. If she could sing but not move the essence, just change it, there might be a chance. The flowers outside Rôgspar had been changed, whether in her dream or not, she had done something to the world beyond the down, she was certain of it…yet the wildfire hadn’t struck them down. Her understanding was too vague, the solution too complex, and it was coming too late. She had to do something at once.

  She heard the chilling wails of injured men, and the strident howl of Lûk in battle-fury. She drew on the ring’s arcane lore. The Hunter’s bows were the most noticeable danger. Those weapons gave the Hunters too much of an advantage. If the bowstrings were to split, the archers wouldn’t be able to nock their arrows. When the next archer pulled, from within the boughs to her left, she extended her awareness and gathered the elemental sound that the string gave off, the fine frequency that described its presence in the world. Tabitha imagined the fibres fraying and tried to predict how the sound would change if she used her music to alter the world to her liking.

  As she reached for her power, the Lifesong overwhelmed her. She lost all sense of her own body. Time seemed to shake free from her shoulders, and she was filled with air. Harmonies and melodies rose around her, rising in volume and complexity as her awareness expanded. There was so much to the Lifesong, so many cadences and layers beyond the element she had chosen for her focus. She wanted to heal all the wrongs, to let life flood through her, to let her voice echo through the stars, but she couldn’t afford to let the full power escape, for fear of triggering wildfire. The music she was seeking came to her, through her.

  The horror of Ethea’s condition hit her, like a sliver of madness cut into her mind by an axe blade. She had known it was coming; she had to work around it.

  She sang, following a wordless melody, as the tears streamed down her face.

  The world softened before her eyes. The forest became hazy.

  Flames and fire, screaming children, , and the beating of drums.

  The forest surrounding her was a living tapestry of sounds, and she considered the element that she wanted to change. She thought o
nly of the bowstrings as she spread her awareness through the glade. Clear essence swirled like a river through the trees. She was careful not to move it…only, to change it; to be aware of it.

  She took another strike, like an arrow driving into her mind, a birdlike face that screamed at the red sky, shackles that bit, pain that flooded her with horror; raw unguarded emotion.

  Tabitha fell to her knees, but she completed her musical pattern. There was a frame of wood, and the children…the children were trapped inside. She couldn’t think on it, she could only let it wound her. She released the vision she wanted. The sky tightened.

  A stuttered snapping came from all around and sudden cries of dismay. Hunters threw aside their bows, and drew ragged-bladed knives. Some of them dropped from the trees. None of them fled.

  A man screamed as a spear skewered his throat. Wherever the Hunters clashed with the Lûk at close-quarters they lost ground. The grey-skinned warriors had a deadly advantage with their long spears. Hunters began to fall, blood rushing from gaping wounds. Men fought on blindly, never turning to run away, hacking and slicing with their knives even when they had been driven to their knees. It was turning into a bloodbath.

  Tabitha felt sick. She had merely turned the tide of battle, she had not ended it. She had done nothing to bring peace. She reached for the Lifesong again, without thinking, plunging through the music, into power. She wanted the battle to stop.

  Flames and fire, and the screaming of children, and the beating, beating, beating.

  She yearned to sing to the sky, to give voice to all of the Lifesong which she felt, to answer the powerful need to express it. The flux of the universe was there for the wielding. Remember the wildfire, she told herself desperately. Remember the wildfire. Don’t make the essence move; use the song to change the world.

  All the while, the Hunters darted in and out of the Lûk, slicing at their legs, but the Lûk were tougher, their thick skins protecting them. Hunters hunched over upon thrust spears. Hunters were slapped down by whirling shafts. Hunters were stamped into the earth under heavy boots. Tabitha had never seen such a frenzy of killing, so violent, mad and bloodthirsty. It was as if everyone in the battle was possessed.