by Dave Smeds
Toren stared at the crumbling ash of their fire. The ring of hearthstones was the last evidence of Fhali presence he would be likely to see. His grandfather had placed some of those stones, though the memory was now lost with the totem. He whispered the ritual words spoken when taking leave of the dead, and turned his back to his tribe's land.
He walked for four days like a drugged man, taking no interest in his surroundings. Deena taught him a few words of her language each time they camped, but he memorized the lessons with some distant part of himself. He did not care which forks of the trail they took. Each morning when he was roused, he would already be longing for the night, when his weariness would pull him quickly off to sleep.
What would his son be thinking? He was due back at his village. As the days passed, would Rhi assume that he had been killed? Surely, after a month, he would.
Rhi would have to be adopted by his uncle, or his grandfather, and plan to receive their totem in place of Toren's. Toren wished there were a way to tell his son that he would be back in time. It would be many years before Rhi's manhood ceremony. Surely he would be back by then.
The voices of his ancestors sent no comforting words.
****
On the morning of the fourth day, something intruded into his fugue like a woodpecker battering at a weather-hardened tree. He stopped.
Geim barely avoided bumping into him. "What is it?"
Toren shook the dust out of his head. "I don't know," he said, but even as he spoke he felt a familiar, ethereal tug. In the past he had always interpreted the sensation as the speech of his ancestors. The signal pulled him past Ivayer, down the trail to a large boulder.
The top of the stone was flat. Bones had been placed there.
Toren pointed. Ivayer picked one up. It was a human ulna. There were also a few vertebrae, a section of a tibia, and several other smaller fragments difficult to identify. Each showed indentations left by filed teeth. The hair on the nape of Toren's neck began to rise.
"It's a border marker. We are entering the territory of the Amane," Toren told Geim.
"Amane? The cannibals?"
"Yes. I have a bad feeling."
Geim frowned, and translated Toren's comments. Ivayer ran a finger along the gnawed surface of the bone he held and answered in slow, thoughtful tones.
"How far is it around the Amane nation?" Geim asked.
Toren pointed east, then west. "Their range stretches all the way to the coast, and all the way to the Flat."
Ivayer seemed displeased with the news. Eventually he tossed down the bone and jerked his thumb at the trail. Geim translated his comments.
"We came through on the way south. In fact, it was near here that we first spotted your tracks."
"You were lucky," Toren responded. "By this time they may have discovered traces of your earlier visit. They will be more vigilant."
"Nevertheless, there doesn't seem to be a way around them. We will go on."
"Then give me my blowgun back so that I can give an accounting of myself before I am eaten."
Much to his surprise, Ivayer granted the request, though they made him place his pouch of darts on the rear of his belt, where it was in plain view of Geim and Deena. The latter, as usual, kept a nocked arrow in her bow.
Ivayer led the way. Toren kept his weapon in his hands. He drummed his nails against the hard reed tube. The premonition refused to fade.
The forest, contrary to his mood, was bright and fresh. Birds twittered through the branches, gathering material for nests. The moist humus and the recently washed leaves gave off a thick, fecund aroma. As they passed through occasional clearings, Achird's rays beat pleasantly on their shoulders, mitigating the late winter chill. The scene should have had a cheering effect.
Half a day's hike past the border marker, the sensation of danger suddenly overwhelmed Toren. He pitched forward into the mud. An arrow whistled over his head.
Ahead, Ivayer screamed, dropping to his knees, struck by another arrow squarely in the center of his chest. Toren rolled into the brush. He saw Geim dive for cover. Deena, however, stood her ground, her bowstring drawn back as far as she could pull, feathers at her chin, searching the brush. She fired. Someone screamed. Deena bolted for the protection of a fallen log. An arrow caught her in the forearm just as she ducked out of sight.
Toren turned back to Ivayer. His face was a rictus of pain. He clutched the shaft in his heart. He had a few seconds at most to live. Yet, to Toren's amazement, he sloughed the bracelet off his wrist and threw it to the modhiv.
As Ivayer collapsed, the woods filled with the sound of charging men, at least two coming down the trail, and others though the foliage at either side. "Run!" Geim shouted. As he called out, an arrow grazed his upper arm, ironically the one Toren had wounded days before.
Before the archer could reload, Toren sprinted down the trail toward Geim's position.
An arrow hummed past his side and ricochetted off a small rock.
Toren cursed. The latest missile had come from a new direction. An archer in a tree was cutting off their retreat.
Geim launched his net. It snared the archer. The man gave one spasmodic jerk and fell to a hard impact beside the trail.
From the original direction, four Amane warriors burst into view, bearing spears and shields.
Toren fired his blowgun. The dart caught in the thick hide of a shield. There was no time to reload. Toren jumped behind the log where Deena had taken refuge. Geim was already there. He had finally had time to pull his bow from behind his back and draw an arrow from his quiver.
The Amane lifted their shields and kept coming. Geim drew back and released. The arrow raced completely through the shield and sank deep in the lead warrior's body. The Amane staggered, jaws agape. The second Amane collided with the first.
Deena's wound made it impossible to use her sword. She drew it and shoved the hilt toward Toren. Geim eliminated the third Amane as he had the first, then the fight became too close for archery. Toren brandished the sword and the fourth man, perhaps daunted by the worsening odds, halted his charge. Neither he nor Toren would commit to a thrust or a throw. In the meantime, the second Amane recovered his footing.
Geim drew his sword. It was an almost instantaneous motion; one moment his hand was empty, the next it held the blade. "Out of the way!"
Toren barely managed to comply. Geim waded in, slashing. Both Amane stepped back, shields out. But the thick leather and wood were not equipped to thwart a steel edge. The first two cuts opened huge rents in the shield of one warrior, the next drove through that of the other man and sliced his arm.
The Amane reevaluated their position, turned, and ran away.
Geim tensed as if to rush after them, but Toren yanked him sideways. An arrow flew by. The remaining archer was still vigilant.
"Come on," Toren said. "The Amane like to patrol in bands of eleven. That means there are four we haven't seen yet."
Geim sheathed his sword, picked up his bow, and they retreated, keeping behind cover. On the way Geim recovered his magic net from the fallen archer's body. When they were sure they were out of the surviving bowman's line of fire, they straightened up and quickened their pace.
The entire ambush had taken about two minutes. Toren's head spun, thinking of all that had happened in that time. He scarcely noticed that he was loading a dart in his blowgun, but because of it he was the person most prepared when they rounded a massive tree and found themselves face to face with another pair of Amane.
The cannibals seemed equally surprised by the encounter. Toren aimed his weapon and blew with all the force his lungs possessed. His dart disappeared to the feathers in the gut of the closest man. The second one reacted instantly, driving toward Toren with his spear. Toren twisted, but it was not sufficient.
Geim drew his sword and cut downward in a single motion. The blade clipped off the spear head. The blunt shaft slammed into Toren's abdomen, knocking the air out of him. He and the Amane fell togethe
r to the ground. He stared straight into his enemy's glare, smelled the breath erupting between filed teeth. Geim followed through. The glare went dim. Deena pulled off the spasming body while Geim dealt with the man Toren had wounded.
Toren sat up. His upper abdomen throbbed. The spear haft had torn his skin open, badly bruising the muscles beneath. Finally he was able to inhale.
Geim kneeled down beside him. "Are you all right?"
"I will be shortly," Toren wheezed. "I am lucky you know how to use that sword so well."
Geim shook his head. "I am an amateur compared to the men who instructed me. I started too late in life."
Toren's attention was sucked in by the last feeble, waning movements of the Amane he had shot. Geim had wielded the deathblow, but poison so near the heart had guaranteed loss of life. A dose of antidote would not have worked in time. Toren had killed a man.
They heard no indication of pursuit, so Geim allowed Toren a few moments to recover, and went to Deena. She, due to their previous haste, still carried the arrow in her forearm. The shaft had travelled completely through so that it jutted out the far side. Geim broke off the point and drew it out. She bit her lip, tears welling, but made no outcry. Geim bound both entry and exit wounds.
That done, he picked up the discarded obsidian tip and examined it, frowning.
"The Amane do not use poison," Toren commented. "They believe it taints the meat."
Geim nodded, and tossed the point away. Deena said something emphatic to him. He glanced at the cut on his arm and grunted. Though superficial, because of his exertions during the battles it was bleeding badly. At Deena's insistence, they delayed even longer while Toren bound it.
They were ready to go. Geim glanced doubtfully to the right and left. "This time, you choose," he told Toren.
Toren picked a direction at random, and they set out.
VII
BATS GLIDED LOW over the lake, scooping up their minute prey. Occasionally one would flit past Toren's vantage point, twittering, only to be lost in the modest light of Serpent Moon and Urthey. Though dusk was barely over, it was the darkest part of the night. Toren readjusted his stance on the rocks and noted with satisfaction the activity on the shore. In the past half hour several hayeri, a troop of forest monkeys, and finally a moon cat had come to drink at the lake's edge, obscuring the traces left by the passage of Toren, Geim, and Deena. It was only the last of many tactics the humans had used to conceal their spoor in the hours since the fight with the Amane.
Toren turned his back to the lake and climbed down the outcropping to join his companions. "I think we're safe for the moment," he told Geim.
The northern Vanihr's arm remained limp in his lap. The wound had opened sporadically throughout their run. Deena also had lost a significant quantity of blood. Toren had been forced to wait for them more than once.
"No premonitions?" Geim asked.
"Not since soon after we left. Perhaps the other Amane didn't find the battle site right away; perhaps they felt they had lost too many men."
Geim nodded. He was being especially quiet. At first Toren believed it to be the pain in his arm or fatigue, but the alert glare of his pupils belied it. The northerner stared toward the direction of the ambush, stiff-jawed.
Toren knew of one other reason why they had not been followed, but he did not say it aloud. Geim thought of it anyway.
"We should have plunged one of your darts into Ivayer's body. The poison might have prevented the cannibals from molesting it."
"There wasn't time," Toren said. He realized the fact was not much consolation. "They will sooner eat their own dead," he added quickly. "They believe their totems are made stronger when they consume the flesh of family members." That did not mean that the tribe would refuse to eat Ivayer, but Toren avoided that point.
"There were five of us when we set out from the temple," Geim said morosely. "We lost one to a forest stalker, and another to an infection. Now Deena and I are the only ones left."
Toren was surprised that he could feel sympathy for persons who had captured him and stolen his totem. He lifted the bracelet. "He did not think of himself at the last. Instead, he saved my ancestors."
"Of course."
"Because I am valuable to you?"
Geim sighed. "Believe what you like." He shifted gingerly, taking special care not to jar his arm. Toren marvelled that he had managed to wield a bow and a sword despite the wound and the lingering effects of the blowgun poison. "I don't know how I'm going to tell Obo that he has lost his apprentice. He had high hopes for Ivayer. He regretted having to send him on this quest. Said he's seen too many people dear to him sent off to distant lands."
Toren remembered Obo as the individual who had made the magic net. It was unclear how he fit into the scheme with Struth, but Toren realized that Geim was speaking not so much to his listener as to himself, and let the conversation lapse.
Toren raised a blowgun dart up to the moons' light. During their flight, he had continually pictured the Amane he had shot. He had always imagined that his first kill would be different. With all the memories of his ancestors, some of whom had been modhiv, available to his call, he had "seen" what it was like to slay someone. Though some of the images were not pleasant, he had thought himself inured. A warrior was required to kill. He had done so honorably, in self-defense, swift to the mark. It was proper vengeance for all the Fhali who had gone to the cooking pots. Yet it bothered him. There were no internal voices to reassure him; there was no hero's welcome as he carried the news to his village. There was only a dead man.
The night breeze, seasoned with the scent of the lake and its reeds, was cool. It gave him goose flesh. They did not dare light a fire. He rose and paced.
Deena had gathered the bows and had tried to unstring them. Her injury had prevented it. Toren finally noticed and lifted the smaller weapon out of her limp fingers.
"Bow," he said.
"Mennich," she replied.
He began to unstring it. And grunted. It took far more effort than he anticipated. Once the tension was gone, the bow actually bent in the opposite direction. It was not simply wood, but a composite of wood and bone, bound together with sinew. He examined it for several minutes, noting the fundamentals of its construction. When he picked up Geim's bow, rather than unstringing it, he selected an arrow.
The northerners stiffened as he armed himself, but neither tried to interfere. Toren drew back the shaft and aimed at a rotting log twenty paces away.
The arrow impacted with a hard, lethal cough, drilling deeply into the wood.
The firing power was at least double that of a Vanihr bow. Yet, Toren was certain his shot was considerably weaker than what Geim had been able to effect earlier that day.
"Hold the string, not the arrow," Geim said. Toren did not understand what he meant, so Geim showed him. Instead of pinching the nock in order to pull back, he placed a finger on either side of it and pulled the string directly.
Toren tried the method. Thanks to the unaccustomed grip his shot flew slightly to the side, but it punctured the log so deeply that the pile came out the other side. He was unable to dig either arrow out of the log in one piece, though he salvaged the metal. He ceased experimenting before he used up any more of their precious supply.
He pictured Geim's shots penetrating completely through the hide shields of the Amane, and his steel sword severing a spear haft in one blow.
"Does everyone have bows like this on the northern continent?" he asked Geim.
"They're known everywhere outside Vanihr lands."
Toren pursed his lips. It was no longer so bizarre a thought to imagine a dragon and his army sweeping over the Wood. He pointed to the bow and the sword. "Will you teach me how to use these weapons as we go north?"
Geim seemed to read the sentence for all its implications. "Yes," he said firmly. "I'll teach you anything you ask, if it's within my ability."
"Good." An image came to Toren's mind: his son and father, gre
eting him with pride as he returned from far-off lands, bearing knowledge that would profit the tribe. For the first time, he did not feel like a total captive.
He unstrung the bow and set it aside. It was time to eat; he had not carried the hayeri jerky this far, on the run, to see it go to waste.
For once, Deena did not offer any language lessons. It was halfway through the meal before she spoke at all. Geim translated.
"You knew ahead of time that the Amane were going to attack. How?"
"I always know when danger is near. It's an ability I've had since I was a boy."
"Does anyone else in your tribe have this talent?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Didn't you wonder about it?"
"I asked my shaman about it once, when I was interested in becoming his apprentice. He said it was a minor gift, good for a scout."
"And you believed him?"
He stared Deena straight in the eyes. "Yes. Of course," he replied, but the question clung to his mind long after the meal was over. When he went to sleep, it was still there.
As usual, he dreamed of home.
****
Beside Toren were all the other modhiv candidates of the Fhali, twenty youths arranged in a long line, each one standing straight as a spear, trying not to reveal their intimidation. Olaxl, the high master, paced in front of them, his aging eyes alert and still able to stare down the bravest of his pupils. Who would he chose?
The old man stopped in front of the tallest of the group, a muscular boy with heavy-lidded eyes.
"Borei," the high master said.
The candidate stepped briskly into the sparring circle. Toren felt his pulse quicken. Borei was fast. His strikes left bruises.
"Toren."
The student next to him let out an audible sigh of sympathy. Toren's feet tingled as he crossed the packed earth. He kept his glance on Borei, his opponent, avoiding Olaxl's stare. He dared not show weakness to the high master. Olaxl had the sole power to determine who would be made a modhiv and who would be dropped as a candidate. To lose his respect was to suddenly join the ranks of the hunters. Toren was close to his coming of age; it was past the time to begin an apprenticeship in one of the other specialized castes, such as the healers or artisans, and far too late to study to be a shaman, as he had once fantasized. Caste choice had to be made before he received his totem. It had to be based on his own abilities, without help from the memories of ancestors. If he failed now to become a warrior, a hunter was all that would be left, a role of no distinction. His father and brothers were hunters.
