Then the path had grown steeper. They’d started zigzagging. Cracks appeared in the ground—not eroded gullies from rain, but raw, gaping rents that stank of sulfur, and that hissed and radiated heat. Before entering the Rift, the near-autumn temperature in the mountains had been crisp—but now they were back into the range of an uncomfortable summer day, and it was still growing hotter. Malena’s tunic was soaked with sweat.
It made the thirst worse.
Jagged volcanic rocks—some as small as pinecones, others reaching the wound on the horse’s withers, littered the ground. They’d detoured, again and again, searching for gentler inclines or smoother surfaces. They’d slipped and stumbled downward, straining to keep their footing and stay together. Malena had scraped a knee, and her palm was cut.
In good conditions, a healthy adult walked about a league in an hour. They’d managed most of that pace, maybe, as the march commenced. Now they were traveling much more slowly; whether they were making any forward progress at all was debatable. So much for an easy short-cut. How many days would it take Gorumim to float two hundred leagues? A week or more, she hoped. Could they cross as quickly?
They must.
For the hundredth time, she wondered about Tupa. It was a question that haunted her more than the eerie, ever-present sounds in the mist. It had dogged her through the mountains, and in the river, and even in last night’s mad scramble. It never went away.
The little boy they’d found had bruises and a split lip. Oji said he’d been near death when he was rescued… Gorumim seemed to want the children somewhere other than the wilderness to satisfy his black purpose, but they had no guarantee he’d travel all the way to the capital before he carried out the murders he planned. What if they confronted the kidnappers too late?
What if Malena’s sister was suffering the same kind of assault that she herself had endured? Tupa was still skinny and awkward, with a body that gave little hint of the womanhood in her future. But her face was pretty…
It was too much. Malena shook her head angrily. Her thoughts always came to this.
She had to think about something else—anything else.
Her parents.
They had to be dead. She’d been skirting the thought for days, but now she forced herself to face it squarely. The bandits wouldn’t have let them live, and neither was likely to survive a battle. There’d been gossip about Toril in Two Forks; if there’d been word of her father, wouldn’t she have heard that as well? Her father wasn’t wealthy, like Hasha, but his name was well known…
Maybe.
What did she feel, imagining her parents dead?
For her father, she felt sorrow; it was the reaction of a dutiful daughter to a man who’d been distant and self-absorbed for most of her life. He had not been a horrible man, perhaps, but he’d been one she could care for only in a careful, limited fashion. He’d tried to curtail Malena’s studies, frowning on her interest in language and geography as irrelevant to the family ambitions. And he’d dallied, she thought. Or at least he’d convinced his daughter, in some way that she recognized but could not quite explain, that it was unsafe for a wife to trust her husband without reservation.
For her mam, Malena felt real grief. Sanina was a flawed person, too: prone to complain, prone to nag, too quick to support the social climbing that Malena’s father valued. Sanina been complicit in her husband’s attitude that women were chattel. But she’d been kind, in her way. And she’d borne the hardship and loneliness of her imperfect marriage, if not with selfless courage, then at least with tenacity.
Malena’s mother had intercepted and read Toril’s private love letters, except the one he’d braided into the mane of a marwari in the bride price. And she’d given lots of irritating advice. Yet she’d also taught Malena to pray as a child, and cried when her daughters rode away to their fosterages, and loved Tupa almost as much as Malena herself.
And she was probably lying unburied on a lonely mountainside somewhere. She would never see a grandchild. Never meddle in Tupa’s wedding plans.
Malena sniffed.
About the time they stopped to eat a meager mid-day meal, Shivi and Paka had begun coughing more often. Whatever its composition, the haze was not easy on the lungs—even though the older couple rode.
Now they hacked steadily.
With one hand, Malena held a string tied to her husband’s belt; with her other, she led the horse. Toril plodded ahead, his feet rising and falling, rising and falling. Were his thoughts with the children, or was he worrying about clan politics? Did he think of his father?
Sometimes he looked up, when invisible vibrations crescendoed in the air. But mostly he seemed to study the dirt.
She’d watched the hunch of his shoulders, the gash torn at the back of his thigh by the wolf, his limp.
He had no sister to rescue.
And yet he was here.
He’d defied the consensus of his peers, offended the clan, sacrificed his reputation, maybe destroyed his political career forever, to come. Her father wouldn’t have made that choice, if roles were reversed.
He didn’t seem to care about gold.
Corim liked him. So did Oji. And Shivi. And Paka.
Did she?
He’d cried when they found the boy.
Malena blinked hard at that memory.
She’d seen him glance at his staff from time to time.
What did it say to him?
What iron kept him moving, on an empty stomach, with little sleep, day after day? Ever since he’d pulled her back from death, she’d had a sort of magical rejuvenation taking the edge off physical hardship. Sometimes, she felt the oddness of it; it lurked, like something seen only out of the corner of her eyes, when she least expected. The pain in her palm was gone, and the skin on her knee would be unblemished by morning.
He had nothing.
The gloom had not cloaked him removing boots during one rest, adjusting ragged footwraps to cover blisters better, wincing as he tugged leather back in place. And then turning to offer Shivi the last of the waterskin.
She’d loved him then—loved the half-smile on his lips, the bruise just visible on his forehead, and the stubble on his partly scabbed jaw.
It wasn’t the sort of love she’d imagined she’d have for a husband some day.
Light was beginning to fade again, now, and the mist had thickened as they descended. The hair-raising murmurs hammered away at her nerves. They had a voice-like quality now, almost like the moaning of human beings. Perhaps the stories of ghosts were true.
She swallowed, vainly battling the cotton in her mouth and throat.
Without warning, a rock skittered out in the gray.
Her string to Toril went slack.
The horse snorted and side-stepped nervously.
Oji melted into view, facing the sound, his arm outstretched to shoo Toril back.
Toril hefted the staff.
The noise in the mist swelled, and now Malena detected a texture of rasping, throaty chuckles above it. A morbid hint of humor made the threat in the sound far worse.
Another rock thudded—this time from the opposite direction. At least that’s what her ears suggested. Malena wheeled around. Were those eyes, glowing back at her?
They winked out.
The horse stamped. Malena heard Shivi murmur to it.
“Show yourself,” Toril said, his voice loud but uneven.
Total silence fell. Malena held her breath. She felt her heart pounding.
Five beats.
Ten.
Then the gloom erupted.
Oji somersaulted backward, bowled over by a waist-high blur that seemed to have tusks in front and a hump of muscle at its shoulder. He was back on his feet in an instant. Malena heard grunts and squeals behind her, sensed the horse rearing, felt the reins jerk in her hand.
She sprang to the side, stumbled, lurched upright again. Dropping the tether to her husband, she drew the knife she’d tucked in a boot.
Ghostly shapes crowded in.
Toril struck out and connected with something that shrieked and scrabbled away.
For a moment, she thought the attackers had two heads. Then she saw Oji slash at a shadow with his shortsword, and realized that he’d dismounted some sort of... rider. Its body sagged into a grotesque heap at her feet. It had a broad, flat face with no nose, and an underbite emphasized by jutting canines. Outsized, all-black eyes glimmered beneath a horny crest. Its skin seemed to consist of jointed plates that glinted green around the edges, but brilliant orange in the middle. Spindly legs and a swollen body gave it a beetle-like appearance. A puddle of molasses-colored blood seeped toward her toe.
Pishacha.
She recoiled in disgust.
The thing it had been riding vanished. Flickers of color faded.
Silence brooded.
She heard ragged breathing and realized it was her own.
Toril took a step out into haze, staff held at the ready.
“Get us off the horse,” Shivi whispered, her voice full of fear.
“You’re safer up high,” Oji said. “No tusks.”
“It almost threw us,” she responded tensely. “I think I’d rather take my chances on the ground.”
As if to emphasize the old woman’s concern, the horse tossed its head and flared its nostrils. Malena yanked on the reins and felt her arm jerk back at the animal’s resistance.
“What if it bolts?” Paka said.
It was a ghastly question. Last night they’d barely found Oji, standing a few paces away. What chance did they have of locating a panicked horse that galloped off into the dark, dodging in random directions? Any rider it carried would be lost.
Malena experienced a chill despite the heat.
Toril stepped back, still facing unseen attackers, and felt with one hand for the horse’s ribs. “Use my shoulders,” he said. “Faster than climbing down.” He grunted as Shivi leaned clumsily, knelt to deposit her beside Malena, then stood again for Paka. The older man groaned as he slumped off, then reached for the sitar that he’d strapped to the saddle.
Meanwhile, Malena fumbled at the belt securing the saddlebag, dividing nervous glances between her fingerwork and the haze. Food was gone, but the gear in it would be sorely missed if lost. As soon as she was done, she dropped the reins, glad to shed the distraction of managing a terrified animal much stronger than she was.
Beside her, she heard Toril suck in his breath. A deeper layer of darkness was coalescing out of the gloom, now—the silhouette of eight or nine little monsters, each holding reins atop a sort of bristly, savage pig. Some carried spears; one swung what looked like a machete, and the rest held stones to throw. A few had extra arms that intensified the resemblance to insects.
One shape raised its spear as a signal of some kind.
A whistle sounded, followed by a chorus of hoarse cries.
Inky shapes surged.
The horse screamed and reared.
Malena felt a shove against her shoulder. She fell onto hands and knees, saw Toril leaning into a two-handed blow with the staff, caught a glimpse of cloven hooves and a clawed foot in a stirrup. Something raked her cheek. She swung with her knife, connected with flesh at an angle that made her wrist pop. A spear shot past her head. Paka gasped as if from a heavy blow.
Then she heard a rhythm of pounding hooves, receding rapidly. Whoops, shrieks, and grunts followed, fading with distance.
Malena rocked back on her heels, brushed grit from her knees, and looked up to see her husband’s hand extended to help her stand.
Without warning, the far-away gallop stopped. The other noises crescendoed in triumph. Toril’s head turned. He stood motionless, listening.
“Where did they go?” Malena asked.
“After the horse,” said a shadow with Oji’s voice. He trotted past Malena and put a hand on a shoulder shaped like Paka. The old man was down on one knee, apparently. “You all right?”
“Smashed my hip,” Paka said, in a tone tight with pain. “Tusks ripped me, I think.”
“Let me see,” said Oji.
“Where’s Shivi?” the old man said instead. Scuffing and panting told Malena that he was attempting to stand.
“Here.”
Malena turned to see a familiar form limping toward them from beyond Toril.
“Are you hurt, Shiv?” Paka quavered.
“Got knocked over by that fool horse. I twisted my knee going down,” said Shivi. “I’ll live.”
“That horse saved our lives, I think,” muttered Toril. “As soon as they saw that we were standing our ground and the horse was running, they lost interest in us. We’d be stuck full of spears otherwise.”
“They’ll come back soon,” Oji said.
In the dimness, Malena could see that Toril shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. They were after food, not murder. Did you see the formation they used?”
“The line?” she asked.
He nodded. “That’s a dumb setup for a battle, if numbers are on your side. We only had to fight from the front.”
“Ah,” Oji said meaningfully.
Toril turned to face the direction where the horse had disappeared. “It’s the same maneuver my tat had me practice with Hika. Drives the sheep.”
“Where?” Malena asked.
“Into a trap. Or off a cliff, maybe.”
45
blue sky ~ Malena
“What do we do now?” Malena asked.
The sound of disembodied voices swelled in the dimness. Malena tensed and held her breath, but in a few moments, silence reasserted itself.
“We put distance between us and the pishachas. As much as we can,” Oji said. “They might find their way here, but unless they sense better than I do, tracking us farther, in these fumes and in the dark, will be tough. That gives us a chance.”
“Can you manage?” Malena said, turning to Paka. Although he was close, murk hid the expression on his face. His posture, however, communicated pain.
“For a while,” he muttered.
Oji gestured. “I think we want this way.”
At her side, Malena felt Toril stiffen.
“Wait,” he said slowly. He stretched out the staff until it was horizontal, then pointed into ashy fog, shuffled slightly, swung one way, hesitated, turned back. Finally he settled on a direction, dropped the tip of the staff to the dirt, and sighed. “We go there.”
Malena inhaled softly.
“Almost the same direction the horse disappeared?” Shivi said. “The same direction those boars and their riders went?”
Toril’s voice sounded apologetic. “The staff just lit up for me. You still can’t see it?”
“We barely see your outline,” Oji said. “Let alone any glow.”
“It gets brighter when I point in some directions, dimmer in others.”
“Well, it is not north,” Oji said. “At least, it doesn’t feel north to me.”
“I’m not so eager to meet those little monsters again,” Paka said, his voice full of strain. “Are you sure?”
The group waited, but Toril did not speak.
“What if the staff is just finding nearby magic?” Malena suggested. “If some old spell lingers in that wood, maybe it responds to any similar power. The hairs on my neck have been warning about something all day. Something that grows stronger.”
“Maybe it’s pointing to danger, not escape?” Shivi said.
Toril seemed to shrug. For a long time, he didn’t respond. Malena thought she saw a silhouette of knuckles against his bowed forehead.
“I could be wrong,” Toril whispered at last. “Or I could be imagining the whole thing—a figment of my wishful thinking. I don’t think so, but how much should we trust what I think? Five know none of us want to believe we’re wandering blind, here. I’ve made enough mistakes, skipped enough sleep, and seen enough awful things in the past few days that it all begins to blend into a sort of nightmare. It makes me take any challenge to my
sanity seriously—especially if someone accuses me of foolish hope. How sane was it to come after the children? Or to think we might cross this cursed valley?”
“Your staff put us in the river,” Oji said. “That took us from the obvious path, and it was not crazy.”
“No?” Toril asked. “It about got Shivi killed. And don’t forget that the staff put us in the path of the pishachas, too.” Malena sensed a plaintive, almost desperate tone as her husband’s words were swallowed by gloom.
“Don’t have time for this,” Paka said, gasping like he spoke through gritted teeth. The strings of his instrument twanged slightly as he hoisted. “We need to make a choice now.”
“I say we follow the staff,” said Shivi. She stooped and lifted Paka’s arm across her shoulders. “Not just because our clan chief asks us to, but because that’s what we decided to do when we came here. I’m not changing my mind now.”
Oji exhaled quietly, then shrugged. “She’s right.”
When nobody dissented, Toril bent to position himself beside the old man, opposite Shivi.
Malena waved him off. “You’re too tall,” she said. “And Oji’s too short. Let me.”
The two women took enough weight off Paka’s legs that he managed to move forward. Toril paced ahead. Oji brought up the rear, sword in hand.
Malena held the string that bound them to her husband, and kept eyes on the ground, hoping to avoid stones and depressions that would cause a stumble. Within a short time, however, full dark swallowed them, and even her own feet became invisible.
They shuffled on, starting and stopping as Toril picked his way forward.
Over and over, Malena felt Paka’s rib cage heave beneath her arm as he breathed in uneven gasps. Sometimes he convulsed and staggered, overcome with fits of coughing.
She was laboring more than an ordinary walk demanded, and she puffed in and out through her mouth. Her throat parched. The thirst that had bothered her all day was now a constant, nagging imperative. Her lips had cracked; when she attempted to moisten them with her tongue, she felt roughness and tasted copper.
Soil slid and sank with the feel of loose sand.
They curved right, then zagged left.
Cordimancy Page 31
