Whisper of Leaves

by Unknown

  Branches snapped as the strangers blundered about below. There was a harsh exchange of words and then, after an excruciatingly long time, the speakers moved off. There was one final thwacking noise and then silence.

  Kira lay rigid, doused in sweat, not daring to move lest the rustling branches draw them back. No stranger could find their way into Allogrenia. It was unmarked. Allogrenia was unmarked. The thought lodged in her brain and she couldn’t move beyond it. Eventually the frantic beating of her heart calmed and her weariness caused her to slip into an uneasy slumber, not fully rousing again until the sun was high and the terrawood alive with birds. She watched them dart about her, bright flashes of yellow and green, squabbling and singing. In the blue of day, the night voices seemed remote and unbelievable, nothing more than echoes of a dream.

  Tresen and Kandor were nowhere to be seen and Kira’s fear surged afresh, then she heard them chattering below. Hauling herself upright, she bundled up the sling and made her way down through the branches, staring about through the leaves before swinging herself down.

  Tresen was tending a small fire, a pan of boiling water set on it, the smoke lacing the air with spiciness.

  ‘Awake at last,’ said Kandor cheerily, his cheeks bulging with nutcake, his lap filled with crumbs.

  ‘We thought we’d let you sleep,’ said Tresen, pouring the water expertly into a cup. Flakes of thornyflower swirled on the surface, the water quickly staining a deep green. ‘Breakfast is served,’ he said, handing it to her with a flourish. ‘There’s dried sweetberries and blacknuts to go with the nutcake, and fresh sour-ripe.’

  Kira pushed the hair from her eyes. Tresen and Kandor were busy laying out more nuts and fruit, and Allogrenia looked as it always did in the mornings: golden with light and full of birdsong. Should she speak of what she’d heard? But what indeed had she heard?

  ‘What is it?’ asked Tresen, seeing her expression.

  ‘I heard voices in the night,’ said Kira.

  ‘Protectors? I didn’t think there was a patrol scheduled for this octad.’

  ‘Not Protectors,’ said Kira, ‘strangers.’

  Tresen looked sceptical. ‘It’s not possible. Surely you were dreaming?’

  ‘I don’t think I was dreaming,’ said Kira, sitting beside Kandor and hugging her knees.

  ‘But no one can find their way into Allogrenia. You must have been dreaming,’ said Kandor. ‘You’re not thinking of going back, are you, Tresen? I don’t want to go back yet.’

  ‘Maybe it was a dream,’ said Kira.

  Tresen shrugged, thinking of what he’d learned since beginning Protector training. Kasheron had decreed that Allogrenia remain pathless and, apart from the Drinkwater Path, it had. The vastness of the trackless trees formed a formidable defensive barrier. He had never heard the Protector Leaders question its effectiveness, not even Kest, who the others looked to for guidance.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any need to turn back,’ said Tresen slowly. ‘After all, if there had been voices, surely Kandor or I would have woken.’

  Kandor heaved a mighty sigh of relief. ‘Good. Now have your breakfast, Kira, before Tresen eats the rest of the nutcake.’

  The Protectors moved swiftly through the trees, their breathing harsh and their faces slick. The sun was at its zenith, the air under the canopy stifling, but they continued on without complaint, their shirts and breeches grimy and sweat-stained. Finally an order rang out and they came to a halt, throwing themselves down in the deeper pools of shade and drinking deeply from their waterskins.

  Only Kest remained standing, palming the stinging wetness from his eyes and squinting at the trees about him. The tang in the air told him a change was coming but it was too far off to bring them relief now. He tossed his pack down, arching his back in relief, then dragged his waterskin out. It was too hot for the pace he’d set, but his men had travelled faster and further than he dared hope possible. There were just ten of them; the other half of his patrol had been sent to the Bough. He took a swig of water, wondering again whether he’d done the right thing in splitting their strength.

  Ordinarily he would have sought further orders, but things were far from ordinary. To have followed Sarkash to the Kashclan longhouse would have cost him half a day, and time was already against him. Would Sarkash agree with him or deem him completely lacking in judgement – like Lern? Lern had suggested the nutting party would sleep in the ashaels, but his patrol had reached the ashaels just after dawn and there had been neither sight nor sound of them. Where in the ’green were they?

  Kest had an overwhelming impulse to bolt on through the forest but forced himself to dredge his brain for every possibility first. If the nutting party hadn’t gone to the ashaels after all, they’d have no reason to be as far west as he was. They would probably be taking the more direct, north-easterly route to the rednuts instead. No doubt they would be travelling more slowly than he was too, for they had no reason to rush. In which case, he was probably further west than they were, and perhaps further north. He must strike east immediately!

  He shouted an order and his men scrambled to their feet, struggling to get their packs back on. There was no need to explain the necessity of speed, or the possibility of battle at the end. They knew that there were strangers in Allogrenia, that trees had been slashed, and that the Leader’s daughter and youngest son were likely in the same octad as the intruders. Kest shouted again, and they set off at speed through the trees.

  A chill blast of air whistled through the undergrowth and the sunlight vanished from the forest floor, causing Kira to stare up in dismay. Beyond the sudden thrash of trees, clouds scudded across the sky, driven by a wind with a damp, keening edge. She pulled out her cape and put it on, drawing the hood close round her face to shut out the wind, then peered back to make sure Kandor had done the same. She didn’t want him catching a chill.

  Tresen was no longer in sight, though he’d been only a short way ahead a moment ago. He was eager to reach the groves, even though they were still a long way off. She grinned, remembering their little competitions as to who could gather the most. Tresen nearly always won, not only because he was the eldest and strongest, but because he was the least inclined to be distracted. Kandor usually spent too much time eating to pick quickly, and she’d inevitably spy some herb or other and go off to investigate.

  Not that it mattered. They ended up sharing anyway, sitting on the starstone and using the river stones to crush the shells and release the nuts’ pink flesh, feasting long into the night. Her mouth watered at the thought, and she quickened her pace. It seemed a long time since she’d last been there.

  Arkendrin grimaced as he stared into the thickening gloom, considering the nights since he’d left. No doubt Erboran’s glee at his absence had grown with each passing day, till it was as bloated as yesterday’s moon. He spat and wiped at his greasy brow. At least the suffocating heat of morning had given way to a cooling wind; the Sky Chiefs be praised for that! And they were now journeying north-east, towards the Grounds, not deeper into the reek. The trees groaned against each other, and every now and then the tangled branches broke, letting shafts of cool air penetrate to the forest floor. He touched his hand to his forehead; surely the Sky Chiefs favoured his quest by sending him their sweet breath?

  Urgundin’s hand on his arm brought him up short, and he turned angrily, but his companion’s gaze was fixed on a point to the south. There was a treeman there, carrying a pack and wearing a flatsword at his belt, but no dagger or spear, Arkendrin noted, as he slid soundlessly behind a straggly bush.

  They were poorly hidden, but it didn’t matter; the treeman moving as unwarily as a milk-blind ebis, easy to take. Irdodun had said that sometimes the treemen wandered solitarily, and sometimes in groups strung out through the forest. Marking the treeman’s direction, Arkendrin waited. The man disappeared among the boles and, shortly after, another appeared. This one was more of a treeboy, thought Arkendrin contemptuously. He was narrow-shoulde
red and went with his hood drawn close, carrying a pack like the first one, but no sword. All the better.

  Abruptly the smaller treeman stopped and looked back. Arkendrin froze, but the treeman’s gaze moved beyond his hiding place, back in the direction from which he’d come. The treeman hesitated, as if about to turn back, but then he seemed to think better of it, continuing in the same direction as the first treeman.

  Arkendrin’s breath hissed between his teeth, and he unclenched his hand from his sword. There must be more treemen following, he guessed, for the second treeman had clearly been looking for someone else. It was as Irdodun had said. They didn’t journey together, but spread throughout the forest. It was a strange way to travel, as if they had no blood-ties with each other, or maybe they simply didn’t have the wit to keep in step! It was useful though, making the taking of a lone treeman easy. The treeman’s companions wouldn’t even know he was gone.

  A brown smudge emerged from the trees and Arkendrin smiled. This one was little more than a boy too, and like the second one, carried a pack but no sword. His travel was more erratic than that of his companions, plucking at the passing foliage, and putting whatever he picked into his mouth. Only the Sky Chiefs knew what filth the treeman was eating, for Arkendrin had found no food in this cursed place of wooden skies. The boy wandered on, intent on the things about him, not looking back.

  Did that mean he was the last? Arkendrin’s gaze flicked between the retreating back of the boy and the direction he’d come from, but no one else appeared. If he delayed much longer he might lose him in the trees. Gesturing to Urgundin to wait, he started forward. It wasn’t possible to run as he did on the Grounds, but even so, he moved quickly in a half crouch, fronds whipping his face and trailing plants dragging at his breeches, his gaze fixed on the brown-caped back of the boy. The distance between him and his prey closed swiftly, the heavy leaf fall masking his steps.

  The boy had stopped under a tree with heavy foliage. Arkendrin shortened his stride, judging the distance to his quarry with a hunter’s precision, then lunged. One hand snaked round the treeman’s nose and mouth, the other round his neck, a technique Arkendrin had found worked well. If smothering didn’t bring submission, choking would. He wrenched the boy backwards into the shrubby bushes and there was a high-pitched shriek as a bird broke from the tree and winged away.

  Kira turned at the cry of the mira kiraon, watching it arrow towards her, eyes alive with fire. It arced overhead, bright against the purpling dusk. Kira threw back her head and laughed in delight. No doubt Kandor had disturbed it. Her gaze dropped and the laugh choked to silence as she glimpsed a stranger, a flash of metal, and Kandor being dragged backwards. The world stopped. Then the void of disbelief gave way to a jumble of fragments: tales of Kasheron’s battles and alien voices from the night. She sped back towards the terrawood.

  Arkendrin thrust the half-conscious boy from him as Urgundin sprang to his feet and drew his flatsword. There was no need to tell him that they’d have to kill this treeman too, not that it was a problem; he was as heedless of his safety as the first had been. The treeman had slowed now in his headlong flight towards them, unsure of the whereabouts of his companion. Arkendrin stepped from his hiding place and the treeman jerked to a stop. His hood had come loose, revealing a long fair plait. A woman! The killing would be easier but no less enjoyable.

  Then the woman’s eyes came to his and his breath failed him. ‘The creature,’ hissed Urgundin.

  Arkendrin swept his flatsword backwards. Should he kill her or blind her? Which would most discomfit his brother?

  ‘Kiraon!’

  The shout came from behind and Arkendrin spun in surprise. The other treeman had been to his right; what foul chance was this?

  ‘Treemen . . . with flatswords,’ grunted Urgundin.

  Arkendrin dropped into a fighting stance and drew his dagger with his other hand. There were two to his left, one closing quickly, another beyond; too many to fight and still take the creature with them. Curse Erboran!

  ‘To the Grounds,’ he hissed, slashing sideways as he plunged away through the tangle of twigs and fronds, searching for gouged trees to his right, the treemen now coming from all directions. Metal struck metal and he cursed again; Urgundin had never been fast and he was paying the price.

  The pounding of running feet was all around him and he slashed again, his flatsword finding flesh and flicking scarlet drops onto the leaves next to him, but he didn’t stop. If he were on the Grounds he would be far away by now, but the earth here was littered with rotting wood, the air full of its foulness. Then someone shouted and the sounds of pursuing feet ceased.

  Arkendrin ran on. The last of the light waned and the wind dwindled, but it had swung east, carrying with it the faintest scents of targasso and burrel. He kept his face to it as he ran, not even stopping when utter darkness descended, counting his steps and fumbling for slashes over the trees’ coarse flesh as he went. And all the time his mind was filled with the image of the creature of the Telling; of the words he would use at the Speak, and of what his brother would now be forced to do.

  10

  Two fires flickered, blots of orange in the darkness, and voices drifted with the smell of roasting nuts. Kest’s patrol sat around one fire, preparing their evening meal, and Kira crouched next to the other, tending the wounded.

  She was aware of nothing but the terrible wounds confronting her. She’d sewn gashes from flint-stone and axe-wood before, and hurts caused by fires and falls, but never injuries such as these. These were sword wounds, wounds made with metal.

  Feseren lay unmoving, the pink of his face a trick of the fire-glow, for in daylight Kira knew his face would be as white as micklefungus. Even so, with his single wound he was more fortunate than his comrade Sanaken, who had many, the muscle and sinew severed where the sword had plunged and twisted over and over again.

  The sun hadn’t set when Kira had begun stitching Sanaken, but the moon had risen before she’d finished, and now he slept the deep, death-like sleep of everest, while she stitched Feseren’s wound.

  Finally Kira tied off the stitchweed and unrolled a bandage, bringing it up and over, firmly and smoothly, until she could tie off its ends too. Feseren’s shirt was blood-sodden and cold, and would need to be replaced.

  She’d given Feseren sickleseed to dull the pain, but it dulled the senses too, and he was clumsy with it. If she’d been in the Bough, she could have given him cindra to counter the effect, but she carried none in her pack.

  ‘Let me help, Healer,’ said Brem, supporting Feseren’s limp body.

  Brem’s strong arms slid Feseren expertly out of his soiled shirt and into a clean one, then lowered him back onto the sleeping-sheet and tucked it over him securely. It was fortunate that Brem had been in the patrol, for he was Kashclan like Kira, and carried Kasheron’s passion and skill for healing.

  ‘If you have no more need of me, I’ll return to guarding,’ he said rising.

  ‘I thank you for your help,’ mumbled Kira, her gaze on Sanaken. Kandor lay next to him, sleeping now, his swollen throat livid with bruising. How had he managed to escape the terrible wounds of the other young men she tended?

  Kira’s stomach lurched as the darkness was rent again by images of flashing swords. So much blood! Her hands were crusted, her shirt stiff with it. She must wash. Struggling to her feet, she staggered away from the fire, but a Protector suddenly materialised in front of her, blocking her way.

  ‘Where is it you go, Kiraon?’

  He was only a dark outline but she recognised his voice. Protector Leader Kest, the last person she wanted to deal with at this moment.

  ‘To wash,’ she muttered, eyes on the ground.

  ‘You aren’t to leave the fire.’

  ‘What, not even to relieve myself?’

  ‘Not even for that.’

  She turned back and sat heavily, refusing to acknowledge him, as he settled beside her.

  ‘Here,’ he said, uncapping
his waterskin and holding it out.

  Grudgingly she put her hands out so he could pour water over them. She rubbed them together then dried them ineffectually on her breeches, suddenly feeling shamed. Kest had saved her and Kandor’s lives and she was behaving like a sulky child.

  ‘I thank you for the water, and . . . earlier . . .’ she forced herself to say, raising her eyes at last. Kest looked very different to her memory of him; his hair matted with sweat, his face etched with weariness.

  ‘I’ve spoken with Protector Tresen, but he was unaware of the attack until we arrived,’ said Kest. ‘I need to know what you saw, what the attackers did, and whether they spoke. I need to know everything that happened for my report to Commander Sarkash.’

  ‘Must I speak of it now?’ mumbled Kira.

  ‘It’s better to, while it’s fresh in your mind.’

  Fresh in her mind? She couldn’t imagine a time when it wouldn’t be fresh in her mind. It was as if the stranger still stood before her, sword raised, face filled with hatred – a hatred even more shocking than the sword. Her hands began to shake and she gripped her knees.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said more gently.

  Haltingly she recounted each stage of the attack, Kest interrupting now and again to ask questions, but mostly letting her speak.

  ‘And so,’ he said, when she finally fell silent, ‘you heard nothing at all, right up until they appeared.’

  ‘I . . . I heard them in the night.’

  ‘Protector Tresen said that was a dream.’ The flames illuminated one side of his face and she could see that he was both puzzled and angry.

  ‘I agreed with Tresen it was a dream, but later, I didn’t think it was.’

  ‘Why in the ’green didn’t you tell him?’ he demanded.

  ‘I wanted it to be a dream.’

  ‘But if you’d told Tresen, he would have brought you back to the Bough and none of this would have happened,’ he clipped, voice tight with fury.