Esán started toward his friends. “I’ll get you out.”
Ira’s arm shot between the roots. He pointed madly. “Behind you!”
Esán swung around. Hoofed feet thundered closer. A mammoth boar-like creature exploded from trees and dripping leaves and lunged to a stop, its beady eyes glinting in the dim light.
Esán’s mind raced. His first instinct—teleport. Can’t. The Mindeco. Can’t leave my friends. He strengthened his wards.
Snorting and gnashing its teeth, the creature swung its massive head back and forth. Curled tusks protruded on either side of its mouth. A second pair extended like rapiers, slicing through ferns and plant growth as though they were made of paper. Its roar rumbled through the trees and ended in a silence heavy with expectation.
The animal lowered its head and snorted. Esán kept his gaze fixed. Intelligent, tawny eyes stared into his. Nostrils flared. The piggish snout sniffed the wards. A long, pink tongue gave them a tentative lick. Sparks snapped. With a slurping sound, the tongue disappeared. The shields shimmered and steadied.
Esán scanned his memory of Wolloh’s book on DerTah. A wave of relief left him shaking. “Ooh. You’re a Gothraw.” He pointed at his chest. “I’m Esán. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The tawny eyes questioned.
Esán let the shield fade and held out a hand. The Gothraw sniffed his fingertips and rubbed the four lumps on its forehead against his palm. Taking a cautious step around a rapier, Esán stroked the side of its face. “Do you have a name?”
“Ratcholet.” Its telepathic reply was tentative. Its gaze swept beyond him to his trapped companions. “Ratee Tree bad for Human.”
“Ratee Tree?” Esán gulped down his fear. A passage from the book on DerTah had warned: “Ratee Trees feed on the flesh of mammals.”
Ira called out. “What kind of tree?”
The tubers quivered. Large thorns burst from the nubs on their surfaces. Sticky brown sap began to run down the side of the trunk.
Esán sprang into action. “Get into a tight group. I’ll try to shield you from here. Be as still as you can.”
He attempted to erect wards. A sharp pain knifed through his head. “I c-can’t.”
“I can help.” Brie’s mind touch chased the pain away.
He took a relieved breath. “Visualize a shimmering curtain around you. I’ll do what I can from here.”
The tubers shook loose from the ground, whipped through the air, and smashed against the wards. Each shattering blow weakened Brie’s ability to hold them steady. Her face grew red with effort. “They’re winning.”
The Gothraw let out a deep, bellowing howl and leapt forward. Rapier tusks hacked tuber after tuber. Chunks flew in all directions. A loud creak shook the Ratee. It shuddered from its roots to its uppermost branches. The tubers retreated high in the air.
“Run!” Ira grabbed Brie’s arm and dragged her away from the tree.
Torgin and Desirol ducked and dodged the writhing tubers and raced after them. Esán followed. Stumbling through knee-high undergrowth and splashing through ankle-deep puddles, they staggered into a huddle well beyond the Ratee and struggled to catch their breath.
The Gothraw sliced one last tuber in two and trotted to their side. A soft rumble preceded the retraction of the long rapiers into sheath-like receptacles.
Brie patted its matted fur. “You’re a Gothraw, aren’t you? I read about you in Aunt Mira’s book.”
Torgin frowned. “Is it dangerous?”
Esán nodded. “Oh, it’s dangerous, but only when frightened or cornered or if you threaten its young.”
The creature licked Brie’s arm and emitted a soft purr.
Ira grinned. “It likes you, Brielle.”
She smiled and gently touched one of the lumps on its head. “You’re a female, aren’t you?”
It nuzzled her cheek.
“How’d you know?” Torgin gave it a tentative pat.
“You can tell because it has four lumps. Three indicate male.”
Esán stroked the creature’s shaggy side. “It calls itself Ratcholet. It’s an herbivore.”
Ira touched a pointed ear. “You mean it eats grass and not meat, right?”
The ears turned one way and then the other. The eyes focused on Brie, who smiled. “She likes to be called Cho.”
“How do you know that?” Torgin demanded. “I’m sure that wasn’t in the—”
Desirol shoved Torgin aside and stabbed a finger at Esán’s chest. “You led us right to that tree. You tried to kill us.”
Esán took a step back. “I thought it was safe. I—”
The RewFaaran shoved him. “I’m taking the lead. No one wants to follow someone who almost got us eaten.”
Ira shot him a dirty look. “Keep your hands to yourself, Des, or I’ll—”
Cho gave an agitated snort, sniffed the air, and galloped away through the undergrowth.
Brie swung around and stared after the departing creature. “We need to move. Something else is headed straight for us.” She looked at Esán. “You lead. We’ll follow.”
Desirol glared. “I’m not going with him.”
“Then stay here.” Torgin nodded at Esán. “Let’s go.”
Taking care to mask his mind, Esán searched the area. Brie sensed something, and it had frightened the Gothraw. As he crept in the direction of Atkis, his thoughts were anything but silent. Why did I see a dangerous tree instead of a good hiding place? Why couldn’t I set up wards around my friends? A tingling of fear skittered over his scalp. Who’s trying to gain control of my mind?
Stebben strode into the arena as a DerTahan red hawk swooped over Allynae’s head and landed at its center. One Man materialized, pulled his long, wheat-colored hair over his shoulder, and began to redo his braid. He nodded at the Guardian of Myrrh’s brother and addressed Stebben. “How’s Wolloh? I had the strangest feeling on the way here that all was not well.”
“He was dressing when I left him. We are to meet him in the conference chamber.” Stebben walked briskly toward the ranch house. “How did Lorsedi take the news that Gerolyn was joining him at the front?”
One Man flipped the completed braid over his shoulder. “He was none too happy. I left it to Voer to convince him that her presence was important to all of us.”
Stebben paused midway to the house, his brow wrinkled in concentration. “Something is very wrong. I’m going to check on Wolloh.” He teleported to his mentor’s door. Urgent need propelled him into the room. Panic almost choked him.
Wolloh lay senseless, half on and half off the bed, his face leached of color. The labored rise and fall of his chest were the only indications he lived.
Stebben knelt beside him. “Wolloh? Wolloh can you hear me?” He touched the side of his neck. A weak pulse beat a hesitant rhythm against his fingers.
One Man arrived at the door and hurried to his side. Allynae held back.
Stebben kept his voice low. “He was fine when I left—just tired. I’ve never known him to be ill or indisposed.” Worry made the words sticky and thick.
One Man’s hand on his shoulder quieted the panic. “We’ll figure out what’s wrong. Help me move him.”
They lifted the limp body and resettled the High DiMensioner on the bed. One Man placed a hand on his forehead. For a long moment, he remained in quiet contemplation. His expression when he looked up was grim. “Whatever holds him so close to death is not something I recognize or know.”
Stebben nudged Wolloh’s cane from where it had rolled under the bed. He bent and grabbed the crystal knob. Heat blazed through his veins. A yelp of pain changed to an extended scream. Like leaves in a fire, hope withered in his heart. Fingers of despair squeezed the will to live from his body. The room began to fade.
The cane ripped from his rigid fingers tore the skin from his palm. He fell to his knees, his breath coming in wrenching gasps. Strong hands pressed against his temples. Life pulsed through him. His heart raced, then steadied to
a measured beat. His breathing calmed. The room came into focus. What he saw brought a glint of hope to his heart. The eyes staring into his belonged to a face he had seen only once in his life—the face of the man who had saved him from the Mocendi League when he was twelve sun cycles, the man who had sent him in search of Wolloh.
Stebben tried to speak and then shook his head. One Man and Allynae helped him to a chair.
The man he knew as Reader looked down at him. “Take a moment to rest, Stebben. We’ll be right here.”
Quiet settled over the room. Stebben sighed, leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes. He noted a faint tingling in his hands as the terrible agony gradually disappeared. Reader’s touch had eased the pain and restored both hope and his will to live. Fatigue weighted his body. Sleep made a furtive approach, wrapped him in its gentleness, and transported him to a deep and tranquil place.
Nissasa Rattori’s frigid blue eyes flashed with anger hotter than the sands of DerTah at middle-turning. His face twisted into a contemptuous mask, he marched from one end of the line of assembled men to the other and back to center. His troops remained at attention, their desire to be elsewhere visible in the nervous twitch of their eyes.
Punching one fisted hand into the palm of the other, he growled, “I—want—to—know—why—you are here and not on the other side of those shields? My orders were to kill every last one of Lorsedi’s men and to bring him to me. I provided the opportunity.” He pointed at a man. “You, step forward.”
An officer complied.
“Explain why you are here instead of over there.” Nissasa jerked his head in the direction of the shimmering curtain.
The soldier started to speak, pressed his lips together, and swallowed. “I failed you, sir.”
Rage sent Nissasa into the shape of the DerTahan bearded buzzard. Flames blazed around him. Scissor-sharp talons gripped the man’s shoulders, lifted him high above the desert, shook him like a child’s toy, and let him fall. Plummeting to the ground, the officer lay in a broken heap.
Nissasa shifted and faced his men. “Fail me again and you will all follow this traitor to his grave.” He kicked the mangled body with the toe of his boot, then glared up and down the line. “Get to your posts. When the shields fall again, I want results.”
Nissasa glanced at a Sebborr hurrying toward them and frowned. His angry gaze swept down the line of men. “Dismissed.”
They scattered, taking their dead comrade with them.
The Sebborr reached his side. “Please, Sajud Rattori, it is very important that you come.” He bowed and remained humble and waiting.
The title the Sebborr had bestowed on him, sent a thrill of egotistic pride pulsing through Nissasa. Arrogance lifted his chin higher and puffed out his chest. “Lead on, steanpa.” He uttered the RewFaaran word for peasant with a touch of disdain.
Averting his face, the Sebborr hurried toward a group of tents pitched a good distance from the border. At the entry to one located near the center of the encampment, he stepped to one side and bowed.
Nissasa brushed past him, marched into the tent, and came to an abrupt halt. The heat of his smoldering rage reignited. He swung around. “Where is the raven?” The sibilant words hissed between clenched teeth. Clothing, toiletries, anything that came within his reach flew through the air. Anger ricochetted inside his head. Storming to the entry, he found the Sebborran steanpa had gone.
A man in the garb of a high ranking Sebborr rounded a tent and walked toward him. Shrewd dark eyes searched his face. “Sajud, what has upset you. How may I help?” DesTel Terah, Dahe’s eldest son, made a gracious salaam.
Nissasa seethed. “Where is your father?”
“He has gone home to deal with an important tribal matter, Sajud. He will return as soon as he is able. Until then, he has put me in charge.”
Turning on his heels, Nissasa reentered his tent. DesTel remained outside, his expression solemn—almost subservient.
Nissasa scowled. “Don’t just stand there. Come in.”
“As you wish, Sajud Rattori.” DesTel entered and surveyed the tent. “Someone has made a terrible mess. Allow me to send a slave to straighten things for you.”
“Someone has stolen my personal property. I want him punished.”
“If I do not know what has been stolen, I cannot assist you, Sajud.” DesTel folded his arms and waited.
Nissasa kicked a bar of soap and watched it land near his camp cot. “Someone has stolen a possession of great importance, one that could help us win this war. Your father told you about the raven?”
“He did, Sajud. I recall him saying it belonged to the Guardian of Myrrh. It would indeed be a good bargaining chip. I will have all tents searched if that is your wish.”
“Do it, and send someone to clean up this mess. You’re excused.”
The Sebborr bowed and left.
Nissasa glowered at his departing figure. “Da’am Sebborr. If I didn’t need their help…” He scowled at the tent and its content. “…and their resources, I’d never have agreed to join forces. Da’am the Mocendi League for putting me in this position.” He took a swig of water from his canteen and screwed the cap back in place. “Can’t trust those drabasts either. Can’t trust anybody.”
The canteen flew across the tent and rattled to a stop at the feet of a cowering Sebborran slave.
On the Island of Zaltraca off the southern-most tip of Geran Isle, a single cottage overlooked the Sea of Minusa. Wind howled over the high Cliffs of Tymine from morning until night. The sea tumbling against its rocky face sent spray to cover everything in a sticky film. The high-pitched squawk of laridae and the grunt of phalacro blended in a constant chorus that only stilled when the moons of DerTah reached Tri-Nular.
For Coala Renn Whalend, who had been born and raised in Idronatti on the distant planet of Thera, the constant barrage of nature’s songs formed a cacophonous symphony of discordant, disturbing, and dissonant sounds. Standing by an open window, with the wind tangling her blonde hair, she pondered her life in The City and wondered if she would ever return to it. She thought about her son—about his music—about the beautiful compositions that flowed from his fingers. Oh, Torgin, will I ever see you again? I wish I had told you how much I love your music. I didn’t want you to think you might be assigned a profession that would allow you to develop your genius as a composer. You have too many other skills that are more useful to Idronatti . Wind blustered around her. Pushing tousled curls back from her face, she frowned. It is regrettable that music and art, no matter how original or beautiful, sit at the bottom of the list of professions to which the Five Fathers assign talented young people.
She leaned out the window, absorbing the wildness of the landscape—the total lack of Human presence. How long have I been held captive in this desolate place? Time moves differently on the planet of DerTah than on Thera, and I have lost track of its passing.
A gust of wind wuthered by, snatched up the fear fluttering in her belly, and tossed it over the tumultuous sea. She shivered. Clouds amassed along the horizon churned a menacing shade of gray. Bibeed, the woman that cared for her, had told her a storm was on the way.
Storms in Idronatti were almost nonexistent. Of course, it rained. But the wind rarely blew, and the seasons slipped into one another with such subtle transitions that one barely noticed summer had passed and autumn had begun. Even winter, the most distasteful of the three, crept in gradually, leaving its mark in gentle dustings of snow followed by brilliant blue skies. I want to go home. I want to be with my husband and my son. If I stay here much longer, I think I will lose my mind.
Unable to contain the restlessness that gripped her, she tied on her blue scarf and made her way to the front door. Slipping on a baggy coat, she stared at the moor-like stretch of land between the cottage and the cliff’s edge. During her first turnings on the island, she had remained isolated in her room. Bibeed’s urging to go out and explore had finally tempted her.
At first she
stayed close to the cottage, afraid of the emptiness, the howl of the wind, the fear of what she could not see. Each turning she ventured farther. She discovered a small tool shed half hidden amidst prickly bushes. A rutted track led away from the cottage and the sea and disappeared into craggy, thick-trunked pines and stubby oaks. A low growing shrub—Bibeed called it erika—covered the flat land between the cliffs and the woods with lavender-blue flowers and provided a home for small animals and birds.
One afternoon when the sun eked its way through the clouds, she discovered a steep trail that led to an overlook. Navigating it the first time had terrified her. Now she relished the challenge of it—the wind that tore at her hair and clothing—the smell of salt spray and sea life at low tide.
Picking her way through the erika to a break in the rocky cliff edge, she once again gazed out to sea. I think I am learning to love the ocean. With a sigh, she descended the steep trail. When she reached the overlook, she sank onto a bench that had been placed against the cliff face and let the tactile nature of the environment strip her agitation away until nothing remained, not even the deepening sense of futility that so often threatened to drown her.
Closing her eyes, she imagined her apartment in Idronatti. Tears pooled as Wilith’s handsome face emerged in memory. They overflowed down her cheeks when she thought of Torgin. I love you both so much . She wiped her tears on her scarf and stared at the wet splotch.
“I pray you are unharmed, Wilith, and that Torgin has not returned to Idronatti in the hopes of rescuing me.”
She stared at the dark clouds crowding the horizon and thought back to that fateful turning. Her kidnapping had been totally unexpected. Things like that did not happen in The City. Life was organized, scheduled, and predictable. The PPP saw to that and to the protection of Idronatti’s citizens.
She had left work at her regular time and descended spotless stairs to the RiaTrain station beneath her building. The ride from the Benisuss District to Domlenah Uptown Blue had been uneventful until she stepped onto the Avenue of Trees. Two men in unfamiliar uniforms escorted her to a building pass-though. After that, she remembered little until she woke up in a strange room filled with strange sounds.
The UnFolding Collection Three Page 5
