Xylina did not even stop to think-she simply acted.
Before the man had been dragged more than a cubit, she conjured a huge slab of stone right beside the “tree”-a slab she had created purposely off-balance. The moment she released her magic, it toppled over onto the “tree,” crushing it.
The tentacle released the slave instantly, dropping off of him like so much limp, wet rope-but he collapsed where he was, moaning in pain, unable to move. The rest of the men now gathered around him, until Faro called them to alert, with sharp orders.
“Let the mistress tend to him!” he snapped. “Hellfire! This would be a perfect time to pick us all off! Get your rears back to duty!”
As Xylina jumped from her mule and went to see to the hapless victim, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he passed out. As she knelt beside him, she saw that where the tentacle had been there were red marks, where the skin was blistered and peeling back, as if he had been burned by a length of wire rope heated red-hot and wrapped around him.
Ware was there beside her as she examined the slave.
His pupils were contracted to pinpoints, and he showed no sign of consciousness; his breathing was irregular, and so was his heartbeat. The demon took the man’s arm in his hands and examined it minutely, then pointed to a series of regular red dots in the center of the “burned” stripes.
“Puncture-marks,” Ware said succinctly. “He has been injected with some kind of poison.”
Xylina looked at him for further advice, but he could only shake his head. Clearly, he knew nothing more than that. There was no way of knowing what, if anything, might be the antidote.
“Put him on the wagon,” Xylina ordered the three wagon-drivers, wishing there was something else she could do. But without knowing the poison or its effects, there really was nothing else. He would either live or die as the poison and his own strength dictated. She recognized him as Kyle, one of the discarded husbands, and sighed. This seemed a sad end for one who had once been some woman’s pampered favorite. “Make him as comfortable as you can; wash his wounds with clear water, and bandage him with soft cloths and the burn-salve.”
The drivers hastened to do her bidding, and poor Kyle was soon cushioned among the bags of grain and the men’s personal belongings, moaning occasionally in pain as the lurching of the wagon jostled him. Pattée appeared, tending to him, and that seemed to help.
The rest of the men gave the purple trees a wide berth thereafter.
Despite their best efforts, Kyle died before they could reach the next territory. That left her with a problem. Xylina was not certain what to do about the body. Custom dictated that a mere slave need only be left for scavengers, but somehow she felt that was hardly right. The men watched her closely, as if waiting for her to make some kind of error-and she sensed that the “error” would be in dumping Kyle and his belongings on the ground for beasts and birds to quarrel over. Finally she told the men who were about to remove the body to wrap it in some hastily-conjured material and move it from the property-wagon to the weapons-wagon.
“We will give him proper-ah-treatment when we halt,” she said, at their inquiring looks. The looks of question turned, she thought, to looks of approval before the slaves turned to their sad task. She conjured enough material to shroud him in a cocoon that made him look less like a body and more like a parcel. That quelled some of her own unease. She had not known much about Kyle, and yet she was indirectly the cause of his death-and that made her feel rather guilty, although she did not know why.
They halted at the very edge of the “rock-garden,” in a relatively smooth place, completely free of the purple trees. The mist had retreated at this point, and it was possible to see the landscape beyond, the new territory they would face in the morning. This was a kind of forest, but a forest of huge leaves, as if kale or spinach had decided to grow as tall as an oak. Nothing more could be seen but the plants, and that itself was hardly comforting. Anything could be hiding in there-and probably was.
Xylina created the kind of rock-slab enclosure she had used in Sylva to protect their privacy, but this time she took care to make it proof against as many things as she could imagine. With luck, this would be enough for the night. She left one slab out, so that the others could bring the body of Kyle outside the stockade. She did not look at the grass-forest; there was no point in courting trouble before it came calling.
“Does anyone know how to-deal with this?” she asked instead, awkwardly, uncertain what to do next. She had no idea what the burial customs of the slaves were; she didn’t think any Mazonite knew. Finally one of the handsome and ambitious young ones, Hazard, stepped forward.
“I do, mistress,” he said submissively, keeping his eyes down. “I have-dealt with our dead before. If you like, I can lead the others in tending to Kyle. If you will grant us permission.”
“Is there anything you would like me to do or supply?” she asked, feeling uncomfortable and helpless.
“Yes!” he replied, raising his eyes for a moment in surprise, then dropping them quickly. “It is our custom to burn our dead, with their possessions. There does not look to be anything much here to burn. If you would be kind enough to conjure a pyre-”
That was something of a relief-to have some way to contribute. It was something she definitely could do. Quickly she gathered her magic about her, selected a clear spot, and built a pyre of oil-soaked, fragrant shingles. It was the work of a few moments. She watched the fighters soberly as they lay the cloth-wrapped body atop it, together with the bag of Kyle’s own goods. The sunset to her right painted the sky with spectacular streaks of red and yellow, making it seem as if the pyre was already ablaze.
She stood a little apart, but Faro took a place in the silent circle of men that gathered around the pyre. For a long moment no one spoke, and there was no real sound from the strange landscape about them, except for the slight sighing of the breeze which lifted her hair and cooled her brow.
“Kyle was a good man,” Hazard said into the waiting silence. “He always did his duty, and shared every labor. He deserved-” There was a hasty glance at Xylina and a pause. “He deserved a fine life, but he found a terrible death instead. If the gods are listening-” and here Hazard made a strange gesture, a kind of circle upon his chest, inscribed with a forefinger, a gesture copied by all the others, even Faro “-let them hear me. He liked the Pacha, and they welcomed his songs and stories. Let him be reborn as a Pacha warrior.”
“Let him be reborn as a Pacha warrior,” the others echoed. “So let it be.”
Hazard stepped back from the pyre and nodded at Xylina. That was enough of a signal for her, and she nodded in turn to Ware, who conjured fire.
The pyre ignited immediately, with a whoosh of flame. The oil-soaked wood burned with intense heat, and all the men had to step back a pace or two.
They watched for a moment, then turned their backs on the pyre and filed into the encampment. After a moment of staring at the pyre, Xylina did the same, then turned and conjured the last slab of rock to seal them all inside.
Chapter 13
In the morning, there were vague prints of unidentifiable creatures all around their stockade, and the giant plants were still there, unchanged. The huge leaf garden was still so dense that Xylina could not see more than a cubit or two into it, and was still refusing to disclose its secrets. “I don’t like this,” Xylina said, frowning at the “spinach-forest” (or whatever it was), as the men packed up their belongings and stowed them in the wagons. “There’s no way to tell what’s in there. There could be anything, monsters or mansions, or things we can’t even recognize.”
The men looked tired this morning, as if they had not slept well. Of course the myriad strange noises coming from beyond their rock-stockade could have accounted for that. But she had the feeling that there had been many eyes peering into the darkness last night, thinking about Kyle, tossing restlessly, agonizing over their first casualty. Xylina had not slept well herself; she kept starti
ng up at every shriek or scream, every howl and bark, expecting monsters to come swarming over her rock palisade at any moment. Wondering if there had been anything she could have done to prevent the tragedy. She had wished more than ever for the comfort of close company, and wondered whether Ware was similarly discomfited.
“I agree with you about this place,” Faro replied, running a hand through his hair. “I agree entirely. This is the best place for an ambush I’ve ever seen. I wish there was some way to mow the stuff down.”
Ware led his stallion up beside them, the handsome beast picking its way carefully across the stones of the “rock garden” territory, his hooves making little clicking sounds against the rocks and thudding dully into the sand-pockets.
Faro turned to the demon as he got within speaking distance. “I don’t suppose you recognize this, do you?” he asked, without hope. “Have you or any of your people seen this kind of territory before?”
Ware stared at the forest for a moment, then nodded, slowly. “Actually, I do recognize this place,” he said. “Although it wasn’t here at this spot the last time I passed this way-it was growing up against the border where the Sylvan Thorn-Wall is now. If this kind of growth is the same thing I remember, we should have some warning before anything attacks us. As I recall, the creatures here are large and cumbersome, and they make a great deal of noise.” But the longer Ware spoke, the less certain he sounded.
“But I also remember what you told us yesterday; that these things can change a lot, even from year to year,” Xylina replied cautiously. “I don’t think we can trust anything, not even old memories, or things that look safe.” She shook her head. “I think we should assume that we can assume nothing. We should figure that this is nothing like the place you knew, and go from there.”
Ware nodded, agreeing with her; so did Faro. She turned back to look at the growth. It really did look like some kind of giant vegetable patch. What kind of menace could be lurking in there? Giant rabbits?
For a moment that seemed hysterically funny, until she remembered that when things grew that large, even herbivores, they could be just as dangerous as any carnivore. And an animal that looked like an herbivore might not be one.
A rabbit the size of an elephant could easily bite the head off a man. And the fur, proportionally thick, could defend it against arrows and even spears to some extent. Suddenly the idea of giant rabbits was no longer so funny.
There appeared to be a road, or the remains of one, passing into the foliage a little to the right of their camp.
That would be the only place the wagons would be able to pass-but a road meant a place where humans had been; if there were any bandits about, they would know that the place for ambush was the road. If there were any predators big enough to take down a man, they might have learned the same thing.
Still, if they were to have the wagons with them there would be little choice. “It looks to me as if we should go in there,” she said, pointing. “What do you think the proper order of march should be?”
“Divide the men equally,” Faro replied. “Half in front of the wagons, and half behind. Ware to take the foremost position, myself the rearmost, and you in the middle. Ware has some magics that are likely to be useful if we’re attacked, and he is an expert marksman on a trained horse. I’m a trained fighter. That takes care of two vulnerable positions.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That hardly seems fair,” she retorted. “You’re putting me-”
“No, I’m not,” Faro said, completely seriously. “If there are bandits, they’ll strike at the weak middle-or what they think is the weak middle. You’ll be guarding the wagons from attack from the side. We won’t be able to see a damned thing in that muck. If you take a hit in the middle of the train, Ware and I won’t know it until you’ve already engaged. There’s just too much damned green stuff; it’s going to block our view. In fact, I’m not certain I would be able to find my way through this garbage without going in circles.”
“Which is where I come in,” Ware picked up smoothly. He smiled at Xylina. “Faro and I discussed this in Sylva when he pointed out he was just trusting to the road, and had no way of knowing if we were going in die right direction. We have a compass with us, and I know how to use it. We also have other navigational aids, and I can use them, as well. We simply haven’t needed them until now, but I knew that eventually we would. So I made certain we had them, and that I could use them.”
“Well, that’s good, because I can’t,” Xylina replied, just a little irritated. Why hadn’t he mentioned this before? Had he planned all along on trotting this little prize out, taking his bow, and waiting for the applause? She would much rather have had a chance to learn to use these things herself. “And I think you’d better start teaching us. What if you got swallowed by a giant snake or something?”
Ware had the audacity to laugh. She stared at him, a little affronted. “You’re quite right,” he said, agreeably. “I am not in danger of getting swallowed; I would simply dematerialize and walk out. But I have been remiss; I should have been instructing you and Faro all along. And since I have begun this so late, I think the first lesson should be this very moment.”
He removed the compass and the other instruments from his saddlebags, and proceeded to instruct them in the use of all of them. There were instruments to take a direction from the angle of the sun, others to do the same from the stars, and charts and maps of all kinds. Soon she was immersed in calculations and complex geometries. The compass was easy enough, but Xylina despaired at ever mastering the astrolabe and the other complex instruments, although Faro seemed to grasp the way of dealing with them at once.
Finally, she decided that she had learned all that she would for the moment. There were other things she could do that would be more profitable. She left the two of them conferring over readings, content for the moment to leave their navigation in the hands of Faro and the demon. She had another potential situation to deal with.
Yesterday they had experienced their first casualty. Kyle was dead, and there would be no bringing him back. The threat to this expedition was now no longer an abstract notion, but a reality. Men who had been cheerful and cavalier about the danger were not laughing this morning. Now they knew, viscerally, that they could die, that they could be hurt. Now this was no longer a game, a pleasure trip, an entertaining trek through strange lands.
They had been talking, quietly, of the rewards they expected to enjoy at the end of this quest. She had heard them, and Faro had reported more of the same. Rewards seemed of little import now, when the cost of the attack had been a life. They must be having second and third thoughts by now, after a long and perhaps sleepless night.
Now her position as leader was at its most precarious. The men might be tempted to desert, and she was in no position to try to stop them. She was not part of an army, and she was the only commander this group had. The cost of attempted desertion was death, under normal circumstances. This was not “normal.” There was no point in killing a deserter; that would only create bad feelings and resentment, and might evencause desertions. Actually, in these circumstances, the terrain might cause the deserters to die anyway. No, she had to somehow make it clear to the men that they were all in this situation together, and that their safety lay in loyalty to one another and trust in her ability to lead them.
She was not entirely certain how to do this-but making Faro into a friend had certainly worked to cement his loyalty. Perhaps it would work with the others. It was time to give over some of those affectations of the Mazonite mistress; time to make it clear that she had the welfare of her men as much in mind as her own-and to make it clear that she took every casualty personally.
She decided to talk with Hazard, the young man who had conducted the funeral service last night. He was already well-disposed towards her, according to Faro; he had hopes of attracting her attention or getting a high commendation from her when they returned. The other men seemed to like him, so with luck they would
not see her singling Hazard out as “playing favorites.” There was that business of the little ritual he had conducted as well; that implied a certain level of unofficial authority over the others. He would be a good man to start with.
And she must stop thinking of them as “only slaves.”
They were not “only” anything. They were all the men, all the reinforcements she would have. They were important. She needed them.They did not necessarily need her.
The men were packing the wagons and cleaning up the site. As luck would have it, Hazard was the one saddling her mule for her.
Well, that seemed like a good omen, she thought. As if the fates just confirmed her choice. She smiled as she approached him, but he averted his eyes and quickly bowed his head, keeping his eyes down submissively. That was proper slave etiquette, though Faro never averted his eyes from hers, but had always met her gaze squarely. She suddenly found the aversion unnecessary and annoying.
“Hazard, I would like to talk to you,” she said, and he glanced up quickly to assess her expression before looking quickly down again. She chuckled; it was forced, but she doubted he could tell that. “Hazard, you don’t have to look at your feet when we speak. In fact, I’d really rather you didn’t. This place is full of traps and danger, and if there’s something coming up behind me to eat us, you won’t know if you keep staring at the ground. Since I suspect you’d rather not be eaten, and I know I’d rather not, why don’t you dispense with formalities from now on?”
The young man raised his eyes, cautiously, and smiled a little when he saw that she meant what she had said. “That is quite true, Mistress Xylina,” he said. “And it is a sensible thing to do, really. So long as I have your permission to be so bold-”
If I Pay Thee Not in Gold Page 27
