Squinting against the pounding in his head, Carnelian saw there were perhaps twenty aquar ranged around him. A few were riderless, the others bore men and youths enveloped in black hri-cloth, their legs hooked over the peculiar transverse crossbars that formed the front of their saddle-chairs. Most of the raiders had their heads turbaned by more of the cloth so that only their faces were exposed. Save that these were free of the chameleon tattoo, the raiders could have been from his own household. Searching among them, he found a saddle-chair into which a patchy black body had been folded. Carnelian’s heart leapt. He did not need to see the face to know it was Osidian.
The raiders were looking into the distance and, when he followed their gaze, he saw a man riding towards them behind whom rose the giant that Carnelian now realized was nothing more than the over-seer tower of a kraal.
‘You saw no one in any direction, Loskai?’ Ravan again. Carnelian located the youth standing on the ground, a slash of dried blood across his forehead and cheek, his face sweat-glazed, bruised.
Loskai shook his head. Ravan turned to look round at another rider who was hunched forward gripping his ankles, his loosely-turbaned head almost resting on his knees. Ravan sank his chin.
‘You’re right, Ranegale, this is all my fault. I was the one who noticed the Bloodguard.’
‘Don’t speak like that, son.’ It was Stormrane reaching out to grasp Ravan’s shoulder. The man had a grey mane worked through with feathers, peppered with pale beads. Deep grooves around his mouth and eyes made him seem an old man, but if so, a strong one, though his sickly pallor showed how serious was the wound he bore. Stormrane had so much the look of one of Carnelian’s people he was lost for a moment trying to work out which one he might be.
Ravan, looking up at his father with adoration, forced from him a grim smile. ‘Son, you fought bravely. You made me proud. You’ll have a good scar to show your hearthmates.’
Ravan tried a grin, but the corners of his mouth dragged it down. His eyes strayed to where two bodies were stretched out on blankets on the ground.
‘Your brother and your uncle were warriors who brought the Tribe much salt,’ said Stormrane, misery dulling his eyes.
Ravan was no longer seeing the dead but rather something in his mind. ‘How was the Bloodguard able to kill them both?’
‘They were overmatched,’ said Cloud. Next to Stormrane, he seemed to be the oldest there. Wisps of greying hair framing his cowled face threaded beads similar to Stormrane’s that Carnelian judged to be some of their precious salt.
The youth turned to look at Cloud. Standing over the corpses, he shook his head and frowned. ‘I’d heard but not believed how fast the Bloodguard are, how skilled.’
One of the other youths stuttered something and, suddenly, Carnelian found the barbarians jerking round to gape at him. He watched the colour drain from their faces. Some were trembling.
Ravan made some comment about Carnelian’s eyes.
‘Angels or not, I say we kill them now,’ shrilled Loskai. He darted looks at the other men, making sure to always keep Carnelian in view as he might a serpent. ‘Kill them both, before they get their power back, before they bring the dragons down on us.’
Carnelian cared for nothing but the use of plurals, the pronouns that proved Osidian must be alive.
‘What makes you so sure they can be killed?’ asked Stormrane. Carnelian’s awareness of their fear, their hatred, was washed away by the warm relief of knowing Osidian lived.
Cloud lifted his hands and quietened the youths.
‘Well, Fern,’ said Ranegale, ‘I’ll ask you in the hope you’ll stop hiding behind your father.’ He let go of his ankles and straightened up to point at Carnelian. ‘Why’ve you landed us with the poison of these Standing Dead?’
Carnelian wondered why they referred to Masters thus. He noticed Ranegale had only a single eye, the other being concealed by a leather band. Hidden beneath the windings of his head cloth, the lower half of his face seemed unnaturally flat.
Another man stepped into view. Young, slender, he was taller than Stormrane, much darker skinned. He looked quite unlike the other barbarians.
‘I’m not hiding behind my father.’
Fern’s voice was husky. He turned dark eyes on Carnelian, who was forced to bear their sharp hatred. Fern frowned and his stare lost its intensity.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, sounding surprised. He seemed to be examining Carnelian for a sign who, in turn, registered the livid welt cutting along Fern’s jaw line.
‘Because of them my brother and my uncle are dead; my father’s wounded; my little brother.’ Fern glanced at Stormrane and Ravan and then back at Carnelian, his eyes slitting. Looking at Ranegale, his face becoming haunted with uncertainty.
‘How can I answer you when I don’t know myself. Finding them has brought death to my kin. Perhaps I just couldn’t ride away with nothing to show for so much loss.’
Ranegale, who had cupped his hands to the sides of his shrouded face to listen, dropped them. ‘You mean the way you ran away from the legions?’
Snarling, the young man sprang forward but Cloud caught him in a hug. Carnelian’s aquar threw back its head crowned with startled plumes, rocking spasms of agony up his back and neck.
‘You know perfectly well, Ranegale, why he left the service.’
In Cloud’s arms, Fern glared. He glanced at his father for support, but Stormrane turned away and Fern’s face fell.
‘Because they hurt him,’ whined Ranegale in a pantomime voice, rolling his head as he spoke. He froze. ‘Service in the legions hurts everyone. I should know.’
His hand straying up to his face lacked a middle finger. Carnelian stared because, in spite of the swarthy skin, the hand resembled those of the Wise. A token of the four-horned Lord of Mirrors, warlike avatar of the Black God.
Stormrane threw back his maned head, making the beads tinkle. ‘You’re always parading your mutilations as if they were marks of honour. I and many of my line managed a longer service than you with only a few stripes on our backs and, when we returned, we each brought the Tribe many times more salt.’
Loskai edged his aquar closer to Ranegale, whose shrouded head was looking down at Stormrane.
‘You’d better look around you, old man. The days when you and your kin could oppress us with your service records have passed.’
He stabbed a finger at the dead. ‘Your brother and your eldest are corpses. Though you hide it, you yourself have taken a wound that’s as like as not going to finish you. Then all that will be left of your line will be a few boys barely of age and, for a while, the half-breed.’
He cast a dismissive glance at Fern. ‘Do you believe the brass still at his throat is going to command much awe in the Tribe?’
Carnelian searched for and found the plain legionary collar forged around Fern’s neck which only the Masters had the knowledge to remove. Cloud let him go as Stormrane squared his shoulders to face down Ranegale and Loskai. Clearly, he intimidated them.
‘When the time comes, Fern will pay for his desertion.’ Stormrane glanced at Fern who hung his head.
The raised voices were making the aquar nervous. The youths on their backs were looking upset; several close to tears. Cloud forced his way between the two parties.
‘Stop this! We’re not going to help ourselves or our tribes by fighting each other.’
Cloud went among the aquar, smiling, addressing each youth in turn, putting straightness into their backs. Some dabbed their eyes, sneaking looks at each other to see if their unmanliness had been witnessed.
‘Will the Elders do us the favour of letting us hear their plan,’ growled Ranegale.
‘Nothing’s changed,’ said Stormrane. ‘We go on to Makar.’
‘Through the scouring line? With the dead?’
Now at his father’s side, Fern lifted a fist. ‘Do you want to leave them here to rot and so deny them their place in the sky?’
‘If it will save t
he rest of us from joining them. Besides,’ he pointed towards the kraal tower, ‘that will form a perfectly good burial platform.’
Stormrane shook his head with anger. ‘Even if this sky were our sky, you deliberately forget this accursed land is shunned by all but the most unclean birds. Had you been in his place, my brother would never have left you behind.’
Cloud had returned. ‘We’ll just have to find some way to take them with us through the line.’
Stormrane did not seem to hear him.
‘What about the Standing Dead?’ asked Ranegale.
Stiff-faced, Stormrane and Fern both looked sidelong at Carnelian.
Cloud shrugged, grimacing apologetically. ‘You did make us bring them, Fern. Surely you must’ve had some notion what to do with them?’
Carnelian was relieved when Fern looked away, running a hand up his forehead, pushing back the cloth and revealing some of his thick curling hair. ‘Revenge …? Some recompense …?’
‘Torture?’ asked Loskai. ‘Murder?’
Fern let his hand fall. ‘What good would that do?’
Cloud was looking at them horrified. ‘Torture? Murder? Are you all possessed? These are Standing Dead; angels? Can you imagine with what fury the rest of their kind would hunt us if we harm them in any way?’ His eyes widened. ‘For such a sin they’d torch the Earthsky from end to end.’
Ranegale gave a snort. ‘They’re rather shabby for angels.’ Despite his bravado, Carnelian felt the man’s unease as he turned his single eye towards him. ‘Just being here they make a bad situation hopeless. Let’s finish them. What more do we have to lose? If we bury them deep enough, they’ll never be found.’
Stormrane shook his head. ‘I agree with Cloud. The risk’s too great. Besides, now we have them we may as well try and put them to some use.’
Ranegale sneered at him. ‘And how do my fathers suggest we take them along with us? We’ve no spare aquar.’
Cloud looked at him tentatively. ‘Some of the lads could double up.’
‘Am I the only one who can see that the Standing Dead are too weak to ride? We barely got them this far,’ said Ranegale.
‘We’re going to have to make drag-cradles to carry our dead,’ said Fern. ‘Making a couple more wouldn’t delay us much.’
‘Drag-cradles will slow us down.’
Loskai spoke up: ‘My brother’s right, whichever way we go, we’ll run into dragons. Pulling drag-cradles, we couldn’t hope to outrun them.’
Stormrane looked murderous. ‘I’ll not leave my son nor my brother behind.’
Fern clasped his father’s arm but Stormrane tore himself free.
‘I won’t have to,’ he said, oblivious of the hurt he had just caused his son. ‘I’ll work out some other way to get us through the line.’
‘It becomes clear how the renowned Elder, Stormrane, achieved the rank of a three-squadron commander,’ drawled Ranegale.
Stormrane’s face hardened and he looked away to the horizon as if he had noticed something moving on it. ‘Between the South Road and the Ringwall, the land narrows all the way to Makar. It would be preferable if we were to hold back: the longer we wait the more the line will stretch, pulling open the gaps between the dragons.’
He held up a knotted cord for all to see. ‘This only holds fifteen days. Pulling the drag-cradles through mud we’ll need every one of those to reach the meeting in time.’
‘Do you think we’ll make it, father?’ asked Ravan, hope in his face.
Stormrane smiled. ‘Of course we will, son.’
Cloud had become sombre. ‘Let’s hope so. Our tribes sent us to protect our tributaries. Only a few days remain before we’re supposed to meet them in Makar. If we’re late, they might try crossing the Leper Valleys without us.’
Ranegale fixed them with a baleful eye. ‘And will you, Father Stormrane, and what’s left of your line take it upon yourselves to look after the Standing Dead?’
Grimly, Stormrane glanced at Fern, then gave a nod.
As he leaned against the neck of Carnelian’s kneeling aquar, the youth stared at him without a blink. It was easier to ignore that stare than the constant throbbing ache of his body. Sleep with its grinding, bitter nightmares was a poor refuge. Carnelian tried instead to distract himself by concentrating his attention on the demolition of the kraal tower. More of the barbarian youths were swarming its upper storeys, tearing off the woven matting to get at the scaffolding beneath. Poles that had been worked free were being fed down to the kraal bridge, where the men were splitting them with axes.
When his aquar stirred and seemed about to rise, Carnelian gritted his teeth, anticipating agony. Through his lidded eyes he watched the youth reach up and caress the creature’s eye-plume fans closed. Carnelian looked for what had disturbed the aquar and saw Stormrane and Fern approaching. The older man had the same slow pained walk Carnelian’s wounded father had had as they journeyed along the leftway to Osrakum. Snatches of that other life formed and melted before his mind’s eye. He glimpsed but would not allow to fully surface the thought of his father exposed to Ykoriana’s malice. For a moment it was better to relive what had been. Back on the leftway. It was strange that dark time should now appear so bright. At least then, a few pieces of his world had still remained unscattered.
Feeling someone beside him, he looked up. Grief sat over Fern’s face like a mask. Carnelian saw the brown eyes registering surprise, perhaps at detecting his compassion, but then they flicked away.
‘This one’s conscious,’ Fern said to his father, in their tongue.
Carnelian considered the man who had saved him from the slavers. His eyes were drawn to the brass bright against Fern’s dark throat. The boss bore no legionary cypher and the band appeared to be free of rank and service sliders.
Carnelian became aware Fern was watching him. As their eyes meshed the barbarian erupted into anger.
‘You have to get out of the saddle-chair,’ he said in thickly accented Vulgate.
‘I don’t have the strength,’ Carnelian said.
‘We’ll lift you.’
Carnelian saw the opportunity. ‘Did you have to lift the other Master?’
‘We don’t have time for debate.’ Stormrane grabbed Carnelian’s arm and pulled on it.
Carnelian cried out as his spine twisted.
Fern’s voice came through the ringing pain. ‘You’re hurting him.’
Carnelian opened his eyes and saw Stormrane throwing off his son’s restraining hand. Carnelian could not help noticing it lacked a middle finger.
‘If you’re so concerned about this one, you sort him out,’ snapped Stormrane. He snatched the shoulder of the staring youth and led him away. Fern watched them go with the look of one who had just been slapped. He became aware of Carnelian.
‘Though he is an angel, your friend burns with fever.’
Carnelian looked from the barbarian’s four-fingered hand into his face, fear for Osidian freezing everything else out. ‘Can you let me see him?’
The barbarian crossed his arms, hiding his mutilated hands in his armpits.
‘I can hardly tell you apart. Are you brothers?’
Carnelian was touched by the man’s vulnerability.
‘Well?’
Carnelian regarded the frowning mahogany face and wondered what answer to give. A nod was safer than the truth. ‘Please show me where he is?’
Fern shook his head. ‘We don’t want you near each other.’
Carnelian considered befriending this barbarian by confessing that he understood their tongue, but decided this was an advantage he could ill afford to give away.
‘You mean, the older man that was here doesn’t.’
Fern’s face darkened. ‘That older man is my father, who with good reason blames you for the killing of our kin.’
‘Do you?’
‘What do you think!’
Carnelian caught a look in Fern’s face that belied his words. ‘Can you do anything for … my
brother’s fever?’
Fern looked surprised. ‘You believe it possible he might die?’
Carnelian worried about what power his answer might lose him.
Fern frowned. ‘If he were like other men there would be a chance he might wake from it. Until then, all that can be done for him is to give him water and what food he will swallow.’
Carnelian saw he had to speak. ‘He is a man.’
Clearly, Fern had difficulty believing this.
‘Will you see to feeding him yourself?’
When Fern gave a ragged nod, Carnelian decided that would have to be enough. The man made motions indicating that Carnelian should climb out of the saddle-chair. Twisting sent a deepening stab into his back.
‘Perhaps it’d be better if I stay here.’
Fern set his jaw. ‘No.’
‘Are you afraid I’ll escape?’
‘Why wouldn’t you?’
Carnelian was reluctant to attempt an explanation. ‘How far could I get without reins?’
Fern’s mouth curved with contempt. ‘Real riders don’t need them.’
Carnelian was too weak to argue.
It took them a while to manoeuvre him out on to the ground. He stood, swaying a little, stooping to relieve the agony which was squeezing a cold sweat from his skin.
Looking at Fern’s feet, Carnelian began chuckling. The dark mirth bubbled out until over it he could hear the man, puzzled, asking him what was happening.
Carnelian managed to speak. ‘I was just thinking …’ Chuckling took over again. ‘I might … might be more comfortable if you gave me back my ropes.’
Rain ran down Carnelian’s face. It was the only part of him exposed. The rest sloped down to where, just beyond his feet, the two poles of the drag-cradle were gouging the earth. He could see their double track scratching off over the wake of chopped-up mud left by the aquar. Beyond, the land stretched featureless, greyed by the down-pour. Above him the tail of Fern’s aquar swung like a tiller, narrowing to a whip that sometimes stroked his feet. Blankets and leather bands swaddled him to the drag-cradle frame. It quivered with each step the aquar took. Dozing, Carnelian thought he was back on the accursed ship that had brought him with his father and his brothers from their island to the shore of the Three Lands and the Commonwealth of the Masters.
The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon) Page 5
