by Oisin McGann
‘By the gods,’ Taya whispered. ‘They stuff their dead.’
She had seen this done to animals, stuffed birds and wild beasts sold at markets in Sestina and Braskhia, but she had never heard of people doing it to their own. Lorkrin sneaked across the wooden floor, lifting one sheet after another. The attic was full of preserved bodies, some sitting, some positioned standing up, held in place with wooden frames. They were all well dressed; most looked as if they had reached old age, but there were some younger ones too, those who must have died through violence or disease. In all, there were nearly two dozen of these desiccated corpses.
‘They’re chieftains,’ Lorkrin said quietly. ‘It must be an honour to be preserved like this.’
‘Look,’ Taya pointed to a circle of chairs near the chimney flue in the centre of the room. ‘They must hold gatherings here. They sit and talk with these things standing around them.’
‘That reminds me,’ Lorkrin pointed at the floor. ‘Let’s have a snoop.’
Peering through the cracks, they could see Ludditch and some other clansmen circled around the fire. Ludditch was speaking, his deep voice carrying over the crackling of the flames. The children pressed their enlarged ears to gaps in the floor and listened to what the Reisenick chieftain had to say.
‘… and it’s plain as a horse on a flat floor that the priest don’t know what he’s set in motion. He thinks the spirit of Absaleth is just some spirit, like in any old mountain. He don’t know about the legend of Orgarth, or about the krundengrond. If he did, he wouldn’t be doin’ what he’s doin’. Why, he even intends to go back along the road he came in when he’s done. Like he thinks the road is goin’ to be there.’
‘Would it be that bad?’ another man asked. ‘I mean, it’ll wipe out roads an’ the like?’
‘Spiroe, it’ll change the damn map. If the legends are true, and Pappy says they been handed down faithful from father to son since the first clans settled here, then the krundengrond lies beneath everything south of Absaleth, as far as the Cloudscratchers and even up to the east of our land. That’s half the Myunan territories and a fair hunk o’ Sestina too. And the priest is gonna release the whole damn lot of it. That’s what the quakes have been about. It’s started already.’
‘Damn, Learup. That’s a whole lot o’ people …’
‘A whole lot o’ other people. Outsiders. And this thing is gonna wrap around us better than shell on a snail. Just about the only way onto our land after this’ll be through the Gluegroves, and even the Noranians won’t try crossin’ that with their big fancy machines. I’m telling you, boys …’
He stopped suddenly as the door opened. Lorkrin and Taya pressed their eyes to the cracks to see who had come in. It was the eshtran, Kalayal Harsq. He walked in as if he belonged, sitting down in the circle with the other men, seemingly unfazed by the Reisenicks’ attitudes to strangers.
‘I have been through what your men have brought in so far, sir,’ he told Ludditch. ‘A collection of diseased animals, stillbirths, oddly shaped vegetables and a bone totem that I’m sure one of them made himself. An impressive display of your tribe’s resources.’
‘I got them out of their beds to search for some mysterious, unknown nastiness in the dark,’ Ludditch reminded him. ‘One they have no means of identifyin’. I’d say it may take some time yet.’
‘Well, let’s hope daylight will bring some …’ The eshtran was interrupted by a tremble through the floor.
Taya felt the floorboards vibrate under her hands and looked to her brother. He was already on his feet, making for the trapdoor. Just as she got up to follow him, the tremor got stronger and knocked them both off their feet. The timber structure of the building creaked and rocked as the ground beneath it shuddered. Three of the preserved bodies fell over, breaking apart. Another toppled as Lorkrin crawled past, the head breaking off and rolling out from under the sheet. Before he could stop it, it bounced along the floor and tumbled through the open trapdoor.
‘Aw bowels!’ he swore softly, grabbing the edge and dropping down after it.
Taya followed him. He had grabbed up the head and she hung from the edge of the attic floor with the long clawed fingers of one hand, the other poised to close the hatch.
‘I heard something upstairs!’ They heard Ludditch shout. ‘Check on those cubs!’
Lorkrin swung his arm to toss the head up, but the ground swayed under his feet just as he let go and the head bounced off the ceiling, hit the wall and thudded against the floor. Taya gritted her teeth and swung back and forth, dangling precariously as the building shook. Feet clattered unsteadily up steps at the other end of the hall. Lorkrin picked up the head and threw it again. Taya caught it, flipped it into the attic, reached up and lowered the trapdoor. She dropped to the floor, both of them slunching into their normal forms just as the door swung open. Cleet poked his head in.
‘You two up to anythin’?’ he asked, suspiciously.
‘No,’ they answered together.
‘Good,’ he nodded; then added as an afterthought, ‘Don’t start bein’ up to nothin’ neither.’
‘Aw, barnets!’ a voice moaned above them. ‘Some o’ the forefathers is all broke up!’
Cleet turned and left, closing the door after him.
Taya heaved a sigh of relief. Lorkrin reached behind him and picked up three small, yellow objects from the floor, showing them to her. She put a hand to her face and shook her head. Lorkrin tugged at the edge of a loose piece of hide on the wall, and tucked the corpse’s teeth out of sight behind it.
9 THE MAN WITH NO NAME
A tall, thin figure wandered through the forest. He did not know how long he had been walking. Perhaps days; perhaps longer. He felt achey and tired, as if he had come a long way, but he could not remember when and where he had started walking. The man became aware of his surroundings and wondered where he was. It was a dense, dark wood, the trees towering over him and blocking out most of the light from the sky. Shrouds of mist hung in the branches and lay in blankets over the undergrowth, making it hard to keep to the path. He did not know where the path was taking him and he wondered why he had started along it. A faint feeling of foreboding made him stare warily into the trees around him, as if he sensed some threatening presence out there in the darkness, but he could not put a face to it. He felt as if his mind, like the forest, was full of fog and the more he tried to remember, the less he could. The man was sure he was meant to have a name, but nothing came to him. He could remember words: tree, fog, sky … the names of things. But nothing about himself. He was tall, the size of a fully grown man, and that meant he had to have a past of some kind.
He examined himself as he walked. Moving did not feel comfortable; he felt slow and awkward, making him wonder how old he was. There were gloves on his hands. He wore at least two pairs, and possibly three. He did not take the top ones off to check. His clothes were thick and heavy, as if he wore many layers. They had leaves and twigs sticking to them and thorns stuck out in places. His head and face were covered with cloth too. A hood and a thick scarf. Parts of his clothes were blackened and stiff in places. Burned. Fire did that. He wondered if he had been in a fire. He did not remember, but he knew what fire was. Bright, hot, energy. Fire. Taking some of these clothes off might tell him more about himself, but even as the thought occurred to him, he became frightened and panicky. For some reason, he was deathly afraid of what he would find. He left the clothes alone.
He heard voices ahead and he became curious. Others. Not him. These others might know where he was. They might even know who he was. He would ask. They appeared through the trees ahead of him, walking along the same trail. There were three of them, two of them supporting one who walked with a bad limp, blood soaking into one leg of his trousers. Red liquid that coursed around inside bodies. Blood. They stopped when they saw him and drew sharp metal objects. Knives. He stopped too.
‘Who the heck is that?’ one asked.
‘How should I know?’ a
nother replied.
The third one, the injured one, lifted his pale face and glared.
‘He’s a stranger whoever he is,’ he rasped. ‘He don’t belong.’
‘The last one you said that about trounced us, Tupe.’
‘This one don’t look like the trouncin’ type, Moorul. Bring ’im with us.’
Moorul sheathed his knife, pulled out a wooden club and strode up to the man with no memory, sizing him up. The man looked back at him. Moorul swung his club, connecting sharply with the man’s head. The man nearly fell over, but regained his balance. Moorul hit him again. The man stayed standing. Moorul gave Tupe a doubtful look. Tupe nodded, egging him on. Moorul hit the man again. The man just kept looking at him, unsure of what he was supposed to do. Moorul frowned, lowered his club and pointed threateningly at him.
‘You’re comin’ with us, boy,’ he declared.
The man nodded. He had nowhere else to go. Moorul was at a loss for a moment. Then he took the man’s arm and with Tupe and Dourtch following, he led the stranger toward their village.
* * * *
Emos woke from a fitful sleep to see Khassiel sitting atop the cab of the truck, crossbow cradled in her arms. She nodded to him and turned her eyes back to the forest. The trucks were parked under the sheltering boughs of some beech trees. They were just out of sight of the banks of the river in the valley below them, where a Gabbit village lay, fishing nets trailing in the water and various workbenches set up to sort through and reconstruct the junk that the collectors brought back to the village. Houses made up of all kinds of materials were scattered along the near bank, and the Gabbits’ dedication to the proliferation of their race was evident in the swarms of children playing in and around the houses.
There had been another tremor that morning, nearly forcing them off the road. Emos was still hoping that Draegar might get the children back and catch up with the party and had suggested that they eat and rest for a while. He sat up and considered for the hundredth time, since escaping the Reisenicks, going back and trying to make peace with Ludditch. But he knew that if the clansmen turned on them again, they might never get to Old Man’s Cave. They had to press on. Ludditch would have some explaining to do later. Emos had followed the rules of tribute and been betrayed. Ludditch would have to be made to realise that there was a price to pay for that.
Forward-Batterer Cullum had recovered from the effects of the toxin on the dart with nothing more than a headache. Jube had drawn out the spine and seen to his wound and now he slept, snoring unevenly in the cab of the first wagon. Khassiel had slept earlier and seemed fresh and alert. Emos remembered the calmness with which she had shot Ceeanna from the air and, despite his distaste at having to work with her, part of him was glad of her cold blood. She looked fit and hard, her movements confident and he knew she would be useful if the Reisenicks fell upon them again.
He took out his tools and started working on himself. He wanted to take to the sky and scout the land. He normally chose the shape of an eagle because of its grace and the fact that it was closest to his size, but there were no eagles over Ainslidge Woods and the Reisenicks were expert marksmen with their blowpipes. They did not hunt the aukluk, however. It was the ugliest bird in the air; it was infested with parasites and its meat was poisonous, so it was good for neither trophies nor eating and it was this shape he chose to mimic for his flight.
One of the tools in his pack was a trowel with a wide, stainless steel blade that could be used as a mirror. Emos pictured the bird in his mind as he kneaded his face with his fingers. It had a knobbly, hooked beak, lumpy warts that stuck out of its face and large, red-rimmed eyes. It was a carrion eater, its head and neck bald; greasy feathers bristled from below its gawky throat, past the protruding potbelly to a clotted tail. Its legs were stumpy, ending in huge, boney feet.
The triangular brand that Emos wore on his face was lost among the warts in this form. He could neither sculpt the mark nor change its colour, for it was put there by Myunans as a mark of the plague and he was always wary that anyone who recognised it would see through any disguise he adopted. He enjoyed taking on this shape, always preferring the stranger forms that allowed him more room to play. He was nearly twice the size of a normal aukluk, but that would not matter as long as he stayed in the air.
Khassiel was staring at him when he turned around. He cocked his head at her and gave her his best attempt at an aukluk’s ill-tempered squawk. She snorted and looked away, smiling despite herself.
‘Suits you,’ she said.
He beat his wings and lifted off, rising up from the bed of the truck and through the trees. Below him, he could see the Gabbit village, the river running down its rocky bed; further up there was a waterfall and some mushroom-shaped funjan trees. He resisted the urge to swing east, towards Ainsdale, aiming northwest instead for the forest at the foot of the hills that backed onto Absaleth. They had told the border guard where they were going when they’d crossed into Ainslidge Woods, so Ludditch might well already know.
If so, and the clansmen still meant them harm, it would be wise to stay off the main roads. He needed to find another route to Old Man’s Cave. It would cost them time, but at least they might get there. What they would do if the Reisenicks decided to meet them at the cave entrance was something he did not want to think about. He wondered again about the Reisenicks’ betrayal, praying that it was a mistake, that some hunting party had simply overstepped the mark, and that Taya and Lorkrin would be returned safely. He looked back to the east, but there was nothing to be seen but trees. If they were not released, then Draegar was the only chance they had.
* * * *
Draegar was striding up a shallow stream when he heard birdcalls. The forest was full of the sounds of birds welcoming the morning, but there was a particular quality to these that caught his ear. They were made by men. He shrugged off the heavy netted bundle and held it up, raising the other hand to show it was empty.
‘I bring tribute for Ludditch!’ he bellowed. ‘I am here for the Myunan children! I bring Ludditch his ghost!’
The scrap, as if woken by his shouts, thrashed around in the net. Draegar waited for an answer. He could hear no sounds in the trees, but knew the woodsmen were masters of stealth. They could be anywhere, creeping in the half-crouching position, which prevented their joints from giving off that telltale clicking. He could see flickers of movement in the shadows of the foliage. His keen senses told him there were Reisenicks all around him, at least a dozen, perhaps more. The Parsinor planted his feet further apart and waited. There were more birdcalls. Then a Reisenick appeared up on the bank upstream from him.
‘What are yuh and what you got yourself, there?’ the woodsman called out.
‘Ludditch is looking for a ghost?’ Draegar held up the net, walking forward in the knee-deep water. ‘I think this …’
Something caught his foot and he looked down and swore. A sinker crab. It had pounced out of its covered burrow and seized the front ankle of his right leg. Its powerful claws gripped like steel. Draegar threw the scrap away and pulled out his short sword and battleaxe. His tough hide protected him from injury and he was too big to be dragged into the massive crab’s burrow, but none of that mattered, because Reisenicks used sinker crabs for trapping large animals in ambushes.
A hail of darts flew from the trees, most bouncing off harmlessly. Some stuck in, finding softer parts of his flesh and he knew he had to get into the trees before they shot enough into him for their toxins to have effect. He changed his grip on his sword and drove it through the back of the crab. The claws did not let go, holding on in a death grip. Draegar raised his axe and chopped off one shell-encased arm and then the other and started to stride towards the bank. A huge net fell from the boughs above him. He slashed at it with his sword, cutting a hole through it. Reisenicks dropped from the trees and leaped off the banks of the stream. Draegar roared a battle-cry and pulled his head and shoulders out of the net, his legs still tangled. The Reisen
icks pounced.
The Parsinor cut the first one down in mid-air, impaling him on his sword. He pulled the blade free, his other hand already slamming his axe into the thigh of another clansman. More darts fell and he felt his head swim, but he was a long way from finished. He blocked the knife of a third attacker, slicing the man’s hamstrings with a back-swing of his sword, and butted his head back into the face of a man coming up behind him, driving his axe back and up into the man’s belly. But still they came, frenzied with the lust for a kill, each hunter eager to be the one who would take home this mighty creature’s head. They were quick, and many of them were double-jointed and could twist and squirm like contortionists, making their strikes unpredictable. He fended off one assault after another. His vision blurred and he nearly lost his balance, but his hands stayed true, smashing away another knife, a blow from his sword taking the man’s head right off his shoulders. Struggling to stay conscious, Draegar swayed on his feet, seeing more and more of the men appear around him. He raised his arms up and roared his defiance.
‘Come on! Is that all you’ve got? You fight like little girls! Come and get some muuu–’ His voice slurred and he shook his head and stumbled.
The Reisenicks closed in around him and he brought his weapons up into guard position once more. They shrieked and whooped, leaping into attack and he bellowed back, the clash of their weapons against his feeding power to his heavy limbs. The forest resounded with the ferocious fight, the tumult carrying down the hill to the village of Ainsdale, where people came out onto the muddy streets to listen to the distant sound of battle.
* * * *
The Scout, as the creature called itself, refused to believe that the Myunans and their Sestinian friends were not a Barian horde. It was, however, prepared to accept their unconditional surrender.
