The Stars Askew

by Rjurik Davidson

  They camped that night among the pine trees. So far they had been blessed. It had not snowed again, though the night was dreadfully cold. The two of them huddled together in the warmth. Armand wrapped his arms around the other man, felt his hot and shallow breath on his skin. This man should rightly be his enemy, yet here they were, the two of them, each other’s only support. The thought of Irik’s death filled Armand with a deep-felt grief that settled in his stomach like a stone.

  The next day they kept a lookout for the mountain goats that wandered along the mountain tracks. Armand managed to bring one down with an arrow. He killed the struggling thing with the wooden spike, but the affair was messy and distressing. Irik helped as much as he could, but he seemed sicker and weaker than before. He found it difficult to hold his food down, though he continued uncomplainingly. They cut meat from the goat and placed it in the empty pouches that had held the scavenged paste. When they continued, Armand wondered if they’d live to regret leaving the bulk of the goat behind.

  The pass narrowed, and they followed a mountain goat track. Patches of snow lay in the shaded areas. Armand briefly looked back from a craggy lookout to the base of the track. The Cyclopses were closer still, but now there were only three instead of four. Anxiety rushed through Armand. Was the fourth somewhere close? He looked across at Irik’s wan and sickly face. The oppositionist would not last much longer at this pace.

  Later in the day they spied a snow leopard perched on a rock face of one of the mountains. Its wonderfully long and thick tail hung like a rope from the ledge. Its gray-blue stripes would camouflage it when the snow set in. The majestic creature looked down at them with intelligent sky-blue eyes.

  “When we find the roads, we’ll continue on to the Needles,” Armand said. “I mean to go to the Augurers, to foresee the future.”

  “They say foreseeing is the most elusive of things,” said Irik. “No one knows the truth of it. It’s a cipher no one can unravel. What could you seek to learn?”

  “I must return to Varenis. There are things that must be done.” Armand weighed his next words carefully. “You should come with me. It will be a difficult road that leads through the wastelands of the Keos Pass, but I will protect you.”

  “No one can protect anyone in Varenis,” said Irik. “It’s not that kind of city. I will go to Caeli-Amur to join the seditionists.”

  Armand held Irik closer, felt the man’s warmth. “You know the seditionists have no future.”

  “We don’t fight only for a future,” said Irik. “We fight also for the present, because one must. If you see injustice in the world and you don’t act, what are you? You’re already dead.”

  “But stability, principles, honor, and respect—these are the things that bring peace and happiness,” said Armand. “Everyone should know their place.”

  “Did these principles bring you peace and happiness?” Irik challenged Armand.

  “You can be quite a brat, you know.” Armand clenched his teeth. The man was infuriating.

  “And you’re quite the pompous arse,” Irik spat out.

  For a moment there was silence. Irik elbowed Armand in the ribs, and in an instant the two of them broke out giggling. Armand wondered how long it had been since he’d laughed.

  “This is the closest to happiness I’ve felt,” said Armand.

  “In the ice, under a rough blanket with a mortal enemy—that’s the closest you’ve come to happiness?” said Irik. “I’ll remember to stay away from you, then.”

  Again they laughed, and the laughter seemed to feed on itself until Armand said, “Stop it. My stomach hurts.”

  When they had calmed down, Irik said. “It must just be my fever, but your arm seems unusually warm.”

  “It’s your imagination,” lied Armand.

  Soon afterward, Irik broke into a feverish shudder. His teeth chattered, yet he was sweaty and shaking. Armand wrapped his arms around the oppositionist until they both fell asleep under the silent trees.

  The next day, the terrain became rough and rugged. High in the mountains, the fast-flowing streams cut through stony plains, and the going became tough. Snow capped the peaks around them, but the plain itself was like some strange desert, great round pebbles smoothed by some unknown process, as if they marched on an ancient riverbed.

  Several times Irik fell; each time it took greater effort for him to get back on his feet. Sweat poured from the man; his face was gaunt, drained; his fever ravaged him.

  At midday, when they stopped to rest, Irik lay on his back, his bag beside him. He looked up at Armand. “Go on without me.”

  “Never.” Armand sat beside the man, put his hand on the other man’s chest. “The Cyclopses will find you, and if they don’t kill you, they’ll return you to the camp.”

  “Armand, I thank you for your kindnesses. I never expected to live long, in any case. An oppositionist rarely does.”

  Armand threw his bag to the ground. “No!”

  “Go. Go on.”

  Armand collapsed on his back beside Irik. Above them the sky was cobalt blue, vast. He felt he might cry. Sitting up, he picked up the bow and looked at it for a moment. It was primitive, but the barbarians had fashioned it well. He nocked an arrow. “I’ll wait with you, then.”

  “Then you’ll die too,” said Irik. “There’s no way you can fight one Cyclops, let alone four.”

  “Maybe I can cut them down with the bow.”

  “They have slingshots. They’re trained. Are you?”

  Armand looked back up at the sky. He spied a spear-bird circling far above. Even at its height, it was an ominous sight. Oh no, he thought. The spear-bird had seen them and would enter its death spiral before too long, the terrifying gyre he’d seen often in the hills around Caeli-Amur, as the birds picked off lone sheep or wild horses. The worst thing was to try to run, for then the spear-birds would break from their death spiral and glide at terrifying speed, leading with their razor-sharp beaks—deadly spikes on which to impale their prey.

  Armand glanced at Irik, began to look up again, but then saw, perhaps a mile away, three Cyclops coming over the stony plane toward them. One had broken into a run and was now ahead of the others. They had seen Armand and Irik and would not let them escape now.

  Irik smiled weakly at Armand. “I’m a bit better now. I’ll be ready in a moment.”

  “It’s too late for running.” Armand gestured to the spear-bird above.

  Irik looked up, stared at the bird impassively. “So it is.”

  At that moment the spear-bird entered its death spiral. Armand watched in wonder as the bird circled high above, making elongated, elliptical movements. But the bird was not in quite the right location. Its gyre was slightly askew.

  “It’s not us! It’s not coming for us!” Armand yelled.

  The spear-bird came down, winding faster and faster, a terrifying flight, its leathery wings like those of the gliders that hung over Caeli-Amur. In that instant the first Cyclops, who was far ahead of the others, stopped, looked up, and, realizing the danger he was in, pulled his slingshot from his belt.

  “Now,” said Armand. “Let’s go!”

  Irik staggered to his feet, lifted his bag, and, with surprising feverish energy, started running. Ahead stood a cliff, with dangerous-looking goat trails climbing frighteningly up it.

  Armand practically danced across the stony ground, certain that any moment his ankle would roll and he would be left clutching it and moaning. Still faster he ran, leaving Irik in his wake.

  He reached the cliff face and knew it was both necessary and impossible to climb the goat trails. They were too sheer and treacherous. The idea sent him into a panic. He remembered gripping the rope in Varenis as he escaped the Belligerent watchmen, sure he would fall to his death. He looked up at the cliff again: they would have to try. He would conquer his fear of heights, or die trying.

  As Irik rushed to his side, he looked back to where the spear-bird circled with impossible speed, a cyclone of wings
and beak, a blur in the air. The first Cyclops crouched on the ground, one hand above his head like a builder beneath a falling stone. He was transfixed, terror of the bird paralyzing him—few could face a spear-bird’s gyre calmly.

  Armand was vaguely aware that Irik had begun to climb, but he was mesmerized by the death flight before him.

  “Up now, Armand!” called Irik. The oppositionist was still apparently seized by the burst of feverish energy—possibly his last—and he was already a third of the way up the cliff.

  The second two Cyclopses flung slingshot stones at the spear-bird, but it was like flinging missiles into a hurricane. In an instant the lone Cyclops had disappeared into a fury of flapping wings.

  Armand scrambled up one of the goat trails. In no time, the drop beneath him was precipitous and terrifying. Above him, Irik’s foot slipped over a foothold, sending dirt over the precipice. The oppositionist’s hands splayed out as he pressed himself to the cliff face. His bag went over the edge. Despairingly, he looked down past Armand to where it lay.

  “Leave it. Keep going.” Armand himself was gripped by terror. In his mind, he saw himself falling from the cliff again and again. His legs were shaking. He placed his hands on the rocky wall to calm himself.

  In places the trail stopped, only to begin again three feet higher. Quivers of fear shot through Armand as he scrambled up. Halfway up the cliff, he came to a series of ledges that ran up like a sheer ladder. He froze and began to shake. The terror swept him away, like a snowflake on the breeze.

  Irik called from the crest of the cliff. “Come on, Armand. Up.”

  “I can’t.” Armand was paralyzed. He grasped the ledge before him with desperation. Looking down at the rocky floor below, he knew a fall would kill him.

  “Armand, come on!”

  “I can’t! I can’t!”

  He heard something from above but was too afraid to look up.

  Irik’s voice was closer now. Impossibly, despite his illness, the oppositionist had climbed back down to Armand. His soft voice lilted with sardonic humor. “Look at us two, Armand. A bratty oppositionist and a pompous traditionalist, scaling cliffs and running from Cyclopses. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, would you?”

  Armand pressed his face against the rock, felt its coldness against his cheek.

  Irik spoke again. “It’s a black joke, life. What do you think the Cyclopses are thinking? ‘Why do we have to chase those two? Why can’t we just go home? I didn’t sign up to face spear-birds in the cold. The whole thing is just so annoying.’”

  Armand smiled. “You think we’re messing up their plans for the day?”

  Irik spoke louder and more sardonically now. “I think we’re messing up their plans for the week. I mean, they look quite peeved down there.”

  Armand chuckled, and the fear abated a little. He looked up and Irik reached down. “Come on.”

  Armand continued the nightmarish climb, calmer now, his hands steadier, his legs more assured. Finally, impossibly, he reached the top of the cliff, where he collapsed, heaving and sweating beside Irik. Armand looked across to his friend, who now stared into the sky blankly. His face was as green as lichen. How much courage it had taken for the oppositionist to come back for Armand.

  On the plain below, the two Cyclopses were standing around their fallen comrade. The spear-bird had taken flight under the barrage of slingshot stones, it seemed. Armand watched as they left the crumpled figure and began to march to where the cliff tapered down to a sheer incline, far away. From there they would climb up to the plateau and continue their relentless chase.

  “It’s time to move again,” said Armand.

  Irik looked up from his resting place. His face was pale, his breath ragged. “Just a little longer.”

  When they began to move once more, it seemed to Armand that they might have reached the highest pass between the mountains. Ahead lay a crest, beyond which he could only see sky. He was filled with hope.

  As he let the strange feeling wash through him, he felt something soft touch his face. He looked up to see the first flecks of snow spinning onto them. Black clouds rolled across the sky. His hope blew away on the gusts of icy wind.

  “Perhaps the shadow will help us.” Irik stared blankly as he walked. Sweat poured from his body as the sickness played out its patterns inside him.

  “What shadow?” asked Armand.

  “Surely, you’ve seen it. The shadow. The figure looking over us. Cloaked.”

  “It’s just your fever speaking, Irik.”

  “What fever?” asked the oppositionist. “It’s you who has the fever. I’m ice-cold. I’m as cold as the heart of Varenis itself.”

  Yet they continued, two tiny figures in a massive hostile landscape, until the dark sky cracked open and the snow fell in great swirling swathes.The storm closed in on them as twilight fell. Armand could only see thirty feet ahead, through dancing, swirling flakes of snow.

  There’s something beautiful about the wild indifference of this world, thought Armand. Beside him, Irik swayed on his feet.

  “We have to find somewhere to shelter.” Armand led them closer toward the sheer slopes of the nearby mountain. Here they found small overhangs, but Irik shook his head as if to say they were too small.

  “We have to choose one of these,” said Armand.

  “No,” said Irik. “There’s a house up here.”

  Armand grasped the man. “There’s no house.”

  “My mother’s house is right here. Can’t you see it? My mother—she’s the figure who has been watching over us. The shadow.”

  “Is your mother dead?” asked Armand.

  “Yes,” said Irik, who began to cry.

  “There is no house,” said Armand. “Come, let’s huddle beneath this outcrop.”

  He pushed Irik beneath the rocky ledge, turned to wedge himself in, and started at the great hulking form of a Cyclops, standing in the roiling snow, trident in hand, staring at them.

  The Cyclops called out in a guttural language, filled with clicks and aspirations. His comrades were apparently nearby.

  Armand grabbed the wooden spike. He would die here, he decided. They would have to carry his corpse back to the camp with Irik’s. Never again would he work in those mines. Despair now filled him. He had endured so much. Now all was at an end, all his hopes and plans. He found himself moaning softly, as if he might be dying already.

  The Cyclops called out again in his native tongue and began to march forward. Its single eye pierced Armand with animosity. The violence would be swift and brutal.

  At first Armand thought it was a tiny bird darting from the ledge above. It made a soft sound—phht—like the wooshing of air. The Cyclops screamed, his hand over his eye.

  Then there was a mechanical sound from above. Armand craned his neck to see, but the ledge obscured his vision. There was a click and then a second rushing sound. The blinded Cyclops grabbed at its neck and thrashed around.

  A moment later a hooded figure leaped into the snow in front of Armand. Its cloak flapped dramatically around it, and a chunky modern bolt-thrower swung in its hand. With the grace of an athlete, the figure dashed across the snow toward the towering Cyclops. In a rapid motion, it placed the bolt-thrower beneath the Cyclops’s chin. There was a clunk, and his great head was thrown back violently as something burst from the top of it. The massive creature stood motionless for a moment, then collapsed straight back into the snow.

  The hooded figure strode purposely back toward the overhang. Armand pressed against Irik, gripping his spike grimly, determined to defend them both.

  Recognition struck Armand with the force of a blow. The shadow, as Irik had called it, was the same red-bearded assassin who had tailed him from Caeli-Amur all that time ago.

  The figure threw back its hood. There was no beard after all. Instead, a woman shook out her bright red ball of hair. “These new bolt-throwers—I like them!”

  “Who are you?” said Armand in amazement.

>   “I’m your guardian god, Armand Lecroisier,” the woman said.

  “That is definitely not my mother,” said Irik.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Max’s journey back from the Sentinel Tower to Lixus passed quickly, and before long, he stood on the hills overlooking the city. Lixus looked like a watercolor painting: solar hues brushed the ruined towers romantically. Max had no desire to enter the city at night, so he camped on the ridge and watched the towers slowly fade into inky silhouettes. He ate simply, enjoying the quiet in his head. Aya had sunk so deep that he was almost not there at all.

  The following morning Max rode through the vast empty streets of Lixus and reached the plaza. The tear-flowers had been hacked down, their platelike heads shriveled on the ground under them. Karol’s corpse lay beside them, still encrusted with a layer of hardened nectar. Since Max had left, the flowers’ roots had plunged into Karol’s body. Once they had sucked Karol’s essence into the flower stems, but since they had been cut down, they had hardened and dried. Now Karol’s head tilted back, his mouth half open, his eyes staring off into the land of death, tiny rootlets crisscrossing his cheeks, curling around his lips. The officiate’s expression was caught between excruciation and euphoria, between entrapment and release.

  The Towers were empty. Perhaps the crow-people had followed the Pilgrim south to the Teeming Cities. It would be a long march, and many of them would die, but perhaps they would find the meaning they were all searching for. Now an air of melancholy engulfed Lixus. Were the vacant, crumbling towers, the overgrown gardens, the deserted hot springs all glories destined for ruination? Max scavenged some abandoned provisions and continued.

  * * *

  It was afternoon when Max came to a crest and looked over at the rolling hills. When he passed this place some weeks ago, it had been a picture of bucolic prettiness: the villas perched on the hills or snuggled in the valleys, the fields and greenhouses and olive groves. Now he watched an ominous scene. Like ants on a dead body, columns of black guards marched along the roadways, descended on the villas and farms. Everywhere he looked, they clashed with defending forces. The dead lay strewn in gutters or propped against walls. Plumes of smoke twisted into the air from burning buildings.