by Ru Emerson
Erken clapped her across the shoulders. “You're doing an excellent job of it, don't fish for compliments! Look at that,” he added in a deliberate change of subject. He drew her near the edge—nearer than she liked, but she couldn't bring herself to say so, “There's a terrible job for you.” Far below, foreshortened by distance and the height, Golsat and Marhan stood with eight young Nedaoans, swords gleaned from Erken's men in their inexperienced hands. The boys were working determinedly on first lunges; and Ylia could hear Marhan bellowing the changes. “He'll have no voice at all by mid-day.” Erken shook his head. “Better him than me.”
“Mmmm. I'd say the same, but likely I'll have a similar group of my own before long.”
“Wager it?”
“Whatever—within reason,” she amended cautiously, “you like.”
“Within reason,” Erken snorted. “As if anything was reasonable anymore. What I came to tell you, by the way, I nearly forgot. We're off, me and five of my lads. Word just came in, the hunters found a herd of elk and brought down three. We may be back before dark, but don't worry if we're not.” He bowed, turned and slid down the rock ledge, was gone. Ylia spared a last look after him, another for Marhan, now bellowing fiercely as he demonstrated for clearly at least the tenth time, the pattern to be followed, and set her self determinedly to a search. Touch, at least. If she followed the River down, and if it was working well, and if—if, if, if—but if the Touch was responding properly, perhaps she could locate side streams. It chanced, along the Torth, that some of the feeder streams went back through hills and into valleys, if nothing so large as what they now needed. Perhaps it would be so with the Aresada. In any case, it was a starting place.
4
The coast was wild at this northernmost edge of Yls, the surfline a rock-strewn and treacherous thing to cross. The slender black boat went through it to gather in the five humans and back out again to the waiting ship as though it were any surfline and not a soup of swirling water, hard-crashing waves and a muddy rip current five lengths wide. The four young Sea-Raiders took the flip impassively: the same could not be said for their passengers.
They were guant and worn, all five, and something of the shock of the past days still hovered around their eyes. One wore the pale grey of the Osneran Chosen, three wore swords and the colors of the fourth. Vess alone of the five seemed to note little of their nerve-wracking journey across the rough water to the Vitra—his nerves had not yet recovered from the sudden and unexpected arrival of his most hated cousin, his defeat at the hands of a sword-wielding child, and his expulsion from Aresada.
Every night had taken its toll in desertions; at least he could feel certain of these remaining three armsmen. The rest had left him without a word, had merely vanished—into the trees, downstream toward Nar—well, who knew or cared?
Ylia, though: Your life in my hands, cousin, the threads of it warped by my fingers. We'll meet again, and mine will be the choice of time and place. He brought his attention back to the moment as the Chosen Tevvro touched his knee and met his eyes with warning in his own: Caution. We're there.
No, Tevvro wasn't pleased with their present placing. But Vess wasn't going to simply sail off in the Chosen's company, in search of aid in Osnera. He'd go, but after he'd sealed this Nod Bri H'Larn to him, and through their battle-chosen leader, all the Sea-Raiders. A dangerous ally, Tevvro had said: in such times, in his situation, a man needed dangerous allies! Tevvro wasn't all the man of grey cloth and peace he presented to the world. He'd been a nobleman's second son and seen war on Osnera's northern borders. He'd bloodied his sword more than once. He'd sat in on lords’ councils. And still the fool thought that a paper from the Osneran Chosen, from their Heirocracy, would change matters in Nedao! Tevvro had been too long from the real world, that was what. If he remains in my company long enough, he'll learn, Vess thought grimly as he stood, spraddle-legged to keep from falling in the wildly rocking boat, and caught at the ladder.
The Vitra rocked, but not as dreadfully as the smaller boat had. He could stand straight here and not lose quite so much face, though he knew there wasn't a cabin boy among them wasn't laughing at all of them—at him, damn their hides!—for their lack of sea legs. His hair was plastered to his forehead by the thin, driving rain water was seeping down his neck through the rents in his cloak, and the smell of fish, wine, ale and cooking fires threatened to make him ill. He swallowed hard, ran a sodden sleeve over his eyes.
Nod Bri H'Larn crossed the wet deck with a cat's ease and gripped his forearm, added the briefest of bows—more an inclining of his great shaggy head. Teeth gleamed deep inside the thicket of his red-grey beard. “When we saw the fire and the signal, we thought it was one of your men, not you yourself, Lord Vess.” Vess nodded once, curtly. “Rumor is true, then: the barbarians have taken back your Plain and your ruling house is gone.”
“Partly so,” Vess replied evenly. The words threatened to stick in his throat, and Bri H'Larn's breath left his stomach reeling. He detached himself, stepped back to lean against one of the inner railings, “My cousin, Brandt's daughter, rules what is left of Nedao. They are holed up in Caves north and east of what was Teshmor.”
“Ah.” Another gleam of very white, strong teeth. “Then our usefulness to you, and the bargain you proposed, are of no point, are they?”
Vess shook his head. “Not so. The Plain—I want it back.’ And the people.”
“The Plain.” Shaggy grey brows went up; Bri H'Larn contemplated him with suddenly shrewd eyes. “What, all of it?”
“No.” Galling to have to face that truth. There aren't enough of us to hold it. The South—we can handle the South. We will, if it's ours again. Your side of that bargain: you'll get all I originally promised, I'm taking less.”
“There's less of you to offer it, also,” the Sea-Raider remarked with a brief grin. Several of the men behind him laughed; he silenced them with an imperious chopping gesture. “Let me talk it over with my commanders, those I have with me. There's hot ale in my cabin, if you like.”
Vess didn't like, particularly: didn't want to go below decks in a heaving Sea-Raider's ship, didn't want to be cut off from the outdoors, however wet and cold it was. He was too tired and cold to argue, and Nod Bri H'Larn might take offense if they didn't. He cast a glance over his shoulder: the land was too far away to reach, unless Nod wanted to send him back to it. Small matter if they went below or not.
It might have been an hour; he and his armsmen and the Chosen Tevvro sat close together in the small, warm cabin, drinking hot mulled ale, eating an oddly herbed stew and listening to the muttered voices, and the occasional flare of temper outside. They couldn't make out words, or even the gist of the argument. But it was Nod himself came to get them, and Nod who led them out onto the deck.
The atmosphere was charged, and one or two of the men stood stiff-legged, hands on hilts. A few looked, worriedly, from their leader to the holdouts across deck, then back again. But as Nod took his place mid-deck and held up a hand for silence, the nearest of the holdouts turned and walked away, and the other few followed him. “The bargain is set!” Uneasy silence. “This man, Vess of the House of Ettel, is known henceforth to us as King of the Nedaoans! At such time as he asks it, we shall aid him in his venture to retake his own, and in return, he will aid, us in any ventures we make against the sea-merchants of Nar!” A brief, ragged cheer at that. Doubtful looks among others of them.
Nod Bri H'Larn extended a hand, then, and aided Vess up onto the hatch. From that slight advantage of height, Vess gazed across the men there, memorizing faces, stowing them in his capacious memory. Across the bared heads he met pale blue eyes under a wide freckled forehead, and a mass of red curls. Wild. The Sea-Raider stared back at him arrogantly. I'll remember you, that look said. Vess met it with one of his own.
“Who is that, Bri H'Larn?” he asked. Nod Bri H'Larn followed, the direction of his gaze, shrugged.
“Mal Brit Arren, captain of the Fury. Don't let him
worry you; he opposed me bitterly, but he won't live to see next winter's storms.”
“He doesn't worry me," Vess said coldly. “He's your worry, not mine.” He gathered his men together for the return trip through the surf. Appraising, chill blue followed him until he vanished into the woods.
They were creatures of the Plain, so the tale of the Nedaoans has it Mathkkra preyed upon their flocks and upon the herders, until the last of them was slain by Merreven Wergenson. Of course, by the Nedaoan tale, they were an upright people, two-legged, two-armed, nothing like the creatures in truth are. Properly nosed, where in reality, they have only an opening midface to serve. They were also said to be a hairy folk and they are not. Nor are they of the Plain originally, as even they believe.
Did the Lammior create them, or find them? The latter, most likely, for his Power was great but not that of the One. Though he thought it so. No, I believe—and so do many who have given the matter thought—that he found an underground nest of foul and noxious creatures, and he raised them to a level something higher than they had been. Gave them a portion of intellect—sufficient for his needs. And set them to harry his enemy, hoping to so wear them down. It must have done that, for I remember all too well my horror at sight of such an endless enemy—mindless, without number—Mathkkra.
But it was Lyiadd who conferred upon them use of the Fear, and their ability to hide that Fear and themselves when they chose. For they had not had that ability before he found them and in his turn raised them from their skulking places among the rocks and night to serve him.
5
Two days, a third. They faded into one another, difficult to separate: it was cool and drizzly without, smoky within Aresada. The search for seed caches went on, as did the nightly meetings. During one of them—she could not, after the fact, separate those one from another—she named a reluctant Erken her temporary heir, an even more reluctant and thoroughly abashed Bnorn as Erken's successor, should need arise. Sometime—not, as she recalled, the same night—Erken had brought her a list of suitable consorts. Ugh. They'd been few, and few among those listed she knew by face. Not that such a thing mattered, not for Nedao's sake. I always hoped to wed as Father did, when he found Mother. I knew it wasn't likely. But since Nedao was in no position to bargain for a Lord to wed its Lady, she put the list in her sleep chamber and forgot about it.
Nisana had returned late one evening with astonishing news: She'd found the village Telean, intact. They'd had luck: they were so near the Foessa, so far within the foothills, the Tehlatt had missed them. And they had stores: winter-depleted, but stores nonetheless, and tools, seed, fencing.
Levren and a dozen of Erken's men had gone out at daybreak the next day with two heavy bullock carts. They'd be a 5-day or more, for many of Telean's people were old and unused to travel of any kind, let alone across such rugged terrain.
Nisana set out with them, though she didn't intend to travel the entire distance either direction. It was her intention instead to bridge to Levren once a day so she could advise Ylia and Erken if problems arose, but otherwise to continue her westerly search.
Ylia, who was learning of necessity to worry only one matter at a time, and that as it presented itself, let Telean and a future home for Nedao both fade from her mind in the cat's absence. In the meantime, things settled into a comfortable pattern: She spent most of her mornings helping prepare hides for the one shoemaker they had left, for shoes were nearly as critical a need as food. Many of the women were going out to forage in shifts, sharing boots between them, and fully half the children were barefoot, or wrapped their feet in rags. But even such bits of cloth were at a premium.
Afternoons, she made search of her own, more for enemy than a valley, and she kept half a sense tuned down River even though it was far too soon for the boats to return.
And evenings: meetings, meetings and more meetings. Every cache they found had robe studied, portioned to the kitchens for later if it was meal or grain, assigned and set aside if seed or tools. And there were always new matters to discuss: the sword-training and its progress, warm clothing for the herder-children, particularly the older ones who kept night-guard, an extra turn of guardsmen for the herds and the children. Then, cloth for Nedao's Queen: Ylia had protested but in vain, and found herself in possession of a near-new cloak of rich blue, newly lined in soft grey rabbit fur, with a thick hood to match.
Erken had flatly cut through her arguments, finally: “The folk are poor, yes! And cold and hungry. But they have you, and they love you. Do you dare refuse them that right, to be proud of what they do have?” So put, she hadn't dared refuse, though she felt guilty and uncomfortable, sleeping and walking the ledges so warm, when so many weren't.
Fourth night—fifth? She came awake with a start. ‘Nisana?’ The cat butted hard against her shoulder, pressed at her thought.
'Come alert, Lev was attacked, not an hour past.’
Gods and Mothers. “How many hurt?”
'None. But we've trouble. Look!’
Trouble indeed. Ylia threw back her cloak. She slept, as most did, fully clad, save boots and sword-belt. She began pulling on her boots as she joined, sharing the cat's inner vision.
Dark: it was a black night, the moon near full but hidden in thick cloud and now low behind the trees. There, not a league from Aresada and next to the track leading from the foothills to the Caves, fires, perhaps a dozen. Sleeping villagers: many white-haired, a few children, a young woman, a middle-aged couple. A drove of sheep, dogs keeping them effectively penned, horses circled by ribbon-draped twine, a similar pen for half-a-dozen cattle. From the carts, the whispery, soothing sound of the penned drakes, an occasional answering raucous quack from a she-duck. Armsmen moved in and out of the light: they were taking no chances, even so near their goal.
And well they hadn't. There was sudden bedlam among the carts: the birds scented it first, but the dogs weren't far behind. The sheep milled; panicked and several broke free. Levren snapped orders, and one of Erken's men, a boy short of his first beard, ran to cut them off, spear out sideways at knee height to block them. Sheep hit the pole, nearly bowling him over.
It was too dark for shadows, but one moved across the ground, dimming the fires. It rolled over the young guardsman, who cried out in terror; the spear fell from nerveless fingers and he threw himself to one side. The Thullen ignored him, caught a sheep between enormous long-taloned feet and was gone.
“Guard the beasts! You folk, away from the fires, get under the trees! No, not that way, get with the cattle! We are not enough to protect in two directions!” The Bowmaster's shout reverberated through her mind. He roused his comrades; shouting, jostling them, and they, in turn, got the fear-frozen villagers out from under open sky. The village boys and the dogs got the rest of the sheep under cover.
Just in time: A Thullen—the same or another—circled the clearing, sailed low across the road and came straight for them. “Stay back, he's mine!” Lev took two long strides into the open, dropped to one knee and braced the short horseman's spear against the rocky ground as the thing dropped for him, claws out and ready. The spear was tom from his hands; Levren caught up his bow as the Thullen, with a shriek that burned Ylia's AEldra sense, as it had Nisana's, flailed away and flapped for altitude. Two of the Bowmaster's red-fletched arrows caught it at the tops of the trees and brought it down.
The vision faded.
'There have been no others.’
“Mathkkra?” Ylia slapped the dagger into its forearm sheath.
'None.’
'Wait.’ Ylia crossed the tiny chamber, shoved the thin curtain aside. Door-warder: at this hour of night, he'd be walking the hallway worn between the main rooms and this small side cavern. She ran him down halfway to the Grand Temple. “Merreven, find Erken, Marhan. Brelian if he's back. Council Chambers, at once. There's an emergency. No, not here. Near enough, but we're safe for now.”
Nisana bridged back to Levren as Marhan—the last of them—staggered into th
e narrow chamber. Brelian wasn't back yet, but Lisabetha, her hair half plaited and hanging down her hack in a black ripple, took his place. Bnorn, Bnolon. Erken. Marhan, still blinking and yawning, at the far end. It was a grimly silent audience she told of the attack.
“The Thullen are spoken of nowhere, that I know, Nedaoan tale or Ylsan. They are deadly. The scent of evil precedes them; their eyes paralyze you with fear, and the thing can carry away a grown sheep—or a man.”
“They—no.” Bnolon protested faintly. Marhan stirred.
“Know how you feel, steda-Baron,’ he said. “Magic.” The word still fell from his lips like an epithet. “But I've seen ’em, I've felt ‘em. These creatures—but you'll see, I don't doubt that at all.” Bnolon cast him an unhappy glance. Marhan stifled a yawn, scowled at his hands. “Damn. But it wasn't likely we could keep it all quiet, was it?”
Ylia robbed her eyes. “No. But I hoped for a little time, that was all. Well, we had a little.” She started as Merreven pulled the curtain aside to admit Marckl and Ifney. “Sorry to wake you.”
“Weren't sleeping,” Marckl replied shortly as he dropped onto the cushionless smoothed stump that served him for a seat. “We were trying to devise some source of iron for plows.”
“Might as well have been sleeping,” Ifney grumbled, “for all we accomplished. What's to do?”
“The incoming village, your Telean, was attacked tonight.”
“What! Tehlatt so near the Caves?” Ifney's eyes went wide.
“No,” Ylia began. Erken laid a hand on her arm.
“Is it,” he asked quietly, “a good idea to spread this particular tale, Lady Ylia?”
“No,” Ylia replied grimly. She became aware her right fingers were drumming at the table, stilled them. “But we have no choice.” She briefly told the tale again for the two Holders. “There will be no keeping Telean quiet. What, a hundred folk, many of them so elderly or so young they'd never remember a vow of silence? And the rest of them? They'll be singing Levren's praises so loud tomorrow the River itself couldn't drown the noise!”
