by Stewart Ross
Roxanne shook her head. “No, not safe, Cyrus. We’ll never be safe from Timur as long as he’s alive. I know the man only too well. He wants my secret and he’ll pursue me, day and night, until he gets it.”
“Then we’ll stay ahead of him, Roxanne, and get to the Soterion before he finds us. Trust me.”
Cyrus looked towards Zavar, who was sitting with his back against the trunk of the tree. “How is it?” he asked, squatting down beside him.
“To be honest, Cyrus, the pain’s quite bad. I’m sure it’ll ease off, but just now my whole body’s throbbing like I’ve got a drum inside me.”
No one replied. They all knew, as Zavar himself did, that wounds like his took weeks to heal, if they healed at all. Even innocent-looking cuts became infected and the sufferer died of blood poisoning. And Zavar’s wound did not look innocent.
Cyrus searched his mind for a solution. He had been on many Tallin salvage parties bringing back medical supplies from shops and other buildings that had escaped looting. Sadly, they didn’t know how to use the loot properly and powerful drugs, well passed their use-by date, often made patients sicker rather than better. Did the literate Yonners know better?
“You know how to read, Roxanne,” he said slowly, “and where you were brought up they have books –”
“Only three, Cyrus.”
“Yes, but don’t those books tell you about healing, about cures and that sort of thing? Like in the time of the Long Dead. Maybe you know something to help Zavar.”
Roxanne shook her head and, despite the cruel circumstances, smiled at his optimism. Not for the first time in her presence, Cyrus felt a wave of unexplained happiness wash over him.
“I wish I could be of use,” she said, looking round at the others. “Unfortunately, the Books of Yonne don’t speak much of science or healing. They are, well, odd. Difficult to understand – not the words themselves but the information and ideas they stand for. Generations of Yonner scholars have argued over them, trying to work out what they mean.”
Before anyone asked what these books were, the sound of barking began again in the distance. “Come on!” called Cyrus, snapping back into his role as leader. “I’m sure Zavar will be OK – and Roxanne can tell us about her weird books later. So, let’s go! If the mission gets through, there’ll be more books and knowledge than we ever dreamed of. But if we fail…” He left the sentence unfinished.
Cyrus and Taja helped Zavar to his feet and the party continued on its way. Out in front, after Roxanne and Navid had walked in silence for a while, she turned to him and asked earnestly, “You know how to keep wounds clean, don’t you Navid?”
“Yeah. That’s why you put those leaves on Zavar’s shoulder. Keep out the dirt.”
“Yes, but it needs to be properly cleaned. Water, Navid. We need to find water to wash the wound. Have you ever been here before, on a patrol?”
Navid shook his head. “Never. But if it’s water you want, I know a fellow who’ll find it for you.” He stooped down and patted Corby’s massive flank. “Drink time, old boy,” he whispered. “Go on! Drink! Find drink!”
The dog looked up at him as if to say, “Water? Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?” then raised his nose in the air and sniffed. Seconds later, he was bundling off to the right, leaving the Tallins struggling to keep up. After a good deal of sniffing and snuffling, and a quick diversion in pursuit of a startled rabbit, Corby found what he was looking for. Galloping ahead of his master, he plunged into a shallow ravine and was soon lapping happily at the sluggish brown stream that ran along the bottom.
Though the water was not as clean as they would have wished and tasted of mud, it had to do. After they had drunk their fill and replenished their water bottles – some of leather, others battered relics rescued from a Long Dead store – Taja insisted that it was she who bathed Zavar’s wound and bandaged fresh leaves to his gashed flesh. She frowned as she worked but when Roxanne asked if she needed any help, she dismissed the offer with a curt, “No! I can manage on my own.”
Meanwhile, Cyrus and Navid discussed their next move. The stream was a triple blessing. Its water was essential for drinking and washing – and as a means of evading the Zeds. If they waded along it for a thousand paces or more, Cyrus reckoned, there was no way the dogs would be able to follow their scent.
Slipping on wet rocks and ducking beneath overhanging branches, the party scrambled along the bed of the stream before striking out again across country. As darkness fell, they reached a clump of stumpy trees whose swollen trunks rose like the ruins of a vast temple against the glowing embers of the sky. There, thoroughly exhausted by the events of the day, they collapsed to the ground and slept.
Taja woke first. Lying next to Cyrus, she put out her hand and gently shook his shoulder. He yawned and opened his eyes. “Shh!” she whispered, placing a finger to her lips and rolling over so that he felt her breath on his cheek. “Listen, Cyrus. We must talk.”
“Yes?” He was very conscious of Taja’s lips hovering near his and of her hand still resting against his shoulder.
“You know what I think of Roxanne…”
Cyrus sighed. “Yes, you’ve made it pretty obvious. But you’ve seen how she behaves, her reactions to the Zeds…” He glanced across to where Roxanne lay. She was still asleep, her head pillowed on her hands. “She’s honest, Taja. I know she is.”
Taja came still closer. “Alright, I agree she’s terrified of the Zeds. Maybe that’s why she’s acting for them? Odd, wasn’t it, that they knew where and when to ambush us? And in the fight, did any of them go for her seriously, even try to injure her? Think about it, Cyrus,” she added slowly, her lips brushing against his. “Think about it.”
“I will. Of course I will.” Despite her clouded motives, he recognized the logic behind what she was saying.
“And while you’re thinking…” Her mouth closed over his.
Cyrus turned away. “No, Taja. Not now, not here.” What he meant was not her. If there was any time for kissing on this mission, he hoped it might be with someone else.
As soon as it was light, the party rose, ate a little of the bread they had brought with them, and set off again. Urged on by Cyrus, they moved as quickly as Zavar could manage through the heat of the day, walking for a few thousand paces, resting, then moving on again. Where possible they followed the route of ancient roads, but keeping a few hundred paces to the side of the main track for fear of attracting Zeds. For the same reason, they hugged the shadows, avoiding skylines and open spaces.
Cyrus had plenty of time to think about Taja’s remarks. He was sure she was wrong, but throughout the day he watched Roxanne carefully to see whether she was leaving any sort of trail for the pursuing Zeds. He saw nothing.
On the third morning, still pondering Taja’s accusations and looking for an opportunity to get to know Roxanne better, Cyrus fell in beside her and started chatting. Timur and his tribe, he suggested, may well have given up the chase when they lost track of their prey in the stream. Roxanne simply shook her head and said she wished she were so optimistic. Seeing the pain on her face that the subject caused, Cyrus switched to less troubling matters. Life in Yonne, he asked, how was it different from that in Della Tallis?
Roxanne relaxed and spoke eagerly of her past, her upbringing and her children. As Cyrus listened, enthralled by her wit and charm as much as by what she said, he wondered how he could ever have doubted her integrity. After a while, the conversation came round to the Books of Yonne. He had never seen a book, he reminded her, and wanted to know what they looked like and what they meant.
Roxanne laughed as she described how different the three she had read were: one fat and shiny, all bright colours and pictures; another looked dull, though it had very intelligent words inside; and the third – well, the third was the really strange one.
“How strange
?” asked Cyrus.
“We don’t know why it was written. The author –”
“What’s that?”
“Author? Oh, that’s a person who writes a book. They set out the words on paper. We think there were several ways of doing this, some by hand, others by machine.”
Cyrus was lost. “OK, you can explain that later. But why’s this book so odd?”
“It’s a story about children living in the time of the Long Dead. One of them doesn’t want to get older. You know how the Long Dead grew older slowly and lived for many, many more years than we do?’
“Years being our winters – of course, yes.”
“Well, this boy doesn’t want to grow up. He’s afraid, like we are of our Death Month. Some Yonne scholars said the man who wrote it – James – knew that the Great Death was going to happen. He saw that one day there would be only young people – young to the Long Dead way of thinking, that is.”
“Sounds really weird!” muttered Cyrus.
“That’s not all. In this story, people fly through the sky.”
“Is it real? I mean, was it actually like that in the time of the Long Dead?”
“We don’t know. Maybe this was just a dream…”
“This book, does it have a name?”
“Yes. It’s called Peter Pan.”
“Peter Pan, Peter Pan,” repeated Cyrus to himself. “Roxanne, could you show me how to write that?”
“Of course.”
“I was thinking. If anything happened…Well, it would be good if two of us knew how to read, wouldn’t it?”
They were interrupted by a cry from Navid. He was pointing towards the ruins of a town in the valley below.
Constants normally avoided such places. There was something deeply sad about their rows of crumbling, ivy-clad buildings, fallen wires and the rusting shells of vehicles. The stench of decay lingered like poisonous pollen in the heavy air. Having once feasted on human flesh, the armies of sharp-toothed rats that lived there were bold and aggressive. Birds of prey circled silently overhead, snakes eased themselves between cracks in the hot concrete, and wild dogs lay in the sun, licking their flyblown sores. No Constant, however brave, ever felt comfortable in the towns of their ancestors, for all their faded glory.
Nevertheless, patrols did occasionally venture into the barren and overgrown streets in search of materials that might be useful. Metal was most highly prized, followed by ceramics. Navid had been on a couple of these salvage operations and he wondered whether they might go into this town to look for bandages and medicines for Zavar. Roxanne would be able to read the writing on any packets or bottles they came across.
Taja put a stop to the idea. “I’m the only Mudir on this mission,” she said briskly, “so I’ll make this decision. We’ll press on.”
Navid looked puzzled. “Er, I thought Cyrus was the leader?” he said.
“That was before I arrived. Now it’s different, Navid.”
Cyrus didn’t like the way the conversation was going. Divisions and squabbles over leadership were the last thing they wanted. “Look,” he said firmly, “this will get us nowhere. Out here there are no Emirs or Mudirs or anything. We’re all in it together. I’ll take charge when it comes to fighting, and all other decisions we’ll make together, OK?”
Taking the silence that followed as agreement, he asked Zavar whether he wanted them to go to look for medicine. The wounded swordsman shook his head. It would be far too risky for a few of them to enter a town and they should press on, he said. Time was precious and his condition did not seem to be deteriorating. Although his fractured shoulder was still extremely painful, the wound was no longer hurting so badly.
Appearances can be cruelly deceptive. In the middle of the afternoon, as they were climbing a rocky slope to avoid passing through a ravine, Zavar collapsed.
He staggered forward, cutting open his cheek on a flint, and lay face down, breathing heavily. Taja came up and knelt beside him. “Fever,” she announced, laying a hand on his forehead. “He is very sick.”
Cyrus and Navid turned their friend over and made him as comfortable as they could on the hard ground. Roxanne gave him a drink and carefully untied the bandage on his shoulder. When the leaves were removed, the nauseating stench was overpowering. The wound had become badly infected. To the width of two hands, the flesh around it was red and swollen. Yellow puss oozed from the jagged scar and from the sunset flush on Zavar’s face it was clear that his body temperature had risen alarmingly. Beneath the skin, his flesh was starting to rot.
Leaving Roxanne with the injured man, the Tallins moved away to discuss what to do. The predicament was new to them. Back home an ill or injured person was taken to the Sick House, and when they died – the usual outcome – their body was burned on the Ash Pile. There was little room for sentiment because the passing of friends and acquaintances was a common occurrence. In a world where everyone who had seen eighteen winters knew to within a few days when their life would end, the arrival of that moment might be sad but it was hardly a surprise.
That did not mean they were willing simply to abandon Zavar to a wretched fate. Apart from rare executions and war killing – an ugly necessity to prevent even greater slaughter – Constants still prized life, with its bittersweet mix of joys and sorrows. As their proverb said, what else was there? Besides, Cyrus asked, wasn’t their mission itself about the preciousness of life, a quest for the secrets of those who had once enjoyed it in abundance?
“Maybe,” said Taja, shrugging her shoulders in a matter-of-fact manner. ”But Zavar will die soon. So what’s to be done? The nearest Sick House is back in Della Tallis.”
Cyrus looked at her. She was right, of course, but did she have to be that blunt? “It’s our duty to look after him,” he reminded her, “whatever the circumstances.”
“That’s a Tallin rule,” replied Taja quickly. “As you have never stopped telling us, things are different out here. What do you think, Navid?”
“Er, well, I suppose you’re both right. In a way.” Where possible, Navid avoided abstract questions of right and wrong. He was more comfortable doing what he felt was correct. His instinct for natural justice rarely failed.
“So, Taja proposes we leave him here and press on,” Cyrus announced. “Any other ideas?”
He was playing for time, trying to make up his own mind. Zavar might take days to die. During that time, Roxanne’s life would also be ebbing towards its close and Timur’s dogs might pick up their scent and resume the chase. Once again, he faced the heart-breaking clash of upbringing and instinct.
The discussion was interrupted by Zavar calling to them. The water had revived him, he said, and his fever had subsided a little. With his head in Roxanne’s lap, he looked up at his friends with bloodshot eyes. “Listen,” he rasped, “I know what’s going on. This is the end for me. I didn’t get very far, did I?”
“You saved Taja’s life in the fight,” said Navid.
“Maybe, maybe. But now I’m just a boulder tied to your legs.”
“Nonsense!” said Cyrus, trying to sound reassuring. “You’ll be better soon, Zavar. It takes more than a dead-brained Zed to put you down!”
Zavar’s cracked lips parted in a smile. “Come on, Cyrus! Don’t fool yourself. We’re Constants, remember? We’re honest, true to the old ways. So if this Soterion thing can bring them back, then nothing, absolutely nothing must get in the way of our finding it.”
Raising his right arm, he clasped his friend tightly by the ankle. “Please, Cyrus. This is my last wish. I am a burden. Leave me, and the four of you continue the mission. I beg you.”
4: The Children of Gova
Timur’s annoyance, having swollen to angry frustration, was now close to fury. He did not take kindly to being thwarted by anyone, let alone by a woman who had humiliat
ed him.
Sitting in the shade of a myrtle tree to prevent the midday sun burning his oyster-white skin, the chief of the Grozny Zeds ordered a further six of his personal bodyguard to join the search. Before him slipped the sluggish brown brook into which, two days earlier, the Tallins had waded to throw the pursuing hounds off the scent. Somewhere, upstream or downstream, left or right, he knew his enemies must have climbed the bank and continued their journey. The hunt had been going on for almost two days now, and still there were no clues.
Timur had set off in pursuit of the mission shortly after hearing of the failure of the ambush. First, though, he had watched the execution by impalement of the three men – one of whom was already dying of his injuries – who had brought him the news of the defeat and of their failure to detain Roxanne.
“What can I do?” he had explained to them with a mirthless grin. “I would have to kill you for disobedience if you hadn’t told me of your defeat, and now you have to die for the disgrace of losing a battle. What a pity! No choice. Death or…death!”
The three prisoners stared open-mouthed as they struggled to understand the sadistic logic. Like all common Zeds, they were virtually incapable of reasoning. But Sheza, the chief’s nominated successor, was learning to think and act differently. Standing beside his master, he found the whole situation immensely amusing. “Clever Timur!” he chuckled, pointing at the doomed culprits. “Die in the fight – or die on the spit! Ha, ha, ha!”
The Malik looked at him with a mixture of contempt and approval. “Good lad, Sheza! You’re getting there.” Nevertheless, he made a mental note to arrange for his heir to receive further education from the next intelligent Constant they captured. The young man still thought in the manner of a commoner, he realised with a sigh, which was barely thinking at all. Unless he showed a marked improvement, he’d never make a Malik of the Grozny.
Timur stared into the muddy water. The longer this went on, the more serious it became. He had lost six valuable hunting dogs to Tallin arrows in trying to recapture that Roxanne woman, and the failed ambush had cost him twenty men. Tribe numbers had been falling recently and he really ought to be raiding Constant settlements or other Zed tribes to stock up on breeding slaves. Of the thirty-five or so female prisoners in the Grozny encampment, only half were pregnant. That was something else he needed to attend to, personally if he had the time.
