Kiran drew in a breath. Something’s wrong. Instantly, he was fully alert, scanning the forest in the direction the monkey-man had looked. Dark-skinned men burst from the woods, a dozen or more, armed with cudgels and hatchets. “Savages!” Kiran swung around. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to flee. He braced for a fight, fear coursing through his veins.
Bria ran into the river. One savage veered off from the force, chasing her. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her down.
“No!” Kiran screamed as a savage slammed him to the ground and shoved a bag over his head.
Chapter 26
“Bria!” he called. A switch cracked across his chest.
Then he heard her. He knew her voice, without question. But the sounds she was making were not natural. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. “No,” she screamed, over and over again amid the sounds of grunts and laughter. Kiran thrashed on the ground, fighting with the straps at his wrists, at his ankles, choking on his own hot breath inside the bag. He had to get to her.
Someone kicked him in the stomach. The air left his body. He curled in a ball and lay still, straining to listen above his own gasping. Rage burned in his gut and spread through his body, exploding at his bound hands. He got to his knees and yanked and tugged at the straps, clenching his teeth with fury, every muscle in his body stretched to the point of breaking.
But it was no use.
Her cries dissolved into submission.
Kiran slumped face down in the hot sand, smothering his agony in the canvas bag. He could not save her. “No, no, no,” he sobbed. How could the Great Father let this happen?
He was hauled to his feet, his wrists tied to something. A pole?
The bag was ripped from his head. He blinked grains of sand from his eyes and looked around for Bria.
Jandon was right in front of him, his back to him. Bria was ahead of Jandon. They were all tied to the same pole, held horizontally between them.
Her face was stained with dirty tears, her cheek purple where a man’s fist had landed. Her lips were swollen and bleeding, her tunic torn and hanging on her in tatters. Kiran yanked at the bindings at his wrist. Crack! came the whip once more.
Jandon flinched.
This can’t be happening! Kiran fought to force down the panic that surged through his body, threatening to overwhelm him.
Roh was next to him, to his left on the other side of the pole, watching everything, counting the men, assessing their strength, strategizing; Kiran was sure of it. He wished he had Roh’s calm fortitude. Right now, he was too angry to think.
Through gritted teeth, he sucked in a deep breath and examined the solid leather straps that bound his hands and attached them to the pole. They were secured so tightly that his wrists were white from the pressure. They weren’t going to come loose.
There were fourteen savages, all of them armed, their skin black as pitch. These were not the headhunters they had seen upriver. These barbarians were taller and built of solid muscle. Each wore a woven harness strapped to his torso that held his weapons at the ready and all his supplies on his back. The apparatus, Kiran could see, allowed the savages to move through the jungle with speed and stealth.
They reminded Kiran of the Javinians, yet the weapons these savages carried seemed specifically designed to hunt men.
One prodded Kiran, sputtering in a strange language—guttural, brief, as though he didn’t really want to speak. Kiran didn’t understand the words, but the message was clear—move.
“Ah-oo, notaraby, Ah-oo notaraby!” Pel repeated in his high-pitched, piping voice. He was strapped to the pole opposite Bria. He turned to look back at Roh and Kiran over his shoulder. “Either they don’t speak the language of the Widhu or they don’t care,” he said, shaking his head with surrender. A savage whacked him on the back of the head with his cudgel and he dropped to the ground, hanging by his wrists. The man grabbed him by his elbow and hauled him back to his feet.
The barbarians pushed and shoved the Torans, forcing them to march into the dense tangle of the jungle, leaves and branches scraping at their skin. They fought to stay on their feet as they slogged through the mud, jerking and tugging at the pole as the five tried to move as one.
Kiran struggled to make sense of it all. Where were they being taken? And for what reason? What did these men want of them? They had done nothing to these people, whoever they were. He tried to stay calm. After all, when he and Bria had been captured by the Lendhi, everything worked out. But when he looked at Bria, he knew, this time was different. He wondered how much she could endure. But she kept up, and kept her head down. It was Pel who tripped and fell from exhaustion and was forced to his feet again and again.
Maybe he could find a way to communicate with them, to make them understand he meant no harm, that this was all a mistake. But when he tried to speak, the whip came down hard, cracking across his back, causing such excruciating pain he had to gulp for air.
He clamped his mouth shut and trudged on, wondering how much more they would have to endure as the savages pushed them deeper and deeper into the jungle. With no food in his stomach and no water to drink, the stifling heat drained what little strength he had left until, at last, when he didn’t think he could take one more step, they came upon a trickling stream and the savages stopped to rest. The Torans were forced to the ground. Kiran’s legs were wobbly from fatigue and he slumped to his knees. The flesh on his wrists had rubbed raw and his arms felt numb.
He kept his eyes on their captors, wondering what would happen next. One of the savages, who appeared to be the leader, grunted orders and two of the other barbarians went to work, starting a fire. Another dipped a wooden container in the stream and walked by the Torans dumping the water over their heads. Kiran opened his mouth and gulped it down, nearly choking on his thickened tongue.
Another of the savages walked the edge of the stream, searching for something. At last, he pulled a machete from a sheath he had slung over his back and chopped at the forest floor. Bunches of the cabbage-like plant were tossed at their feet. Kiran sighed with relief, thankful for something to fill his stomach and ease his gnawing hunger.
A third savage came round. Kiran thought he was going to cut them from their bindings so they could eat. But instead, he checked each one, making sure they were still tight and secure.
Kiran and the others had to lean over and eat right from the ground. They’re feeding us like sheep, he thought, his anger inflamed. Why not just kill us? Why keep us alive? He eyed the men and their weapons and their purpose became clear. These savages weren’t protecting their territory.
They were capturing slaves.
As soon as night fell, their bindings were checked again, and all but two of the men took their weapons in hand and disappeared into the dark jungle. Kiran risked a quick glance at Roh whose eyes mirrored his own. They had to escape.
Kiran looked to Bria, trying to make eye contact with her, but she stared off into the darkness, her eyes barren of all expression. She had retreated far into herself, resigned to their fate it seemed, a mere shadow of the spirited Bria that he loved. Kiran’s insides tightened. He wanted to kill each one of these savages with his bare hands for what they had done to her. He tugged at his bindings once more.
The two savages who were left to guard looked up from the fire and laughed. One had a scar that ran the length of his cheek, giving his face a permanent scowl. He got to his feet and grabbed Bria by the chin. She tried to pull away, but he yanked her chin around to face him, fierce lust in his eyes. The savage ran his tongue up her neck, his eyes on Kiran, taunting him. Kiran shook with rage. His vision turned blurry. His throat constricted. He wanted to scream at this evil savage.
“Don’t show your anger,” said Roh, his voice loud and clear. “It will only encourage him.”
The savage leaped to his feet and kicked Roh in the side of the head. Roh slumped to the ground. Bria let out a gasp. With a huff, as though he’d become bored, the savage turned and went
back to the fire.
Roh slowly lifted his head and spat a glob of bloody saliva on the ground. For a long time afterward, no one dared to move. Kiran hung his head, seething in an empty, impotent rage.
Soon, exhaustion overtook him. He dreamed of a dark shadow, smothering him in blackness. He tried to run, tried to hide, but no matter where he ran, it followed, hanging over him, surrounding him. Finally it pinned him to the ground, the pressure in his chest too much to bear.
He came awake with a start, soaked in sweat.
The barbarian guard closest to him, the one with the scar, was sound asleep. Kiran stretched to get a look at the second guard. He was asleep too. He worked at his bindings, tugging and tugging, back and forth, until they became bloodied and slippery and he thought he could slip one hand out. He gripped the pole with his left hand and worked his right. If he could just get one hand free. But it was bound too tightly.
Frustrated, he slumped in defeat, warm blood trickling down his arms. How could this happen, he wondered. Was this what the Great Father intended? For Bria to be… How could He!
Something moved in the forest. Kiran sat upright. The two guards came awake. One whistled and a whistle came back. It was the other savages, back with a new captive, a headhunter. He was shoved to the ground and lashed to the pole between Pel and Roh, opposite Jandon. Awake now, Jandon shifted, leaning as far away from the man as he could. The savage turned to Jandon and drew back his lips and bared his sharp fangs. Jandon shrank back.
Kiran squirmed, eyeing the bloodthirsty headhunter in the firelight, so close now, visions of bloody heads filling his mind. When the man turned and saw Kiran, his eyes grew large and his mouth dropped open. “Misu,” he whispered and started to tremble. Kiran felt a pang of compassion for him. Bound and tied to the pole, he looked less savage than small and tired and just as terrified as the rest of them.
The headhunter hung his head and sang a low, sorrowful song.
“What is he saying?” Kiran whispered to Pel.
“I think he is praying to his gods for mercy,” said Pel. One of their captors smacked Pel in the mouth with the back of his hand.
Kiran looked to the headhunter and back to their captor, angry. Why hadn’t they hit the headhunter? He wanted to scream: Unfair! But he could already feel the crack of the whip. He laid his head on his hands and listened to the mournful song until the sun came up again, and the world filled with steam. The savages prodded with sticks, forcing the Torans to their feet and on the march again.
He had to find a way to escape. If only he could talk to Roh.
They were taken due south, as best Kiran could make out. He fought feelings of hopelessness and a choking fear that he would die here in the jungle at the hands of these barbarians. At times, he struggled against the impulse to give in to it, to let fear overtake him and resign himself to his fate. He would start to think of nothing but the nightly halt, longing for the daily drink of water, then his anger would well up again and his mind would race, trying to find a way to escape. Before he knew it, ten days had passed.
He gave up trying to free his wrists from the bonds as they marched. Even if he could, he’d never get past the men. There were just too many of them. Besides, he wouldn’t leave Bria. There had to be another way.
Having Roh next to him gave him strength. Roh would never give up. Every moment of every day, Roh would be thinking, plotting, planning. Together, they would find a way. They had to.
The headhunter sang and sang, but his spirits did not save him. It must have brought him solace, though. The barbarians allowed it. Perhaps singing kept their captives calm and complacent. Maybe I should sing to the Great Father, Kiran thought. He knew the Tongue of the Father, after all. But would He listen? Would He save them? Kiran could sing the one song that was sung every week at worship, the Song of the Father, but he only knew that one in the common tongue. No one would be listening.
Kiran stopped dead, jerking the pole. That’s it! One of the savages turned and smacked him on the back of the head. He dropped his eyes and started walking again. Did these savages understand his language? If he sang, would they assume that he was singing to the Father for mercy? Could he sing, like the headhunter, without getting whipped?
He braced for the whip and sang out, “Glory to the Great Father, la la la la.” No whip came down on him. “I’m singing. We can sing!” He looked to Roh whose eyes grew bright. He understood immediately what Kiran had realized.
One of the savages glared at Kiran, a skeptical look in his eyes. Kiran sang out the Song of the Father, knowing it had a distinct rhythm and melody. Then he slipped in a line: “Bria, are you all right?” She did not respond. She didn’t even lift her head.
Roh joined in, adding his own line. “Kiran, you are a genius, la la la la.”
“Yes, yes!” Kiran sang. He was so relieved; he wanted to cry.
Roh sang. “Pel, sing to the headhunter, la la la la, and find out what he knows.”
Pel turned and nodded. A flicker of hope returned to his eyes.
After a long, melodic exchange with the Widhu man, Pel switched back to the language of the Torans, singing, “He says we are being taken to the land of hot sand. We are now slaves of the man-god who builds mountains of death.”
“What does that mean?” Jandon warbled.
“Don’t know. But he says no one ever comes back.”
In the silence that followed, the headhunter, as if to accentuate the point, yowled a long, sorrowful lament.
The jungle gave way to chaparral and then, in the late afternoon, the savages climbed atop a knoll, dragging the Torans with them, and sat in the shade of a scraggly tree overlooking a vast, grassy flatland.
Kiran shifted and squirmed, trying to stretch his sore muscles. Roh sat stone still, only his eyes moving. Jandon moaned and fidgeted, tugging on the pole and Bria slumped to the ground, her eyes closed. And poor Pel—Kiran didn’t know how he’d make it much farther.
At least we are out of the wretched jungle, he thought, gazing across the flatland. Wind whispered across the fields, soft on his face. For a moment, Kiran closed his eyes and imagined he was back home, breathing in the cool breezes that blew up from the sea.
Their captors made camp. Kiran wondered why they chose this particular spot. There was no water. No shelter. They were out in the open, exposed. It didn’t make sense. None of this made any sense. The headhunter must be wrong, Kiran told himself. No one could build a mountain. That was nonsense. If no one ever came back, as he had said, how could he know if there was truth to any of it?
As their captors worked, Kiran noticed them constantly scanning the horizon.
They were waiting for something.
Then, across the savannah, something without form or definition appeared on the horizon, a dark patch against the light sky. Kiran watched it take shape as it inched toward them through the shimmering heat. In the sky above, vultures swung back and forth, gliding on the air over the dead sun.
As the thing came closer, it was clear that it was not one thing, but a long caravan. Out front, animals lumbered toward them, some with tall spindly legs, laden with packs, others, heavy and muscled, like the beasts of the Great Meadow, harnessed and forced to tow giant wagons. Kiran stared in awe. These barbarians had subjugated animals!
His awe turned to shock when he saw, at the head of the procession, a creature so amazing he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Look at that! It’s half-man, half-animal,” he said aloud, without thinking. A savage slapped him, but he couldn’t take his eyes from the creature with the head and torso of a man atop the body of a beast. He had heard tales of these kinds of liminal beings, spawn out of the depths of Eternal Darkness—an evil twisting of two souls. But he never dreamed he’d actually see one.
As the procession came closer, it turned, forming a half circle, and he could see now the two massive wagons were cages on wheels. Inside, gripping the bars, were hordes of monkey-men, their eyes pleading like enslaved captives.
Behind the second wagon, a long procession of men shuffled along, two by two, each man’s wrists bound and tied to a long rope. Kiran’s heart started to race. He counted nearly seventy slaves.
The caravan halted in the distance. The half-man, half-animal being continued forward, climbing the incline toward them, a small entourage following. When the savages were turned away, watching, Roh leaned close and whispered in Kiran’s ear. “We don’t have much time.”
A guard swung around and glared at the weary group tied to the pole.
The creature came to a halt and, with a jerky movement, the man separated from the beast and jumped to the ground. Kiran gasped. It wasn’t one being. The man had been riding the animal!
The man was clad in a long, brown robe of animal hide, which Kiran realized now, had covered his legs. He approached the Torans, eyeing them closely. With an air of detachment, he turned on his heel and shouted at their captors, pointing in the direction of the jungle. Kiran was sure he was scolding the savages; the leader’s face was flush with hostility. The barbarians grunted to each other, debating some decision. Finally, all but the two guards headed back toward the jungle.
Roh started singing the chorus of the Song of the Father. Then he eased into a plan. “Once the guards fall asleep, Kiran, you slide my knife from my boot and cut everyone free. When he does, keep your wrists at the pole, though, so if the guards wake, they’ll think you’re still tethered. I’ll get them to chase me. Then you quietly slip away. Make sure they are both chasing me before you go.”
Kiran started to interrupt.
Roh shook his head. “It’s the only way. There are too many of them to fight. Do you understand?” He waited for everyone to nod. “I’ll lead them in the opposite direction, leaving a trail, so when the other barbarians return, they’ll track me.”
The guards were engaged in a brusque exchange with the robed man.
The Path to the Sun (The Fallen Shadows Trilogy) Page 27
