Medicine for the Dead

by Arianne Thompson

  Then it came again, as loud and close as before. No, that was something mortal, something living... but if it didn’t shut up, it would attract something else.

  Vuchak stumbled up to his feet as Hakai and the half-man began to stir. When the next one came, he was ready for it: he rounded the wagon and ran past it, to the rocky land now lit by a yellow thumbnail moon.

  The horse had escaped again. And with the night-eyes of the a’Krah, Vuchak could see it clearly. It was wandering aimlessly, sweating, shaking, pausing every few seconds to stretch out its neck and vomit out another hideous, muscle-straining scream. Even as Vuchak watched, it turned again, revealing the blood running down its foreleg from the huge, bloody hole behind its shoulder – from the place where it had been eating itself.

  “What is it?” Hawkeye’s voice was barely audible over the next terrible bray.

  “The horse,” Vuchak answered, his words cold in his ears. “It’s infected.”

  The need was clear. Vuchak turned and bolted back to the wagon, vaulting up into the bench with fresh, dire urgency. “Move!” he snapped, pushing Weisei aside and digging through the baggage with single-minded determination.

  Then his bow and quiver met his hands and he was down again – forward again – standing again, with his feet set just-so and the grip of the bow solid in his hands. He ignored the half’s yelling, and the horse’s screaming, and everything except the alliance of the shaft and the string, the arrowhead and the target. Vuchak drew back, aiming for that unnatural, bloody wound. This one had to be a heart shot. This one could not miss.

  Something huge crashed into him from the side, knocking him to the ground. The arrow was gone in a heartbeat, usurped by a crushing human weight, and a pained masculine cry.

  “Get off!” Vuchak snarled, ramming the heels of his hands into the half’s nearer shoulder.

  But the half only lifted himself enough to grab the bow sticking out from under Vuchak’s side and hurl it away, his two-colored face a mirror for Vuchak’s own fearful rage. “DonSHÚDDIM!”

  A murderous haze darkened his vision. Vuchak would kill him. He would pull his knife and kill him – as he should have done days ago. He hurled himself upwards, smashing his forehead into the half’s stupid ugly face, and was rewarded with a pained yelp. Then he threw his weight violently to the left, knocking the half off-balance and giving himself time to scramble out from under him. The half was getting up again, bleeding freely where the arrow had sliced through his side, but he was too big, too slow – and he’d left his right side wide open. Vuchak pulled the knife from his moccasin-boot, his thighs tensing in readiness for one last forward lunge.

  A long, eerie wail floated over the night air.

  Vuchak froze. The half did too.

  Only the horse answered, with one more ruinous bellow. Yes, it said. Yes, I am here.

  And even before that unearthly voice made its reply, Vuchak’s heart sank into his cold, shriveling stomach. It was too late now. They had been found.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE CROW KNIGHT

  DÍA HAD NO idea what kind of creature could make that strange, pained bellowing noise. Whatever it was, it was no more than a mile or two to the west – and loud enough to wake the dead.

  “Mother Dog?” Her voice emerged small and frightened as she sat up in the dark. “What is that?”

  The warm, furry body beside her stood up and shook itself. New puppy. Pleasantness. Eagerness. Very close. Going?

  By now, Día understood that U’ru’s daughter did not need to eat or sleep the way she did. But she did seem to understand that Día was not tireless, and always lay down with saintly patience to guard and nurse her in her sleep, as you would for... well, a puppy.

  And yet the dog seemed even more eager than usual to get moving again – never mind that this was the very pit of night. Whatever she wanted, it was not far now.

  “Are you sure?” Día asked, and immediately thought better of it. “I’ll go, of course, if you can be patient with me – I don’t see very well in the dark.”

  The dog circled, full of wags. Going! Going!

  After their previous discovery at Carving Rock, Día was not nearly so enthusiastic at the prospect of finding the source of those strident, wretched noises... but she could hardly refuse. She stood up, brushing the dirt from her cassock.

  Then came a high, uncanny keening sound – ghostly, almost musical. Día and the dog froze in unison.

  Grandfather Coyote had sired three peoples – the so-called builder nations. The Ohoti Woru, great traders, who had built the wide highways of this very desert. The Ohoti Yoma, great crafters, who had built their untouchable Cloud Town high atop a sacred mesa. The Ohoti Lala, great farmers, who had built the splendid canyon city called Merin-Ka.

  Its ruins lay far to the south... but that unearthly howl was not nearly far enough for Día’s liking. “Mother Dog –”

  Not-puppies. The thought came to her as a prickle down her spine. Not-puppies who starved. Not-puppies who ate. Not-puppies who ate and ate – who grew thinner and thinner – huge and thin and hungry, ravenous forever –

  “What do we do?” Día’s voice was a tremulous whisper.

  Run.

  VUCHAK DUG THROUGH the baggage again – and this time, Weisei moved of his own accord. “Vichi?” he mumbled. “Vichi, what’s g –”

  “Pray,” Vuchak said, his throat tight around the word. “Pray to Grandfather. Beg him. Now.” His hand finally closed around the oiled wood of the rifle; he nearly threw it to the half-man before remembering that the huge fool couldn’t see in the dark. He was just standing there, nervously gabbling with Hakai, one hand pressed to the wound in his side as blood ran between his fingers and soaked into his pants.

  Vuchak leapt down from the wagon. “Take,” he said in Ardish, and thrust the half’s weapon at him before stooping to retrieve his bow and quiver. The horse screamed again, but Vuchak made no effort to stop it: the marrouak were coming, and if they feasted first on the horse, that might – might – leave enough time for Vuchak and the half to get off a shot or two.

  It was not going to be enough. The high, keening reply was closer now – close enough to hear the disparate voices of that unholy choir.

  “There are three of them,” Hakai said, his voice wobbling. “Four-legged. Running. Coming from the southeast.” He startled at a groan from behind him, but that was only Dulei.

  “That’s it,” Weisei said, propping himself up on the coffin, blearily encouraging its occupant with everything he had left. “Let’s pray together. Father, when you blackened your wings for us – Father, when you moved the sun for us...”

  So Vuchak and the half-man would stand and fight. The children of Marhuk would call for him. Who was left?

  “Here,” Vuchak said, and turned his knife to present Hakai with the handle. “Take it. Hide under the wagon.” He did not give him the third command: when the moment came, the ihi’ghiva could decide for himself how to use the blade.

  Another bellow. Another wail. Dulei groaned louder; Weisei’s voice rose with him. “Half a mile,” Hakai said – and if there were any chance of survival, Vuchak would have reminded himself to ask how he knew that. Instead, he drew a fresh arrow, and turned to be sure that the half understood his task.

  The half had cracked the barrel of his gun, and was peering down the bore. “Id-eint lódit,” he said – and Vuchak swore aloud. The bullets. Of course. He’d hidden them away so the half couldn’t arm himself in secret. Where were they?

  He turned back to the wagon, back to their supplies – and was stopped by Hakai’s grip on his forearm. “One in the lead, two behind,” he said, and guided Vuchak’s right arm back to the bow. “Running low to the ground.”

  Vuchak abandoned hope of arming the half, and concentrated on the black shapes of the hills. If Hakai had aimed him correctly, they would be coming over the slope of that small, twice-dipped rise.

  “... at the hour of my greatest need.
..” Weisei’s clear voice joined with Dulei’s guttural moan.

  If Vuchak were very lucky, he might be able to unleash two arrows before they were on him. It would not be enough, but he had to try. He had to be sure that the crows who came to eat from his body would see that he had died facing forward. He had to end his life as he had begun it: as an a’Krah.

  “... at the moment of my gravest doubt...”

  The half switched his grip to make a club of his rifle, his face fixed in bloodless resolve. “Three hundred yards,” Hakai said.

  The horse screamed. The marrouak wailed, just on the other side of the hill now. Vuchak drew back the first arrow.

  “... all the days and nights of my life...”

  “Wait,” Hakai stammered. “There’s something else – two more, coming from the east –”

  Then the world lit up, and there was no more time.

  DÍA RAN, AND the dog ran with her. From ahead and right came another one of those awful bellowing brays. From ahead and left, close and getting closer, that unearthly triple-throated cry answered back.

  Somewhere between the two, she realized she was running the wrong way – heading straight for a horrific collision.

  NO. The thought resonated inside her before her steps could falter. Fast, fast, going fast, going straight, going to save, help, rescue –

  How? Día had no breath to spare for answering out loud. They had no weapons, nothing –

  She could not tell whether she was answered by the dog’s thought or her own.

  Burn.

  Yes... she could do that. Día had spent days wandering in the desert, soaking up heat. She had spent years learning from her father, and years more teaching herself what he had not lived long enough to impart. In spite of loneliness, in spite of distance, in spite of every unfortunate circumstance, she was still Afriti – and she could set the world on fire.

  The last prayer bead bounced against her leg, an urgent, nameless commandment striking her over and over again.

  Día ran, and God ran with her.

  Día channeled that first surge of power through her feet, and the dry grass underneath bloomed with a smoking red-orange heat. She didn’t look back. She didn’t slow down. Her lungs and legs and tough blackened soles – everything in her was fire, and the parched desert night was her tinderbox.

  A sharp cry of amazement rose up from her right. A horrible, inhuman shriek echoed from her left. Día ran between them, understanding her purpose now: in this moment, she was the blackened tip of her Divine Master’s pen, the fiery bisector dividing two opposite quantities. This is the line, her blazing wake said. This is the line, and you shall not cross.

  ELIM COULDN’T HAVE said how the fire started. When he first noticed it, it was a campfire burning off to the east... but it didn’t stay there. It spread lightning-quick, running to the southeast as if it was eating up a trail of hot oil, as fast and deadly as a barn-fire – and as welcome as April rain.

  “Vuik! Vichi, vuik – u eihei’aih-tsu nat!” Way-Say’s astonished cry went up behind him.

  And whatever he’d said, it was an understatement: the first gust of wind sent the fire-line blossoming up into the night, provoking an awful, ear-splitting scream from whatever was on the other side. Elim had just enough time to catch a glimpse of something recoiling on the other side – something huge and hairless and wolfish, with human flesh stretched taut across its emaciated frame. Then the wind shifted, and there was nothing but smoke and the reek of burning sage.

  The fire was spreading out in every direction, effortlessly eating everything in its path. Elim watched, hypnotized, as the high desert wind fanned the flames, encouraging them to lick and leap from one drought-withered shrub to another. It was beautiful.

  “Ylem!”

  Elim looked up. Bootjack still had an arrow nocked and ready, just in case anything on the other side of that fire decided to try a running leap. His gaze never wavered, but he tipped his head toward the wagon. “Make push.”

  Elim looked from his useless rifle to the black silhouette of the wagon, and then back to the fire again. It was maybe a hundred yards away... which was quickly becoming ninety-five... which was quickly becoming ninety.

  So maybe he ought to get a move on.

  AS SOON AS Vuchak was sure that nothing could cross over, he lowered his bow and ran back to the wagon. The half was already there, his hands planted to the tail-gate, his back and shoulders straining to make those wheels roll forward over the uneven ground. But he didn’t know what he was doing, or else couldn’t see where he was going: they would have to turn a hard quarter circle to get it back to the road – and the road was their only chance. The Ohoti Woru had not built it to serve as a firebreak, but it would serve the purpose: wide and worn, barren of all combustible life, it would stop the fire, just as the fire had stopped the marrouak. It had to.

  “Hakai!” Vuchak called. “Take the shafts – we have to...”

  Where was he?

  Vuchak stopped, turned, and swore. The ihi’ghiva was still just standing there, as dumb and mesmerized as the half had been a minute before. “Hakai!”

  He didn’t answer. Vuchak tossed his bow and arrows into the wagon bed and ran back for him. He was staring, open-mouthed behind his blindfold, his slack face already lit by the flickering advance of the fire – but at least he had the good sense to keep up when Vuchak grabbed his wrist and yanked. “Move!”

  When he was sure he had the slave in tow, Vuchak called forward again. “Weisei, get down so we can push. Hakai, take the shafts and turn it. We have to get it across the road.” Their habit of making camp far enough from the road to avoid the notice of any more broken men now seemed like a fatally stupid idea, but Vuchak had no time to dwell on it.

  As soon as Hakai had gone forward to obey, Vuchak joined the half, and was spared having to touch him when he moved himself over. Even so, he was so close that it was impossible not to smell his abysmal stench – or appreciate his muscle. Vuchak rammed his hands into the wagon’s backboard and heaved. Together, they made it move.

  ELIM PUSHED FOR all he was worth – though that wasn’t saying much. Every step sent a fresh little surge of wetness soaking down the left side of his pants. He had had no time to see how deep the arrow had cut him, much less to tie up the wound. So he did his level best to ignore the gash on the left side of his gut, and the sticky, slippery feeling trickling into his left moccasin-shoe, and the smoky warmth creeping up on him from behind. Some holy miracle had made that wildfire, and Elim didn’t have to know how or why to believe that that was so. By God’s unfathomable grace, they were still alive. They were going to make it.

  THEY WEREN’T GOING to make it. The fire was coming too fast. Vuchak straightened, giddy with tightly-controlled fear. “Stop,” he told the half. “Hakai, we’re leaving it. Tell Ylem to help me take our things across the road, and then start tearing away the brush. Empty a half-circle around the biggest ground-hollow you can find.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hakai dropped the wagon shafts and began to translate, pointing obscenely to be sure the half would see where to go.

  But even he should have been able to see by now. The smell of smoke was unmissable, the heat as oppressive as a summer day in Island Town. Vuchak did not dare turn back to the flames, but reached up to help his marka down from the wagon. Weisei’s clawed hand trembled as Vuchak took hold of it – and then squeezed tight. His beady black crow-eyes shone brightly in the firelight. “Thank you, Vichi.”

  They were small, quiet words, but they lit Vuchak’s insides as if he had swallowed the sun.

  His marka was proud of him, thankful for him.

  He was doing the right things.

  He would not fail.

  As soon as Weisei was on the ground, Vuchak vaulted up into the wagon and began emptying it with a vengeance. Bags and blankets, food and weapons and dishes and tack – though even the horse’s grievous bellowing had disappeared now – and the little sack with Halfwick’s h
ead. The half gathered them up almost as quickly as Vuchak could throw them out, and relayed them across the road. Vuchak was just handing down the last of the breakable things when the half suddenly stiffened and pointed. “Wadjout!”

  Weisei had gone back to collect the remains of their camp – and the fire was rushing forward to meet him. The wind had sent a fresh gout of glowing red embers arcing ahead of the rest, spreading out as a fiery child-inferno even more eager and rapacious than its parent, hungry for the glory it would earn in devouring a son of Marhuk.

  By the time Weisei’s first startled cry reached his ears, Vuchak was on the ground and running.

  ELIM STARED, TRANSFIXED, as Bootjack bolted back into the bright, smoky haze. The larger part of him, the one that knew he wasn’t nearly quick enough to do any good, was held hostage by the smaller part that absolutely wouldn’t let him look away until he knew how it was going to turn out. They couldn’t burn up. Not now. Not after all this.

  Elim was jolted back to sense by a sudden banging sound. Bootjack had scooped up Way-Say, just as he had at the oasis – but this time, any sound his prince might have made was swallowed by the oncoming roar of the fire.

  “Elim!” Hawkeye was just visible, waving at him from the other side of the road. “Come back!”

  Elim glanced back just once, just to assure himself that Bootjack was running at a good enough clip to beat the blaze. Then he turned and hoofed it back to –

  Another bang, this one somehow more urgent – and coming from the wagon. Elim stopped dead, belatedly realizing his mistake. Do-Lay.

  A giddy, panicky thrill surged through him. Maybe this was God giving him his chance. Maybe this was his time to make a break for it – to let that leaking, reeking box burn up, and allow the fire to eat the evidence of his crime. After all, everyone already knew he’d shot him – and he’d left those seven others already – proven beyond anyone’s doubt that he was no saint. After all that, what did one accidental cremation matter?