He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard at least one bow snap during his leap. He didn’t stop to check if a new fletched shaft was protruding from his cottage. He was, however, sure that he was hearing shouts. A man, who must have been only about thirty yards away, was barking orders in an unfamiliar language.
He came to the end of the little trench. His knees and elbows were drenched and chilled to the bone, and the rest of his body was scarcely warmer. He lifted his head a bit and quickly scanned all around. Two men were rushing toward him from different directions. One of them was holding a small spear and the other a curved blade. They were covered in furs from head to toe, but they didn’t seem at all weighed down by the excess clothing. They wore large latticework sifters strapped to their feet, like the ones the Tolensk Arques used, which allowed them to run almost unhindered despite the deep snow.
Bowbaq realized that his chances were dwindling; he decided to go for it. He bolted upright in the ditch, then dashed across the short distance that remained between him and the pen.
He felt a burst of pain near his left shoulder, where the third man’s arrow had just lodged itself. With his last bit of energy, he climbed over the fence railing and let himself collapse to the ground on the other side. He crossed the field to the stable, where he found Wos waiting impatiently for him.
Bowbaq knew that, at any moment, the bowman was going to take another shot or one of the others was going to block his exit. He threw open the gate and went over to the pony to mount him.
But Wos didn’t see eye to eye with his master. As soon as the way was large enough for him, Wos dashed through the open gate, leaving Bowbaq alone and helpless.
Incredulously, he watched as the animal galloped away, deaf to his hopeless and furious cries.
The idiot wasn’t even going in the right direction.
It looked like Wos was going to gallop right past the spearman, but then, at the last moment, he changed directions and charged him violently. The surprised enemy was thrown to the ground by two heavy blows from the giant pony’s massive hooves. Wos diligently trampled him for a few more moments, then lifted his head and charged the second man.
After a brief moment of surprise, it was Bowbaq’s turn to spring into action. He went back across the field, climbed over the fence again, and leaped knee-deep into the snow. Then he stumbled his way over to the body of the spearman.
The second round with his next adversary seemed harder for Wos. The second man was making impressive twirls with his sword, making it impossible for the pony to get near enough to be dangerous. At least Wos would keep him occupied for a while, thought Bowbaq. The third man was now in sight and was completely focused on reloading his crossbow.
The corpse of the man with the spear was not a pretty sight. Wos had delivered so many blows to his face and neck that he’d nearly been decapitated. Breathing hard, Bowbaq stifled his urge to vomit. He had almost finished stripping the long weapon from the corpse when a roar rang out, one that he recognized immediately.
The lion, Mir, was there. A hundred yards away, he stood proudly on the edge of the snow-covered forest like a statue.
His roar ended in a low and continuous growl that was audible even from such a distance. His mane was puffed out, doubling his size, and his hair stood on end all along his spine, from his shoulders to the tip of his tail. At the moment, his yellowish spots had somewhat faded, and his whole body was white as alabaster. The only contrast with the white snow were his two fiery eyes and his muzzle, blood red and bone ivory.
Mir advanced two graceful steps. Then his growl went silent and, after a moment of stillness, he broke into a series of rapid pounces toward the scene of the battle.
Just as immediately as they had frozen at Mir’s appearance, Bowbaq and Wos snapped back into action. Wos decided to back off and make way for Mir, who was now heading straight for the man with the sword. The lion pinned the swordsman to the ground. Even without seeing anything more, Bowbaq knew from the screams that he had one less enemy.
He himself was taking large strides toward the third man, who didn’t look to be giving up, despite the unfavorable turn of events. Bowbaq had never loaded a crossbow, and he wondered if he would have enough time to make it to his enemy before the man shot an arrow right into his forehead.
What if Bowbaq stopped to throw his stolen spear?
No.
It was a sure shot; he could hit anything from that distance.
No. He wouldn’t kill the bowman.
But it would save his life. He could see Ipsen, his children, and his friends again...
No. Bowbaq had resolved to never voluntarily take the life of another man. He had sworn the oath.
But the time he spent lost in thought had already sealed his fate either way. With a cry of joy, the man snapped the small arrow into the groove and aimed his weapon, his target just a few yards in front of him and running straight for him.
Bowbaq closed his eyes and lunged forward at full force. He heard the fatal sound of the crossbow loosed at the same time that he felt the handle of the spear collide violently with something.
Stretched out on the snow, he awaited the arrival of the pain from the crossbow bolt he must have taken. But only the first one, still stuck in his left shoulder, was afflicting him.
He lifted his head just in time to see his enemy getting ready to whack him with his now useless weapon. Bowbaq rolled over, letting out a cry of pain as his shoulder grazed the ground, got to his knees, and swept his spear through the air in a horizontal movement. The wooden handle met the stranger’s head, bringing him to the ground.
Bowbaq sat up fuming and pressed the sharp spear to his attacker’s chest. The man sitting on the ground pulled back his hood, took off his face mask, and uncovered his bald head. He was quite young—younger than Bowbaq anyway, perhaps in his thirties. He wasn’t an Arque; he didn’t look like he was from the Upper Kingdoms either.
The man touched his aching temple and found blood. He shot a mean look at Bowbaq, who felt a little pang in his heart as he recognized the severity of the wound that he’d given the man. If his blow had been any stronger, he may well have broken his oath.
Mir came over to his side, and Bowbaq patted the lion’s flank with one hand. The stranger stood up and, although it wasn’t a sudden movement, the lion let out a threatening growl. With a squeeze of his hand, Bowbaq restrained the lion from finishing the bowman off.
“Who are you?” Bowbaq asked.
The man didn’t answer and instead rapidly removed his furs. Bowbaq repeated his question but was ignored once again. When the stranger ceased his undressing, he was left in a lightweight red tunic and a thin band of the same color tied around his forehead. He had also taken off his shoes and was barefoot.
“I don’t intend to kill you. I only want to know who you are,” Bowbaq tried again, this time in the Ithare language.
The man calmly rested his arms at his side and lifted his head, closing his eyes as if in a contemplative state of prayer.
“Sir! Is this what you want? Do you truly wish to die now? Here? Like this?”
Suddenly, quicker than lightning, the stranger pushed away the spear and pounced on Bowbaq, brandishing a sharp dagger at least a foot long. Once again, Mir was quicker, and with a single blow, his monstrous paw threw the man five yards away. The lion was on top of him in two pounces and unceremoniously ripped out his jugular, not heeding Bowbaq’s orders.
The Arque, who had always detested violence, was wracked with emotion. He let himself fall to the ground, and sat there for a moment with his face buried in the palms of his hands.
A rough tongue licked his fingers, and the stink of the lion’s breath filled his nostrils. Bowbaq patted Mir absentmindedly, with a hand still over his eyes; images from the recent scenes invaded his memory. He had an urge to recoil while looking upon the peaceful face of the lion, which was just a foot from his own. His immaculate mane, his inquisitive eyes. His muzzle dripping red with the b
lood of his victims.
Bowbaq stood back up. Even though he was grateful that Mir and Wos had intervened, even though he owed his life to them, he had indirectly contributed to the death of the three men, and he didn’t have to be at peace with that.
The large lion’s words drifted into his mind: “The man be safe? The man hurt.”
Bobwaq realized that he had almost completely forgotten about the bolt stuck in his shoulder. The pain had ebbed by then, and the wound was bleeding much less severely. He pulled gently at the feathers to gauge the depth of the perforation and grimaced when his body protested against the rough treatment. It was all the same; if he didn’t take it out quickly, it was going to be even more painful later.
“I heal. Me happy see Mir.”
The lion approved with a click of his jaw and disappeared without another word into the forest. Bowbaq knew that he had nothing to fear that night: nothing and no one would get past the lion’s barricade. He made sure that Wos was doing all right and made it back to the house.
The heat of the fire welcomed him kindly. He carefully took off his drenched clothes, mindful not to brush against the jutting arrow. When the wound was finally bare, he put one of his gloves in his mouth, held his breath, and in one quick movement pulled the foreign object out.
He didn’t bite down on the glove. He dropped it, letting out a wail. Panting, applying pressure to his wound with a cloth, he stared at the bolt laid out in front of him and saw with relief that it had come out in one piece.
Once the bleeding had slowed, he cleaned the wound generously with alcohol and applied a compress. Then, after a moment of thought, he also cleaned his throat generously.
He felt a lot better now that he was treated and warmed up. At last he felt up to searching for the answers to the questions he had been asking himself since he left the cabin.
Who were these men?
What did they want? Besides his death, of course.
Bowbaq didn’t know a whole lot about anything outside of central Arkary. From what he could remember, he had never wronged anyone seriously enough to get three assassins sent for him. Or perhaps these men were acting on their own behalf. But they were obviously very misinformed, since the Arque didn’t have any riches worthy of the name. Maybe they were mad? Fanatics in search of a sacrifice?
Or maybe...
His curiosity got the better of him, and he decided not to wait until morning to examine the dead bodies, as he’d originally planned. He got dressed again in dry clothes and went out.
Overcoming his misgivings, he first drew up on the man that Wos killed. His skin had whitened, and a thin layer of frost was starting to form all over him. Bowbaq slipped his hands under the body and flipped it over. The stiff, frozen body made sickening crackling sounds as it was torn away from its frozen blanket. The Arque had no desire to think about what exactly made those sounds.
His brief search—he wanted desperately to have it done with—wasn’t very fruitful. It didn’t seem like the man had anything special on him, except for a red tunic and a dagger similar to the one the bowman had. Bowbaq moved on to the bowman.
Apparently, Mir had already taken a share of his guts. This time, the Arque wasn’t able to hold back his nausea, and he let loose the contents of his stomach. The bowman was missing an entire arm, and most of his ribs were exposed. Bowbaq pulled himself together as best he could and searched through the pockets of the shredded tunic, which, surprisingly, were still intact.
This time, Bowbaq found something. His hand touched a piece of parchment, which he carefully removed. It was covered in blood, and folded in on itself at least six times. Once it was fully opened, there wasn’t much of anything legible on it. Bowbaq didn’t recognize the few symbols that had avoided the vermillion stains, but admittedly, he did not know how to read. He gave up and continued with his inspection.
When he shook the man’s boots out, a small wooden flask half full of a sour-smelling liquid fell to the ground. Was it a drug?
Poison?
He shivered at this idea. What if the arrow had been poisoned?
Then he would have been dead already. Or maybe it was a slow-acting poison? Or perhaps his clothes had absorbed a portion of the fatal liquid?
Well, if he didn’t die a few days on, he would never have an answer to these questions. He poured the liquid out into the snow and piled the man’s clothes on top of his body.
He didn’t discover much more from the examination of the third body; he found another dagger and the same scarlet tunic that the others wore. It was quite obvious that these men belonged to some sort of organization, military group, religious sect, or something.
Reluctantly, Bowbaq finally admitted the conclusion he had come to a while before: These men had come with a single obvious objective—to kill him. Him, and perhaps his family.
There were only two things that made Bowbaq special in any sort of way. First was his ability to read animal minds. He was erjak. But dozens of Arques had this gift, and it had even been discovered among some foreigners.
The second thing, though certainly not the least, was that he was a member of the heirs of Ji.
Bowbaq was a fourth-generation descendant of Moboq the Wise. Once he had brushed aside all his other theories, that was the only one that remained. Those men had tried to kill him because his great-great-grandfather had taken part in that strange adventure a century ago, an event that had been forgotten or remained unknown to almost everyone by now.
This was absolutely no time for hesitation: Bowbaq had to bring his family to safety and warn the other heirs of the fate that surely threatened them.
He immediately set himself to the preparations necessary before his departure. He wondered how he could rejoin Ipsen, as the glacier had closed off the route for two dékades, at least...Then he realized that this was hardly an obstacle for Mir.
Once he finished with his packing, he gathered his courage, the bodies, and their belongings. He showered the pile with oil and lit it on fire.
At that moment, Mir reappeared. He had found four ponies tied up to a tree not far from there. Bowbaq followed the lion while brooding on dark thoughts about the number four, but once they reached the spot, it turned out that one of the animals was only a pack pony.
The search through the saddlebags and other belongings he found there turned up dry. There was nothing but the clothing and equipment needed for a ride in a cold countryside. Bowbaq untied the ponies and led them to his pen, speaking soothing words to them the whole way to calm the nervousness they felt at being so close to the big lion. Then he freed them of their loads, which he quickly sorted through. The better half of it went into the fire; he kept the other half, which lacked any distinguishing markings.
Once he had put a harness on Wos, he went over to the wildcat and gave him these instructions: “My companion and my little ones are in danger. I need to protect them. But I cannot reach them. Does Mir understand?”
“Understand. The pride in danger.”
“That’s it. Mir can protect them. Will he?”
“Humans with female and cubs of Man frighten by me. Want to kill me. Ipsen say come here. Not safe to leave.”
“Mir is wise, but if he doesn’t go, the family—the pride is dead. Mir must go.”
The lion spun around a couple of times, obviously confused. Bowbaq knew how disconcerting the situation was for him. Animals don’t understand the concept of choice, or rather, that of the future. Then Mir let out a brief roar and spoke. He had made his decision.
“I leave. Protect the pride because Man says.”
He set off immediately. Relieved, Bowbaq saddled up and, with the four ponies behind him, headed off toward the south, hoping he was wrong about the gravity of the situation.
But the fire that burned until morning confirmed that he was not.
The Council meeting was shaping up to be a very long one indeed. As was custom, they dealt first with the simple daily affairs. And today it seemed that
each of the twenty-eight Mothers, representing as many villages, had her share of proposals, claims, and questions to bring forward. Even the three Mothers responsible for the welfare of the capital, Kaul, who under normal circumstances monopolized this stage of the debates, appeared overwhelmed.
Corenn sunk into her chair in resignation. During the nineteen years that she had sat on the Council, she had learned patience. Fifteen years ago, she herself had ardently defended the local interests of a small town in the Matriarchy; now she worked on behalf of the entire State.
She was the Mother charged with Tradition; in other words, the guardian of institutions. For a few years now, since the death of her predecessor, Corenn’s duty had been to uphold the State’s integrity and to ensure respect from its citizens. Despite help from her subordinates, she herself was often on the road to soothe angered citizens in some village, to organize elections in another, or to ensure the proper use of power elsewhere still.
Her authority in the Matriarchy was so great that even at this very moment, right here at the Council, she could, for example, command silence from any of the elected Mothers for failure to comply with the right of seniority.
Her nomination by the Ancestress had prompted numerous protests at that time, especially on behalf of older women who believed they were the ones who rightfully deserved this permanent seat. But Corenn proved her effectiveness and her unfailing wisdom in exercising the judicial powers she commanded, managing the majority of the matters the Mothers brought to her by means of diplomacy alone. It was in this way, little by little, that she had earned the trust and often the friendship of her peers, especially after the Ancestress had placed each of the older Mothers in other important positions, such as the Mothers charged with Justice, the Treasury, and Resources. After a while, everyone admitted that the Ancestress had made the right choice.
Six Heirs Page 3
