by Dave Smeds
****
Beside Toren were all the other modhiv candidates of the Fhali, twenty youths arranged in a long line, each one standing straight as a spear, trying not to reveal their intimidation. Olaxl, the high master, paced in front of them, his aging eyes alert and still able to stare down the bravest of his pupils. Who would he chose?
The old man stopped in front of the tallest of the group, a muscular boy with heavy-lidded eyes.
"Borei," the high master said.
The candidate stepped briskly into the sparring circle. Toren felt his pulse quicken. Borei was fast. His strikes left bruises.
"Toren."
The student next to him let out an audible sigh of sympathy. Toren's feet tingled as he crossed the packed earth. He kept his glance on Borei, his opponent, avoiding Olaxl's stare. He dared not show weakness to the high master. Olaxl had the sole power to determine who would be made a modhiv and who would be dropped as a candidate. To lose his respect was to suddenly join the ranks of the hunters. Toren was close to his coming of age; it was past the time to begin an apprenticeship in one of the other specialized castes, such as the healers or artisans, and far too late to study to be a shaman, as he had once fantasized. Caste choice had to be made before he received his totem. It had to be based on his own abilities, without help from the memories of ancestors. If he failed now to become a warrior, a hunter was all that would be left, a role of no distinction. His father and brothers were hunters.
This match might be like any other. Or it might be the one that Olaxl used to make his decision. A candidate would never know until after the fact.
"Begin," the high master commanded.
Toren knew he had to move first. He circled, kicking to Borei's ribs. Borei blocked, kicked back, and Toren fended off the leg by pressing his foot into the other's knee. Borei used the spin to swivel around and kick with the other leg. The technique caught Toren neatly on the navel, a perfect impact, landing solidly but not penetrating, letting Toren know he'd been hit, yet not leaving damage-ideal control.
Toren blinked. He felt but did not see a strike to his ribs. Another whisked by his cheek. He backed up. Borei closed the distance immediately. He felt the wind of a blow in his ear lobe, the firmness of a foot landing in his gut, an open hand pressing on his shoulder.
Then Borei was on the ground, gasping for breath, and Toren's wrist was smarting from the pain of an ill-prepared strike to Borei's midsection.
"Stop!" the high master called.
Olaxl did not glance at Toren, who remained at stiff attention in his starting place. Instead, the elderly modhiv bent down and gripped Borei underneath the arms and pulled him to his knees, stretching out his chest to counteract the cramping of his diaphragm. Within a few moments Borei was able to inhale. Olaxl allowed him to regain his composure, then gently ordered him back to his place in the line. All eyes turned to Toren.
Goose pimples crawled up the young candidate's spine. If he had made a small error, the high master would have chastised him privately, but this was to be in front of all the others.
Olaxl said calmly, "You thought Borei was going too fast, that he would lose control and injure you. So, in your fear, you injured him." The high master glanced down the line of candidates, letting them know the message was for them, too. "We must never forget that, though we train in killing arts, the partners we work with are members of our own tribe. Do not be so mistrusting, Toren. The ability to know one's allies is just as important as to recognize one's enemies."
And it was over, as if the incident had not occurred. The others would remember it as just another lecture. Not so for Toren. It was the only one of Olaxl's lessons he ever ignored. He had known, without question, that Borei's next blow would have hurt him.
****
"Wake up."
Toren was alert instantaneously. Geim squatted nearby. The constellations above said that it was midnight.
"Your watch," Geim said.
Toren had scarcely climbed out of his bedroll before the other Vanihr settled down to sleep, leaving him alone with the night. Toren thought it ironic how quickly roles had reversed. The previous night, he had been under guard. Now he was the guard.
Deena snored lightly a few paces away. She looked like a child curled up in her blanket. She was small compared to most Vanihr women. A lock of her impossibly brown hair had fallen in front of her nostrils. Toren lifted it away before it woke her.
He keened his senses. No danger in the air. Amane territory might surround them, but they were safe. He was certain of it. He had never before had quite such faith in himself. For many years he had disregarded his own abilities, laying his trust in the accumulated wisdom of his ancestors.
His shaman had lied to him.
He could not keep pace with all his thoughts. The world was changing. He was still displeased to have to make the journey north, but the tracts of forest ahead no longer seemed so daunting. While his ancestors slept, he would be awake and learning.
VIII
THE FOREST REVERBERATED with birdsong. The fragrance of honeysuckle clung to the breeze. The glade reminded Elenya of the one where she had often hidden as a little girl, a short way inland from Garthmorron Hold, away from the roads, where the foliage locked out the revealing light of the sun and the shadebrush grew so thick that a child could avoid an adult with ease. Her nostalgia was appropriate; Garthmorron was only a few leagues away.
Behind her the other rebels went quietly about their activities. Wynneth groomed a oeikani; Solint the Minstrel repaired his doeskin jerkin; Dushin and Iregg, having served on the night watch, were catching up on sleep. Elenya guarded the trail.
It was a harder task than usual. Over the past year, at times such as this, Milec would have been with her, perhaps taking advantage of a few hours out of sight of the other members of the band. She idly plucked her bowstring. Seven days he had been dead and buried. Now the flight from Old Stump was behind them and she had time to think about peaceful moments gone by.
Hoofbeats.
She nocked an arrow and pointed it at the path. In due course a lone rider emerged between the boles of the giant trees, threading carefully along a way meant for deer, not their larger cousins, the oeikani. Elenya let him continue well into range.
"Well met, Sir Enns," she called.
The rider flinched, and stopped his mount. He stared toward the foliage where she knelt. His glance continued to wander, searching the shadows for some sign of her. Eventually he gave up.
"Well met, princess," he said. "I see you are not wearing white."
"Not today. How went your mission?"
"We've food for a week. It should be ready to fetch almost immediately."
"Good. You'll find Alemar by the spring."
Enns nodded and continued into the camp. Elenya set her arrow on the ground, but kept an eye toward the trail in case Enns had been followed.
After about half an hour, Alemar joined her.
"Two people need to go back with Enns to bring the supplies. Care to go?"
His expression was far too innocent. "Are you thinking I need something to occupy my mind?" she asked.
Alemar managed a guilty smile. "Enns suggested it this morning. Wynneth and I both thought it was a good idea."
She shrugged. "I suppose it is. I'll go."
"Good," Alemar said, appearing relieved. "Dushin's awake. He'll be the third. If you leave now you can be back well before sundown."
****
They each took two animals, one for riding, one as a pack beast. Their destination was a silk farm out on the extreme edges of the settled area surrounding the community of Eruth. The farmer was sympathetic to the rebel cause, though, like most of Cilendrodel's populace, he did not make his loyalties public. Once or twice a year he would accept rebel funds and purchase foodstuffs and other supplies for Alemar and Elenya's band, leaving them in his barn to be picked up while he and his family were absent. The scheme was deliberately designed to leave as little direct contact as possible
between him and the outlaws.
Elenya rode at the back, though she knew this region as well as any of the party, having been reared in the vicinity. She avoided conversation, though she liked both her companions well enough. They had shared a great many trials. Dushin had joined the band two years earlier, after a price was set on his head for having slain the Dragon's soldiers that he had caught raping his niece. Enns, a member of the Cilendri royalty dispossessed by the Dragon's occupation, had known the twins before they left for the Eastern Deserts, and ever since their return had accompanied them in their relentless flight back and forth across Cilendrodel. They did not seem to begrudge her her contemplation.
Enns led them along a twisting, almost invisible track, designed to circumvent roads, though those were not common in this sector of the province. Finally Elenya began to smell the peculiar odor so common to this part of Cilendrodel. Abruptly they left the wild timberlands behind and entered a grove of silk trees, so called because their fragrant leaves were fed to the worms that spun the famous quarn silk. They could see nubs and indentations on the branches where some leaves had been recently harvested.
Elenya felt the watchful gaze of the rythni vanish. The little folk declined to suffer the discomfort they always felt upon entering an area where the hand of man had disrupted the nurturant energies found in native woodland.
They emerged from the trees into the grounds of the silk farmer's residence. There was a modest house, a stable, and a long shed for the cages of worms. The buildings were nestled in the shade of several massive silk trees, away from the sunlight that would reduce the worms' rate of production. As arranged, no one was home.
They dismounted. Elenya slid her rapier out of its sheath, and the men drew their swords. They circled the buildings on foot, checking the perimeter for signs of armed men lurking in ambush, but the only foot and hoof prints were the expected ones along the narrow lane leading toward Eruth.
They met at the front of the stable. Dushin lifted the bar and opened the doors while Elenya and Enns stood guard. They saw sacks of food piled on the packed dirt between the pens of milk goats and the empty oeikani stalls.
Satisfied, they headed back to fetch their pack animals, sheathing their weapons as they walked. Elenya noticed out of the corner of her eye that Enns's blade seemed very bright, almost as if it were brand new. She forgot about it in her struggle to drag her obstinate oeikani to the stable doors.
They began loading their beasts, each taking responsibility for their own to ensure that each burden would be properly secured. Elenya hooked her fourth bit of cargo into place and reentered the stable. She passed Dushin on his way out, sack of millet over his shoulder; Enns was standing by his oeikani.
Suddenly a small shape fluttered out of the hay loft and sped by Elenya. "Princess! Beware!" it cried.
Elenya heard sounds of rapid movement from the goat pens, the stalls, and the hay loft. She ducked.
She was fast enough to avoid the noose of one lasso, but not the other. It settled around her shoulders and yanked her off her feet. She landed on the sacks, tumbling. As she rolled she brought up one of her demonblades and sawed through the rope that was pulling her. The hemp parted with a snap.
Five quick glances told her the situation: in a goat pen the man who had lassoed her was dropping the severed piece and reaching for a weapon; in a oeikani stall the other rope thrower had already drawn a saber; above in the hay loft a third man was preparing to drop on top of her; at the entrance a fourth man was standing, bloody sword in hand, over the prone, gasping figure of Dushin, whom he had just stabbed from behind; and out near the oeikani, Enns was waiting, doing nothing.
Suddenly she knew how Enns had possessed the money for a new sword. Suddenly she knew just how Puriel's men had known where to ambush Milec.
"Traitor!" she screamed.
The man in the loft jumped, but she was ready for him. Bounding toward a clear space, she flung her demonblade, fatally stabbing him in midair. She threw her other knife at the man in the pen, pulled out her rapier, and charged the man from the stall.
"I told you she was fast!" Enns shouted.
Elenya would show them just how quick she was. The gauntlet blazed. She felt the sorcery course through the muscles of her hands, her hips, her ankles. The talisman made her as fast as a person could be.
Her current opponent was the only one heavily armored. The others had sacrificed protection for stealth and mobility. She needed this one out of the way quickly. It took four thrusts to mortally wound him, leaving her barely enough time to meet the man rushing in from the door.
As Elenya engaged him, she saw over his shoulder that Enns was mounting his oeikani, not content with the worsening odds. Her rage made her even faster. The soldier came in thrusting. She parried and drove her point in through a seam under his arm. He winced and jabbed again. She sidestepped, blade high, and spotted an opening.
Her weapon was abruptly yanked from her grip. She jumped backwards, caught by surprise. The man from the goat pen had apparently blocked her demonblade throw, or his armor vest had saved him. He was moving in, a mace in one hand, in the other the whip with which he had disarmed her. He lashed at her again, striking her cheek such a blow that her head rang.
Her plight went from bad to worse. The dying man on the ground grabbed her legs, making her lose her balance. The man with whom she was fencing drove forward. She feared she was lost.
The rythni swooped out of nowhere and beat its wings in the swordsman's face.
Elenya twisted out of the path of the thrust, and, though her legs were still trapped, she managed to fall backward, further out of danger. She kicked. The man on the ground, weakened by blood loss, could not maintain his grip. As she rolled free, she saw that she had landed beside her tackler's discarded saber. In an eyeblink it was hers.
The tip of the lash pinked one of her ears, but she swung in time to sever the last two feet of whip. The wielder blinked in awe at her swift reaction, but like a veteran, did not let it delay his immediate follow-up. She was already out of range, however, on her feet, rushing the swordsman. The rythni had disappeared.
She went high, a dangerous strategy for a fencer. She skewered him in the eye. Though doomed, he began slashing wildly. The first swing nearly cut her belt off of her, but did not touch her skin. She danced out of the arc of the rest.
The whip missed her head so narrowly that the end captured a few strands of hair and ripped them from her scalp. Once again she spun and trimmed the length.
If her adversary was daunted by the rapid disposal of his companions, he did not reveal it. He flicked his lash and, once again, snatched her weapon out of her grip.
She blinked. The man was good. She was caught off guard by someone who could-at least with that particular weapon-match her exaggerated speed. It left her unprepared for his charge.
Her mind was clear. She knew that if she tried to dive out of the way, or jump for a weapon, she would not make it. So she stepped in.
His mace struck a glancing blow on her biceps, numbing her entire arm. But her mailed fist landed squarely under his nose, caving in the front of his face, the magic reinforcing her punch. He went down like a steer struck by a slaughterhouse mallet.
His momentum carried him into her, knocking her down. She had to pause to regain her breath, then she untangled herself and bolted for the exit, grabbing Dushin's sword from his corpse as she passed. She ignored her mount; she could never catch the traitor on oeikaniback. Her augmented legs were the only hope.
Enns had a good lead. She had lost too much time with the ambushers. She pumped her legs as fast as they would go, until the boles of the trees on either side of the lane began to blur. The jewel above the knuckle of her left middle finger began to throb. She drank more deeply of its power.
He would not get away. She would not let him get away now.
After almost a mile, the lane ended, spilling her out onto the main road. Enns was galloping toward Eruth, visible on
ly as a blur at the head of a streamer of dust.
She ran until her feet ached from the force of the inhumanly rapid impacts and relaunches. She smelled the sweat of the oeikani. The ruins of an old building slipped past on her right, the first indication that the village was near.
Her side was beginning to cramp. She heard the oeikani's labored but regular breathing. It was running at its limit, but it was still fresh. It was meant for this kind of a race, and she, in spite of sorcerous assistance, was not.
Her face was stung by dirt kicked up by the oeikani's hooves. The tail of the animal waved before her eyes, just out of reach. Enns turned. A look of horror filled his face. He began to lash his mount.
Elenya forced herself to one ultimate burst of speed. She readied Dushin's sword. She had the chance for one, and only one, slash at the back of the oeikani's knee.
She collapsed as she swung, the roadway scraping flesh from her face. But the pain there, and in her biceps, and in her side, seemed faint and inconsequential against the scream of the oeikani. She lifted her head just in time to see the hamstrung animal slide to a wrenching, tumbling halt. Its rider was flung heels over head.
She could not inhale fast enough. Spots flickered in front of her vision. She spat grit. Only sheer will kept her from fainting. She forced herself up to a kneeling position, bracing her upper body with her good arm. Her weapon lay in the dust not far away, but she left it, unable to do anything but pant. The jewel on her gauntlet had gone dead. That arm, the one struck by the mace, felt like an anchor.
Enns groaned and picked himself up from the road. He stared about, befuddled, eyes drawn first to the thrashing of his crippled animal, then to his torn sleeves, and finally to Elenya. He staggered back, but the half-focused quality left his gaze. He steadied himself and drew his sword.
The graceful way he freed the blade from its scabbard proved that the tumble had not stolen his ability to fence. She crawled to her sword, clasped it, and waited for him on her knees, still doubled over from the pain in her diaphragm.
