“Malia,” she managed.
“Malia, what happened to your leg?”
“I shot her. I caught her,” Rasmus said.
The other boyish faced man, apparently Stromlof’s brother, hit Rasmus’s jaw with an audible thud. “Quiet.”
Malia winced. She held tight to Tuvin’s feather, trying to find comfort in it, but her mind turned to the previous night, the fire racing towards her and Rasmus, the villagers blocking their only escape and shooting arrows. Stromlof and the woods and the daylight faded until she was back in the fire. The searing pain tore through her leg once again. The acrid smell of smoke filled her nostrils and choked her.
“Malia!”
Her hand dropped, and the memory faded. Touching Tuvin’s feather had strengthened it.
“Arrow,” she managed to say. “That’s what happened to my leg. He shot me with an arrow.”
“You need that tended to right away.”
She nodded.
The other two men and the boys pulled Rasmus to his feet. The thin man shoved him from behind. Rasmus took a couple of stumbling steps, then fell face-first with a thump.
Stromlof sat back on his heels. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Did he … did he hurt you in other ways?”
“In other ways?” Then Malia realized what he was asking. “Oh, no, not at all. He hasn’t touched me.”
Stromlof wrinkled his nose. “Your clothes smell of smoke.”
“There was a fire …” How was she going to explain all of this?
The men hauled Rasmus to his feet again. The round-faced boy picked up the line of turkeys he’d thrown at Rasmus. He stood tall, his chest sticking out, as if he imagined he’d taken down a dangerous exile all on his own. In his stories tonight, that would probably be how it went.
A sour taste rose in Malia’s mouth. Rasmus had escaped execution at one village the night before only to be captured and facing execution again. She had to get him away from these men.
“Where are you from?” Stromlof asked.
“Selu.”
He gestured towards her necklace with his chin. “Are you a clan mother?”
“Ah, no, I’m in training.”
“You wear two feathers?”
“One is our old feather. The other is new. We haven’t had the ceremony yet to bless the new one, and I didn’t want to lose it, so I tied it on the necklace.”
Stromlof bowed his head. “Please forgive my earlier terseness with you. I thought perhaps you helped the exile.” He brought his hands together before him, palm to palm, and bowed his head deeper. “My life in your hands.” Then he rose to his feet and helped her up. “Come. Our village has an excellent healer. People travel from all over the valley to see him. You will be fortunate to have him look at your wound.”
He had to be speaking of Enuwal. “What is the name of your village?”
“Posalo.”
She’d get to Enuwal after all. But what of Rasmus? On the way to Posalo she had to be alert for any moment that would allow him to escape. She could create a moment.
Stromlof gestured for her to lead. Her leather-clad feet moved silently over the soft dirt and fallen pine needles. The pines here stood tall, each at least a good fifteen paces apart, revealing large patches of the cloudless sky. The previous night’s storm wouldn’t repeat itself today.
Malia’s injured leg protested each step. In a way she wanted to reach Posalo as quickly as possible so Enuwal could tend her wound. Yet she also wanted to slow down so she’d have time to come up with a plan for freeing Rasmus. Regardless, her leg slowed their progress.
Stromlof said, “Lowvalki, come here.”
The boy who had thrown the turkeys handed his line to his friend, then trotted over to Stromlof who put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “This is my son, Lowvalki. Next spring he will go through the manhood ceremony.” A wide grin spread across Stromlof’s face. “He will do very well. Today he thought quickly and used the weapon he had at hand.”
Lowvalki walked a little straighter. “Thank you, father.”
“And this is Malia of the …” He let the introduction trail off.
“I’m Malia of the Velebit clan,” she said.
Lowvalki pressed his hands together. “My life in your hands.”
“Save for today, when my life was in your hands.”
The boy grinned, apparently enjoying her play on the phrase. He fell back to join his friend where they carried on a muttered conversation. Following them, the other two men walked behind Rasmus, who was forced to take quick, small steps so that he could manage the hobbling rope around his ankles. He kept his head down. Malia struggled to keep her face neutral so Stromlof wouldn’t see how Rasmus’s predicament bothered her.
“We’ll keep to the easier terrain to make travel more comfortable for you.” Stromlof cast her a sidelong glance, then looked away. “How did the exile capture you?”
Malia crossed her arms and suppressed a false shiver. “It’s something I’d rather not dwell on.” She hardened her voice.
“Of course.”
A thick silence fell between them. Stromlof occasionally touched his hand lightly to her back to guide her in the direction they should go. He fiddled with the leather strap across his chest that held his quiver, adjusting it every few steps. The heavy silence passed to those behind her as the boys’ mutterings faded. Any other time Malia would have been glad to chat with him, but the less she said, the less likely she would mess up and raise his suspicions of her.
They passed through dappled shade, their feet scuffling against dirt and grass. A few birds twittered unseen from thick fir branches, anxious to have their say. An expectant hush filled the air, different from the silence that had initially fallen among them. Malia felt like the doe who had caught the faintest whiff of the hunter, expecting the bow’s twang any moment and then the burning pain of the arrow a second later.
After a while, she couldn’t bear the silence any longer. She said, “Have any men passed through your village on the way to the cliffs?”
Stromlof started when she spoke. Perhaps he, too, had experienced the same deadly silence. “No, not yet, although we expect the first men to arrive tomorrow. Then we’ll march to the cliffs and set up camp and wait for the others to join us.”
Malia risked a glance over her shoulder. Rasmus still trudged along with his head down, but there was a tension about his body that indicated he was listening.
“And the Jeguduns? Do they seem aware of what’s about to happen?”
“I would not want to scare you, given what you’ve just been through.”
“I doubt anything could ever scare me again, given what I’ve been through.”
“Ah, very well put.” Stromlof cleared his throat. “The Jeguduns have been more active in the past couple of days. Large groups have been seen flying along the cliffs, converging towards the falls.”
“And their numbers? Does it seem as if they could overwhelm Taakwa men?”
“There is no way to know. But the Taakwa are brave, as you yourself and my son have just proven. I truly believe we will be victorious.”
The Taakwa would attack the Jeguduns, who would in turn defend themselves. And as much as they did not want to hurt Taakwa, they probably would have to. Meanwhile, the Taakwa’s true enemy was waiting just outside the valley, searching for any way in. She had to find some way to make them understand who their true enemy was. Maybe Enuwal could help.
“I don’t understand why there has to be fighting at all,” Malia said. “What if the Jeguduns have nothing to do with the river? Then people will die for nothing.”
“What else could it be? If the creatures have nothing to do with the river falling, then why do they keep us from its source?” He shook his head. “I know you have loved ones you’re concerned about, but this must be done. We cannot turn away simply because there will be bloodshed. What if the beasts manage to completely block the river? We’ll all die.”
“What abou
t Outsiders?”
“That’s always a possibility. But remember the great war. Outsiders allied with Jeguduns to fight us.” He shook his head. “If Outsiders are responsible for the river, then they are preparing the Jeguduns to fight against us. Why else would the creatures be riled up?”
Malia wasn’t going to get through to Stromlof. She pursed her lips against the protests that rose to them. Maybe Enuwal would listen to her. Or Posalo’s clan father. If she could get them to see the memories in the Jeguduns’ feathers, they might rethink descending upon the cliffs with an army. Somebody had to listen to her.
Stromlof guided her from the forest to a wide swath of grass-covered land, the receding Big River cutting it down the center. A packed dirt road on the far side of the river followed it north and around a sharp bend, disappearing behind a wooded hill.
Malia recognized the large boulder jutting from the side of the hill across the river, and the way a steep part of the hill had eroded. Several aspen had lost their grip on the steep terrain and fallen since she’d last passed this way, their thin white trunks like splinters pointing down the hill. Her heart twinged with something like homesickness, and it caught her by surprise. Other than the very beginning of her marriage, her time in Posalo, despite her illness, was the last time she was truly happy. The realization stirred a cascade of emotions. Did she look forward to seeing Enuwal because he could help her with her leg, or for other reasons? She pushed the thoughts aside. She’d give them more consideration when they reached Posalo. For now, she had Rasmus to think of.
“It’s not much farther,” Stromlof said. “There’s a bridge around the bend where we can cross the river. Then we can take the road from there.”
They followed the river’s bank. Grass hung over the edge. Once, the tips had probably trailed in the passing water. Now they hung brown and dry in the air, the river’s edge several paces in. A trout flashed silver and then disappeared into the murk.
Malia asked how Posalo’s crops fared with the water shortage. She half-listened as Stromlof droned on about irrigation and how the lack of water meant they planted different quantities of crops this year and the crops were all smaller in general. His voice blended with those of the cicadas’, hiding in the tall grass.
Her mind returned to the problem of freeing Rasmus. It would be easier to do before they reached Posalo. She could see no way to free him once they were in the village. He would be guarded until the time he was sentenced and killed. Perhaps the bridge would offer her a way. It would be narrow, probably allowing them to walk single file only. If she could find a way to block these men—maybe she could fall across the bridge, pretending her wound bothered her—then Rasmus could get away. It was a stretch, but the bridge was probably her best chance of seeing him freed.
Stromlof grasped her shoulder and pushed her down into a crouch. Why did everybody seem intent on shoving her down today?
“What is it?” she hissed through clenched teeth.
Stromlof put a finger to his lips and pointed west.
A flock of birds flew north, skimming over the top of fir trees. No, not birds. Jeguduns. There were perhaps two dozen of all colors, recognizable by their thick bodies and huge wingspans. They would pass well west of the river. They probably wanted to avoid flying near the road.
Stromlof breathed shallowly, his eyes wide. “They know,” he whispered. Why he kept his voice low when the Jegduns were so far away, Malia didn’t know. He continued, “They are amassing an army to fight us just as we prepare an army to fight them.” He glanced at his son, crouched a few paces away in the tall grass. Malia could imagine what he thought. He wondered if children who were not yet men would be asked to fight.
“Perhaps they only mean to scare us,” Malia said. “They may not want to fight.”
Stromlof shook his head. “They are probably looking forward to it. They can satisfy their bestial rage and have fresh meat to feed upon.”
Words of protestation bubbled up. Malia gritted her teeth to keep from speaking. She would only give herself away, and then she would be a captive too and no help to Rasmus.
The Jeguduns grew smaller in the distance. The cliffs were just visible above the tree tops, hazy granite rock that shone in shades of pink and brown in the sun, dotted with green here and there.
Stromlof rose slowly, as if afraid Jeguduns would suddenly spring out of the grass around them and attack. He helped Malia to her feet. The two men guarding Rasmus hauled him up. He stumbled and nearly fell back down.
“I know you’re fatigued and your leg must be quite painful,” Stromlof said to Malia. “But we should hurry.”
She nodded and reluctantly set a faster pace, doing her best to ignore the increased throbbing in her thigh. They reached the bend in the river and, as Stromlof had said, a narrow bridge spanned it ahead. The river disappeared around another bend farther on, heading north again. Posalo was not much farther beyond that next bend.
Malia said, “The bridge spans more mud than water.”
Stromlof pursed his lips. “We built it last summer to give us another place to cross to hunting grounds. Back then, it rested only an arm’s length above the water when the river swelled.”
“It’s a handsome bridge.” And as narrow as she’d hoped for, and about a hundred paces across. Now, how would she convince these men to go ahead of her?
Stromlof’s chest puffed out. “I helped work on it. The planks are hewn pine strung together with rope. Two dozen full grown men could walk along it at once and not even begin to strain it.”
“It sways quite a bit.” The truth was, it hardly moved in the wind, and Malia didn’t find it daunting at all, but maybe she could talk some of them to go ahead to convince her it was safe.
“It’s sturdy. I guarantee it will easily hold us all.”
A waist-high rope on either side served as handholds. It was much like the bridge that crossed the river at Selu.
“But with several people walking on it, the bridge will sway even more.” She allowed doubt to creep into her voice.
“I will be right behind you. And I certainly won’t let anything happen to you.”
Malia sighed. Short of tears, she had no idea how to convince Stromlof to send at least his boys ahead. Her plan was falling apart before she even took the first steps to make it work.
They reached the bridge, the structure creaking every so often as it swayed. The river passed beneath with a gentle trickling sound.
A couple of boys trotted around the far bend, coming from Posalo. They appeared about the same age as the boys traveling with Malia. Their hair flowed loose behind them, the wind playing with it as they ran. When they spotted the group, they shouted and waved their arms. They began to run faster.
Stromlof waved back, a grin on his face. “My nephews. They’ve probably come to see what’s taking us so long.” He gestured towards the bridge. “After you.”
“Perhaps your boys should go ahead to greet their friends. I know they want to share how they helped capture the exile.”
“The story can wait. Now, I promise the bridge is safe.” His tone discouraged argument. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Reluctantly, Malia grasped the thick, scratchy ropes on either side and lightly ran her hands along them as she walked. The planks held firm beneath her feet. Stromlof stepped onto the bridge behind her, sending it rocking gently. As promised, he kept close enough behind her that he nearly clipped her heels as they walked.
The boys were running full tilt now and shouting, waving their arms overhead. Their eyes were wide, and their voices shrill. Then Malia caught snatches of what they were saying: river, flood.
The top part of Tuvin’s Falls was just visible in the distance. Given that the river was dammed, the waterfall should have been a trickle. Instead, water gushed over the edge, spraying in a wide, white cascade. The dam was gone, and the river unimpeded.
At the river’s bend, a wall of water, white and frothing like a rabid animal’s mouth
, came rushing. It crashed into the bank, sending up a high spray, before turning to follow the river’s course. It would be on them in an instant. Her pulse quickened, and her instincts screamed for her to flee. She forced herself to take a deep breath and think.
Here was a distraction, but not the one she’d hoped for. “Run!” Malia shouted. She grabbed Stromlof’s arm and propelled him before her. She might be able to get back to Rasmus in time to cut his bonds and let him escape to the other side of the river.
But Stromlof shoved her forward. “This bank is closer.” His hand shoved her again, this time between her shoulder blades, and nearly sent her tumbling to her knees. “Go!”
She ran.
The bridge bobbled beneath her feet as those behind her began to run. Then her foot didn’t meet the bridge when she expected it to. The bridge had dipped low. Her leg was straight when her heel hit, and her knee snapped back. Sharp pain exploded in the joint, and then her knee buckled. Her other foot slipped off the edge of the bridge and she started to fall. Her stomach lurched as if it already tumbled off the bridge and into the river.
She grabbed at the rope, caught it with one hand, but couldn’t hold on. Her fingers scrabbled at the wooden planks. She grabbed the rope that bound them and held on with both hands, her legs dangling over the edge. The wall of water thundered towards her like a stampeding herd of buffalo.
Stromlof grabbed one arm and the boys grabbed her other and pulled. Malia got one leg on the bridge and used it to wriggle up the rest of the way.
The oncoming water was at least as high as the bridge and closing fast. It roared as it barreled along, the sound echoing off the surrounding hills.
Stromlof and the boys hauled Malia to her feet. Pain stabbed her knee when she put weight on that leg. She cried out as the knee buckled again.
The bridge was too narrow for the men to stand on either side and support her. Stromlof picked her up in his arms as if she were a child and began to trot across the bridge, the boys running ahead of him.
Following them were the other two men, driving Rasmus ahead of them. He had to take mincing steps because of the rope around his ankles. The water was going to catch them before they made it off the bridge.
Shards of History Page 13
