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“They may,” Brevoro allowed, “but that depends far more on the ferocity of the peoples between than on the marching speed of the Vanyar. They ride in boxes on circles, look you—they call the circles ‘wheels’; and the boxes are ‘chariots’ if they are small and light and meant for war, and ‘wagons’ if they are big and heavy and meant for carrying loads. All are drawn by horses—they have found uses for them other than meat and hides. With these contrivances, their war parties can move as far in a day as most tribes would go in a week.”
“They might come to Biriae lands quickly, then.” Ohaern tensed again—and again Lucoyo laid a hand on his arm. “They might,” he agreed, “but the Klaja block their way.”
Brevoro frowned. “What are the ‘Klaja’?”
“They are another of Ulahane’s fabrications,” Lucoyo told him. “They are half jackal, half human. Have they not come from your part of the world?”
“Not that I have seen,” Brevoro answered. “The Ulin must have loosed them in the north first. But do not jackals follow a lion?”
“An Ulharl, in this case,” the half-elf answered. “I had never seen one before, and could manage quite well if I never did again.”
Brevoro shuddered. “I, too! I have never seen either Ulin or Ulharl, and I pray to Lomallin I never do! What has sent these half-beasts into movement?”
Lucoyo shrugged. “Ulahane himself, with his Ulharls whipping them on, I would guess. Is it anything else that has loosed the Vanyar?”
“There was some talk of strange monsters who were half bald yellow men and half pony—surely not big enough for a horse—who struck like lightning, with complete and utter cruelty, striking down every living being before them. I did not place much credence in that, though, since there was also talk of there being too many Vanyar for the herds, even the huge herds of aurochs that they followed. No, they are hungry for land, these chariot-riding barbarians with their double-edged axes; there were far too many of them for their ancestral lands, so they began raiding and conquering, and have overrun the steppe lands north of the Land Between the Rivers.”
“I have heard of that land.” Ohaern frowned. “They say the plain between those rivers is rich beyond belief, so much so that people live in the same place year after year and do not hunt, but only push seeds into the ground.”
“It is true, and those villages have grown mightily, so that the plain is thronged with cities, from Merusu at its northern edge to Kuru at its most southern.”
“Surely the Vanyar dare not challenge the might of those cities!”
“Surely they do, though they have sent one wing of their horde to make sure these northern lands will send no armies against their rear when they turn south.”
“Only one wing?” Lucoyo stared, aghast. “There are more of them?”
“Three times as many, at least—and their elders speak of cousins who rode south and east, instead of here into the west. No, it is three-quarters of their host who will ride south. They learned of the wealth and luxury of the cities from their newly conquered slaves, and decided to capture and loot them. Their first target is to be Cashalo, a rich city on the eastern shore of a strait between two inland seas, a strait that opens out to become a tiny sea in its own right.”
“A city west of Merusu?” Ohaern asked.
“There are several along the eastern shore of the Middle Sea. They are the homes of seafaring trader folk.” Brevoro grinned. “I would resent their competition if I did not know that they only trade with seacoast towns, whereas my people trade with river villages and those inland, wherever there are roads, or even paths.” He took a small flask and three beakers from his pack. “This is the wine of Cashalo. Will you drink to my hope that they will withstand the Vanyar?”
“Aye, right gladly!” Lucoyo said.
“Pay him no mind,” said Ohaern. “He will drink to anything.” He took up a beaker. “Is their situation hopeless, then?”
Brevoro shrugged as he poured. “I have not heard of the Vanyar attacking a city yet—but I had not heard of the Vanyar at all, until this last month.” He shook his head sadly. “We traders feel saddened by the doom coming on Cashalo, for the people there are good—hospitable to traders, and fair, though hard in their bargaining.”
Ohaern stared. “City dwellers who are good? Are they not all like those of Kuru?”
“No, not really. It is a matter of which god a city worships—in their hearts, even more than with their mouths.
Kuru worships Ulahane, heart and lips and soul. But Cashalo holds the Scarlet One in disdain.”
Ohaern sat still, numbed by amazement. He had met the soldiers of Byleo, and Manalo had cautioned them to wariness with regard to the people of Cashalo. But the notion that there might be city dwellers who were really good disturbed him in some deep way that he could not fathom. He felt a sudden, almost angry desire to see these people of Cashalo for himself, that he might judge whether they were truly good, or merely not as evil as those of Kuru.
“It is a shame to see good folk despoiled and debauched,” Brevoro sighed, “and worse to think of them maimed and slain—but what can a man do?”
“Exactly.” Ohaern bent a stern gaze on Lucoyo. “What can a man do?”
“At the least,” Lucoyo said slowly, “a man might bring them word of their peril, so that they might have time to prepare for the onslaught.” He turned to Brevoro. “Are the pleasures of the cities everything they say?”
“Well, the streets are not paved with gold,” Brevoro said, nor even paved at all, for the most part—but the most important streets are paved with stone.”
“What is a ‘street’?”
“Like a road, only it runs between houses. And the people of Cashalo are clean—each sweeps the street in front of his house every day, and they bury their wastes. In some cities they let the wastes mound up, to harbor flies and their maggots, and fill the air with stench.”
“But the women,” Lucoyo pressed, with a glint in his eye. “Are they as willing as rumor says?”
Ohaern stared at his companion, shocked. Could he truly have been wallowing in grief over the death of his beloved Elluaera only days before?
Then he realized that Lucoyo was one of those men who bury their grief in soft flesh and smother it with caresses. If he were sorely injured in a fight, he would not even wait for his wound to be fully healed before he would be off to battle again. In fact, Ohaern realized, that was what Lucoyo had done.
“Rumor speaks falsely,” Brevoro said slowly, “or at least builds a fruit of illusion around a kernel of truth.”
“Fruits are delicious, and I am fond of kernels, if there are enough of them. What is this one?”
“Cashalo holds Lomallin and his ally, the goddess Rahani, in highest reverence,” Brevoro explained, “but the people there worship many gods, Handradin among them. She is a goddess devoted only to erotic pleasures, and on her feast day the women of her cult will give themselves to any man who asks, for thus, they believe, they will gain merit in her eyes.”
“Then I cheer for Handradin! When is her feast day?”
“In a month’s time.” Brevoro frowned, looking from the one to the other. “Are you bound for Cashalo, then?”
“We are now,” said Ohaern.
The next morning they bade farewell to the traders and set off for the south—or, at least, for the Mashra, the river that ran south, past Byleo and down to the sea whose waves lapped the docks of Cashalo. It was less than a day’s march, so they were able to cut the saplings for Ohaern’s coracle before nightfall. In the morning, they stretched the skins over the bent poles, set it in the river by a shelf that jutted out into hip-deep water, and began to paddle. Lucoyo was nervous; the swaying and dipping of the fragile craft still bothered him; but he had a bit more confidence than he’d had on his last ride and was able to master his fear well enough to take a hand with a paddle himself. He was sure they could have gone twice as far in the time it took Ohaern to teach him how to prope
l the craft, so he vowed silently to make up that distance, and more, by having two paddles drive the craft instead of one. Of course, Ohaern had to caution him not to paddle so hard.
Down the river they went in the dawn, with the mist rising off the waters and the newly wakened sun setting the ripples and wavelets to dancing gold. Lucoyo took a deep breath of chill air, amazed at the beauty around him, at the broad expanse of water and the distant green mounding of the forest, amazed even more that his soul seemed to swell and rise in response. He gave his head an angry shake; next he would be as much a believer in the goodness of Lomallin as was Manalo himself!
Toward evening they saw trails of smoke striping the sky ahead. “What moves here?” Lucoyo asked.
“People,” Ohaern said, somewhat unnecessarily. “When we came this way before, they rowed after us in canoes.”
“Have we come so far so quickly?” Lucoyo shipped his paddle and strung his bow. “Let us hope they are no better with boats than they were before.”
But they were—still not terribly good, but then, neither was Lucoyo. Ohaern, however, was quite skilled, and drove the coracle on alone while Lucoyo, bow ready, watched the men approach. “They come faster this time.”
Ohaern spared a glance. “No wonder. They do not do their own paddling.”
Lucoyo’s face hardened. The men doing the paddling were being driven with whips; he could hear the smack of leather against flesh. The paddlers were gaunt, their faces emptied of hope but filled with fear, and there were only two of them, two for a huge canoe that carried also four warriors. “I think,” he said, “that we have found the Vanyar.”
“Well, they shall not find us” Ohaern said between his teeth, and drove the coracle on with his huge smith’s muscles. A cry went up from the Vanyar as the Biri passed the point of intersection, with the canoes still distant from the spot. A flurry of arrows rose into the air, but fell far short of the coracle. Lucoyo tensed, raising his bow to answer, but Ohaern panted, “Not . . . yet. Do not shoot... unless they become .;. a threat.”
Against his liking, Lucoyo lowered the bow. The Vanyar would be easy shots—but Ohaern was right; they needed to keep his bow secret until it was needed. Besides, if they shot one of the barbarians, the others would follow them forever, if they had to, to exact revenge.
Onward Ohaern drove, with the canoes falling farther and farther behind. Finally, the Vanyar must have realized their mistake, because they pulled two boats together and traded two more paddlers for two warriors. Then there was only one to attack, for the other had to watch his captives—but the rearmost paddler must have been exceptionally strong, because the canoe actually began to gain on the coracle.
Of course, by that time Ohaern was resting, chest heaving.
“Ought we not to paddle again?” Lucoyo asked uneasily. “That one canoe is moving much faster now.”
“Let them think I have tired,” Ohaern said. “They will not be far wrong.”
Lucoyo glanced at him uneasily. “Even with a few minutes’ rest you cannot keep up such a pace for long.”
Ohaern nodded. “Whereas they can, with four paddles. But I have a stratagem in mind. Do you see that island ahead?”
“Not really; I have been watching astern.” But Lucoyo turned and looked ahead. There was a sizable island coming up on the starboard side, big enough to be covered with tall trees, crowding each other so badly that many leaned far out over the water.
“We will pass from sight around those leaves,” Ohaern said, “and they will speed all the more, to catch us before the river bends.”
Looking ahead, Lucoyo saw the water curve and the eastern shore round beside it. “That is not what I would call the most reassuring news.”
“Ah, but we shall disappear from sight before we come to the curve,” Ohaern explained, “for once past those leaves, they shall not see us.”
Lucoyo smiled, a smile that grew wolfish. “Paddle, then!”
Ohaern brought them from around the far end of the island and in toward the shore. Lucoyo grasped the leaves, then the branches of a tree that leaned almost parallel to the water’s surface. He grappled hand over hand until they had a screen of leaves between themselves and the expanse of water stretching to the eastern shore.
In a few minutes the canoe came into sight. The Vanyar in front held a short, recurved bow with an arrow already nocked; the one behind shouted abuse as he drove on the paddlers with a whip made of short, knotted thongs. The paddlers were bending every effort, but they looked to be on the verge of exhaustion—except for the one in the stern. There was something odd about him; he was short and lumpy, and .. .
“Now,” Ohaern whispered, and waited just long enough for Lucoyo to release two arrows before he drove his paddle into the water.
The rearmost Vanyar screamed in anger as an arrow sprouted in his chest; then he toppled over the gunwale and into the river. His mate whirled to see, which saved him from an arrow through his heart; instead it lodged in his shoulder, making him drop his bow, and Lucoyo cursed almost as loudly as the Vanyar.
But the paddlers had stopped, frozen in astonishment, and Ohaern drove his coracle up beside, to grapple the canoe to him. The Vanyar caught up a big double-bladed axe with his left hand and chopped at Ohaern, shrilling a battle cry—but the smith chopped, too, with his sword, clear through the shaft of the axe, and the head flew into the coracle. The Vanyar dropped the shaft with a curse and caught Ohaern by the throat—but the big smith seized his wrist and twisted. The Vanyar gave a high, whinnying cry and loosed his hold—but his right fist came around to buffet Ohaern on the ear. The smith rocked, and Lucoyo realized that if the Vanyar had not been wounded, that blow might have knocked the smith cold. He bobbed back and forth in a frenzy, holding his bow bent, looking for a clear shot, but losing all chance of one as Ohaern and the Vanyar grappled one another.
But the rearmost paddler swung his blade high, and the edge of the paddle cracked into the Vanyar’s skull. He folded, and Lucoyo turned to thank the man—then froze, staring at the squat figure, the shorn remains of a huge beard, the bald head, the muscle-knotted arms, twice as long as they should be .. . “Ohaern!” he cried. “The fools! They have captured a dwerg!”
“Fools indeed,” the dwerg answered in a voice like the grating of boulders on gravel. “All dwergs shall be their enemies now, no matter where they travel.”
Now Ohaern stared, too, he and Lucoyo together—for though the words had been heavily accented and hard to understand, the dwerg had spoken in the language of the Biriae.
Chapter 15
The dwerg explained it by the campfire that night. “We are creatures of stone,” he said, “and speak the language of rock and earth—so we speak also the languages of all those who live in harmony with the earth, and the plants and creatures it nourishes.”
“But do not the Vanyar live as part of the earth?” Ohaern asked.
“They did, before invaders chased them out of their homeland,” the dwerg replied. “Then, though, in their bitterness and hatred, they turned against the earth and its creatures and sought to impose their will upon the land. They are apart from the earth now, not a part of it. They are separate by their own choice and have lost the harmony of the seasons.”
“If they have, then so has the jackal.” Lucoyo jerked his head toward the imprisoned Vanyar. “That one is tattooed with the jackal’s head.”
But the dwerg shook his head. “The living jackal is a part of all that lives, and has his place in cleansing the earth of offal. These Sons of the Jackal seek to be lions, and thereby he by their lives. No, the jackal’s head is the sign of Ulahane.”
Ohaern nodded, his mouth a tight line. “The last of his servants we met wore jackals’ heads on their shoulders.”
“Another tattoo?” the dwerg asked.
“No,” said Lucoyo. “Living heads.”
The dwerg stared. His beard grew so high and his eyebrows so bushy that it was hard to see his eyes—but they were clea
r enough now.
The campfire was secreted in a cave from which ran a stream that flowed into the river. The dwerg had led them to it unerringly, for he knew all the secrets of stone. The stream itself was hidden from the river by a screen of brush and leaning trees, and Ohaern would never have guessed it was there if the dwerg had not led them.
The Vanyar lay beyond the firelight, trussed up tight and gagged. He glared at Ohaern and Lucoyo and would not leave off straining against his bonds. Two of the rivermen lay nearby in the sleep of exhaustion, but a third still sat up with them, fingering the Vanyar axe Ohaern had given him—they had hauled in the body of the dead Vanyar long enough to loot it of weapons, and taken the living one’s, so the rivermen now carried each a bow or an axe. This wakeful one had cut a new shaft, fitted it to the axehead Ohaern had clipped, and now sat fondling it, his eyes burning into Ohaern’s as if pleading to be allowed to use the weapon on the living Vanyar. The big smith had already prevented the gaunt rivermen from taking final revenge, though he had seen no reason to prevent their taking turns with the whip. However, it now hung on his belt.
“No,” he now said.
The riverman laid the weapon aside with an exclamation of disgust. “I do not seek to slay him now—only to make you see that you must go back and chop these Vanyar down!”
Lucoyo could well understand the burning desire for revenge that drove the man to stay awake and plead, though all his limbs must be heavy with exhaustion. The rivermen had been completely naked until Ohaern and Lucoyo had found furs for them to wrap about their loins, and Lucoyo had seen for himself that Brevoro had not exaggerated when he told what the Vanyar had done to the few warriors they kept alive. He had also seen that they could not stand; the Vanyar had hamstrung each one of them. Oh, they had made very sure that their male captives would not be able to fight their new owners! Lucoyo could only think that the poor rivermen must have waited on their captors by walking on their knees, or even crawling. His hatred for the Vanyar began to equal his hatred for the clan that had reared him.