Gene Wars - Hammerfall Part 12

One of the pack beasts had fallen, and took his burden with him, sliding all the way down to the bottom.

It flailed and bawled and could not rise from its burden, and it remained a sobering example of a misstep until they could make the long descent and deal with it.

The beast when they reached it had broken bones, and had to be killed: Bosginde did that with a quick stroke and covered the blood-soaked shale with shovelfuls of dry sand, where he could sc.r.a.pe enough together for the purpose.

The water bags had not broken. None of the supplies was lost, except a tent's deep-irons, which lay far up on the unstable slope, in plain sight, but Tofi ruled against sending anyone up, no matter the value.

"We can cut the beast up for meat," the potter said. "We can take the best."

"No," Hati said fiercely. "Leave it all. Leave all the gear. Let us move. We may have saved those three fools, but we may lose ourselves if we stand staring!"

There was that feeling in the wind. There was disaster about the whole day, and Tofi gave the order to the slaves to apportion out the packs and get them all moving.

Even so, the first crawling vermin appeared among the rocks before they had gotten the packs redistributed.

"What is that?" Norit asked, looking around her. There was a scrabbling in the rocks, a snarl of combat.

"What's that?"

"A feast in the desert gains too many guests," Marak said. They had followed a blood trail. With the letting of the blood from the beast's wounds, they had the raw meat smell about them. It carried far on the desert wind: even a man could smell it. Carrying pack items that might have blood on them had risk, once the carrion-eaters gathered.

Haste, the voices said to him,no delay. No waiting .

The storm would have driven the vermin to cover, and to hunger, and the rearrangement of the land would drive some of the smallest out of their ranges. The whole path of the storm might be unsettled, and that storm track took shape in the back of Marak's mind the way the shape of the storm had appeared in the images. He sensed desperation in the circling predators. He cursed himself for a fool not having antic.i.p.ated that Foragi might have been already past reason.

One need not fear the strongest beast on the Lakht, that was the proverb. The strongest would take the carca.s.s. But the weak were gathering, too, and they might follow the second choice. He saw the sky over them gathering with ten and twenty and thirty of the vermin.

"Hurry," Tofi said to the slaves, as they went about the work with the packs. "You'll be first and afoot if the vermin come on us!Move , you sons of d.a.m.nation!"

The first of the flying and the crawling vermin arrived and began worrying at the carca.s.s with them only a stone's throw away. Another few sent down a shower of shale fragments, coming down the slide.

The quick and the desperate came first. They were not the strongest, only the earliest, the most opportunistic, harbinger of what else would come. They growled and tore into the carca.s.s and the scent of blood and then entrails grew in the air.

"Hurry!" Hati said.

"A'ip!" Tofi yelled. "Ya!a'ip !" The beast the slaves were loading stood trembling, and without complaint, when she gave a jerk on its lead.

More of the flying vermin had landed.

And a glance off across the land showed a furtive, eye-deceiving movement as if the land itself had come to life.

Marak saw Norit into the saddle, delayed to a.s.sist Tofi's women while Tofi railed on his slaves. Osan had gotten up onto his feet.

He did not delay then to make Osan kneel again. He seized the rein, jumped, and seized the saddle, hauling himself up by brute strength until he put a foot in the mounting loop, a move he had doubted he could do. Osan was moving before he could land in the saddle and tuck his leading foot into place. Tofi scrambled up, and the slaves mounted in desperate haste, the pack beasts tethered in line and each trying to move at once.

Osan quickened his pace, flicking his ears in distress, laying them back at what he smelled. The beasts knew what the nomads of the Lakht knew, what Hati had foretold. Marak himself had never seen a mobbing... few in the Lakht had seen it and lived.

The beasts picked up their pace, treading heedlessly, crushing small vermin that chanced underfoot, creatures hardly more than a hand's length. The mobbing started on that scale, other creatures turning toward the smell of death near at hand, already beginning to gorge and being bitten and clawed by other creatures nearby.

In an instant what had begun as a flattened multipede became a fist-sized ball of struggling eaters that grew larger by the moment.

All that hunger, Marak thought, only a day or so out from the rich oasis of Pori. And the storm had churned it to madness of a different kind, a natural frenzy.

The beshti hit a traveling run, a difficult pace for the unhabituated, and next to a flat-out bolt, which might fling the weak riders from the saddle. Marak held Osan back, and crossed him in front of Tofi's men, who were about to break ahead.

"Don't wear them down," he said sharply. Hati pulled in front with the same advice, and they slowed the impulse toward outright flight. At a moderate pace they reached sand that no longer moved.

Then they counted themselves truly escaped, and fortunate.

They did not overtake Malin and the ex-soldiers.

They did not camp at noon, either. They kept going with minor rests, taking a little of the dried fruit for their meal, and a little water, enduring the heat of the sun, and even the beasts did not complain. The distance between them and the disturbance still seemed perilously scant, the beasts still were skittish, and they rode until they had put the whole afternoon behind them.

Then they settled down for a shortened rest, with no tents pitched, lying on their mats until the stars came out.

In the distance a hunter howled, and most all the still bodies in the camp roused and turned and looked toward that horizon.

So did the beasts, lifting their heads in perfect unison.

Marak saw nothing but a flat, endless, wind-scoured land.

He let his head back and trusted the beasts to raise a fuss if danger came close. The voices urged him, pleaded with him,Hurry, hurry, hurry ! even now, and rest came hard.

Fear was on the wind tonight. The tower built itself, and the cave of suns was in it, and he heard voices multiplying.

Then he gained the strangest notion that he should get up, and take his beast and keep traveling.

Certain of the sleeping madmen sat up, too. Hati had gotten to her feet, and then Norit, who plunged her head into her hands and shook her head, refusing the vision, perhaps, or perhaps only weary beyond words.

The beasts themselves, not being mad, could not sustain such a pace. But after all the fright and terror of the day, still, the mad rose up, not listening, locked in that intensity of purpose that drove men to walk to their deaths.

Malin and the soldiers had been the first.

"No," Marak said. He went to them, seized one arm and the other, and shook at them. "Wake up.

Don't follow it afoot like Malin and Ka.s.san. You saw what happened with the beast. You know what happened to those that walked out. In a few hours we will go. But not straggling off by twos and threes like fools! Listen to me!"

Two heard him. The orchardman began to walk, and the potter followed.

He caught the orchardman and hit him hard with his, fist, pitching the man down. He overtook the potter, a slighter man, and hit him, the same. The man went down unconscious, and that was the end of his walking off in the night.

The orchardman sat nursing a b.l.o.o.d.y lip and muttering to himself, but sane enough with the pain of a chipped tooth to know he had been a fool.

Marak went back with a sore hand and sat down to suck at a cut knuckle.

"Let them go," Hati said.

"Why should you care?" Norit asked. "Why should any of us care?"

The erosion was reaching the rest of them, a slippage of what kept their company together, a bleeding of reason and sanity.

"Because weshould care," he said. "Because when they brought us from the villages we became beasts.

I don't wish to be a beast again. And Iwon't be a beast. d.a.m.n the visions! I may not go to the tower, and d.a.m.n them all. It's my choice!It's become my choice, and I may not choose what they want me to choose !"

Hati thought about that. And in his mind, at least, the visions had become quiet.

Sanity seemed to have settled over them all for the while.

"It's our choice," Hati echoed him. "I can make it. I decide."

Norit said, "There's no use dying before we know what it is we're looking for, is there?"

"No," he said. "There is not." He gathered them both against him, Hati against his side, Norit against his knees. They were beyond pa.s.sion, since Pori. The intervening days they had had no strength to spare.

Things had a.s.sumed a haste that had no reason, and now he reminded himself he had company, and had lives in his hand, and could not make Ka.s.san's choices.

Within the hour, all the same, they saddled up the beasts again and rode on, but sensibly so, to use the cool of the night while they had it and to stop again close to their ordinary schedule. They rode on into the day and by then, though the chipped tooth stayed chipped, the orchardman's lip showed healed.

More, the orchardman and the potter were quarreling again and calling one another fools, and the whole company seemed in better humor.

The sun went to noon, and they pitched the tents precisely as they needed to, on a sandy flat. They were still on the storm track: the recent debris of oasis fiber-palms where no trees grew showed how very far the winds had carried debris. It had likely come from the palms at Pori. Usually the sun heated their tea; they lit the fiber for fuel, and it brewed up a fine spiced porridge with the added flavor of smoke.

In the afternoon, however, and before they could break camp and have the tents safely folded, the wind began to blow. The breeze was a relief from the heat, but it gusted and battered at them and made more work with the tents.

The wind grew worse with the evening. Dry and hot, it wearied the bones, blew up the dust, and made the deep-irons a serious consideration by the next noonday, if they were to pitch the tents.

"It's only a small blow," Marak said, when Tofi hesitated, and feared they might misjudge the weather.

The urge to move was so strong his skin itched. "Wrap up in mats. We can do without the tents."

"No, omi. If we misjudge, it's the death of us. We have to pitch the tents."

He knew better. As he had known the storm's limit, he knew the limit of this, and so Hati argued his point, and so many of the mad joined him, all grumbling: no one wanted the delay. The visions came and went; buteast, east, east ! the madness shrieked, and there was anger, and there were sulking faces. Tofi flung wide his arms and shouted at them all, "All right, all right, we will not use the deep irons, at least, and may the G.o.d have mercy on our lives!"

They pitched the two tents, which billowed and bucked as if they had a life of their own, in the lee of a low ridge, which they had somewhat between them and the wind. The animals settled peacefully to their noontime meal, and the lot of them, mad and sane, had dried fruit and a little grain-cake.

Marak, the voices said. Every noontime they spoke. They spoke to Maol, Tofi's woman, who stood in the dusty noon sun, battered and shaken by the wind. She had forgotten Tofi, forgotten who she was.

Norit watched her, singing to herself, her fingers measuring all along the hem of her robe, as if this were somehow important.

Every man, every woman, seemed numb. There was no strength, no time amid the visions: pa.s.sion ebbed and evaporated with every trace of moisture shed into the wind.

Norit sang of water, of a stream and a lost love, and her voice, childlike at times, haunted the wind. The woman, Maol, swayed, as if dancing to that music.

Marak!

He looked up, his heart beating hard. All at once he wished more than life to rise up and walk toward that summons.

Instead he doggedly lowered his chin into the m.u.f.fling, protective aifad and fingered the st.i.tching on his boot, losing himself in the patterns. Hati, likewise veiled, was against his side. Norit was with him, sitting, swaying. The au'it slept nearby, the Ila's eyes and ears, in company with madmen who thought of nothing more than losing themselves in the desert and becoming food for the hunters.

Marak!

Now he rose to his feet without even thinking. So had Hati, and Norit, and all the mad. Only Tofi slept, only the slaves, and the au'it.

Marak's heart sped. No, he said to himself. No! But the voices said yes.

Hati began to walk. He reached out to stop her, and shook at her, and seized Norit by the arm as Norit began to walk past him. The dust had begun to rise. It obscured all the horizon.

And in the blowing dust, a ghost, a spirit, a mirage without the sun, a figure stood.

It seemed to be a man in thick gauzy robes, in the colors of the sand.

No tribesman. The vision of the tower rose up, built itself in Marak's eyes where the man stood.

And vanished.

Marak blinked the blowing dust into tears, resisted the impulse to wipe, that would abrade his eyes. The slack of the gust showed him the shape again.

Hati pointed. She saw the same. Norit stood close to him, held to him, pressed against his side, and all the while this vision came walking down the slope, and became clearer and clearer to their eyes.

"He is no tribe I know," Hati said.

In an an'i Keran, that was remarkable enough. The Keran were masters of the Lakht, and there were means to tell one tribe from the other: to know those differences was life and death.

The stranger came ahead with confidence, and that also was remarkable, and ominous.

"We might be bandits," Marak said. "We have no prosperous look. And we are no tribe." The man was trusting... or there were more of them beyond that hall.

But as the man came, the voices clamored.East, east, east , becamehere. Now. This place. This man .

Marak's heart beat like a smith's hammer.

Marak dropped his veil, a villager's friendliness, despite the choking dust; he lifted a hand in token of peace, and the vision, or the man, whatever it might be, likewise lifted his right hand and walked into their camp.

The mad were all on their feet, and drew back from this visitor, not far back, but far enough.

"Togin, Kosul, Kofan, Ontori, Edan." The visitor named their names for them, as if he had always known them. "Marak, Hati, Norit." The incantation went on, inexplicable, accurate, and complete, as the veiled man faced them one by one.

"Tofi," the man said, among the last. He even named the slaves. "Bosginde, and Mogar. Not least, the au'it."

It was the only name that remained secret among them, as the au'it had never confessed one. She had waked, and reached for her kit, and her book, and, shocked out of her rest in a gale of sand by this vision, spat onto her ink-cake and began to write.

"Who areyou ?" Marak asked. Their visitor showed his power and his knowledge of them, but gave them nothing of his own nature. This was not necessarily the indication of a friend. "Where do you come from?"

"Ian is my name." The visitor reached up and took down his veil. "As for where I come from, from the wind and the air is where I come from, and from the empty place behind the wind."

That was to say, the land of ghosts, by the priests' way of saying. No few of the villagers blessed themselves in fear, and nothing the man said comforted any of them, but Marak had no inclination to fall on his face to save his life, or to believe this man because he quoted the writings. He had come to the east, after so much, and so long, and wasthis his answer, Marak asked himself, this arrogant man with clever riddles and an appeal to superst.i.tion?