Outlaw. Part 30

Do not forget who you are.

He did not.

"Stephen..."

He turned back and saw that Lela was staring at him, still rooted to the ground.

"There's nothing to fear," he said, stepping back to her. "Trust me. Stay close to me."

She glanced at the jungle beyond him, then walked forward.

He smiled and continued down the trail, spreading his arms. "You see? Nothing to fear."

Behind him Lela said nothing.

They made their way back into the trees and down the mountain along a switchback that led them into another clearing.

"You see?" he asked, stepping out. He scanned the trees that surrounded the clearing. "There's nothing to fear here. Nothing but trees."

"Kirutu sees everything," she whispered.

"Then he sees only what cannot hurt us," Stephen said. "I will keep you safe."

The high-pitched whine did not abate. Instead it grew, and this caused him some concern, but not enough for him to redirect his course. If he was meant to do anything other than face the fear that presented itself, Shaka would have told him so.

The only way to overcome fear is to walk through it and learn that it is but a shadow of death.

So he walked on, one foot in front of the other, straight toward the trees on the far side of the clearing. Spreading his arms once again to rea.s.sure her.

"You see? There is nothing to..."

But then there was something. The distinct sound of a long shaft hurtling through the air. An airborne spear to his right.

He instinctively dropped to a crouch.

Heard the unmistakable whump of wood connecting with bone just behind him. And with the whump, the sudden termination of the whining in his head.

Stephen spun back as Lela's body fell heavily to the ground, bounced once, and then lay still, head bloodied by a blunt spear, which rolled into the gra.s.s three paces from her.

Silence settled over the clearing. She'd been struck by the spear. Her chest still rose and fell with breath.

For a long moment Stephen didn't seem capable of processing any thought. Shaka had talked about war and he'd read his mother's account, so he knew of the violence that humans took upon themselves, but seeing it now he wasn't sure how to process what he was seeing. What to think about the blood seeping from the wound on her head.

He turned his head to the right and blinked. There, between two towering trees, stood a man wearing only black and red markings on his face, and yellow bands on his arms and legs. Staring at Stephen nonchalantly, without threat in his eyes.

A dozen warriors silently emerged from the trees and stood in a line, watching with only casual interest.

He looked back at Lela's unconscious body. Her jaw was broken. Blood seeped from her mouth. What manner of insanity could possibly lead to such a brutal attack? He couldn't bring himself to understand.

And then he did understand something. Or rather feel it. A terrible sorrow that reached up through his chest and threatened to swallow him whole.

Here lay Lela, collapsed as though dead with one blow. Lela, who had done nothing except trust him.

In a flurry of thoughts, memories of their journey swept through his mind. Of laughing and touching and sleeping side by side with such contentment.

Trust me, Lela. I will keep you safe.

And yet there she lay, bleeding on the ground.

Stephen slowly straightened, suddenly ill. He felt his spear slip from his fingers and fall to the ground.

Do not forget.

He lifted his head, breathing deep, aware of the scent of blood in the air. Even more aware that forgetting now could throw him into a pit of fear.

Shaka had known?

The warriors were approaching, twelve abreast, cautious now, each holding a spear or a long blade made of steel. Machetes, Shaka had called these. Two carried long bows.

They thought to hurt him? But they couldn't reach him easily. The jungle was open behind him and on either side. If he wanted to, he could easily slip away.

Only then did he see the others, emerging from the trees on all sides, no fewer than fifty warriors approaching their single prey.

Do not forget. But in that moment Stephen forgot what he shouldn't forget. Because the warriors were suddenly jogging forward, closing in on him like a noose. His mind had gone blank and all he could think to do was what he'd come to do.

Find his mother.

If these men took his life now, he wouldn't be able to do that.

He turned toward the only gap in the closing circle and he ran, moving with the same instincts that had often kept him safe.

His mind calculated distances and speeds on the fly: thirty-five long paces to the trees; fifty paces for the closest warriors.

You're leaving her, Stephen. You're running from Lela, whom you love.

Yes, but he knew nothing else to do. The warriors wouldn't leave Lela to die-they would want to find out what she knew. He couldn't protect her by staying at her side. Not now.

Now he had to find his mother.

He heard the sounds of flying projectiles behind; saw their trajectories with a slight twist of his head; made a small adjustment to his course to avoid three spears that sped harmlessly by and clattered into the branches ahead.

He was already halfway to the trees, and although many of the warriors were now sprinting, they wouldn't reach him in time. Once in the dense vegetation he would be as difficult to track as a boar on the run. The leader always had the advantage once aware. It was why stealth was so critical in hunting.

The wind was at his back. They wouldn't be able to track him by scent. Could Tulim warriors even track by scent? It had taken him many years to refine his senses to Shaka's satisfaction.

All of these thoughts whispered around the edges of his mind. At its core only one thought spoke clearly.

Run! Find your mother. She will know.

Two hastily slung arrows slapped through the brush to his right as he planted his right palm on a ma.s.sive fallen tree and catapulted his body up and over the timber. A third arrow angled toward his body before he landed beyond the log.

This one he swatted away like a fly with his left hand.

He landed on his right foot and threw his weight forward, then to his left, around the trunk of a tall sago palm. Within five strides he was beyond their line of sight.

Stealth, not speed or strength, was now his greatest ally. They would stop to listen and follow any sound he made, but he would offer them none.

It occurred to him only then that he could just as easily turn and attempt to deal with them head on.

He'd no sooner allowed the thought pa.s.sage through his mind than Shaka's teaching came to him.

When the evil man comes against you, do not resist him. Doing so will only strengthen his power. Among men, resistance always draws equal and opposite resistance.

You're forgetting, Stephen. Already.

He shoved the thought from his mind and stumbled forward, aware that he was making far too much noise. He took a deep breath, calmed his nerves, and continued on lighter feet, using fallen logs and stones as his path through the understory.

Down into a narrow creek bed. Across to the slope beyond.

The telltale sound of crashing in the brush behind and to his right pushed him up the slope to his left.

South, he thought. My mother is there, south. So he angled farther to his left as the crashing behind faded.

The distant whispers in his mind were still there, laced once again with a thin, high-pitched whine. He felt no need to pay the sound any mind.

He was distracted, instead, by a new concern: the continued presence of those other small voices-the ones that said he'd abandoned Lela after promising to protect her. The thoughts that entertained, if only for a moment, the impulse to resist the warriors directly.

The thought that he was running toward, not away from, danger.

But he knew nothing else to do. This was the valley Shaka had sent him to. Death was only a shadow here. He could learn this only by walking through it now, undeterred by the insane mind, which had forgotten that it could not be threatened except by its own insanity.

Truly, the Tulim valley was his own mind.

Stephen was so distracted by the reflections warring in his mind that the sudden appearance of a well-worn path took him off guard. He pulled up hard in the middle of a wide trail pounded barren by constant foot traffic.

With a single glance he knew where the trail led. And without allowing himself further contemplation he followed the voice that a.s.sured him he'd find his mother at the end of the path.

He would go of his own accord, not herded or bound by the Warik.

Stephen turned up the path and jogged forward, eyes fixed on the corner ahead.

The whining in his head rose to a bone-clawing screech, but he still paid it no mind.

Move forward, Stephen. Run.

He ran. One step in front of the other, pounding the soft earth underfoot.

Find your mother, Stephen. Bring her peace.

He rounded the corner, took three long strides, then pulled up sharply. The path opened up to a huge, gra.s.sy field that sloped down to a ten-foot-high fence made of erect, sharpened timbers bound together with vines, extending far in either direction. A ma.s.sive gate made of two swinging sections beneath a round beam waited at the end of the path.

Beyond the gate a sea of brown gra.s.s-roofed huts stretched into the jungle, some within his view, most undoubtedly not. Hundreds-perhaps thousands-of dwellings made up the Warik stronghold, split down the center by a wide swath of earth that ran up to a large complex near the center of the village.

But it was the bodies of two impaled natives suspended on tall sharpened poles, one on either side of the outer gate, that rooted him to the ground. This and the hundreds of bleached skulls set upon the beam over the gates and along the fence running east and west.

Confusion swarmed his mind. How could this happen? And who were those who could do such a thing? He could feel as much as see the carnage.

And with that feeling, another whispered that he was a stranger here, alone in his own distant existence. This was the rest of the world? He did not belong here.

No, that couldn't be true. He simply belonged where he was at any given moment. And yet he felt at impossible odds with the sight spread out before him.

And he'd abandoned Lela.

Shaka's words returned in force-the ones he'd spoken on the cliff before giving Stephen his mother's book.

Darkness has swallowed them, Stephen. They are blind. Captive in the night. And if you forget who you truly are, their insanity will call you into its dark pit.

Immediately the thin screams that had hung in the air faded to silence. To the extent that he retained faith in his true ident.i.ty, he would not be pulled into their insanity. Nor would he be alone, for his true self was never alone.

My mother waits in the valley of death.

He strode forward like a dead man walking, because he was dead to their world.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

STEPHEN HAD covered only a quarter of the long slope that descended to the village when he heard feet pounding on the path behind him. But he held his pace-the warriors would allow him to walk. His mind returned to the prospect of walking into this place so at odds with the high mountain on which he'd lived.

The jungle seemed to have stilled for his arrival. He placed one foot before the other, aware now of the others running to his left. In his peripheral vision he saw a dozen warriors jog by, eyeing him curiously.

Another dozen pa.s.sed to his right, two of these carrying Lela's limp form between them.

For the s.p.a.ce of two breaths his eyes blurred and the sky screamed, and he knew that their world encroached on his own, daring him to resist. But he knew this ploy already and he let the desperate emotions pa.s.s through him. Lela was not his to save now.

His mind went silent.

He could see. The village growing nearer with each step as he approached the towering fence. Smoke from a hundred cooking fires coiling lazily into the air. The warriors jogging through a doorway in the fence to the right of the gates, carrying Lela like a pig.

He could hear. Birds calling from far away and chirping from the nearby jungle. His breath being pushed in and out of his lungs. His heart pounding steadily in his chest.

He could smell. Woodsmoke laced with the scent of cooked meat. Feces and mud. Rotting flesh.