The Banned And The Banished - Witch Fire Part 13

Tol'chuk sifted through the stones in the gully, which was bone dry from the summer's drought. He glanced to the thunderheads building like an army beyond the peaks of the Teeth. The summit of the tallest of the mountains, the Great Fang of the North, swirled in black cloud. Soon the gully would be roiling again with muddy water from the stormy mountain heights.

He turned his attention back to the scree of boulders. Thunder rolled down from the perpetually frozen summit. He must hurry before the rains began. But low cliffs blocked the sun's light, making it harder to spot the yellowish glint of scentstone. And this gully, dry all summer, had been carefully picked through for many moons.

He fingered the boulders apart, his grayish claws sc.r.a.ping each rock, searching for the characteristic color. His nostrils splayed wide as he hunted for the burning odor of raw scentstone.

There were more likely spots to find such rocks, but Tol'chuk preferred this route. Due to the scarcity of scentstone here, none of his people were around. Tol'chuk liked the isolation, free of the taunts from the other og'res. Especially now, with his magra ritual-the ceremony marking him as an adult among his tribe-beginning tomorrow. He needed a scentstone for tonight's preparations, one picked out by himself on the eve of his magra.

He bent to a thick plate of stone and dragged a claw along it, gouging its surface. He sniffed his nail: no, just sandstone.As he lowered again to push through the rubble of the wash and scree, a rock the size of a melon struck him in the shoulder, knocking him to the boulder-strewn ground. He landed hard and rolled to his side.

Fen'shwa leered over the lip of the cliff.

A sneer cracked Tol'chuk's thick lips to expose his smooth, yellowed fangs. He pushed to his feet. With his back bent, his head reached only halfway up the cliff. He kept one hand knuckled on the ground for support. He twisted his neck and frowned toward his enemy.

Fen'shwa squatted like a craggy boulder by the cliff's edge, his wide yellow eyes bulging. Bent like Tol'chuk, balancing on the callused knuckles of one hand as was custom for the og'res, his bristled, straw-colored hair crested the top of his head and trailed in a spiky stream down his arched back to disappear under his leather coverings. He smiled, his chipped fangs exposed. A winter older than Tol'chuk, he was always baring his teeth, displaying the chips on his fangs that marked him as having mated.

All the females worshipped Fen'shwa, brushing their full rumps against his sides as he lumbered past them. No female brushed against Tol'chuk in invitation, no matter how much he kept his back bent and knuckled as he walked. Tol'chuk knew he was ugly. Smaller than other adult og'res, his eyes were too almond shaped, and slitted, rather than the bold circles of Fen'shwa. His nose also stuck out too far, and his fangs were too short to excite a mate. Even his hair did not bristle on its own. Tol'chuk was forced to use beeswax to make it spike. But no matter how much he tried to hide it, everyone knew his shame.

Fen'shwa reached for a stone with his free hand and hefted it. "I'll chip those teeth for you, half-breed!"

he said with glee.

Tol'chuk burned at the insult. "Fen'shwa, you know the law. I am magra, not to be disturbed."

"Not until the sun sets!" He threw his stone, but Tol'chuk dodged it easily enough. As much as his mixed breeding scarred his appearance, it gave him agility.

Fen'shwa picked up another rock, this one larger than the last. His eyes narrowed with menace.

"Leave me be, Fen'shwa."

"You fear! You are not og're in your heart!"

Even though Tol'chuk was used to ridicule, this was too foul an insult to leave unanswered. To call an og're a coward! Tol'chuk put aside his charade and straightened his back until he towered on two legs-something no og're could ever do. It was this ability that forged his name: Tol'chuk. In the ancient tongue it spoke his half-breed status and his shame: "He-who-walks-like-a-man."

Now erect, his head stretched to the height of the cliff. He saw Fen'shwa wince in disgust at the sight of his back straightening. Fen'shwa drew the rock back, preparing to attack.

Without thought, Tol'chuk shot his hands out and grabbed Fen'shwa's supporting arm. He dragged him, shocked, over the edge of the cliff and threw him to the bouldered floor of the gully. Tol'chuk instantly regretted his sudden action. Fen'shwa was not an og're to provoke.

Fen'shwa landed on his face in a sprawl across the rocky grade. Thick skinned and wide boned, Fen'shwa immediately scrambled up. Tol'chuk stepped back as Fen'shwa rolled to his feet. He sneered at Tol'chuk and raised a finger to his bruised lip. Fen'shwa probed his mouth, his eyes widening with shock as his finger came out b.l.o.o.d.y. A fire grew in Fen'shwa's glare, his eyes dilating until the yellow in them became black.Tol'chuk had never seen such rage!

Fen'shwa howled a battle cry, his bellow washing down the gully. Tol'chuk now saw the reason for the fury. One of Fen'shwa's fangs had been broken off by the fall, a disfiguring injury that could cost the og're significant rank among the tribe.

Fen'shwa screamed again in rage and leaped for Tol'chuk's throat.

Tol'chuk ducked and rammed the bony crown of his head into the midriff of his attacker. The force of the impact knocked the air from Fen'shwa's chest. Gasping, Fen'shwa flew back, landing hard on his backside.

But Tol'chuk's attacker was an experienced fighter, in training with the warrior clan. Fen'shwa rolled back to his feet and lashed out with his callused hand, grabbing Tol'chuk by the ankle. Yanking on Tol'chuk's leg, Fen'shwa toppled him to the ground.

Tol'chuk tried to bear the brunt of his fall on his shoulder. But his efforts still resulted in a crack to his skull. Pinp.r.i.c.ks of light swam across his vision. Blurry eyed, he saw Fen'shwa leaping on top of him.

Tol'chuk tried to roll away but failed.

Fen'shwa landed on him and immediately began kicking at Tol'chuk's exposed belly. Tol'chuk writhed, trying to limit the damage. Fen'shwa's back claws dug ribbons of skin, while his front claws jabbed at Tol'chuk's eyes.

Tol'chuk fought to free himself, but Fen'shwa outweighed him. If he could not break away soon, he would be gutted. Tol'chuk grabbed for Fen'shwa's wrist, but from the corner of his eye he spotted Fen'shwa's other hand slipping a hart-horn dagger from his belt.

When og'res struggled for mates, matching claw to claw, it was considered deceitful to use a weapon.

Thick of hide and hard of bone, seldom did these mating contests result in the death of an og're. Within a tribe, og're did not kill og're. Only during a tribe war, when the og're clans fought for territory, were weapons employed. It took a weapon to kill an og're.

Fen'shwa raised his dagger, his eyes still aflame with hatred. "Half-breed," he said between clenched fangs, blood flowing from his lips. "Today you haunt us no more!"

This pause to gloat was Fen'shwa's undoing. Tol'chuk realized Fen'shwa planned to do more than just b.l.o.o.d.y him. Tol'chuk grabbed a boulder in each of his hands and slammed them together against Fen'shwa's ears. Tol'chuk heard the crack as rock met skull. The simultaneous blows at the only weak spots on an og're's skull were dramatic.

Tol'chuk only meant to stun Fen'shwa, to knock him unconscious until his reason returned. As the rocks struck, blood fountained from his attacker's nostrils, spraying Tol'chuk with its heat. He watched Fen'shwa's eyes roll to white and heard his breath gurgle on swallowed blood. The dagger tumbled from Fen'shwa's fingers. His body followed the knife to lie limp on the boulders. Tol'chuk pushed the rest of Fen'shwa's bulk off his legs and scrambled up. Blood flowed across the boulder from Fen'shwa's nose and open mouth. His chest did not move.

Tol'chuk stood stunned, unable to breathe. What had he just done? Og're must never kill og're within a tribe!

He raised his hand and saw the b.l.o.o.d.y rock still clutched there. A corner had broken away when it struck Fen'shwa's skull. A yellow glint sparked from the rock's heart.Scentstone.

The rock tumbled from his numb fingers.

MOGWEED STOOD AT THE EDGE OF THE GREEN FOREST THAT was the Western Reaches.

He slouched against a trunk, reluctant to leave his forest home. A breeze shook the dry leaves overhead, rattling them like the husks of dead beetles. Beyond the trees to the east, the wide expanse of climbing foothills seemed naked, covered only in yellow meadow gra.s.s. And beyond the foothills and open meadows climbed the peaks of the Teeth, the mountains he must cross to reach the lands of man.

Mogweed felt the rough bark with his cheek. But how could he leave here?

He raised a hand and stared at the thin fingers and smooth skin. He shuddered at the sight, then glanced to the clothes hanging from his body. A huntsman had shown him how to wear the strange garments.

Gray leggings over linen underclothes, and a red coat over a gray wool shirt. He wore them correctly.

Still, each st.i.tch and weave of the fabric chafed against his tender skin. And the black boots were the worst. He refused to don them. Instead he carried them in a leather sack on his back. As long as he was in the forest, he would feel the loam between his toes!

He knew that once he left the shadow of the trees he would have to put the boots on his feet. He needed to appear to be a man. Once dressed, only his eyes would betray his heritage. With slit pupils instead of round, his eyes spoke his true nature.

He stood there, one arm against the tree, until he was nudged by a nose. "Quiet, Fardale. I need a moment to prepare." He glanced down in irritation at the treewolf.

As ma.s.sive as a man, Fardale sat on his haunches, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. His dense black hair, frosted with browns and grays, seemed like the dappled forest shadows given form and life.

The wolf's p.r.i.c.ked ears listened to the forest around them. His raised muzzle sniffed the air, checking for danger.

Mogweed's nose crinkled with bitter envy. Fardale's thick black fur was the only clothing he needed. No further adornment was necessary to complete his disguise. To almost anyone, Fardale would appear to be an ordinary treewolf, again except for his eyes. Like Mogweed's, his pupils were slitted, too, more like a forest cat's than a wolf's. Their eyes were a sign of their true heritage: si'lura.

Fardale glanced toward him, their amber eyes meeting. A slight glow seemed to warm toward Mogweed from the tree-wolf's eyes. Vague feelings formed in his head, whispers of thoughts and images from his wolf brother: A sun setting. A hungry belly. Legs wanting to run. Mogweed knew the meaning in these images. Fardale warned that daylight waned and that they still had much ground to cover before nightfall.

"I know," Mogweed answered aloud. He, too, could speak with the whisper of his soul, as Fardale had done, as all si'lura could, but his tongue needed practice. He would be among men shortly and must perfect his disguise if they were to make their journey safely. He shuddered again. "But I hate leaving home."

Images answered: A mother's teat, heavy with milk. The scents of the forest, varied and thick.

Dappled shadows burned away by raw sunlight. Fardale also regretted abandoning their forest home.

But they must. The elder'root of their clan had ordered it, and his words must be obeyed.

Still... Did they trulyneed to listen to the ancient one's command?Mogweed took a deep breath and dropped his pack to the dirt. He bent and fished out his boots. Sitting at the edge of the forest, he slipped his boots over his feet, cringing as each foot sank into its leathery coffin. "We could just stay," he said to his companion, his voice a bare whisper. "Live as outcasts."

Fardale growled, and the wolf's thoughts shot deep into him: A poisonous tree frog. A pond sc.u.mmed over with algae. A h.o.a.ry oak rotted with yellow molds. The forest was poison to them now. To refuse the elder'root would bring no joy to them in the forest.

Mogweed knew Fardale spoke the truth, but still a fire grew in his belly. "I know, Fardale! But they've banished us! What do we owe them?" His words were etched with heat, but he kept most of his rage penned up within his breast. This was another reason he spoke with his tongue. He did not want Fardale to sense the true depth of his fury.

Fardale raised to his paws and lowered his head threateningly. His eyes glowed red: A trapdoor spider.

A littermate attacking another. A crow stealing a mottled egg from a nest. Fardale still accused him.

"I was just trying to free us of the curse," Mogweed answered. "How could I know it would turn out so horribly?"

The wolf turned his head away, breaking eye contact, signaling the end of the conversation.

Mogweed blushed, not with shame, but with anger. d.a.m.n you, he thought. Fardale had been a choking yoke around his neck for long enough. The urge to leave the wolf behind and go out alone to seek his fortune among the human race thrilled through him.

Why did he need his own people anyway? They had always shunned him! He might better find his fortune among humans. Mogweed found his feet pulling him out from under the limbs of the trees and into the midafternoon sunshine.

He glanced around him. Free of the protective trees, the sky was so wide, so huge! Mogweed's feet stumbled to a stop. He crouched before the big sky. Like a ma.s.sive weight, it seemed to crush him toward the ground. He turned back to Fardale. "Are you coming?" He tried to sound acerbic, but fear laced his tremoring words. Going out into such a wide world without someone to lean on terrified him.

For now, he still needed Fardale-but only for now.

Fardale supped from the forest's shadow. The wolf's slitted eyes scanned the horizons calmly, the sight having little effect on him. He simply padded across the rocky soil, his fur reflecting the sunlight in oiled sheens.

Mogweed's eyes narrowed. Fardale was always the cool one, the brave one, the n.o.ble one. One day, Mogweed hoped to see him break and prayed he would be the one to cause it.

Mogweed watched Fardale casually lumber past and continue into the barren foothills. With his neck still slightly bent away from the large sky, Mogweed followed his twin brother, cursing his sibling's stout heart.

One day, dear brother, I will teach you to fear.

Tol'chuk carried the limp form of Fen'shwa in his arms. He stood upright, his back straight, needing two arms to cradle the heavy body. As he approached the village, he saw several females rooting for grubs in the thin soil. When they spotted him, their noses cringed with disgust at Tol'chuk's upright posture.

Og'res normally used their backs and only one arm to haul tree trunks or other heavy objects, leaving theremaining arm to support their lumbering gait. Shocked by the sight of him, it was only when he continued closer that the females spied his burden. Eyelids flew wide, and a cacophony of bleating arose from their throats. The females fled, loping away. The musky scent of their fear still hung in the crisp highland air.

Tol'chuk took no notice, but trod up the worn path toward his tribe's caves. His back and arms burned with exertion, but this was a small price for his atrocity. He had committed the worst violation of og're law: An og're never kills a fellow tribe member. During war, og'res could kill og'res of other tribes, but never of one's own.

As he had stood over Fen'shwa's b.l.o.o.d.y form, he had considered running, such was his shame. But by doing so, Tol'chuk would dishonor his dead father. And his birth was already enough of a disgrace for his family. How could he add to it by such cowardly actions? So he had collected Fen'shwa and begun his hike toward their caves, determined to face his tribe's punishment.

Ahead, at the foot of towering granite cliffs, Tol' chuk spotted the black hole of his tribe's home, easy to miss among the shadows clinging to the craggy and pocked rock face. The females had already alerted the village. Near the entrance to the caves, a crowd of og'res cl.u.s.tered-almost the entire tribe, even the bent backs of the old and the scurrying feet of the young. A few oak staves of the warriors bristled among them. Silence stood like a tribe member among his people. One weanling pulled a thumb from his tiny mouth and pointed at Tol'chuk, but before the child could utter a sound, his milk mother clamped a large hand over his mouth. No one spoke when the dead walked among them.

Tol'chuk was thankful for the silence. He would soon face those many questioning eyes again and speak his crime aloud, but first, he had a duty he must discharge.

Tol'chuk's heart beat hard in his chest, and his legs began to shake. But he did not falter a step before his people. If he should hesitate, he might lose his momentum, and the growing fear could catch hold of his heart. So he forced each foot to follow the other and marched toward his home.

One thick-limbed adult og're burst through the wall of onlookers. He leaned on an arm as thick around as a tree trunk. He raised his nose to the wind carrying toward him from Tol'chuk. Suddenly the huge og're froze, his muscles tensed like a rocky ridge. After seasons of living in dim caves, og'res' vision weakened as they aged, but their keen sense of smell grew more acute. The adult og're raised his face to the cliff walls surrounding him and bellowed his grief, the sound shattering the silence. He had recognized the scent of Tol'chuk's burden.

Fen'shwa's father knew his son.

Tol'chuk almost stopped. How could he confess his guilt? The muscles of his jaw ached as he clenched his teeth together. He kept his eyes fixed on the hole in the cliff's face and continued his march.

Fen'shwa's father galloped toward him, his thick rear legs hammering the stone escarpment. He slid to a stop, showering Tol'chuk with a flurry of loose shale. He reached his free hand over to touch his son's limp arm as it dragged along the ground. "Fen'shwa?"

Tol'chuk ignored him, as was the custom among his people. The grieving were not to be seen. He continued to march toward the yawning entrance. But Tol'chuk's silence was answer enough to the father. His son was not just injured- Fen'shwa was dead. Behind him, Tol'chuk heard a keening wail from the father's throat. He saw the other members of his tribe turn their backs on the grieving father.

Now stumbling with both exhaustion and fear, Tol'chuk swept through the parting crowd of og'res. No one touched him, no one hindered him: Let death pa.s.s quickly by. He carried his burden through the entrance into the darkness of the caves.The roof of the large common chamber stretched beyond the reach of even the scattered cooking fires.

But fingers of rock dripped from the ceiling to point accusingly toward him. With his head bowed, he worked his way through the cooking section of the village. A few females stood hunched by their fires, wide eyes reflecting back the twitching flames of their hearths.

He crossed the living areas of the various families. Smaller entrances jutted off the common s.p.a.ce to the private warrens of each family. Males of the tribe poked their heads out suspiciously as he pa.s.sed, fearful that someone sought to steal one of their females. But when they saw what he carried, they disappeared back inside, fearful that death might hop into their warren.

As he pa.s.sed the opening to his own family's caves, no og're peeked outside. He was the last of his family. His home caves echoed emptily since his father had gone to the spirits four winters ago.

Tol'chuk ignored the familiar scent of his home. He knew where he had to go before he could rest his responsibility-to the cavern of the spirits.

He continued to the deepest and blackest section of the cavern. Here a slitlike opening cracked the back wall of the cavern from floor to ceiling. For the first time during his trek, he dragged to a stop, frozen by the sight of that opening. The last time he had neared this dark path had been when his father had fallen during a battle with the Ku'ukla tribe. Tol'chuk had been too young to go with the warriors. When they returned, no one told him his father had died during the fight.

He had been playing toddledarts with a child still too young to fear and loathe him when they had dragged his father's speared body past him. He had stood there stunned, a toddledart in his hand, as they hauled the last member of his family into the black crack on its journey to the cavern of the spirits beyond.

Now Tol'chuk had to walk this path. Before his legs grew roots of fear and locked him in place, he pulled his burden closer to his chest and continued. He was forced by the bulk of his burden to turn sideways to edge into the narrow slit. He squeezed down the black path, holding his breath. Sliding his back on one wall, he traveled the well-worn path until a weak blue glow flowed from beyond a bend in the corridor ahead. The light seemed to sap the strength from his legs and arms. His resolve faltered. He began to quake.

Then a voice whispered from ahead. "Come. We wait." Tol'chuk stumbled in midstep. It was the voice of the Triad. He had hoped to drop the body in the spirit chamber and slip off to confess his atrocity to the tribe. The Triad were seldom seen. These ancient ones, blind with age, dwelled deep within the mountain's heart. Only for the most solemn ceremonies would the Triad crawl from their residence beyond the spirit caves to join the og're tribe.

Now the three ancient og'res waited for him. Did the Triad already know his foulness?

"Come, Tol'chuk." The words trailed to him from ahead like an eyeless worm searching for light.

Tol'chuk dragged his feet toward the voice. He held the air trapped in his chest. His grip on Fen'shwa's body grew slippery with sour sweat. Finally, the narrow path widened, and the stone walls pulled back.

He was able to twist forward again and walk straight.

With his arms trembling under Fen'shwa's weight, he heaved into the chamber of the spirit. The cavern, lit by blue-flamed torches, stretched away to a black eye on the far side, the entrance to the Triad's domain. No og're except the ancient ones and the dead traveled that path.

Tol'chuk trembled at the edge of the cavern. He had only ventured to this chamber once in hislife-during his naming ceremony when he was four winters of age. That day, one of the Triad had branded him with the cursed name He-who-walks-like-a-man-a shame he had had to bear for twelve winters now.

He had hoped never to step into the spirit-wrought cavern again, but Tol'chuk had been taught the custom. The og're dead were left in this chamber, away from the eyes of the tribe. What became of their bodies was never even whispered or questioned. To talk of the dead could draw tragedy to a hearth.

The deceased were the Triad's concern.

Tol'chuk took a single step into the chamber. In the center of the cavern, the three ancient ones hunched like rocky out-croppings sprouting from the stone floor. Naked and gnarled, more bone than flesh, the trio waited.

A voice rose from one of the Triad, though Tol'chuk could not say which one spoke. It seemed like the words flowed from all three. "Leave the dead."

Tol'chuk meant to lower Fen'shwa's body gently to the stone, to offer as much respect to his slain tribe member as possible so as not to offend the G.o.ds. But his muscles betrayed him, and Fen'shwa's body tumbled from his exhausted arms. The skull hit the stone with a loud crack that echoed across the chamber.

Cringing, Tol'chuk bent his back into proper og're form. His duty done, he began to step back toward the narrow path, away from the Triad.