Mark of the Cat and Year of the Rat Page 46

  The Outer Regions—I had given solemn oath that I would serve the people, the land, and all living things. As I lay there I repeated my oath. Under the Essence I would hold—even at high cost to myself.

  The veiling was gone; I believe that I slept. Now I must accept and deal with matters as best I could in trials yet to come.

  In the guest chamber given to Yuikala:

  Yuikala stood looking out upon the sand set ablaze by the full sun. Her window faced north, not upon the city. Many seasons behind her were full of private triumphs. She had been cautious and slow in the beginning, had damped down all impatience. Perhaps she had come to believe too much in the power she had built upon.

  She had had her defeats then also. Haban-ji—she had thought herself necessary. How long had that lasted—three seasons—no, four. She had not allowed her anger at his betrayal to be guessed—nor discourage her. One resolutely climbed a stair—leaving behind the cracked step—seeking the strength in the next.

  This Hynkkel—he was a nothing—how else could he be rated? Yet Fortune favored him. Her thoughts shied away from that path—the Essence.

  She shook her head. The fault was hers—she had underrated him. What did he have that her plans should turn to sand when she had been so careful in forming them?

  There was a still another chance—one he was stupid enough to provide her, with this cutting of the Progress. Valapa was hers. She had many strands twisted, prepared for the weaving. Perhaps the land itself would serve her. Storm season was very close. In Valapa she would not have to face that. But if he were stubborn and persisted—She savored the thought.

  Yes, the storm season, the underground water, Shank-ji and his rebels, the many Houses in Valapa she could bend to her will—There were many weapons still to her hand.

  The renewal of the Progress:

  The much smaller company had made no elaborate camp two sunrises later. There was no erecting of tents, only the simplest of structures. Hynkkel saw the silhouette of Murri against the dawning sky. The Sand Cat had climbed a dune of formidable size, facing north, his head well up as if he were testing a wash of air, which rippled the sand about his feet.

  He had given no warning, but Hynkkel was uneasy, waiting for a thought-sending of alarm. The caravaners and guards seemed unusually alert, concerned with both mounts and draft animals. The Commander had dispatched a pair of scouts ahead, with orders to seek out any isle of rock, no matter how small, which could be used for shelter if need arose.

  There was still a three-night journey to the harsh rock island of Azhengir where the throat stinging of sulphur, the never-dormant core of volcanoes, smoked the land. Hynkkel faced in the same direction as Murri, recalling the journey they had taken together into the fireland where the cat had briefly lost his sight and only their bond had saved them both.

  Allitta:

  How different was this journey. Where there had been singing and the rousing rattle of small drums, voices raised in laughter, now we moved without encouragement. I had sought out Ravinga—wanting reassurance. Kassca clung close to me, sharing my uneasiness. I only wanted to keep on going—vainly hoping to make haste this desert land forbade.

  Hynkkel was speaking now to the commander. Murri had vanished from his perch atop the dune. My maid came to say that food was ready. I wanted none of it but I must keep up my strength. I think that all of our company shared that uneasiness, though none spoke of it. It had been folly to wait so long—storms might hit at any time.

  Here the dunes were high and if the winds struck to set them moving—

  I was at the curtain door of our shelter when I saw Ravinga. Caring nothing now for the silly rules of the court I beckoned to her vigorously.

  “Storm?” I asked as she settled beside me, the black furred coat of Wiu sharp against her dun travel cloak.

  “Perhaps—”

  Ravinga had spent many seasons along caravan routes. She had often suffered the fury of the Great Storms and once wondered aloud if her luck had served her so often, as to indeed be exhausted. Now she set about eating, as might a wild Yaksen gorge itself on available food, knowing at any time it could face near starvation rations.

  She did not instruct me, simply pushed platters closer. I discovered that if I were not hungry at least I could swallow.

  Then—I heard at last what I had been only half consciously expecting—the roll of distant storm drums. As yet they were far away. Still we would have so little time—time for what? There was not even the smallest isle near—no real shelter.

  We were on our feet at once. Ravinga whipped off a sun veil and emptied into it all that was left of the dried food. Kassca fitted herself across my shoulders as I tipped one of the carafes of water back into its travel jug, thumbed in the stopper as tight as I could.

  Hynkkel burst in upon us. “OUT!” He took my arm and dragged me towards the door curtain, catching at Ravinga also to give her a hard push.

  Our camp was in an uproar. And always the drums thundered closer, filling the air with warning. Hynkkel pushed ahead as Jaclan fought to bring us three mounts, the animals rearing and squealing protest.

  Hynkkel bundled us up on the beasts. Once we were in the saddles they became somewhat less fearful. But Hynkkel did not mount the third oryxen, though the young Leader urged it.

  “Murri!” I caught the sharp thought call.

  Then Hynkkel spoke to us. “There is a small rock isle ahead. Murri was with the scout who sighted it. Murri!” he switched from speech to thought.

  The Sand Cat bounded toward us in great leaps, almost as if he had taken to the air, his thick coat widely fluffed.

  “GO!” Hynkkel slapped both oryxen across the hindquarters. Instantly Ravinga and I were struggling to keep our seats as the beasts leaped forward following Murri.

  “Hynkkel!” I cried out, not daring even to turn my head to see if he followed, so perilous was my hold on my bounding mount.

  Hynkkel-ji:

  Once, during my ordeal of the Solo, I had been caught in one of the great storms. But then I had been on one of the small rock isles with some shelter. These storms were usually not of short duration—some had been known to last many days. Here was no rock protection—protection—The wagons, which carried our supplies and luggage, were in line ready to be loaded.

  They were here by my reckless desire to travel.

  As the leading edge of the storm reached for us, I caught at the shoulder of Jaclan. “The wagons!” My voice approached a scream just to reach above the shrieks and cries of those about us. I was not sure he understood, but he did follow me as I threw myself towards the nearest transport. I slashed the harness to free the bellowing beasts. Jaclan’s sword flashed down to shear the tough hide lines. Commander Ortaga seemed to materialize out of the thickening wind borne sand. Others joined us in our frenzied efforts. Together we manhandled the carts into a circle. The rising sand mist made each moment an agony as we fought to drag boxes and casks of supplies within the circle. The animals stampeded from the pitiful encampment, driven by the scouring blast.

  We strove to account for all our party, urging them into the cart circle. Supply boxes, when shoved against the inner side of the carts, helped to form a makeshift barrier. Lastly the huge, many layered hide shelter quilts were drawn and anchored to hooks on the carts to provide what shelter they could—poor as it was.

  By some quirk of nature—or favor from the Essence—the dunes were not yet on the march. Rather the main, airborne rivers of sand began their inexorable eastward flow.

  And watching that I caught a glimpse of movement—Murri! He no longer moved in the long floating bounds. I could barely see him, but I caught his thought. “Ones—in storm—”

  He made no mention of a wound—that I could feel for myself, through the mind link. I grabbed up the smallest storm hide and, before the man nearest me could move, I vaulted up and over a cart. Panicked shouts followed me but I paid no heed.

  The sand scoured and burnt my skin but
I focused all my being in that mind link that was my only guide. Murri was still on his feet as I reached him, but he wavered where he stood. I became aware of a guard at my shoulder. I put out hands to Murri and shouted as loud as I could.

  “Under him, then pull!”

  Strong hands joined mine to jerk at the hide. Our combined strength at length managed to cover the sand crusted body with the length of storm cover. I could smell blood—how grave was Murri’s injury? That he came back alone, hurt, could only mean disaster.

  Having covered him and shifted his body, we began the laborious pull back to our makeshift shelter.

  “Come on! We can make it. Pull!” I jerked my head towards my companion and he met me eye to eye. His helmet was gone and I could see him for the first time clearly. It was my brother.

  CHAPTER 22

  Allitta:

  Our wild race into the unknown did not slow pace. I knew however, the oryxen in this footing could not keep up with Murri. The great cat must be holding back so that we might not lose sight of him. Blasts of wind driven sand were but a promise of what they would become. I had twisted a travel veil about my face when I had left the camp shelter. Now this clouded my vision as sand began to cake its fibers. Kassca, inside my cloak, rubbed against my body. She was as sheltered as could be.

  Luckily we did not appear to be riding into the wind, but rather along the edge of the fury. Limited as my sight had become I could not see movement of any dune.

  How long we rode so I could not guess; it seemed our race had occupied hours. However, as we went, the force of the wind, the grit of the sand lessened. Our push westward—if Murri still led us in that direction—was taking us away from the storm lash.

  Hynkkel! That he would follow us could not be. He was simply accepting the duties of his office—those the imperial crown had thrust down on him when it had first been placed upon his head. What was the duty that weighted the crown? The six fold virtues all of the Outer Regions knew—courage, confidence, commitment, empathy, trustworthiness, imagination. In truth he was himself the very heart of this land. And if that heart ceased to beat—Yet he must see first to those of the Progress.

  I wrestled with pain—not from my sand scoured body—but with an emotion born of fear—the dread of loss that gnawed at me. I was so caught by that nameless emotion that I was far from ready for what came now against us.

  The haze of wind and sand had cleared and, holding the reins in one hand, I tried with the other to scrape sand from my veil. The frenzied gallop of my mount had eased to a stumbling walk. Now the oryxen was gasping as its strength had near been drained. Yes, shadows were rising—the spurs we sought were just ahead.

  The roaring of the wind was muted—enough so I heard a piercing whistle. Light—a brilliant eye searing light, burst from one of the spires before us. It struck at Murri! He reared with a squawl of pain, twisted as if he would throw himself out of the path of some weapon, fell into the sand and lay unmoving.

  I urged my oryxen on and struggled to mind touch Murri. But I reached Ravinga instead.

  “They come!”

  Muffled figures burst from the ground at the base of one spire, heading at us. I tried to pull my mount to the left, but the beast near tore the reins from my hold and kept stubbornly on. Then it halted, so abruptly I was almost thrown from the saddle, for one of the figures detached himself from his fellows to ride straight at us. I had no weapon—nor did I think that he intended rescue. Rather such a wave of fear shook me that I was helpless as an arm emerged from his hooded cloak and long fingers caught at my reins. My arms fell leadenly to my sides. The light, shrunken a good deal, now encircled me and the stranger.

  I could still breathe but otherwise my body refused to obey my will. While I could not move, my oryxen followed my captor’s will (for captor he assuredly was) as the cloaked and hooded one pulled at the reins.

  The rider’s mount was strange to me. Well muscled and larger than any oryxen or even a yaksen, it sprouted three horns rather than two. Within my cloak, I could feel the trembling of Kassca. Her fear only fueled my own.

  Ravinga, I saw, had been as easily taken in the same fashion and was being drawn before me by another rider. We passed the body of Murri over which the sand was already drifting. He would soon be buried. My inner terror was fed by grief.

  Suddenly we burst through what seemed an unseen curtain. Instantly flying sand and wind both vanished. Looming before us only a few feet ahead was an arch of light tall enough to admit our mounted party. On the far side of that I could see whirling lines of color weaving back and forth. To look at them made my eyes sting and I was forced to close them. But my mount continued on through that strange gate which had nothing of the honest desert land about it.

  The Land by the Spires:

  Murri stirred, awaking slowly. He realized just in time, that only his head still rested above a drift of sand. His struggles to free himself were weak at first until, fed by the fear all desert dwellers knew, he wrenched himself free. The wind subsided as he tried to discover the extent of his injury. One of his shoulders was near consumed with scorching pain. He remembered the sudden warning of his senses, which had caused him to dodge the shaft of light. Most likely it had been aimed for his skull—to put an end to him.

  What did trigger a different kind of fear now was a scent, not part of any wind. Undeadened by the sand, a loathsome stench—strong enough to make him gag—intensified. Rat yet not rat. Evil—as evil as that water thing in the underground ways.

  He lurched up and forward, not in retreat but to follow that odor. They were gone—the she of his brother, the wise one who knew so much! Rats—As he made himself move he fought the fiery pain. Then—he sank down again and put one of his big forepaws over his nose. The stink in itself added to the fire. He might be lying across a caravan blaze with his body fueling it.

  Ahead was a faint light. He could see it formed the tracing of an arch that faded even as he watched it.

  Evil and Black Power. He had failed to guard his charges. Murri growled. His brother must know as soon as possible. Painfully he edged around. He could see the sand whirls. Must he venture into the edge of the storm yet again? He had no choice; summoning all the strength he could, Murri staggered on, intent upon reaching the camp.

  Allitta:

  Kassca crawled up me and bumped her head against my chin. Though my eyes still burned I forced them open. I drew a deep breath, for now I rode in the center of a party of warriors. On the fringes of the company were men such as one might see in any Queendom, but around me were others of a different breed. They wore body and head concealing hooded cloaks, but the one who still led my oryxen was—What does one do upon meeting a monster out of nightmare? This—this Thing displayed no normal head—Rather a rat’s red eyes regarded me, a rat’s ears twitched alertly, a rat’s jaws spread slightly apart to display great yellowish teeth.

  I must not, I was sure, show disgust or fear. Long ago I had learned that one must keep a closed face, and fight any sound or shiver of fear if possible.

  “Bad! Bad!”

  Kassca’s thought speech only underlined what I already felt. She had fastened herself flat against me. My arms were still unnaturally heavy; I could not raise them. And for some odd reason I believed that I dared not try to use mind touch again. Nor did I allow myself another glance at the creature leading my mount.

  All my life I had known of the rats. Warnings of them had been as common as speech itself among the dwellers in the Outer Regions. I had met them in battle when I traveled with the caravans and had killed my share of the noisome things. But this Thing was a horror of horrors. To see that which was a monster feigning the ways of a man—I tried to look only ahead as if, though my eyes were open, I rode in sleep.

  Because I must needs keep myself under control I studied the land directly in front of us. There was a measure of sand, but it was more drably gray than any I had seen. There were also places where the sand was swept away to show a pavem
ent of darker stones, laid smoothly.

  Now there was a change in the land itself. No sand now but patches of very dark soil showed. As we advanced, these began to support growing things such as should only have been possible in the sealed gardens of Twahihic or in Valapa.

  Though there was still not more than the hint of dawn, shapes of the strange vegetation were visible, for each stem and leaf bore an outline of greenish light. While above these weird growths there fluttered flying things whose wings at each beat sprinkled what lay below with a sparkling dust.

  There were scents, too, growing ever stronger as the tightly filled earth patches spread larger and larger until they became one verdant carpet ending at the edges of the pavement over which we rode. Though one was well able to see what was immediately about, that ahead appeared to lurk behind some great curtain, which retreated at the same pace that we advanced.

  Suddenly there came a stir among our captors. One of the human warriors was purposefully edging between his hooded companions. His uniform was plainly that of a Queendom. There had been no attempt to discard the badge of Valapa. The bushy fur of his war helm formed a shadowy mask across his features in the limited light.

  At first it appeared that those about Ravinga (toward whom he pushed) were set to deny him. However at length one of them pulled up a little and he reached the doll maker’s side.

  “Greeting, oh, Foreseer,” There was a distinct sneering note in that hail. “You have been eagerly awaited.”

  He paused—she made no answer. There was, I believed, a threat behind his words.

  “An old acquaintance I am,” he continued when she still did not reply. “Once you foreread for me, Ravinga—” He pushed his thick headdress up a fraction and now I could see him better. His face was vaguely familiar but I could not put name to him.

  “Yes, you foreread—” now he uttered a grating laugh. “But your farseeing was not true, was it Doll Maker? No more true than this.”

  He was holding out a doll, though I could not see it clearly. To free his hands he caught his reins between his teeth. In his twisting grasp the doll came apart and he leaned as far as he could towards Ravinga shaking in her face both its parts.