Foretellers (The Ydron Saga Book 3) (6 page)

“What was that all about?” Maryam demanded when Roanna finally said it was safe to stop.

“I saw something.”

“You saw something, alright. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d been sipping kethna.”

Simo explained what he had seen and the rest agreed they had all heard the rumble.

“What did you see?” Simo asked. When Roanna described the man in her vision, he gave her a curious look and asked, “How do you know Hath Kael?”

The question startled her. Until this moment, the warlord had been little more than a name, an evil rumor whose armies ravaged the land, plundering villages and killing residents, leaving a wake of decimation.

“I… I don’t,” she replied.

“You’ve never seen him?” he pressed.

She shook her head and he appeared perplexed.

“Simo has seen him,” Maryam volunteered. “Or at least he says he has,” she added with a snicker.

“I asked, because you described him perfectly, right to the folds of fat across the back of his skull and the details of his earring.”

“How do you know him?” Roanna asked.

“I escaped from his service several weeks ago,” he said. When she continued to stare, he explained, “There are only two ways for a man to escape death when Kael conquers your city. Either you join his army as a warrior, which I’m not, or enter into servitude.”

He rolled up a pant leg revealing a scar around his ankle.

“As his army was preparing its retreat after Obah Sitheh beat them, a sympathetic smith took mercy and severed my shackle. Then, when Kael’s army fled west, I went north, travelling until Duval found me.”

He pulled his right ear forward, revealing the tattoo of two joined links of chain.

“Unless I can find a way to remove it, I’ll be in someone’s service for the rest of my days. You wouldn’t care to, would you?”

When she furrowed her brow, he explained, “It’s not all that hard, really. All you need is a good sharp knife and a sound stomach. After excising the skin with a circular cut, you staunch the bleeding with a compress of… ”

“Stop! I don’t want to hear it.”

Simo laughed before his expression turned sour.

“I thought as much. It’s what everyone says.”

“You don’t think he was coming after us, do you?” asked Sylene.

Simo shook his head.

“If he were, he would have caught us by now. The point is, he was riding and it wouldn’t have been nice if he had discovered us, even if it were purely accidental.”

Maryam tried turning the talk to Roanna’s vision. To avoid that particular tack, Roanna suggested they examine the half dozen boxes that were still on the bed. To everyone’s delight, two contained food. To Roanna’s, the rest contained dresses—things she thought she might wear if she could ever find a way to dispose of the leathers and bathe. Oh! How she longed to be clean and look like a woman again.

Still, it was not easy to keep all talk away from war. Smoke tinged the sky a sickly orange and there was no escaping the smell of burnt buildings. All around, as far as they could see, columns of smoke rose skyward. Even now as they ate, the tang of incineration tainted their palates and made everything taste foul. Roanna could not tell if the contamination were real, or if everything tasted that way because her nostrils were polluted.

“How much farther?” she gasped, seeking to turn her mind from her upset stomach and failing digestion.

“We’re nearly there,” Sylene replied and grimaced as she returned a half-eaten piece of deleth fruit to the box it came from. “Do you see the stand of trees at the crest of that hill?” she asked, pointing to a ridge a mile or so distant. “After the road takes us past, it winds down into a valley. At the bottom, it follows a dry river bed for almost five miles until it reaches the turnoff to my home.”

Out of habit, Roanna attempted to peer forward in time, hoping her earlier vision marked a turn toward her recovery. Unable to summon anything, she raised her eyes skyward. The absence of smoke on the way they were heading raised her hope that Sylene’s home would still be standing. Perhaps she could even sleep in a bed.

She was reflecting on times when she had her own roof to sleep under, but snapped back to the present when the image of her daughter imposed itself.

Pandy appeared to be dressed in animal skins and was riding through mountainous terrain atop a beast Roanna could not identify. It seemed almost ludicrous. Was this a vision, she wondered, or merely the product of her distressed mind? All at once it was gone and she found herself afraid. In this world, where every land was at war, what chance did a girl Pandy’s age have on her own? Only the dimmest hope that they might one day reunite kept her from tumbling headlong into despair. As painful as it was to do so, she tucked the picture away, only to feel how much her hand hurt. She uncurled her fist to see droplets of blood seeping from the four red crescents her nails had dug into her palm.

Obah Sitheh’s sword arm fell to his side, all strength gone from it. His final opponent, a large brute of man garbed in fur and metal bracings, lie at his feet, shuddering as blood poured from the gash in his side below the rib cage, where Obah’s sword had almost cleaved him through to his spine. The involuntary twitching of his arms and legs lessened, eventually stilling altogether as the last of his life bled out.

Obah’s breaths were coming in gasps, departing as forceful exhalations. For several minutes the rise and fall of his chest and the pounding of his heart were the only realities until his mind shrank from the necessary all-encompassing awareness of the battlefield to the sole realization that he was alive. Gradually, as the demand for air grew less urgent, his consciousness spread from the few feet of ground on which he stood to the battlefield beyond. He searched for his war horse—having long since abandoned the saddle, the better to engage his remaining foes, most of whom were on foot—and found the stallion some distance away, foraging between corpses for remnants of grass. Assured the animal was unharmed, Obah shifted his gaze to his comrades and was relieved to see that all of the men still standing and moving about wore his own gold, blue and crimson.

Even now he clasped his sword. Despite how his hand ached, how its muscles were cramped, he could neither release it nor bring himself to return it to its scabbard. His blade and his reflexes were the only reasons he was still standing, and it was as if understanding this, that his body clung to the hilt the way it had held on to life.

“Thank the gods you’re alive!” someone cried.

He whirled at the intrusion and found himself staring into the face of his old friend, General Barral. It was spattered with blood and lined with exhaustion, but somehow, after all that had happened, a smile wound across it.

“I’ve been searching for signs of Hath Kael,” said Barral.

“He fled with his coterie and the best of his fighters and let Garmak En take the brunt of our assault,” replied Obah. When Barral raised his eyebrows, Obah added, “I might have done the same. A man can’t turn defeat from the grave.”

“Still, it’s a fine way to repay one’s ally.”

Obah nodded. Then, without being asked, he observed, “I expect he’s fled west into Deth to join with Essem Cargath.”

“Even so, it will take him time to rebuild.”

“I expect it will take us as long to do the same.”

Barral shook his head. “We did well. I expect when the final tally is in, we will find we lost less than a quarter of what we started with. If Darva hadn’t appeared when she did and let you know you could launch your assault, we would have suffered much worse.”

Barral’s observation struck a chord. He was glad he had sent his sister far from the battlefield before the conflict was fully under way. He found himself gazing north where she had gone when Barral interrupted.

As if reading his thoughts, Barral asked, “Do you think she made it?”

“If she and her bodyguard kept to the foot of the mountains, as I instructed, she should be fine. She’s smart, so I suspect she did. In any case, she couldn’t have remained.”

Barral surveyed the thousands of corpses and nodded.

“What do we do with them all?” he asked. “In two or three days, the stench will be intolerable. We can’t leave. We have to remain here to secure the fort.”

“Locate your division commanders, or whomever remains in their place, and order them to assemble as many squads as they can and build pyres. Use the remains of Kael’s encampment to construct them and whatever’s left when you’re done as fuel. There are too many to bury, and we need to turn our attention to the state of our supplies. In the meanwhile, I will send couriers to barakMaroc. If the reinforcements General Kahn put together fared half as well as we did, we will have something upon which to rebuild. This was only Kael’s first offensive.”

“That reminds me,” said Barral. “If you recall, Pytheral had begun sending aid when Kael shut the door on them. While he’s still in disarray, I can send riders west to inquire if they are still willing to join us.”

“Dispatch them at once. Cargath has supporters in Dethen. If they decide to join forces, they can cut off whatever help Pytheral offers and your riders may find themselves caught between the two and fighting for their lives.”

“So it will be Cargath and Kael against us?” Barral inquired.

“Be glad there is still fighting in the North. If Limast and Meden weren’t still at war, we might face Harven Goth as well. We still might.”

“Why would Meden assist Kael?” Barral asked. “They have no common interests.”

Obah screwed up his mouth and said, “Power unites as much as it divides. That is all this is about.”

“It’s not what we are about. We are fighting for our lands and our right to remain free.” He paused and looked Lord Sitheh squarely in the eye. “Or have things changed since we began?”

Placing his free hand on Barral’s shoulder, Obah replied, “We are still the same and the world around us is still mad. Sometimes I wonder when it will all end and if we will still be here when it does. I have to believe we will. I have to believe that somehow a few madmen have created all this and that sanity will prevail.”

He gestured at the miles of dead men.

“I don’t know if it was just youth and innocence that made me believe most men want to be brothers and yearn to live in peace. I wasn’t very old at the start, but I’d like to believe goodness was not just the product of youthful imagination.”

“If it was,” said Barral, “then we both suffered the same delusions. The men who joined with you also believed. We weren’t raised to be fighters. My mother and father—may the gods grant them rest—were shopkeepers. They dreamed of grandchildren, not kingdoms.”

“Mine as well,” Obah replied. He reflected on the carnage before adding, “We need to bring an end to it. Ride to Nagath-réal and speak with Ammac Bad. Tell him we appreciate the troops that he sent, but tell him we need more. If my guess is right, this is shaping up to be the greatest battle our world has ever known. He cannot afford to pretend to be neutral and apart any longer. No one can. After that, go to barakMaroc and confer with Kahn to assess his needs.”

A long low fog obscured the coast, so the ship hove to and dropped anchor well out to sea. Pandy had watched the crew lower the remaining skiff before securing a great panel of rope webbing to the railing and dropping it over the side. She and Harad were to descend to the tiny craft below by scaling the crisscrossed lines. Two seamen scrambled down before them and waited, while others shipboard held the skiff’s bow and stern lines to keep the small boat from drifting. The tiny craft jounced against its tethers, responding to the sea and the impact of the sailors jumping onto it. As each one arrived, he paused, feet spread, knees bent and arms outstretched until the boat’s motions subsided and he was able to stand easily. When the two grasped the mesh by its bottom and were holding it securely, they signaled those above.

“Would you like some help?” asked Harad, close enough that Pandy could feel his breath hot against her neck.

She bunched up her shoulder and squirmed away. When she turned back to look, his face was scant inches from hers.

“No, thank you,” she replied with as hard and as angry a look as she could muster, pushing him away. “I can manage just fine on my own.”

He grinned and began to reply, but before his lips could form the first syllable, Pandy, wearing her mother’s pack, grasped the ship’s rail and scampered up, arriving on her knees. Maintaining her grip, she dropped onto the ship’s outboard trim. As Harad snatched at her hand, she dropped onto the mesh and began climbing down.

“Stay away from me,” she warned.

Harad straddled the railing and started after her. With every foot she descended, Pandy grew less certain, increasingly afraid because the outcomes she saw constantly shifted between what would happen if she maintained a steady descent and the consequence of losing her footing or becoming entangled.

Over the preceding days, the crew had watched over her. Even the captain seemed inclined to be charitable, waiving the fee for her passage and ordering the bosun to insure her safety. While the captain expressed doubts as to the wisdom of putting her ashore, he could not keep her aboard indefinitely. So, even though he gave Harad a distrustful eye, he elected to accept the stranger’s assurance he intended to help her.

“She will be fine, Captain,” Harad had promised. “I will look after her as if she were my own.”

Pandy knew the sailors below would guard her until they reached shore, but visions of the journey ahead, more chilling than the morning’s icy breeze, added to her fear. Glimpses of the day’s possibilities and the almost real sensation of Harad’s grasping hands, drove her down the ropework. Ever faster she went, eyes flicking from the skiff’s moving deck to Harad’s boots closing in. Struggling to keep the rucksack shouldered, aware of increasing condensation on the mesh, she feared the possibility of a catastrophic fall almost as much as she feared Harad catching up with her. Halfway down, stretching for a rung, Pandy’s foot slid into space. She shrieked as fingers numbed by the morning chill, struggled to hang on.

“Take my hand, darling,” came his syrupy voice.

Pandy gasped.

“You don’t want to fall, do you?”

Looking up, she saw his hand reaching out for her. His toothy smile and piercing eyes leered at her.
Like a wolf,
she thought, and Harad’s smile widened.

“Like a wolf?” he said. He laughed and Pandy froze. “Yes, my dear,” Harad said. “I know your thoughts.” When she did not respond, he added, “You might as well let me help. You can’t get away. I can follow you anywhere.”

Terrified, she tore her eyes from his and assessed the distance to the bobbing deck below, barely hearing his next remark.

“Thinking of jumping? I wouldn’t advise it. You don’t want to injure your pretty self, do you?”

All it took was his fingers brushing hers. She let go and braced for the impact that never came as four strong hands arrested her fall. The sailors righted her with care and set her down gently.

“Gracious, little one! Are you alright?” the older one asked.

Grasping his collar with both hands, she pulled him close and whispered. He eyed her for a moment, then nodded.

“We can do that, Missy. Have no fear.” He looked aloft and his voice became gruff. “Better come down before we shove off,” he said, then turned back to Pandy. His scowl became a smile and his tone softened. “Let me take that,” he said, easing the pack from her shoulders and seating her on a thwart spanning the boat’s hull. “You will ride to shore by my side,” he assured.

Once Harad boarded, the seamen wasted no time getting under way. Over Harad’s objections, they seated him behind Pandy, his back to both her and the shore, and handed him a pair of oars.

With three men rowing, they made good time. The air was light, so the sea undulated gently. Nonetheless, the skiff reacted to the water far more than Pandy would have liked. While the ship had knifed smoothly through all but the severest chop, the tiny boat rose and fell with the slightest provocation and her stomach grew queasy. Suspecting Harad might be part of her distress, she focused on the hilltops poking through the mist—the only stationary objects in a vast sea of motion—trying to ignore both her nausea and her fears.

At one point, Harad glanced over his shoulder.

“You’re as green as a tesberry,” he laughed.

“Shut it,” Pandy’s new ally ordered.

His shipmate added, “I wish we could accompany them ashore.”

“But you can’t,” Harad sneered.

“I’ll tell you what I can do,” said the man beside Pandy. “If you don’t put your back into your rowing and keep your mouth shut, I can toss you overboard.”

Outmatched by the larger pair, Harad closed his mouth and returned to his task. And though he was facing away, Pandy imagined she could feel his thoughts fixed upon her as every stroke of the oars carried her closer to shore and her next critical moment.

The sound of hull scraping sand, followed by a thud, announced landfall. The seamen bounded into the water and grabbed the hull.

“Out with you,” the younger one snapped at Harad. “Help us beach her.”

When Pandy started to rise, her ally raised a hand.

“Keep your seat, Missy. The water’s too deep yet and you’ll catch a chill. I’ll carry you ashore when it’s time.”

Despite his assurance, her fear continued to mount and her breathing grew shallow and quick. Try as she might to see past this minute, the future came as a jumble of vignettes, each one as likely as the next, and she wanted to cry. When, at last, her ally lifted her and her pack, holding both above the water, he said softly enough only she could hear, “Don’t fret, now. You’ll be alright. When I set you down, don’t look back. That man will not follow you. I promise.”

“But where do I go?”

“Do you see that little rill pouring down the rock face?”

Pandy looked to shore at a steep wall of rock. Beyond the narrow, almost non-existent stretch of sand, the coast rose to near vertical, fading into the mist in all directions. Low clouds concealed the summit and she felt as if the world were suddenly very small indeed. Uncertain what she was looking for, she scanned the cliff’s rough, almost black surface until she discerned a fissure with a narrow silver ribbon cascading down. She nodded and looked into her friend’s deep brown eyes.

“I know,” he said. “It looks awfully steep, but it can be climbed. My daddy and I did just that when I was a lad—more than once I might add.” He glanced at the pack she had brought adding, “Although, I don’t know how you will manage with all that gear.

“Now that I think of it, take a minute to look through whatever is in there and take out only what you can put in your pockets. Be quick about it, then go.”

Although her hands shook, Pandy started rummaging. After a minute, she tightened her mouth and looked up at him.

“There’s nothing I really need.”

“Then leave it all. Keep climbing and don’t look back,” the seaman cautioned. “You might not see a pretty sight.”

In that instant she understood what he intended, because she could see herself climbing her way to safety. She shut out what would happen on the beach and gave her ally a smile.

“Thank you,” she said.

He kissed her forehead and whispered a few more instructions.