Karavans (59 page)

Humans.

Rhuan sat upright. But Alisanos was never gentle; he groaned as a headache took possession of his skull. He crossed his legs, planted elbows atop them, and leaned his head into his hands, willing the pain to go. But his will was not answered.

His tongue was not hindered by the headache. He spat out invective. But gently.

Then he remembered he had cut his wrist. A glance showed him the purplish line of scar. He no longer bled. Alisanos had sealed the wound. By morning, such as it was in Alisanos, the scar would turn pink; by nightfall, white. Healed. That much Alisanos would do for him.

Someone groaned.

Memory, sharp as a knife, sliced through the pain in his head.

The woman
.

He recalled now that he had clung to her as Alisanos took them; that he had tried, without success, to offer her assistance, the kind that would shield her in the deepwood: his blood. But she had refused, refused again and again. And Alisanos, scenting prey, had taken advantage of those refusals.

She groaned again. This time Rhuan rose. All around him lay stone, a massive rounded platter striated rose and white and green, a huge shallow hollow with a rim of tumbled, ruddy rock circling it and a border of thin-limbed, knotted trees bowing down over the platter. Not natural, this; it was built for something. A purpose he didn’t know. Perhaps it was a womb. Or perhaps a crucible.

He had survived his birth, though it killed his mother. He wasn’t sure that he could survive the crucible. Alisanos had taken him before he was ready.

Audrun. Audrun was her name.

She had not drunk his blood. Thus she was prey.

A third groan rose, was transformed into a choked-off sound of extremity. Rhuan heard rustlings in the thorny underbrush surrounding the womb of stone, He heard the noise of those who wanted the prey. Who wanted to feast upon her.

He saw faces, then. Open to them now, letting his senses come alive, he felt them as well. Heat from bodies, from panting mouths. Elongated yellow eyes. A wide nostril here, scales there, a tail writhing briefly. He felt the low thrumming hum of predators drawn by the human, the female, the woman carrying young.

No.
No
.

Yet again he ran. He left behind him the massive stone platter, the rim of stone, tore through the bowing, twisted trees and ruthless underbrush.

AS THE STORM died out, so did Mikal’s chest pain. Bethid, who had positioned herself by him as a windbreak, opened her eyes as he stirred. She saw instantly that his color was improving. The horrible grayness of his flesh was gone, and the bluish tinge to his lips had been replaced by a healthy pink. She was no moonmother or healer to know what to do, but she had eyes to see. Mikal was better.

Still on his back, the ale-keep rubbed at his chest. Bethid could see lucidity return to the eye not covered by a patch. “It’s gone,” he said on a profound note of relief.

“The pain?”

“Gone,” he repeated. He levered himself up onto one meaty elbow, looking at her in something akin to wariness. “It just—stopped.”

“Thank the Mother for that!”

Mikal pulled from the neckline of his tunic the charms and fetishes on a leather thong. He closed his broad hand around it. “I do thank the Mother.” He pushed himself up into a sitting position. He spat out grit from his mouth, taking care not to do it in Bethid’s direction. He blinked at her. “Your face is filthy.”

“Probably no worse than yours.” But Bethid was too relieved to speak tartly. She grabbed the hem of her long tunic, turned it inside out and bent to wipe at her face. “I suspect a dunking in the river would be more effective,” she muttered. “That is, if the river still exists.” She raised her head, looking around. “It looks the same,” she observed. “The world. Soggy and wind-scoured, but the same.” She squinted up at the sun, visible again now that the clouds and blinding dust were gone. “Doesn’t it?”

Mikal hung his head and brushed at wet, dark hair, trying
to rid himself of sand. As Bethid spoke, he looked up, attempting to peel the grit from his gummy eyelashes. “No trees,” he said, blinking his one eye as it watered. The tear carved a route through the dust on his face. “The grove is down. The karavaner grove.”

“Are you sure?” She twisted to look. “I thought we’d gone far enough beyond that we couldn’t see it anyway.”

Mikal readjusted the patch over his missing eye. “We didn’t get that far.”

Bethid stood up. She saw what he meant. Indeed, the grove of wide-crowned trees that had become the place where all the karavans gathered was down. She saw twisted, broken roots rising high against a horizon that had always been clothed by trees at the tent settlement. The leaves that soon would dry and die were wind-tattered, many stripped away so that the branches were naked. Tall prairie grass had been blown flat, forming an untidy rug of stems over mud.

“We’re still here.” Relief mixed with astonishment. “We’re safe.” She turned back to Mikal. “We’re still here!”

Mikal nodded. “The Shoia was right.”

She had left. And she had lived. She owed the Shoia her thanks.

Bethid felt at her ears. The wind had not torn the big brass hoops free of her lobes. Then she put both hands into her short-cropped fair hair and scrubbed as hard as she could, attempting to rid it of sand and soil. But it was wet, and debris clung to the strands.

It occurred to her then to think of Brodhi, of Timmon and Alorn. They too had been in the tent settlement as the wind roared down, as the heated rain fell from blackened skies torn apart by crimson lightning. Were they safe? Were they whole?

Bethid turned back. “We have to go. Mikal, we have to go back to the settlement. They’ll need our help.” She paused, remembering laggardly that the ale-keep had been on the verge of death. “I’m sorry—you need to rest, of course.”

He shook his head, pushing to his feet with a grunt. He
seemed steady enough. His color remained good. “I’m well, Beth …” He broke off as he saw her expression. “What is it?”

She frowned, squinting eastward beyond him. “Who is— oh! It’s Jorda and Ilona!” She spared a glance for Mikal, but his color reassured her. Bethid broke into a swift jog.

Eastward again. But this time toward people she knew. People she valued.

DAVYN WAS NUMB from the wind, the pounding of the rain, the ear-shattering thunder. When all ceased, it took him long moments to realize it. He lay still, face down, arms wrapped over his head where his fingers interlaced. He kept his eyes closed tightly. He waited, anticipating the rise of the wind again, the burning of the rain, the crashing of thunder on the tail of crimson lightning. But nothing rose. No sound, no wind, no rain.

There was no part of his body that did not ache. Carefully he loosened his fingers, then scraped his arms across sodden grass. He doubled them, pressed his palms flat, and pushed.

All of him was wet. Hair was plastered against his skull, dripping into his face. Gasping, he pulled knees under himself. As he rose up, as he made his battered body do his bidding, he realized the skies were clear again. Gone were the boiling clouds turgid with rain. The sun shone as usual. But he had only to look out across the prairie to see miles of flattened grass. The soil ran with rain that could not be taken into already-soaked earth.

“Aud—” But his voice cracked. Davyn swallowed, moistened his lips, and shouted his wife’s name.

There came no answer. In a haphazard upward lunge, Davyn pushed to his feet. He caught his balance with care. Rainwater ran from his scalp, trickled down his temples. The clothing Audrun had woven him with habitual care was heavy with the weight of water.

“Audrun!”

Still, there came no answer. The skies were blue, the day was bright as if nothing untoward had occurred, but one need only look at the surface of the earth to see the storm’s effects. Davyn slicked wet hair out of his face, slowly turning to look in every direction. And again, repeating it, when his eyes found nothing.

“Gillan! Ellica!”

But he was alone upon the land.

He cried out in pain, the inner pain that tightened a throat and weighted a chest. He found himself mumbling a litany of phrases, of prayers, of promises he meant entire if they resulted in his wife’s well-being and the safety of his children.

All of them, gone.

“
Audrunnnnn
…”

Mother of Moons, don’t let him be left alone.

The wagon. He would go to the wagon. It was where his wife and oldest children would go to find one another. Then they all of them could search for the youngest.

For Torvic, and Megritte. Torvic and sweet Meggie.

He knew the direction. He knew his way. He prayed his family did.

But when he found the wagon, he saw that they had not.

Davyn fell to his knees, his throat clogged with pain. Arms hung slackly at his sides; his head was tipped back, so that the light of the sun warmed his face. Dried away the rain, but not the tears.

Next to the remains of the storm-stripped wagon, both oxen lay dead, skin scoured away by the winds of Alisanos.

“
I
LONA!”

Her eyes snapped open. Some four body-lengths away, pushing himself into a sitting position, was Jorda. His wet homespun tunic was plastered against his broad chest and shoulders, and he stared at her, startled and disbelieving, even as she returned his look. Then his expression, muddied into a mask of grime and rainwater, changed to joy and relief, white teeth parting his beard. Jorda was a big man, but he managed to make his body scramble to her side.

His green eyes were bright. “Thank the Mother. Are you all right?”

Ilona could not contain the laughter that bubbled up. It was an unexpected sound, birthed by emotions she only now could release. “Yes,” she said, grinning, “I’m all right.” She held her right hand out and saw the familiar olive tint of her flesh. She remained herself.

His gaze went to her injured arm. “Broken?”

She grimaced. “I think so.”

“Then you’re not all right.”

“Oh yes,” she said, “I am. Most certainly. I’m
alive
.” He knelt beside her, concern etching deeper lines into his weary, dirt-grimed face. “I’m alive,” she repeated, giddy with relief. The memory of the lumbering draft horse they
rode was clear, as was the fall both of them had taken when it stumbled and went down. Jorda had an impressive knot on his forehead. The horse was nowhere to be seen.

He noted the line of her gaze and touched the prodigious lump with thick fingers. “The fall stunned me, or I would have searched for you.”

She had called for him again and again, fearing for his life. But the storm had hidden all from her except its violence.

Ilona looked around. “Is this—safe? Are we still in Sancorra?”

Blue skies, now; a sun where it should be; scents she recognized; the stillness of dawn, though it was afternoon. Dust blown by the wind had turned the weave of her clothes the color of mud. Discolored droplets slid sullenly down the wet, wind-tangled ringlets of her hair.

This couldn’t be Alisanos. It looked, felt, and smelled as the world had prior to the storm.

She heard Rhuan’s voice again in her memory.
Gather everyone and go east. I can’t tell you how I know, but trust me.
There had been no further order.
Go east
, was all he said. And so they had gone east, as others had; where were those others?

“Safe,” Jorda confirmed, answering her question even as he scraped a damp-sleeved arm across his face, smearing dirt and grime. “As anyone might be, that is, after such a storm.”

The day was temperate. Despite wet clothing, she felt neither warm nor cold.

Jorda gestured. “The settlement’s behind us.” He paused, ruddy brows meeting over the bridge of his nose. “If anything’s left of it.”

Ilona climbed unsteadily to her feet, wincing against the pain of her arm. Standing there, cradling her arm, she turned in a slow circle. Everywhere she looked, the world was as it had been.

But no. It was not. It seemed so in the absence of rain and wind and lightning, but when she looked beyond relief, she saw desolation. The grass beneath her feet lay flattened
against the earth, smashed down into soil become mud, with scorched and still-smoking holes where the lightning had struck, bleeding splattered clots of earth. Trees had been uprooted and thrown down, branches broken, leaves stripped away, roots ripped apart. The plains, the horizon, naked now of forests, was an uninterrupted line against the sky. She heard no birds, no insects. Only silence. Only stillness.