The Standing Dead - Stone Dance of the Chameleon 02 (6 page)

'What've we here?'

The Vulgate fell from the sky. Carnelian tried to see the aquar's rider. He felt as much as heard the impact of the man's weight as he vaulted down. Carnelian could smell his sweat. Two, dark, thick-toed feet came into sight.

'But
...'
The man gasped and began rubbing at Carnelian's ear. 'You're white under the black. A marumaga? A M-Master?'

Before
Carnelian
could find his voice, the man slashed with a blade. Carnelian felt it as a stabbing in his back.

He heard the screams and the cries of battle as if he were coming up out of water. It confused him that the blade he could feel was filleting him up his back and yet the man was in front of him. He waited for oblivion, his heart pounding eagerly as if death were a lover. He wondered at the screams and anger. He saw without seeing the two ends of his ropes dangling under his chin. His eyes focused on them. They had been cut. The realization took hold. He erupted a roar, unfolding upwards to reach and breathe free air. Too late. Fire leapt from his white-hot spine to consume him. Aflame, he fell into blackness; a torch dropped down a well.

THE RAIDERS

A smooth bead is earned for each complete season of service. More

may be threaded onto an auxiliary's service cord for any action deemed by a superior to go beyond those stipulated in the Legionary Code; such awards subject to ratification by a quaestor who shall

index the action against the Categories of Valour. Rough beads are threaded onto a service cord according to statute infringements as listed in the Categories of Offence. The Protocol of Remission states that smooth beads may be given up to redeem rough beads subject to the Laws of Remission. The Laws of Remission are: first, that a rough bead may be redeemed by the loss of a smooth bead; second, rough beads may be redeemed by mandatory or voluntary chastisement as determined by the Laws of Punishment; third, three rough beads can only be redeemed by the concurrent loss of three smooth beads.

The Laws of Punishment are: first, that a rough bead may be redeemed by a standard flogging; second, that three rough beads may be redeemed by progressive mutilation as described in the Schedule of Removals and according to the corresponding protocols; third, that
at any time a service cord should have on it five rough beads, the auxiliary to whom it belongs shall, without recourse to appeal, be put to death by crucifixion. The Schedule of Removals is applied as follows: on the first occasion, the middle fingers of both hands with associated knuckles; on the second, the ears; on the third, the nose; on the fourth, the
right eye; on the fifth, the left eye.

(Extract from the Law of Legionary Service compiled in beadcord by the Wise of the Domain Legions)

It was the sudden stillness that pulled Carnelian up from his nightmare. He could no longer feel the sway of the black water. Confused, he wondered if the boat had brought him at last to the opposite shore? Opening his eyes, he found he was wedged in, buttocks pressing against a crossbeam, his knees almost in his face.

Somewhere, a man was speaking. Though his voice was harsh and nasal, its pouring of almost-words had a familiar sound that made Carnelian smile even as he strove to pluck out meaning.

'...
the lads are scared enough already,' another voice was saying with a strange accent.

Dream still clouding his mind, Carnelian became convinced it was one of his marumaga brothers speaking. Grane perhaps, though Carnelian had a notion it was his Uncle Crail he had been expecting, who Aurum had had killed. Carnelian wanted to see Grane's face, but was unable to clear his head enough to call out.

'Do you imagine I'm any less afraid than they are, Father Cloud?' asked the nasal voice, speaking as if to the deaf. Through no choice of mine, I'm now as much involved in this sacrilege as the rest of you. If that weren't bad enough, what possessed you two to bring the Standing Dead with us?'

Carnelian did not recognize the voice, nor the strange term.

'Leave them be, Ranegale,' growled a weary voice Carnelian had not heard before. 'Can't you see their uncle and their brother lying there dead?'

Carnelian grew uneasy. All this talk of death and the strange names; worse, there was something peculiar about their speech that was making it hard to follow.

'Leave them be?' said Ranegale, the man with the nasal voice. 'You may be an Elder, Stormrane, but I don't believe even that gives you or your sons the right to let the dead ride.'

Realization came to Carnelian as a shock. The voices were speaking neither Vulgate nor the tongue of the Masters, Quya, yet he understood them. Incredibly, they were speaking the same barbarian language his nurse Ebeny had used with him and his brothers when they were children.

'...
my doing, not theirs,' Stormrane was saying.

To hear the cadence of Ebeny's speech in a man's voice was startling.

'And was it you, my father, who ordered some of the lads to double up so as to free saddle-chairs in which to put the Standing Dead? I see by your silence it wasn't. Will you deny it was Ravan who first saw the Bloodguard and Fern who then found the Standing Dead? No? Then it seems we all agree it was your sons who drew us into that bloodbath, so don't ask me to leave things be. If they'd let things be, your brother and your eldest son would still be alive; you yourself and the rest of us unwounded and, even now, we'd all be safely on the road to Makar. Instead of which we're out here tainted by this sacrilege, the Mother forgive us and, if that weren't enough of a curse, we now have these white scorpions to deal with.'

White scorpions? Was Ranegale talking about him? More than one Master. Carnelian's mind cleared. As Ranegale continued droning accusations, Carnelian became desperate to see his beloved. His knees were blocking the view and he found that his head was wedged too tight against his chest for him to turn it. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied two youths squeezed one behind the other into a wicker saddle-chair.

'I won't allow you to accuse Ravan,' Stormrane was saying.

Forcing life into his hands, Carnelian swivelled them until they caught the edges of the saddle-chair. Gripping as hard as he could, he strained to pull himself up. The resulting spasm caused him to roll his eyes up into his head. Nausea surged in waves. Everything from neck to thighs was aching pulp.

'I don't recall you warning us of danger when my son spotted the Bloodguard among the slavers nor any complaints when we went in to rob them.'

The words pulsed with the blood hammering at Carnelian's temples.

'Sky and Earth! What's that got to do with anything?' Ranegale replied. 'It was only when Fern found the Standing Dead among the sartlar that the Bloodguard began to kill us.'

Sartlar? That word made the memory of his suffering seep in like rain through a cloak. He fumbled his hand up to his neck and trembled as it touched the raw crusty edges of his wound. He endured the agony as his fingers probed for and did not find the rope. That he felt naked without it made him weep bitter tears.

A voice carried from the distance and Carnelian heard creakings as the barbarians turned to look. He tried peering down the tunnel between his knees and saw that his saddle-chair curved up into a basketwork prow. Beyond stood his aquar's neck, past which he could make out, against the brooding sky, a giant from which the voice appeared to be coming.

Thank the Skyfather that at least we're not pursued,' said Cloud, the man with Grane's voice.

'What need have they to chase us,' said Ranegale, 'when they know the dragons will do their work for them?'

'We must get back onto the road then?' A youthful voice taut with fear.

There we'd have no chance at all, thanks to you, boy.'

'Ravan
...'
said Cloud, gently. The fight was sure to have been seen from the watch-tower. Our descriptions will have been sent all the way down the road. Patrols will already be on their way up from Makar as part of the scouring. On the road they'd trap us as easily as if we were on an earthbridge.'

Then we must hide deeper in the fields,' said the youth.

'Without the watch-towers to steer by we'd soon be lost.' Cloud gazed out, sadly. This enslaved earth has no trees, no hills, no landmarks at all save only kraals, each identical to every other.'

'How far are we from the road?' bellowed Ranegale in the direction of the giant.

'We'll still see the tower flares,' a reply came back.

The voice seemed to Carnelian ludicrously thin for such a giant. He was still dazed. He focused on thoughts of Osidian, desperate to know if he still lived. Fearing another spasm, he gingerly applied pressure with his thighs and, gritting his teeth, slid himself back and up his saddle-chair.

Squinting against the pounding in his head, Carnelian saw there were perhaps twenty aquar ranged around him. A few were riderless, the others bore men and youths enveloped in black hri-cloth, their legs hooked over the peculiar transverse crossbars that formed the front of their saddle-chairs. Most of the raiders had their heads turbaned by more of the cloth so that only their faces were exposed. Save that these were free of the chameleon tattoo, the raiders could have been from his own household. Searching among them, he found a saddle-chair into which a patchy black body had been folded. Carnelian's heart leapt. He did not need to see the face to know it was Osidian.

The raiders were looking into the distance and, when he followed their gaze, he saw a man riding towards them behind whom rose the giant that Carnelian now realized was nothing more than the overseer tower of a kraal.

'You saw no one in any direction, Loskai?' Ravan again. Carnelian located the youth standing on the ground, a slash of dried blood across his forehead and cheek, his face sweat-glazed, bruised.

Loskai shook his head. Ravan turned to look round at another rider who was hunched forward gripping his ankles, his loosely-turbaned head almost resting on his knees. Ravan sank his chin.

'You're right, Ranegale, this is all my fault. I was the one who noticed the Bloodguard.'

'Don't speak like that, son.' It was Stormrane reaching out to grasp Ravan's shoulder. The man had a grey mane worked through with feathers, peppered with pale beads. Deep grooves around his mouth and eyes made him seem an old man, but if so, a strong one, though his sickly pallor showed how serious was the wound he bore. Stormrane had so much the look of one of Carnelian's people he was lost for a moment trying to work out which one he might be.

Ravan, looking up at his father with adoration, forced from him a grim smile. 'Son, you fought bravely. You made me proud. You'll have a good scar to show your hearthmates.'

Ravan tried a grin, but the corners of his mouth dragged it down. His eyes strayed to where two bodies were stretched out on blankets on the ground.

'Your brother and your uncle were warriors who brought the Tribe much salt,' said Stormrane, misery dulling his eyes.

Ravan was no longer seeing the dead but rather something in his mind. 'How was the Bloodguard able to kill them both?'

They were overmatched,' said Cloud. Next to Stormrane, he seemed to be the oldest there. Wisps of greying hair framing his cowled face threaded beads similar to Stormrane's that Carnelian judged to be some of their precious salt.

The youth turned to look at Cloud. Standing over the corpses, he shook his head and frowned. 'I'd heard but not believed how fast the Bloodguard are, how skilled.'

One of the other youths stuttered something and, suddenly, Carnelian found the barbarians jerking round to gape at him. He watched the colour drain from their faces. Some were trembling.

Ravan made some comment about Carnelian's eyes.

'Angels or not, I say we kill them now,' shrilled Loskai. He darted looks at the other men, making sure to always keep Carnelian in view as he might a serpent. 'Kill them both, before they get their power back, before they bring the dragons down on us.'

Carnelian cared for nothing but the use of plurals, the pronouns that proved Osidian must be alive.

'What makes you so sure they
can
be killed?' asked Stormrane.

Carnelian's awareness of their fear, their hatred, was washed away by the warm relief of knowing Osidian lived.

Cloud lifted his hands and quietened the youths.

'Well, Fern,' said Ranegale, 'I'll ask you in the hope you'll stop hiding behind your father.' He let go of his ankles and straightened up to point at Carnelian. 'Why've you landed us with the poison of these Standing Dead?'

Carnelian wondered why they referred to Masters thus. He noticed Ranegale had only a single eye, the other being concealed by a leather band. Hidden beneath the windings of his head cloth, the lower half of his face seemed unnaturally flat.

Another man stepped into view. Young, slender, he was taller than Stormrane, much darker skinned. He looked quite unlike the other barbarians.

'I'm not hiding behind my father.'

Fern's voice was husky. He turned dark eyes on Carnelian, who was forced to bear their sharp hatred. Fern frowned and his stare lost its intensity.

'I don't know,' he said, sounding surprised. He seemed to be examining Carnelian for a sign who, in turn, registered the livid welt cutting along Fern's jaw line.