The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition) (12 page)

The gods murdered Fenton. That is what I learned last night; that is what Fenton learned in the moments before his death. It must have been as hard for him to accept as it is for me, yet his words leave no doubt as to what he believed, and what he believed must be true, for he was the wisest man I ever knew.
I see now how, in an odd way, I was closer to the truth than he was. I feared that the gods would punish me for my blasphemous questioning of their ways; Fenton was sure that neither he nor I would be punished, for he believed the gods to be all-good – he thought that they, like he, hated the blood feuds.
How wrong we both were. I was wrong in believing that the gods would not punish Fenton; he was wrong in believing that the gods hated the feuds. Not until Siward stood before him with his blade did Fenton realize the truth: that the gods are blood-lusting demons who, if they could not have his unquestioning obedience to their cruel ways, would punish him with death.
Fenton spent his final words in comforting Siward, who was too blind to be able to see that he was a tool in the hands of tyrants. I think Fenton also said those words in hope that I would hear of them and be warned. Yet even so, I think Fenton must not have given up hope that the gods would forgive him. I can see him lying on the altar, with Siward's blade touching his heart, praying to the gods to show him mercy.
The gods gave him their answer, in blade and fire.
So now I am not simply fleeing away from my family, but toward something new: the other gift Fenton left me. For if it is true, as I now believe, that the gods' law is a brutal system designed to bring hatred and pain to this world, there remains another law that has not been tampered with by the gods' bloodstained hands. My mission now is to find it.
I only hope I can reach Emor before the Jackal discovers what I have done.
 
 
Law Links
2
THE SWORD
 
CHAPTER SEVEN
The twelfth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.
I am in the mountains now, camped along the pass to Emor, beside a prickly mountain bush. It is dawn, and I have just finished eating some of the food that I bought yesterday. Ever since my last journal entry, I have been hurrying to escape Koretia, lest my blood kin discover what I have done and track me down. But I had to stop at Blackpass in order to buy more food and to wait until dark before crossing the border. I had no fears that I would meet anyone I recognized in Blackpass; it is a big town, nearly as big as Koretia's capital, I have been told.
I had only been to Blackpass once before, and that was several years ago. My father brought Hamar and me along when Blackwood summoned the priests and noblemen of the borderland – all of them, no matter what their kinship – to a full council about the changes King Rawdon was making to the gods' law. Since Hamar and my father were busy at the council meeting during most of our visit, I was free to wander the streets and marvel at how people could stand to live jammed so close together.
On that visit, I remember, I was struck by the fact that so many people in Blackpass spoke Common Koretian. Most of the people in our village know the language, of course, since we deal with so many tradesmen and peddlers from Koretia proper. But I had always assumed, without thinking about it, that Common Koretian was the language everyone used to make bargains in, while Border Koretian was the language that everyone talked the rest of the time. It was not until I visited Blackpass that I realized that most Koretians never even learn Border Koretian; it is as foreign a language to them as Emorian is to me.
Blackpass is in the borderland, I feel obliged to note for my Emorian reader, but it is visited by many Koretians from the rest of the land. Fenton did not accompany us on that trip, since he was living in the priests' house at that time, but when I told him last year about the trip, he had me compare some sentences in Border Koretian, Common Koretian, and Emorian, so that I could see how Common Koretian and Emorian are both descended from Border Koretian. Fenton says that it is mainly the borderland accent that makes Border Koretian hard for others to understand; otherwise Emorians and Koretians alike could probably understand Border Koretian to a certain extent, and it might become a trade language.
It is still hard for me to write about Fenton in this journal. A question arose in my mind a moment ago about whether Border Koretian is ever written down; all the documents I have ever seen have been written in Common Koretian or Emorian, which use the same alphabet. I found myself thinking that I must ask Fenton when I saw him again. Then I remembered, and it was as though I was watching him die again.
On this trip, it is the Emorians that I found myself watching and listening to. I met a group of them on one of the Blackpass streets, visiting Koretia on business, and I shamelessly tracked them halfway across town, eavesdropping on their conversations. I was delighted to find that I could easily understand what they were saying, which is not surprising, since I had Fenton to teach me the language. I did realize, to my embarrassment, that Emorians use many contractions in their speech, whereas I have been using almost none in these journals. For some reason, I had assumed that Emorians were always stiffly formal in the way they talked. Now I am— Now I'm going to try to write this journal closer to the way I heard the Emorians speaking.
At the end of my hunt, I went up to the Emorians and greeted them casually, as if I were simply interested in welcoming visitors to my land, though in fact I wanted to see whether they could understand my Emorian.
They could, though I thought for a moment that they would ignore me altogether. But one of the men noticed the silver edging along my tunic and muttered something about this to the others, so that they all ended up giving me a stiff version of the free-man's greeting. It so happens that they were noblemen, but I don't see why that would have made a difference as to whether they answered a friendly greeting. But perhaps they come from the Emorian capital. I understand that city dwellers are more careful about matters of rank.
This did remind me, though, that my tunic was too obvious a clue as to who I was, so I spent the last of my money to buy a lesser free-man's tunic, one that was black, so that I would blend in with the mountains.
The tunic came in handy when I crossed the Koretian border a few hours ago. I stood for a while near the border yesterday, watching the guards at the entrance to the mountain pass. I soon came to the conclusion that they posses no authorization to do anything except stop people travelling along the pass, so it was easy in the end to cross the border. I simply waited until after dark, and then I climbed over the side of the mountain next to the pass. I could see the guards in the moonlight below, and they gave no indication that they heard me, even when my foot slipped and I sent a shower of rocks down the mountainside.
I wish that I could believe that getting past the mountain patrol will be that easy.
It's nearly dusk, and I must hurry to finish this entry before the sun sets, for I dare not build a fire yet, though my flint-box will come in handy if it grows unbearably cold in the mountains. So far it feels pleasant; it's warm here, like at home.
It's very quiet here, aside from the winds and the mountain birds that travel the winds, sending their cheerful chirps down toward me. I've seen only one beast since I arrived here – a jackal that had strayed from its usual territory – though I've seen a large number of birds and insects. The blood-flies are growing lesser in number the further north I go; Fenton once told me that Emor is too cold a place for the flies to survive. I hope that Emor isn't too cold a place for a homeless Koretian to survive.
But first I must worry about the border mountain patrol, and since there's nothing else for me to do as I walk, I spend my time practicing softly the whistles Fenton taught me. I don't think that I've forgotten any of them. I've also been remembering everything Fenton ever told me about the patrol, and have been trying to use that information to formulate a plan.
The patrol is made up of a single unit of twelve men, I remember, and this is divided into a night patrol and a day patrol. The night patrol is led by the lieutenant of the unit; the day patrol is led by his sublieutenant. I spent a while debating with myself whether to try to breach the Emorian border in daytime or nighttime. Obviously, I would have the advantage of surprise in the nighttime, since it's likely that most of the Koretians that the patrol encounters aren't as good as I am at moving through the mountains at night. On the other hand, Fenton said that the patrol tracks border-breachers mainly through sound, so a lack of light wouldn't give me any advantage. I finally decided that it would be better to try my skills against the sublieutenant, who would be less of a challenge than the lieutenant.
Then there's the question of where I should travel. If I stay along the pass, I'm sure to be sighted by the patrol eventually, but if I travel along the mountainsides next to the pass, it will take me weeks to reach Emor, and I don't have enough food to last that long. In addition, the sound of my travel along the rocky slopes will probably alert the patrol to my presence in any case.
I rejected without inner debate the idea of going further into the mountains. I have Fenton's example to dissuade me against that idea.
I'm beginning to understand why so few people make it past the patrol. Obviously, the only way in which to do so is by a trick. One idea I have is to try to pass the patrol while the guards are busy pursuing another border-breacher, but I suspect that in such a case, the guards would simply split into two parties.
I have another day in which to think before I reach the first of the patrol points that Fenton told me of.
The thirteenth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.
It's dawn again. I awoke in the middle of last night covered in sweat, as I have every night since I left Cold Run.
The dream is always the same – always vivid, like a memory. I see Fenton, and he is standing next to the altar, his back naked to Cold Run's hunter. I cry out to him and try to warn him, but when he turns to me, his face is already afire, being eaten by the Jackal.
The image fills me with such horror that I fall to my knees, gasping. Then I become aware of dark shapes around me – trees, I think at first, but then I realize they are hunters. Not Cold Run's hunters – Mountside's hunters, seeking me. I try to stand, and then I realize that my hands and feet are bound. I am already captured, and the priest is pronouncing the curse over me.
Then I hear my father's voice; he is kneeling behind me, speaking to me. I feel a rush of relief, but before I can beg him to help me, I feel a cold blade touch my throat. The blade is my father's.
That is when I awake. I only wish that I could believe that the dream is an imagining rather than a shadow of the future.
I reach the patrol tomorrow, so all day I've been frantically trying to think of a new plan. Just when I was about to give up, one came to me, as though sent by the gods.
I'd been thinking of myself as the prey until now, pursued by six jackals, which is not good odds. But what if I were to reverse the picture? What if
I
were to become the jackal and pursue one of the guards? Two of the guards, I mean; Fenton said that the guards patrol in pairs. If I stayed close to my prey, the other guards would attribute any noise they heard from me to the guards I was following. As for my prey, they would assume that I was a wild animal, for they couldn't imagine that any Koretian would be bold enough to follow closely behind them.
Fenton says— Fenton said that the guards patrol up and down the pass in an area close to the border. Thus, if I follow a pair of guards on their patrol, and if we aren't interrupted by another border-breacher, I will be able to come close enough to the border to make my break.
Tomorrow I see whether my plan works. I must remember to pray to the Jackal for my safety tonight.
I had closed my journal and placed it in my back-sling before I realized what nonsense I had written above. I'm going to Emor to get
away
from the Jackal and the other gods. In any case, I imagine that I'm too close to Emor now for any prayers to reach the god.
The fourteenth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.
My plan fell to pieces before I could even try it, for the simple reason that I miscalculated how far I had travelled, so the patrol guards heard me before I heard them. I will never forget – assuming I live long enough to have any memories of this – the chill that went through me when I heard the faint sound of the Hunted is Heard whistle and knew that I was the hunted.
I'm still on the run, and have paused only long enough to eat and rest, as I mustn't grow exhausted. Thus I will not record in detail here my efforts to dodge the patrol, and my realization that the efforts were not working when I heard the signal for Form the Circle.
There are many more whistle-codes than Fenton taught me, but the ones he did teach me seem to be the important ones, and they helped me to know what was happening. Even more important, I knew
where
it was happening, and when I heard the Acknowledgment whistles for the sublieutenant's order, it was easy enough for me to identify the gap in the forming circle and to race through it. That's how I was able to escape, at least momentarily.
All of my running was back and forth along the mountains, so I'm no nearer to Emor than I was when I was sighted. Now I'm going to see whether I can tell where any of the guards are and try again to carry out my plan.
A second failure, this time a more dangerous one, for the guards reached the point of closing the circle on me. As I saw them coming forward, I was greatly tempted to draw my blade, but I remembered what Fenton had told me and instead identified the weakest guard along the chain closing in on me. He was about my age, and it was easy enough to get past him; he was no better than Drew at his hunting.
The other guards are considerably better, though I'm surprised by how young they are. The eldest is the sublieutenant, and he looks only a few years older than me. I didn't come close enough to him to see any identifying mark of his rank on his uniform, but I could tell that he is the sublieutenant because he gave a brief whistle as we came forward. I have been hearing his whistles all day, and I'm beginning to realize how distinctive a man's whistle can be.