Across the Face of the World (46 page)

They laughed as the canoes flashed up to the Bircheater Teeth, and laughed as the current took the canoes out of their control. The laughter continued as the pinnacles flashed past on either side, and they fended off the rocks. Then the boats floated out on to a long, narrow lake, and their laughter echoed throughout the forest. Finally they stood quietly on Hallowed Beach, at the bottom of Mossbank Cadence, and reverently paid their respects to the many graves lining the shore.

The Fodhram leader faced his countrymen, the exhilaration of the rapids still rimming his eyes. 'That won't make much of a fire-side tale, after all.'

His three fellow woodsmen nodded, exhausted.

'Why not?' Kurr asked. He had never done anything at once so terrifying and so exciting.

'No one would believe us,' Leader said sadly.

Snow continued to fall the rest of that day, and the travellers took time to repair the canoes and take meat and drink. Later in the evening the snow stopped, the sky cleared and the moon came out, and they launched the canoes in the silver light.

This was the first time they had travelled by canoe at night. Ahead a forest moon quartered low in the sky, laying a pale path across the lake ruffled by a light breeze. The snow gleamed in the clean moonlight. The sky was sprinkled with sharp-edged stars, outlining the darkness of the forest. It was altogether lovely, the image of Withwestwa Wood that Leith carried all his life.

From somewhere on their left came an unearthly voice raised in a howl. For a moment it was silent, then it came again. Another voice joined it, then a third. The voices echoed across die forest, the song of the wolves of Withwestwa Wood.

Leith found himself gripping something tightly as the harmony died away into the silence of deep night. He turned and looked down; he had Stella's hand in his. Immediately he let it slip.

'I'm sorry,' he stuttered. He could see her smile in the moonlight, and it burned a hole in his chest.

'That's the second time,' Stella said, still smiling.

Leith flushed scarlet. 'I— forgive me.'

'Why?' she said, her voice whispered on the breeze.

'I don't know what has come over me,' Leith blurted. 'That night on the ice - I—' He couldn't finish.

'Oh, Leith,' Stella laughed, 'don't spoil it by trying to explain. Can't you be my friend?'

He bit his lip, trying not to cry out with the power of his longing. Stella said nothing more, but reached out and took his hand.

'Thank you,' she said some time later. 'Thank you for explaining to me about Wira. I would have hated him otherwise. I'm glad that you're my friend.'

Leith watched her as her eyes darted across to the other canoe. There a tall, shadowed figure sat in the stern, head bowed, oblivi¬ous to the beauty around him. Wira had said very little since the night the ice had nearly taken him.

He still has her heart, Leith thought. She is my friend; that's all 1 could ask for. The illusion lasted for a few moments. I don't feel this way about any of my other friends! His overriding impulse was to let her hand go and turn away, but somehow he couldn't. After all, their paths were to be shared for a long time yet.

By the time the weather broke in southern Withwestwa, the snow lay level with the windowsills. For a while Mahnum hoped the Bhrudwans would be discovered, but he remembered the bodies out on the verandah, and did not wish to contemplate what they might do with anyone who stumbled on their hideaway. And after a few days there was so much snow about that the likelihood of discovery receded to almost nothing.

These days were a chance to recuperate after a journey that had taxed the captives to their very limits. The larder of the house contained food and drink to spare, and the Bhrudwans allowed their prisoners to have their fill. The two women were locked in a back room somewhere and Mahnum did not see Indrett during their stay, but he was content, as he knew she would benefit from the rest. Not to have to march all day was bliss, a luxury he had not experienced for over two years. A luxury, however, he would readily exchange for freedom.

In these days the weary Trader was able to think clearly for the first time in months. What was it that the Bhrudwans wanted from him? He was the only one who knew about the imminent inva¬sion from Bhrudwo. So why didn't they make an end of him? It could only be that his supposed knowledge was more valuable than the risk of keeping him alive. Why, then, didn't they torture him? He had seen Bhrudwan torture first-hand, and knew that no matter how strong his resolve, soon he would be pleading for them to listen to him. It could only be that someone else, a superior of theirs, wanted to question him.

So who was it who wanted to speak to him? Surely not the one who had interrogated him on the island of Andratan - unless he was to be questioned about his escape. But would they drag him across the face of the world to ask him about castle security? Mahnum could think of only one answer to the riddle. Someone else, perhaps a rival in the Bhrudwan leadership, sought to gain information from him that he could get nowhere else.

As he thought further about it, he became more convinced he had read the situation correctly.

The inquisitor on Andratan had asked many things, but had continually come back to one ques¬tion: who or what was the 'Right Hand'? It had become obvious to his questioner that the Trader knew nothing, and the ques¬tioning had stopped. Now his captors wanted to know the same thing: where was the 'Right Hand'? They could not be working on behalf of the Voice of Andratan.

So who, what, or where was the 'Right Hand'? It all came down to this question. Something to do with the upcoming invasion, he was certain. Some mighty warrior or some secret weapon, some hidden society that threatened the plans of the Undying Man. He reviewed all his acquaintances, all the people he had ever heard of, and every place, organisation or thing he had seen or knew about. He went through his life year by year, place by place. Finally, at the end of a long, exhausting week, he confirmed what he already knew: nothing. He had never heard of or seen anyone or anything that he could possibly construe, by whatever leap of imag¬ination he could conjure up, as being a 'Right Hand'. Although his curiosity remained unsatisfied as to what could be so impor¬tant that Bhrudwo sought it with such energy, he was thankful that he did not have the knowledge they sought. Should he not manage to escape his captors, he had no doubt he would be ques¬tioned with torture. It was better for Faltha that, if there really was some powerful secret hidden deep in the unprepared lands, he did not know anything about it.

During the week they hid in the house, the Bhrudwan warriors said very little. They did not question Mahnum, nor did they talk freely amongst themselves. Instead, they sat perfectly still on chairs, as though they had turned themselves off. Mahnum had seen this already on his travels: Bhrudwan villagers had practised an art they called Mul, involving extended periods of meditation. The Trader had out of necessity learned how to exercise Mul, but found it a waste of time. From what he understood, many Bhrudwans medi¬tated on their knowledge of tides and seasons to make crucial life decisions, such as when to have children, when to marry, and so on. Mul was supposed to restore energy and equanimity, but Mahnum had lived among the Bhrudwan villagers and had his doubts. Perhaps the warriors were better practitioners of the art than those he had seen.

Abruptly one morning the Bhrudwans roused their captives and began the old routine again.

Wearily Mahnum dressed and ate the rations given him, obeying mechanically when the Bhrudwan leader barked orders at him. Outside waited Indrett and the Fenni woman. He caught a glimpse of his beloved and noted with satis¬faction that she had regained some weight and her bruises had faded a little. You'll need all your strength, my love, he thought.

We've a long way to go yet. And one day they'll slip; one day we'll get our chance and the three of us will be off. Or perhaps we'll be rescued. Hope stretched out as long as the remaining miles of their journey. However many there were.

During the last few days of the Company's journey the weather turned to rain, a moist wind from the east making conditions unpleasant for all but the Fodhram, who seemed thankful for the rain. 'You get either rain or mosquitoes,' Shabby explained. 'We have had the mosquitoes.

We choose the rain!' and they all laughed.

They made excellent speed in spite of the weather. The portages, though frequent, were short and, because river levels remained high, many rapids could be run. The Mossbank grew broader and more languid, carving a deep trench in the uplands that underlay Withwestwa Wood. As spring came on many more animals ventured out from winter homes, but in the main the local wildlife avoided the trail. Finally, about a day and a halfs travel from Vindstrop House, they met a party of Fodhram travelling north.

Leader spoke to them, clearly explaining the presence of non-woodsmen in their party. At one stage Leith could tell that he was retelling the running of Mossbank Cadence to a disbelieving audience. Though the language he used was unintelligible to the Firanese, his hands told a story unmistakable in its drama - though did that hand motion indicate one of the canoes capsizing? Knowing the Fodhram, Leith thought such exaggeration very likely.

Eventually the fur traders went on their way northwards, canoe blades flashing silver in the afternoon sun. 'No outsiders have been seen at Vindstrop House,' Leader reported, 'as of two days ago, at least. So you may be in luck.'

They hurried on into the dusk, eager to return to civilisation.

Late the next afternoon the forest gave way to pasture. The Mossbank grew slow and wide, brown with sediment, tired after its journey down from the watershed. Houses appeared on grassy slopes that swept down to the shore. As the sun went down on the northern lands the river made another languid turn and drew them towards a small village on the right bank.

Vindstrop House.

A few hundred years ago there had indeed been only one house on this site. Surrounded by deep woods, an intrepid forest-dweller began to act as an agent for the burgeoning fur trade, setting aside at first one room in his house as a trading post. Very soon he constructed a separate building for the purpose. Within a few years a small community gathered around Mr Vindstrop's house, all there to profit from the extravagance of fur traders with money in their pockets.

Mr Vindstrop had been killed in a dispute over weights and measures, but the town was still named after him. It became the unofficial 'capital' of the Fodhram communities, though the Fodhram had neither central government nor king. The nearest thing to a leader the Fodhram tolerated was the informal title of 'Warden', bestowed on merit since the days of Whitebirch.

Despite living in lands claimed by Plonyans and Treikans, the Fodhram of Withwestwa Wood owed allegiance to no one.

The village was quiet that evening. It was far too early in the season for fur traders, the bulk of whom brought their riches into town after midsummer. There was no one near the bank when the Company lifted their canoes from the water and tied them to the base of a large pine.

Tired shoulders bore the burden of fur bales for one last time, and the travellers filed slowly up the slope away from the river and towards the welcoming lights of the village.

THE SLOPES OF STEFFL

AFTER HAVING BATTERED WITHWESTWA Wood, the great storm rolled south over northern Plonya, then slowed and intensified as it encountered the broad uplands known as Clovenhill, Blaenau Law in the old tongue, the home of the Widuz. Lands that seldom saw snow even in winter were smothered by a dry white powder, keeping everyone indoors. The cloud and snow lingered day after day, preventing the hunters of Widuz from finding food for their families. The south of Clovenhill fared much worse than the north, with drifts virtually burying villages and towns. Tolmen, the big city on the coast, froze in Qali's icy grip. In desperation the hunters of Widuz began to venture north into lands they had been forced to leave centuries ago, foraging for food in areas that had escaped the worst of the storm.

The proprietor of Vindstrop's Trading Post was surprised indeed to see a group of fur traders marching up to his door, muddy and tired, with bales on their backs and weary smiles on their faces. His boy had come running in excitedly with the news that the Fodhram have come, the Fodhram have come, and had received a cuff around the ear for telling lies. But here they were, standing on his floor, bales ready to be inspected. A gift from heaven, he reflected.

As the bales were unpacked and his assistant began the weighing and measuring, he had a closer look at the travellers who had so fortunately interrupted his lean spring. Indeed a motley collection, he observed. Well, the Warden he knew. Short and stout, Axehaft the Warden came from Fernthicket deep in Withwestwa Wood. It was an honour to have him back in Vindstrop House; every run the Warden had led in the previous two years had ended in Stanlow. And who was this with him? Mulberry, born here in Vindstrop House nearly thirty years ago: a rascal and a thief, he had joined Axehaft after his parents died, improving his character considerably. The only legacy of his former life was his slovenly dress.

Aspenlimb of Rockford he had met only once before. Rockford was at the eastern margins of Fodhram lands, on the slopes of the treeless Black Hills, and folk there seldom if ever ventured far from home. The proprietor did not know how the tall eastlander had come to befriend the Warden of Withwestwa Wood. And the fourth man dressed in traditional Fodhram garb? He stepped out of the shadows: Leafholm, the famous scar-faced fur trader, who came from Birch Hill near Fernthicket, the only man to best Axehaft in the autumn quarterstaff tourney. Everyone said he would be the next Warden. The pragmatic proprietor made sure he always paid him the greatest respect.

But what of the others? None of these were Fodhram. A wiry old man, a solid-looking, swarthy man, two taller, fairer youths, obviously brothers; then a lame - no, crippled - youth and a white-faced boy, surely no more than fifteen years of age - and a woman! Where were these people from? Would they need accommoda¬tion? Many questions formed in the storekeeper's mind but, in the fashion of all Fodhram, he did not ask their names. Names were reserved for people in whom trust had been established. Definitely not for outsiders. There was some story here, a story he would probably never hear.